Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (5 page)

One visit will convince you! Madame Anya has the God-given Power to Heal by Prayer. What you see with your eyes, your heart will believe. Are you suffering? Are you sick? Do you need help? Do you have bad luck? Bring your problems to Madame Anya today and be rid of them tomorrow. She advises on all affairs of life. There is no problem too great she can’t solve. She calls your friends and enemies by name without asking you a single word and reunites the separated. Madame Anya has devoted a lifetime to this work. From the four corners of the world they have come to her, men and women of all races and walks of life. Guaranteed to remove evil influence and bad luck. Lifts you out of sorrow and darkness and starts you on the way to success and happiness. Madame Anya invites you to her home. What your eyes see, your heart will believe!

It ended by promising a free lucky charm to all comers, and stated that all readings were private and confidential.

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Just look what I’ve been missing. She certainly didn’t bring Molly good luck, though.”

“Or me,” Linnea said. “Would you look at this stupid charm?” She held up a little plastic statue of a bluebird dangling from a key chain. “Did you ever see the likes of it? No wonder she gives them out free!”

I looked at her curiously. “You went to her?”

“Once. Molly thought she could help me. And I…” She faltered. “I was ready to try anything.” Her chin came up defiantly.

Clemente looked perplexed.

“What was it like?” I asked.

“Strange.”

“Did she tell you anything useful?”

“No,” she replied sulkily. “If you’re so interested, why don’t you go see her yourself?”

“I think I’ll do that,” I said, standing. “In fact, I’ll do it right now.”

Linnea looked up in surprise. “My hard-headed, practical friend is going to visit a fortune teller?”

“Why not?”

She grinned. “Why not? We can compare notes later.”

I thanked Clemente for the drink, and he told me to stop in at the Blind Center sometime for a tour. At the bar, I paused to remove the lima beans from my grocery bag. The package was slightly damp, but still firm. I slipped it into my purse and checked the wine with Stanley for safekeeping. Linnea was starting in on her second stinger; by the time she got home, she’d be ready to drink all night, and I didn’t want the wine there to tempt her.

As I went out the door, I glanced back at the table. Linnea and Clemente were laughing, their heads close together. Her knee was pressed firmly against his thigh.

The dim orange bulb on the third-floor landing did little to illuminate the hall. I waited as heavy footsteps approached from within Mrs. Neverman’s apartment. The door opened a few inches, and I stared down the long barrel of a .22 revolver. Mrs. Neverman’s face peered out over the security chain, curiosity and apprehension accentuating the forward thrust of her jaw.

“Yes? What do you want?” Her voice grated harshly.

“Mrs. Neverman? I’m Sharon McCone, from the first floor.”

“Yes?”

“You’re the person who advertises herself as Madame Anya?”

“I am.” Proudly, she drew herself up to her full height.

“My friend, Linnea Carraway, came to you for a… a consultation.” I was beginning to feel silly, so I plunged ahead. “I was also a friend of Molly Antonio.”

“Do you wish a consultation?” she asked impatiently.

“Uh, yes, I do.” I had to get inside somehow.

“Then come in, please.”

Unhooking the chain, she slipped the gun into a table drawer and ushered me into a small, dark room crammed with heavy furniture. In spite of its dimness, it must have received good sun during the day because African violets bloomed every where: on tables and shelves, even on the floor. A big, old-fashioned buffet was banked like an altar with plants and dozens of candles shaped like birds. I stared at them, fascinated.

Mrs. Neverman turned to me. “Please sit down.”

I looked for a chair, but heard a sudden flapping sound. I jerked my head up. A great blur of black feathers dove at me.

Crying out, I covered my head with my arms. “My God, get it out of here!”

Mrs. Neverman looked startled, but held out her arm. The creature flew over and perched on her wrist. It was a crow, with a wingspread of at least two feet.

“Goodness, honey,” the fortune teller said, “don’t let Hugo frighten you!”

My heart beat fast, and my palms felt clammy, but I sat down and attempted to act calm. “Sorry—it’s a silly fear I have. He’s awfully large, isn’t he?”

She regarded the bird fondly. “Not really. He’s a fish crow. They’re native to the Gulf states, and much smaller than the standard American crow. They’re just as easily trained, though. I’ve taught Hugo to say a few words.” She took the bird to an ornate cage and deposited it within. I relaxed somewhat.

Mrs. Neverman seated herself in an armchair opposite me. In spite of her earlier attempt at proud bearing, her shoulders now hunched defensively under her maroon velvet robe. She seemed painfully aware of her ugliness, and the knowledge took a toll that showed in her every movement.

Calmly, she said, “Our friend’s death, honey—I prophesied it.”

“You mean you told her that she would be murdered?” I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice.

“No. I would never go that far.”

“What did you tell her, then?”

“I can’t say. My readings must be kept confidential. But it was all there—a terrible aura.”

The fortune teller was using Molly’s death for advertising purposes. I frowned.

“Now, what’s your problem, honey?” she asked.

