Better Read Than Dead (8 page)

He caught up to me ten yards from his sedan. “Abby,” he said, grabbing for my arm and stopping me, “what’s got you so fired up?”

I glared up at him as all the insecurities about our relationship and his new beautiful partner welled up inside me, “Did you suddenly forget, Agent Rivers, that my psychic abilities practically
led
you to a certain serial killer last summer?”

“No,” he snapped, clearly growing tired of our argument, “I didn’t forget. But this is different.”

“
How
exactly is this different?” I demanded.

“Because people in my line of work aren’t that open-minded. And you knew I was the new guy on the block at the Bureau, and you still had to go on and on about baying at the moon buck-naked.” I bit my lip nervously, suddenly ashamed of the colorful description I’d painted for Joe. “Jesus!” he continued, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know what’s going to happen when we get back to headquarters? I’m going to be the laughingstock! You could have said you were a stripper and I’d probably get razzed less than telling my boss that you’re psychic.”

I sucked in a huge breath, feeling as if he’d struck me. That was it; he’d crossed the line.
“You are an utter asshole!”
I yelled, and turned on my heel.

“Okay, maybe that was a little harsh—”

I ignored him and continued to stomp away.

“I’m sorry!” he called from behind me. “That was a stupid thing to say. I didn’t mean it.”

I arrived at his car and stood next to the passenger-side door, waiting with balled fists and a temper on sizzle. “Take me back to my office
immediately,
” I said through gritted teeth when he caught up to me.

“Abby—”

“Did I stutter? Did you not understand me?” I snarled over my shoulder as he stood behind me. “You will take me back to my office right now, or I
swear to God
I will cause a scene like you have never imagined!”

Sighing, he unlocked the doors and I got in with a huff. He stood outside the sedan for a moment and made a call on his cell phone. I could hear snatches of the conversation from inside the car: “. . . just have them put it in a to-go bag and I’ll meet you back at headquarters in an hour . . .”

Finally he got in and began to drive steadily back to my office. After several minutes of stony silence he said, “Can we talk about this?”

I ignored him, looking stoically out the window.

“Hey, come on, Edgar,” he tried in a soothing tone. “I’m headed out of town for at least a couple of weeks on an undercover assignment, and I won’t have a chance to call or talk to you for a while. I’d really rather not have this hanging over us until I get back.”

“You don’t have to worry about it,” I finally said, breaking my silence. “There is no more ‘us.’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“You want a girlfriend who won’t embarrass you? Then feel free to go mine a strip club, Dutch, ’cause we are over. Done.
Finito.
End of story.”

“Abby, come on. You don’t mean that. . . .”

Just then we pulled up in front of my office, and for the first time I felt the full sting of the disastrous afternoon as tears welled up and blurred my vision, threatening to spill over. The car had barely come to a stop and I was already opening the door. Dutch grabbed my arm as I was getting out. “Hey, wait, Abby. Come on, let’s talk about this,” he pleaded.

“Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” I said viciously, yanking my arm away as I got out and slammed the door behind me. I ran inside and up the stairs, keeping my head down as the tears came. When I reached my floor I rushed down the hallway to my suite and quickly unlocked the door. Bolting into my reading room I curled up into a ball on my chair and cried my eyes out.

Sometimes, at least, I’m actually able to catch a break. After my disasterous lunch date with Dutch I was a sniveling, sobbing mess, and in no shape to see clients. Luckily, my last two appointments for the day—booked together—were no-shows. After waiting fifteen minutes longer than their appointment time, I closed up shop and headed home.

I drove through my neighborhood in a stupor, replaying the scene at the restaurant over and over. I had been under the impression that Dutch had come to respect my occupation. After all, only a few months ago it had helped him nab a serial killer. How was it possible that now he was embarrassed by what I did?

As I drove I tried to take my mind off things by making an effort to absorb the beauty of the crisp fall day. Autumn in Michigan is a breathtaking event.

