Getting Sassy (15 page)

“I tend to think so too. And I’m guessing that this psychic must have known a few things about me—about us—in order to keep it going. And I want to find out how she knew what she knew about Robert. There must be some way she got information on him.”

“What did she know?”

“This rapping spirit knew that you had some money.”

When she didn’t respond, I hurried on. “Money other than your savings. I guess I thought it was a lot of money, but then you told me about the sofa money, and I realized that must have been it. But how did she know about it? And then I can’t figure out why she’d want to lead me on. I mean there are other ways of trying to convince me— easier ways—that she’s the real thing. Why did she think she had to? And why me? I was set up, Mom. And I need to find out why.”

In the midst of my babbling, I realized that my mother was looking at me in a way I’d never seen her look at me before. And I thought I’d seen them all. Her mouth was open just a little and her features seemed frozen except for her eyes, which were rounded with either shock or fear. Was she having a stroke?

“Mom!” I launched out of the rocker and reached for her hand. When I touched it, she started, snatching her hands back and clasping them together at her chest.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. I just felt... dizzy for a moment.” She blinked rapidly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

Definitely not a stroke.

“Okay, I need some information from you. That woman who came to see you the other day—Mary Waltner—the one who gave you the sofa money, she must be involved in some—”

“Will you get me my purse?”

That stopped me.

“My purse,” she repeated. “It’s on the table next to my bed.”

When I didn’t move, she leaned forward and cocked her chin. “If what you want is the sofa money, then you should have just asked for it.”

I took a deep breath. Then another. “I don’t want the money, Mother. I want to know how this woman thought she could con me. Mary Waltner knew Robert. I can’t think of another place to start.”

“Well, I don’t have his address. Why should I have his address?”

“I didn’t ask if you had his address. But I thought you might know where he was from.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Mary Waltner. Was she from California?”

“I don’t remember.”

Her emotions had gone raw again, and she pulled herself up the way she did when slipping into her martyr role. “How do you expect me to remember these things?”

“Sorry, Mom.” I paused. “But I need to know these things.”

The rocking chair had developed a creak—just since I’d been sitting in it. I listened to it screech for what seemed like several minutes.

My mother was the first to break the silence. She’d been looking out the window where a sparrow perched on one of the yews. Finally, she turned back to me and said, “What was the name of this psychic?”

“Erika Starwise.”

Instead of us having a chuckle over the woman’s name, she nodded and said, “I’d like to talk to her.”

I stopped rocking. “Mom, she’s a—”

“I don’t care what you think she is. I want to talk to her.”

“Why?”

“I want to see what else she knows about Rob-Robert,” she said, faltering.

“Why do you care?”

My question was met with stony eyes and a firm jaw. “It’s none of your business.”

I hadn’t heard that line in several decades, but it had the same effect. I was twelve years old and asking a question that wasn’t covered in
Growing Up and Liking It.
Challenging her would be pointless, but I could not let this meeting happen. “Yesterday you were saying good riddance to the bastard. He stole from you. He hurt you.”

“I want to talk to him.”

I settled back into the rocker, using my toes to keep a slight motion going. “If you think psychics are con artists, then why would you bother?”

My mother looked down at her hands and chipped away at the pink nail polish on her right thumb. Friday was manicure day.

I pressed a little harder. “You know she’s just making it up.”

After a moment, she looked up at me, gave me a self-satisfied smirk, folded her hands together and said, “I know her name. I can make an appointment. Take the courtesy bus.”

She reached in front of me to snatch the remote and turned the sound back on.

Knowing when I’ve been beaten and that I had to be there when this meeting occurred, I slumped in the chair and, watching John Wayne sneer at some bad guy, I said, “I’ll talk to her.”

My mother turned to me and, with exaggerated politeness said, “Thank you.”

Then she turned back toward the screen and added, “Don’t slouch.”

Halfway to Bull Severn’s cookout, I ran out of small talk. Strange. I never imagined that keeping up his side of the conversation would pose a problem for Mick Hughes. But after an uninspired discussion of the weather and the state of the Cubs, we now both stared straight ahead in silence at the asphalt, shiny in the dripping temperature. I saw no sign of impending thunderstorms, not even a wisp of a cloud against the blue.

I needed to talk. My gut was churning, and I couldn’t stop fidgeting with the strap of my purse. I kept replaying the voicemail message I’d found when I’d gotten home from Erika’s. It was from the goldfinch woman at Willoway Manor, Jane Goodwin, sounding sweet and sincere as she asked if I’d made the “difficult decision” yet. Then, in a less syrupy tone, she added that there were a number of people waiting for that bed.

I doubted this. If there were really a line of people waiting for the bed, Jane would have told me to pound sand by now. Still, that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a taker tomorrow.

Part of me wanted to call her and say, “Okay. We’re taking it.” I’d forget this half-baked idea of mine. But then I thought of my mother’s sunny little room at Dryden and the nuthatches and cardinals that visited the yews, and I knew that moving her to Willoway would be putting her away to die. And while she was failing in so many ways, she still had her pride and her nastiness sustaining her.

I would wait until the next morning to return the call. So I had until then to figure out how to steal a hundred thousand dollars,
which was the amount I’d decided on. (This was more than what my mother lost, but when you figured in pain and suffering, not to mention interest, it squared pretty well.)

I drew in a breath of air and expelled it in another, deeper sigh. Then I glanced in Mick’s direction, hoping he hadn’t heard me. I didn’t want him interpreting a sigh as boredom. Or, worse, for what it was—despondence.

