The Madness of Mercury (3 page)

The apple mixture on the stove had hardened to a dry mass. The turnovers were forgotten. I was nibbling on a piece of toast and sipping a cup of strong tea that Dorothy had fixed.

“Julia, thanks for staying with me.”

“I couldn’t very well leave you with this.”

“I’m just heartbroken. We know his family. He’s worked for my aunts for more than twenty years.”

My heart sank, imagining a family’s grief. Sudden, unexpected death. The cruelest blow of all.

“I knew he had some heart trouble, but … could he have had an attack and lost his balance?” Dorothy ran her fingers through her thick strawberry-blond hair and slumped into a chair. “I suppose I should put that mower away in the shed before it rains.”

“Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” The storm that had seemed so imminent had mercifully held off, making the job of removing Luis’s body from the cliffside easier. Paramedics had pushed the mower several feet away from the spot where we had found it. Struggling with the ungainly beast in the soft grass, I managed to turn it around and wheel it to the small room attached to the garage. I lifted and pushed the mower over the doorstep into an empty corner. An overhead light bulb illuminated the space. Various gardening tools were attached to one wall, all cleaned and oiled. A container of screwdrivers and small wrenches sat on a rough wooden workbench. Several photos were pinned to the wall above the bench: a wedding snapshot of a smiling young couple, and school photos of a dark-haired boy and girl. Somewhere in the city right now, Luis’s family would be receiving the news of his death.

I had visited Dorothy at the house a few times over the last couple of weeks. That’s when I’d first met Evandra and had seen Luis, always working. Earlier today, he’d been trimming the boxwood hedges at the front of the house. I’d called out to him while I waited at the front door, and he’d responded with a smile and a wave of his hedge clippers.

His jacket hung on a hook next to the door above an extra pair of well-used work boots. I didn’t see the wide-brimmed hat he always wore when he was working outside. I wondered if it had fallen to the bottom of the cliff. I untied the red bandanna from the handle of the mower and hung it next to his jacket. A kitchen mug and a small plate sprinkled with crumbs sat on the workbench. I picked them up and, turning off the light, locked the door behind me. Returning to the kitchen, I dumped the dishes in a tub of hot water in the sink. Dorothy was still seated on the stool, staring into space.

I squeezed her hand. “If you’d like, I can stop by tomorrow.”

She looked up. “I’d appreciate that, Julia. I’ve got to tell my aunts. And I want to reach his family somehow this evening, if it’s possible. They’ll be devastated.” Dorothy quickly wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “I’m devastated.”

She pushed herself away from the table and stood. I slipped on my jacket as Dorothy followed me through the swinging door to the front hallway. She opened one side of the massive oak entrance and stood watching as I hurried to my car. The sky had grown completely dark. Storm clouds blotted out any possible view of moon or stars. With luck, I’d get home before the rain hit and if I was really lucky, I’d beat the worst of rush-hour traffic.

My apartment is a small flat on the second floor of a duplex out on the “Avenues,” north of Golden Gate Park in an area known as the Outer Richmond. I rarely see my downstairs neighbors, so I feel as if I have the building to myself most of the time. It’s fog central and I love it. Many days are bright, sunny, and windy, but so close to the Pacific, the fog rolls in every afternoon like clockwork. Temperatures in San Francisco are always cool and vary so little that it’s sometimes difficult to tell February from July, except July can be even colder.

I was overjoyed to reach home. My haven is small, only four rooms, but I have a great rent and a street-level garage to park my car. I’m several blocks from the ocean on one side and in the other direction, a short walk to the Golden Gate straits. Originally this western part of the city was nothing but miles of sand dunes over bedrock with too much fog, the entire area considered undesirable and uninhabitable, ignored until population explosion forced development. Some San Franciscans turn their collective nose up at this part of town because of the wind and the fog, but I can’t imagine living anywhere else. My neighborhood may not be Nob Hill or Pacific Heights, but I have the ocean and the sound of foghorns to lull me to sleep at night.