Sometime toward the end of September, summer abruptly ends and there is a rather sudden natural reversal of color, sight and smell. Overnight the sky turns gray, the clouds turn blue, the flowers turn brown and the leaves turn orange, red, yellow and pink. The sweet smell of summer flowers gives way to the hickory scent of burning leaves, crisp mornings and a flurry of activity as the cold entices people out of their hammocks and into chores of leaf raking, garage cleaning, and preparing for winter.

By the time we get to Halloween, most of the leaves have fallen and the chill has settled in for the duration. While I combed my way through my subdivision, I smiled a little as I took in the lavish display of Halloween decorations: plastic spiders dangling from trees, white ghosts poking out of windows, witches’ brooms leaning in doorways, and headstones on nearly every lawn.

As I pulled into my driveway, I sighed as I realized time had gotten away from me this year, and the grocery bag full of decorations I’d planned on hanging up would have to remain in their packaging for one more year.

The only thing I’d managed to do to promote the spirit of Halloween was carve two pumpkins, and I’d done that only to get to the seeds.

I loved pumpkin seeds, and as it happened so did Dutch. I pouted as I thought about how I’d made a special batch for him with extra salt, just like he’d told me he liked them. They were sitting on the counter in my kitchen in a large Tupperware container with his name on it, and as I got out of my car I was already having second thoughts about ending our relationship so abruptly.

The problem was that even though I adored him, I couldn’t possibly date someone who didn’t completely accept me for who I was. Still, the man
was
beautiful. My mind drifted back to my office that afternoon, when we’d been
this
close to public indecency.

So in essence, my libido was having a huge quarrel with my ethics. I sighed heavily once more and got out of the car, walking toward my house. As I got close my front door opened unexpectedly, causing me to jump, which was a good thing because I was almost knocked over by several large two-by-fours making their way out of the doorway on Dave’s shoulder.

“Hey, Abby,” Dave said, grinning under the strain of the wood.

“Hi, Dave. Those the old rafters?”

“Some of ’em. There’s still more to take down, but I got ya a great deal on the replacement lumber. Oh, and I broke that window in your attic with one of the rafters, but I’ll take care of it when I’m through with the job.”

I moved aside as Dave hefted the wood in the direction of his truck. “So how much damage to my bank account are we talking?” I asked.

“I’m doing my best to keep it under a grand, honey.”

My mouth fell open. At the moment I was a little short on cash. I’d done some very grown-up things recently, like opening up an IRA where I’d sunk in the maximum for the year, as well as buying up a bunch of stock my sister had recommended to me. The grand was going to hurt, but I refused to flinch, remembering I was working a party this evening that would, in essence, pay for the repairs. “No sweat,” I said. “I can swing it.”

Dave had thrown the old lumber into his truck and was now walking back by me to get another load from inside. As he passed me he said, “Fifteen hundred at the very most.”

I gulped, feeling a tightening sensation in the middle of my chest. The past two days had taken all the fight out of me. “Whatever,” I said moodily, and walked in behind him.

Dave caught my inflection and paused to look at me critically before gathering up the next load of wood littering my living room. “You okay?”

I lowered my gaze and bent low to greet an anxious Eggy, then scooped him up and quickly turned toward the stairs, not wanting Dave to make a closer inspection of my tearstained face. “Nothing that a bubble bath and cup of hot soup won’t cure. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” I said, and with that I bolted to my bedroom. I headed straight to my bed and fell backward, Lipton-tea style, holding on to Eggy as he kissed away my tears. Finally, when I’d regained a little composure, I left the pooch‘ on the bed and walked into the bathroom to inspect my reflection.

Hollywood is filled with starlets who look even more attractive when they’re bawling their eyes out. I don’t know how they do it, because when I cry my nose gets red and runny, my eyes swell up and my cheeks get puffy. In other words, I look like I’ve gone a few rounds with Evander Holyfield—hardly glamorous. Sighing, I turned on the faucet and swept cool water over my face until my makeup was good and runny, then reached for the soap and cleaned off the rest. Next I wound my hair up into a high ponytail, pinning it to the top of my head as I ran a bath.

