Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (7 page)

I did not dare touch her. "You okay?" I
inquired, trying to make it casual.

She replied with an almost imperceptible nod
of the head and without detaching that gaze. "Guess so. How did you
do that?"

I wished I had, and wished I knew how. I
told her, "We didn't do it, it did us. Happens, sometimes, when all
the ingredients are there.

"It was ...
cosmic."

I said, "Yes. I think so. The important
thing is to trust it, accept it, go with it. Can you do that?"

She pondered that for a
moment before replying, "I doubt that I could do otherwise. But I'm
not sure I understand ..."

I lit another cigarette, offered it to her,
but she declined with a shake of the head; I said, my eyes
following the spiraling trail of smoke, "You suddenly knew me. I
mean, knew. Maybe as you've never, ever known another human
being."

"Yes, I ... think that's
it," she said, maybe a bit confused.

"Don't let me define the experience for
you."

"No, that—that's it. But more. Much more
than that."

"The important thing, right now," I
suggested, "is the knowing. I think maybe it is all important. You
are in trouble, Karen. Maybe deep trouble. You need a friend,
someone to trust. I'm asking you to give me that trust, that
confidence."

She said, without a blink, "I trust you with
my life, Ashton."

"It could get down to that," I muttered.
"Look, you have a right to know..." I suddenly felt miserable,
incompetent, scared. "I don't know anything about anything. All I
have is feeling, belly instinct. So don't trust me with your very
life, Karen. All I am asking for is your confidence that I am
feeling and acting in your ultimate best interest. Please give me
that and nothing more than that."

She said, very quietly, almost awed, "Okay.
I understand."

I told her, "I need to know, in a word, one
word, how you feel about your own life at this moment, your life
situation."

"In a word," she replied, without taking
time to think about it, "depressing."

"That seems very strange," I commented. "You
would be the envy of almost any woman. You have youth, beauty,
fabulous wealth."

"Poor little rich girl," she said grimly.
"It is not what it is cracked up to be. I don't have much to relate
to. I mean, with other women. With the world at large, really. This
is my world, always has been. But from what I can gather, I have a
terribly unnatural life-style."

"How long have you been aware of that?"

"Always, I guess," she replied quietly. "At
least since I've been old enough to even know who I am. Now,
sometimes, I don't even seem to know that."

"Are you frightened?"

"Do you mean right now?"

"Right now, an hour ago, yesterday,
tomorrow. Are you frightened?"

"I guess I am," she replied dully.

"What frightens you?"

She seemed to be thinking about it. Quite
awhile. Then: "Myself, mainly."

"Does Kalinsky frighten you?"

"Terry?" She wrinkled her
nose, smiled. "His bark is worse than his bite. I think—I see him—I
believe Terry is just ... overburdened. With his own sense of
responsibility, I mean. Tries too hard. Takes it all much too
seriously."

"Yeah, that's how he takes it," I quietly
agreed.

"I get very angry with him sometimes. He can
be very stubborn and demanding. But I am not afraid of him."

"Could you fire him if you wanted to? Send
him packing?"

She smiled again. "I've never really thought
about it."

"Think about it now," I suggested.

"Well, he—I don't know.
He's administrator of the estate. And trustee of several funds,
until they come to me. I don't suppose I could change that. But ...
if you mean ... do I have to live under the same roof with him ...
I really can't answer that."

I said, "These, uh, trust funds..."

"From Poppa—my grandfather. I gather that it
is all very complicated—also the estate—very complicated, I mean,
since my parents died very soon after Poppa. And I was a
minor."

"How did your parents die?"

"A boating accident. I was fourteen."

"That's uh, tough on a kid. I'm sorry."

"I got over it," she said, almost
defensively. "Never knew them all that well, anyway."

"Still ..."

She showed me a small
smile. "Well, sure, I cried for a long time. Thank God for Terry
and Marcia. They were like family. I was flower girl in their
wedding. So ... well, actually, the whole staff has been like a big
family. I think Poppa sort of designed it that way. I have never
really felt alone in the world."

I reminded her, "You created that impression
yesterday, at my place. I thought you were alone in the world,
except for Bruno."

Her eyes fell. "Bruno was
my good buddy," she said. "I will miss him terribly." The eyes came
back up, full blaze. "I'm sorry I wasn't entirely honest with you.
But after all ... consider the circumstances."

I said, "I was not complaining, merely
commenting. Sometimes, with strangers, we subconsciously reveal
true feelings."

She replied, "Okay, so maybe sometimes I do
really feel the role of poor-little rich girl."

I asked, "Have you ever felt prisoner to all
this?"

"Prisoner? I don't—no, I—my life is my
own."

"Is it really?"

The eyes fell again. "I don't know," she
said miserably.

I had to persist. "You've never felt mad as
hell, maybe scared as hell, too, about your life situation?"

"I guess maybe I have," she admitted.

Yes, I rather guessed, too, that she had. I
inquired, as casually as I could make it sound, "When do you come
into the trusts?"

"On my twenty-fifth birthday," she replied,
just as casually.

"And that is ... ?"

"Next week," she said.

"Next week," I echoed, the
thinking mind already occupied elsewhere. "This is Saturday, so ...
"

"One week from today. Next
Saturday. Marcia has planned a huge party. I wish they'd just
..."

"You'd rather not have a party?"

She replied, "We party every Saturday. It
all seems so pointless. I'd rather spend the time meditating."

I hardly heard that. My thinking part was
pounding along another trail. I asked her, "Are you frightened
about next Saturday?"

"Frightened? No. Why should I be?"

"No anxiety at all?"

"No. I just don't see any point to it."

"Awhile ago, Karen, when you came
downstairs, you dropped your robe at the door and walked onto the
patio totally naked. Do you remember doing that?"