The deluge began just as I pulled up to my building. I hit the garage opener, waited for the door to rise, and drove in. Grabbing my briefcase and purse, I hurried through the door at the back of the garage and climbed the wooden steps to my kitchen. Rummaging for my keys, I managed to get the door unlocked with one hand while holding my case over my head with the other. I flipped on the kitchen light. Wizard, my cat, sat at attention next to his food tray, waiting patiently for my return.

“Wiz.” I reached down to scratch his ears. “I know. I’m late. It’s been a very rough day.” Rainwater dripped off my jacket onto his fur. He meowed and backed away from me, circling around my feet to take up another position close to his bowl. A big hint. “Okay. I get the message.” Wizard is completely black and weighs close to twenty pounds. He does his best to converse with me and has a large vocabulary of meows, purrs, and quacks to let me know what’s on his mind.

I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on a hook in the laundry room, kicked off my shoes, and dropped my case and purse on top of the washer. Wizard rubbed his head forcefully against my leg and quacked several times to chide me for being late for dinner and to thank me for finally coming home. Would he still love me if I couldn’t operate the can opener? I plunked a fresh can of Fancy Beast into his bowl. He dove in and ignored me to seriously focus on his dinner.

I was famished and the apartment was freezing. I turned the thermostat up and dug a container of split pea soup out of the refrigerator. I’m not much of a cook. My parents died when I was young and I was raised by my grandmother, Gloria, who took care of all that. I was always too much on the go to be fussing in the kitchen. Since then, I’ve managed to figure out how to make soup. My nod to domesticity.

Gusts of wind and rain were beating against the windows. I closed the drapes in the living room to block out the storm and lit a few candles on the mantel. I got a fire started and by the time I’d devoured my soup, the apartment had warmed. I pulled on a pair of jeans, fuzzy slippers, and a heavy sweater and settled in by the fire, a notepad and my laptop on the coffee table. I needed to catch up with the work that, under normal circumstances, I would have handled today. I also wanted to keep my promise to Evandra by checking her lunar returns for the next couple of months. Images of Luis lying on the rocks below kept flashing before my eyes. I’d known the man only slightly, but I was sure his death would affect the sisters a great deal.

My private clientele keeps me fairly busy, but thanks to Don Forrester, my old friend from college days who works at the
Chronicle
, I met Lester Bartley, an editor who convinced me to do a weekly column of astrological advice. The
AskZodia
feature had become a greater success than anyone anticipated. Don jump-started the column with fake birth dates and outrageous problems, and the newspaper was soon receiving more and more letters and emails every day.

Samantha, Les’s editorial assistant, routinely screens emails and letters, weeds out the cranks, and then sends the lot to me. For the ones I don’t have time to answer, she returns a form response with a list of ethical local astrologers who might welcome more business. I’m thrilled to have the additional income to tide me over slow times, like now, with the holidays approaching. But I was starting to worry. I was afraid I had created a monster that would eat up my time and interfere with my private clients.

The odd thing is, I never set out to be an astrologer. I have a master’s degree in anthropology from San Francisco State. That’s where I met Michael, my fiancé. We had both planned on teaching careers and a life together. Those plans were crushed when Michael was struck down in a hit-and-run accident in front of his apartment building. The driver was never found. That was two years ago.

Once the slow acceptance of Michael’s death hardened in my mind, I slid into a long depression. Exhaustion dogged my steps. Days and weeks passed in which I stared at the ceiling and the walls of my bedroom until the hard surfaces seemed to breathe like a living thing. I couldn’t stand the sympathy I saw in everyone’s eyes. What little energy I had, I used to convince everyone I was fine. I only wanted to be left alone to mourn the life I had lost.