But Mick hadn’t looked my way in some time. I took the opportunity to study him—something I’d never done up close. I guess I’d figured he might notice and then be encouraged, and I was afraid to let that happen. Today he’d made some effort to tame his unruly hair, which was that shade between blond and brown that contained a profusion of colors. He was chewing on the inside of his mouth as he drove, apparently unaware that I was studying his profile, which included a sharp chin with a flick of a scar on it.

I returned to the asphalt. Maybe some of my agitation involved guilt. Mick was taking me to meet a friend of his who I was intent on stealing from. I didn’t care about Severn’s feelings, but I was using Mick, who had been a good accountant and financial advisor to me. Rumors aside, he’d never done anything to hurt me. Unless you wanted to count the calories in those profiteroles he’d whipped up the night before.

I didn’t think he was reacting unfavorably to my appearance, seeing as I dressed for this event using the same care and precision with which I would have costumed up for Lady Macbeth. If he liked last night’s Robyn, he should have been thrilled with today’s. I’d curled my hair and, with the heat and humidity in mind, piled it up with some strategically placed hairpins, one of which had a tawny agate affixed to it. I kept makeup at a minimum—again I didn’t want it melting off me—using some soft colors on my eyes and cheeks. My outfit consisted of a pair of cropped khakis, cheeky flip flops, and an off-white, low-cut cami, over which I wore a filmy sleeveless top, which was splashed with the colors of the desert after a rain. I’d spent less on a week of groceries than I had on that top, and I trotted it out only
for special events. The weight training I’d been doing had paid off, and I had actually passed my own muster.

I looked at him and said, “You’re kind of quiet.”

“Huh?” As he turned, he seemed surprised to find me in the passenger seat.

“I said you’re quiet.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He went back to the window. “Just thinking about something.”

“Must be important.”

He shrugged. “Yeah.” Then he said, “Sorry.” He glanced at me. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” Now he was making small talk. “Tell me about Bull’s Blood.”

A rueful smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, almost as if he were thinking about a dear but troubled friend.

“Blood.” He breathed the name with a sigh as he shifted in the driver’s seat. “He’s one helluva horse. One of the best I’ve seen in my years. But he’s also one major pain in the ass.”

“How’s that?”

“Fussy about what he eats. Doesn’t play well with others. He’s wound tight as a Stradivarius string and he bites.”

“Sounds like a girl I knew in high school.”

He chuckled. “But he is the real thing. His line goes back to Man o’ War. He’s big like he was. Loves to run.”

“I’ve seen photos of him; he’s a beautiful horse. A roan, right?”

“Yep. He’s a blue roan. Grey on black.”

“Ooh,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah, he’s a looker.”

“He won the Preakness, ran fourth in the Belmont, but he wasn’t entered in the Derby. How come?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth then tugged at his chin. “He was recovering from a leg strain.”

“He got it running?”

Another chuckle. “No. I think Blood got it kicking in the side of his stall.”

“Oh,” I said, knowing exactly how the creature felt.

The farm was about thirty minutes west of Fowler in Seton Springs, an area where white fences lined the roads and parceled thick, green pastures into paddocks.

We turned on Loris Road and then again onto a wide drive that passed under a white sign spanning it. Old English lettering painted in black informed us we were entering Severn’s Acres. From the looks of the property, the sign could have read “Severn’s Many Acres.”

We paused at a wrought iron double gate, which, after a few moments, must have sensed we were there because it opened toward us, and I had a creepy feeling as we drove into the estate. Something like being swallowed into the belly of the beast. I guess I have some of my mother’s dramatic tendencies. It was just a security gate.

We drove around a couple of bends and then the road forked, and Mick took the south road, which landed us in a parking area. Cars filled the paved lot and overflowed onto the lawn, which was where Mick parked, pulling his Porsche in next to a Lexus.

While I had expected the house to ooze opulence, I did not anticipate the degree of oozing. It was a massive, single-story stucco with shallow roofs covered in burnt sienna tile. Red stone surrounded the arched, double doors. This place belonged in Morocco. It left my senses battling between disgust and envy. But it was easy to dismiss ten thousand square feet of living space as wasteful and ostentatious when you were confined to six hundred.

Mick stood with me for a few moments as I took it all in. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, “this is the house that Bull built.”

Indeed.

We didn’t go in through those doors, but took a flagstone path around the estate—and there was nothing else to call it—leading to
the back. For about fifty feet, the path ran alongside a second drive, which Mick explained led to the stables. Once we rounded the house, I got my first glimpse of a catered cookout. And again, “yard” didn’t cut it here. There was a pool, and behind the pool and to the south was a pond spanned by a footbridge for those who didn’t care to wade. The stables—painted that red-brown shade of the roof—began at the north end of the pond. Beyond the stables were paddocks.

And the people. I guessed a couple hundred of northern Illinois’ thoroughbred set had come to Severn’s cookout. And they were all as sleek and beautiful as the horses they raced. In a matter of seconds I conceded that I was out-dressed, out-tanned and out-toned.

We hadn’t progressed five feet into the area when a guy wearing khakis and a white, short-sleeved shirt presented us with a tray full of foaming beers. Mick took two and handed me one. I don’t usually drink beer, but with the heat and all, it sounded better than wine and they weren’t offering scotch.

We began to thread our way through the crowd, Mick steering me by my elbow. The beer was cold and tasted surprisingly good. I took another sip.

Mick nodded at a man wearing thin, round wire-rimmed glasses the exact same silver shade as his hair. His date looked like she should have been home studying for her ACTs.

My confidence left me. First in a trickle, then it virtually gushed from my pores. I was not in the same league as these people, and Bull Severn was their leader. What was I thinking? Mick’s gentle pressure on my arm kept me moving. Smiling. Nodding. Apparently, as Mick Hughes’s date, I was generating some interest. Or maybe it was the cropped khakis. They probably thought Mick was escorting one of the waitresses.