Her eyes clouded, dropped, inspected the hem
of her robe. She said, very quietly, "Yes, of course I remember,
but... not naked, no, I didn't think ... "

"You believed that you were wearing
something beneath the robe?"

"My bathing suit. I ...
can't explain. I thought I had put on the yellow bikini, but
..."

"But obviously you had not."

"Obviously. It was here
when I returned to the apartment, in the drawer where I usually
keep it. I can't ..."

"Do you remember the announcement you made,
downstairs, when you took my hand to introduce me to your guests—do
you remember what you said?"

"Yes. I remember what I said."

"Do you know why you said that?"

"Well, I—I remember—-I
meant—I was very happy that you had come, and ..."

"Are you confused about this, Karen?"

"I think, yes, I am confused, I don't know
why I said that. Marcia called it a Freudian slip but I—I don't
think so. I mean, okay, maybe I was thinking it, but my God, I
would never say something like that, not even to a best friend in
confidence. No way would I slip it at the top of my voice to that
crowd down there."

"What did Carl say about it?"

"No big deal, he said. Not to worry, he
said. Carl is like that."

"How long has Carl been saying things like
that to you?"

"He has been here about
... five years, I guess. Yes, since shortly after my twentieth
birthday. Five years."

"Isn't it a bit unusual to have a live-in
doctor?"

"Is it?" She shrugged delicately. "I guess
if you can afford it, why not?"

"Has there always been a doctor on staff? Or
is Carl the first?"

She made a thoughtful
face, said, "Poppa had one here for a while ... I guess ... the
last year or two. He had a lot of pain, cancer. But that was the
only real doctor until Carl. Several of the security men are
trained as paramedics. But I don't know, does that seem unusual to
you?"

I said, "A full-time doctor plus paramedics
is more than many small towns have. You say Carl came just after
you turned twenty?"

"About a week after my birthday, yes. I
remember it because Marcia made a joke about him being a late
birthday gift."

"Then he was hired primarily to doctor
you?"

"Oh, I don't think so. I've never been
ill."

"You said earlier that you were the
Kalinsky's flower girl. When was that?"

"I must have been about
five," she replied, frowning with the effort to recall. "They've
been married ... I guess close to twenty years. I believe their
next anniversary is their twentieth. Unless I just dreamed the
whole thing."

"What do you mean? Dreamed what whole
thing?"

"About the wedding. Many things I think I
remember turn out to be something I dreamed once. Is that
unusual?"

I smiled. "Probably not,
if you're talking about childhood events. But do you often find it
difficult to distinguish between something you've dreamed and some
actual event? Other than the childhood stuff, I mean."

She thought about that
briefly before replying. "There have been some adult things that
... well, maybe I just dreamed them."

"Since, uh ...”

"Adult. The past few years."

"Since your twentieth birthday, say?"

"Since then, probably, yes."

"Does Carl use dream analysis?"

"Not a lot."

"Not in the strictly Freudian sense?"

"I think not, no."

"Does he use hypnosis, regression
techniques, any of that?"

"Gosh, I—not with me."

"But he has been your analyst these past
five years."

"I have never thought of myself as being 'in
analysis.' We've been friends. He advises me, counsels me."

"But you don't lie on a
couch and ..."

"Well, a few times. But nothing heavy."

"Nothing heavy."

"That's right."

"Like..."

"I've never discussed sex with him."

"Sex is heavy?"

"It is for me."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

"Since your awareness of sex. Going back to
when?"

She was becoming impatient with me, fidgety.
"I guess I have always been aware of it. I cannot remember a time
when I was not aware of it."

I commented, "That's, uh, pretty heavy,
yeah. Where'd you go to school?"

"Right here. Poppa insisted on private
tutors. I have never attended a real school."

"Poppa is TJ? Or JQ?"

"JQ. TJ never seemed to know if I was dead
or alive."

"You never mention your mother," I pointed
out.

"I have very little reason to," she replied.
"I saw very little of my mother. I believe that she was gone, not
here, for most of my life. I believe—it seems that—I think she came
back right after Poppa died."

God, it was getting heavier and heavier.

I said, "Poppa died when you were thirteen.
Then your mother and father less than a year later. Terry and
Marcia took over your guardianship?"

"Yes."

"But you continued to have private tutors
instead of going to regular school?"

"That's right."

"Did you like that?"

"I guess I never thought about it."

"You never questioned it,
never rebelled, never thought how nice it would be to have people
your own."She shut me down right there, coldly, finally. "I said I
never thought about it. I have to start getting ready for dinner."
She rose from the couch, gave me a frosty look. "See you
later."

And that was it.

There was no doubt that the interview had
ended.

The only question in my mind was who had
ended it. I don't know who that lady was, the stiffly formal one
with the frosty look.

I just knew that it was not Karen
Highland.

Chapter Eight: From the
Stream

I did not have time to fully assimilate the
perplexing developments with Karen because another problem was
awaiting me in my room—in the person of Marcia Kalinsky.

She was wearing a mini version of the terry
cloth robe that was assuming proportions as uniform of the day in
this household—and when I say "mini" I mean hip-length and
obviously designed to enhance rather than conceal the feminine
charms of the wearer. I have already noted on these pages the fact
that Marcia was remarkably preserved and no slouch whatever in the
feminine charms department—but I must add here that the casually
belted minirobe, worn over nothing more than the bottom half of a
skimpy bikini bathing suit, added nothing but strain to an already
overstrained day.

I left the door wide open.

She closed it.

I kept on my feet and moving, trying to
maintain a safe distance between polarized bodies.

She kept moving, also, continually closing
that distance.

This was the mode of physical action during
the ensuing conversation.

She: "Where the hell have you been? I've
been waiting for damned near thirty minutes."