One morning I woke and realized the pain wasn’t gone, but it had lessened. I was a long way from lighthearted, but I was alive and knew I wanted to live. I cleaned out every drawer, closet, and cubbyhole. I packed the remnants of my former life in a large cardboard box and taped it firmly shut. I gave away all that was superfluous. My Sunset District apartment near the university held too many memories. I gave notice to my landlord and found my current digs north of the Park near the foghorns. And, for lack of a better idea, I took a job at a law firm downtown just to make ends meet. It was during that time, while browsing through a bookstore, that I came across my first astrology book. Something clicked. I read it avidly. I collected more books and began to study. I gathered data and set up charts. I practiced on friends or anyone who would talk to me. It was the loneliest time of my life, but everything that exists now grew out of that cauldron. Astrology offered a lens through which I hoped to make sense of my own loss. I still study Michael’s chart, searching for some sign that might have saved him. I haven’t found any answers, but it’s never far from my mind.

Evandra’s chart was on the screen. I clicked the button that would generate a lunar return. The current Neptune transit came into even sharper focus. I didn’t like what I was seeing. Perhaps Evandra wasn’t suffering from senile dementia at all. Perhaps she truly was in danger, although I found it difficult to believe that Dorothy could be the culprit.

I jumped when the phone rang. The display said
private caller
. Had to be Gale.

“Hey.”

“What are you up to?”

“Not much. Working on a chart, then I have to get some Zodia questions done.”

“Where the hell have you been? You don’t call. I don’t hear from you. Do I have to email Zodia to get your attention?”

Gale is my closest friend. We met at the Mystic Eye. I was browsing for astrology books while she was busy promoting her new business, now the most popular metaphysical shop in the state. She was right. I had been ignoring her messages. Translated, she was really asking if I was depressed. I haven’t dated since Michael’s death. The holidays were upon us, my grandmother was away on a cruise, and I was truly an orphan this season.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay,” she responded hesitantly. “So you can’t return a phone call?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s been a weird time. My regular clients always disappear during the holidays and the Zodia column’s eating up my time. Mercury’s retrograde, and it’s the last quarter of the moon … ” I trailed off.

“Oh, of course, that explains it,” she replied sarcastically. “But didn’t you say you had a couple of new clients lined up this week?”

“Today in fact. But that’s … uh … that was fine, but it ended rather badly.” I filled Gale in on the events of the afternoon at the Gamble house.

“Cripes! Which one is their house?”

“You know it, I’m sure. It’s huge, the dark brick one on the left side as you go up toward Coit Tower.”

“Ah.” Gale was silent for a moment. “What caused the fall?”

“They’re thinking he might have had a heart attack, but no final word as yet. Luis was slightly overweight and supposedly had a mild heart condition. What’s odd is that he’s worked there for years. He was very familiar with the grounds. But the police wouldn’t talk to us at all.” I sighed. “That’s all I know.”

“Julia, why didn’t you call me? I was right down the hill at the Eye. I could’ve buzzed up.”

“I honestly didn’t even think of it. I’m really okay, but I feel just awful for Dorothy. Trying to cope with her two aunts and that house and having that happen. And then she’s recently separated from her husband.”

“Listen, you do sound kind of down. The reason I called—what are you doing for the holidays?”

“Haven’t given it a thought. Gloria’s away and I still haven’t done any shopping. Kuan invited me to a Buddhist ceremony. I think he wanted to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Kuan Lee is my grandmother’s close friend, who has lived in the first floor apartment of her house in North Beach for as long as I can remember. He’s an herbalist and practices Chinese medicine and acupuncture. He’s the closest thing I have to a grandfather and I love him dearly.

“Well, it’s up to you. But Cheryl wants to cook a big dinner.” Cheryl is our other close friend who manages the Mystic Eye. “I was thinking we could do it at my place, just the three of us, since we’re all orphans this year anyway.”

That surprised me. Gale usually has a round of posh catered parties to attend over the holidays. “Is that what
you’re
up for?”

“Yes. I’m socialed out. I’d love to just be with close friends and not go running all over hell this year.”