While the tub filled with hot water I trundled back downstairs and fixed an instant cup of soup, and a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. Toting these back upstairs, I set them on the side of the tub and, after disrobing, got in. For a few minutes I just let the warmth of the water soothe me like a down comforter.

Finally I reached for my soup, sipping at it and eating my sandwich without pause, noticing for the first time since my meltdown that I was famished. After polishing off my late lunch I sank back down into the warmth of the tub until I was pruny, then got out and wrapped myself in my flannel robe.

Making my way back to my bedroom, I noticed it was getting close to five, and I hurried my pace a little. I had to meet Kendal at six. After looking through a few choices in my closet for suitable wedding-guest attire, I selected a charcoal cocktail dress, black heels, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings. Next, I went back to the bathroom and wound my hair up in a French twist, securing it with several dozen bobby pins, then brushed my cheeks with blush, my lashes with mascara, and my lips with burgundy lipstick.

When I was finished I perused my reflection in the mirror. Satisfied that I could pass for an attendee at a funeral, wedding, or breakfast at Tiffany’s, I left the bathroom and headed for the stairs.

Once I got to the living room I noticed that Dave had long since gone home, and had kindly fed Eggy before leaving. I went back into the kitchen, got down a huge wooden bowl from my cabinet and filled it to overflowing with Halloween candy. I really hoped that the kids in my neighborhood would be conscientious enough to take only a handful of Snickers bars and move on—but most likely the bowl would be empty after the third trick-or-treater.

I let Eggy out one last time, then grabbed my coat, purse and keys, flipped on the porch light put the wooden bowl in the center of my welcome mat and with a deep sigh headed toward my car.

Kendal lives just a few minutes away from me, a little closer to the neighboring town of Ferndale. His clientele is mostly based in the distant town of Mount Clemens, where he grew up, but recently he and his partner, Rick, had purchased an adorable Tudor just a few miles from me. When I pulled into his driveway I noticed he was already coming out of his house to greet me.

I’ve known Kendal for years; he was something of a mentor to me when I first got started in the business. He’s a gorgeous man, tall, with broad shoulders, wavy brown hair and deep-set blue eyes rimmed smartly with wire glasses that only accentuate his good looks. He has an infectious smile, a machine-gun laugh, and most of his clientele are madly in love with him. In fact, were he not gay, I might have made a bid for him myself once upon a time.

As psychics go he’s one of the best I’ve ever known. His readings are freakishly detailed, peppered with humor, and always full of hope. No matter how desperate the situation, Kendal will give you the silver lining. I respected him immensely for his talent, his wisdom, and his positive attitude. Plus, even though he played for another team, he was still nice to look at.

We met in the driveway, and he gathered me up in a tremendous hug that, I’ll admit, I badly needed. Setting me down he stepped away and immediately said, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing I want to talk about,” I said dismissively. I didn’t want to be read tonight; I just wanted to get this stupid reception out of the way and go back home to bed, which I might never leave.

Kendal looked at me for a long moment. I was familiar with the look; it’s the faraway stare most psychics have when we’re gathering intuitive information. “Kendal, really, just leave it alone,” I pleaded.

“It’s not over, sugar, even though you think it is. . . .”

Against my will my eyes welled up and I turned quickly away and walked over to his car, where I waited to be let in. After a long pause I sneaked a look at Kendal, who smiled apologetically at me, shrugged his shoulders and hit a button on his key chain, unlocking the door. I climbed in without a word and Kendal joined me a moment later. Without further delay we backed out of the driveway and headed downtown toward Detroit.

“Did you bring two sets of tarot cards?” I asked as he drove, remembering our little tutoring session before the reception.

Kendal tapped his left pocket and said, “I’ve got it all covered.”

“You sure I’m going to be able to pull this off?” I asked apprehensively.

“Sugar, if anyone can pull this off, you can. Really, it’s a piece of cake. Trust me.”

Anytime someone says the words “trust me,” it’s a pretty good indication that you’d be wiser to head for the hills. I squirmed as we got off at the exit for downtown, and took calming breaths as we drove into the parking structure across from the casino.