“Problem?”

“You came to me. You must have a problem.”

“I… uh…”

“I
see
, honey. You don’t want to talk about it to a stranger. But that’s all right, that’s all right. Why don’t I give you the standard reading. Then you’ll feel more free.”

And maybe by then I could invent a problem. “All right, Mrs. Neverman.”

“You just call me Anya, honey. This is your first reading, I bet.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you just relax. Do you have something with you that has special significance? Some jewelry? A keepsake, maybe?”

I looked down at my folded hands, where my mother’s signet ring circled my left middle finger. She had given it to me when I turned twenty-one, explaining it always passed down to the oldest daughter. One of my few superstitions was the luck I believed it brought me.

Anya’s eyes followed mine. “May I see it a minute?”

Reluctantly I pulled it off and dropped it into her outstretched palm, feeling a little lost without it. Her large fingers curled, and she bent her head to examine it. In the silence that followed, a growing tension gripped me. I realized I was afraid of what she might say and, even more, that I would believe it.

“It’s a very old ring,” Anya finally said. “A family heirloom.”

“Yes.” One didn’t need ESP to guess that.

“The ring is a European type, so your heritage can’t be all Indian.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m only an eighth Indian. Everybody else in my family looks Scotch-Irish except me, I’m what they call a ‘throwback’—and believe me, I took plenty of ribbing about it when I was growing up.”

Anya’s dark eyes watched me intently. “I see. You were a very loved child, you know. The ring was a gift from your mother.”

Again, it was a guess, since it was a woman’s ring. Anya didn’t have mystical powers, but her mind operated logically. She might have made a good detective.

“The ring,” she went on, “always passes down to the oldest daughter.”

I started. Just another guess, I reminded myself.

“You believe this ring has powers.” She looked shrewdly at me. “Luck, maybe?”

“Maybe.” I sat up straighter.

“Yes, honey, you’re not a person who likes to admit she’s superstitious. The ring really does have powers, but they’re not strong enough. Not nearly strong enough for the trouble that lies before you.”

“Trouble?” A spurt of irrational anxiety shot through me.

“Yes, trouble, honey. There’s trouble in your home.”

I relaxed. After all, Linnea had been to see her. Naturally she knew all about it.

“Your friend has many problems, the one who’s staying with you. She makes them worse with drink. Oh, I tried to warn her. I told her she must pray to be cured of this sickness and work for the strength to overcome her difficulties.”

“What did she say?”

“Your friend does not accept advice easily.”

That accounted for Linnea’s sulky behavior when I’d asked her what the fortune teller had said. “No, she doesn’t.”

“You know, your friend has made a shambles of your home. But this is only the beginning. She will get worse, honey, much worse. You will need great strength to get through it.” Anya paused and pointed dramatically at me. “In the next week you will struggle hard against the death of friendship. There is a dark-haired man who speaks falsely to you. Do you know who I mean? There is a light-haired man who you think is your friend. Watch out for him; he’s capable of betraying you. There are dangers in believing what anyone says. You must be on guard for lies and try to recognize them when they’re spoken.”

Involuntarily, I shivered. I didn’t believe a word of it, but, like a soap opera, Anya’s acting had the power to suck me in against all my better intentions.

The fortune teller extended my ring to me. “Yes, honey, this is not strong enough to protect you from these troubles. But I can help you, if you let me.”

I slipped the ring back on my finger. “How?”

“I will pray for you. Do you see those candles?” She motioned at the birds on the buffet.

“Yes.”

“They’re special candles—natural wax, only the purest ingredients. And they’re shaped like birds, so my prayers will fly up to God. Every night at midnight for an entire week, I will light one of them for you and pray. I guarantee your troubles will vanish.”

It was an interesting sales pitch. “How much do the candles cost?”

“Oh, honey.” She waved a dismissing hand. “Not much for you. Only five dollars apiece. Surely that isn’t too much to protect yourself from this evil?”

Thirty-five dollars, plus whatever this reading cost. And she wouldn’t even be out the price of the candles, since it was doubtful I would show up at midnight, demanding to watch her burn them.

I glanced at the candles again, feigning interest. “I don’t know. I don’t get paid until Friday.”

“But surely then you’ll want me to pray for you.”

Anya apparently didn’t extend credit—even with such dire evil hovering on the horizon. “Probably I will. I’ll let you know.”

Suspiciously she asked, “You
do
have the five dollars for the reading?”

“Of course.”

She extended a greedy hand for the bill, and when she had received it, gave me a lucky charm like the one Linnea had. “I guarantee my prayers will save you much pain, honey. I suggested I pray for your friend, but she said she would rather spend the money on liquor. She was very rude.”

“I’m sorry about that. Did you light candles often for Molly?”

“Oh, honey, I did. I planned to this last time, even though there seemed little hope of saving her.”

“Hmmm. Did you hear what happened to Gus?”

“Besides losing Molly, you mean?”

“Yes.” I explained what Sebastian had told me.

“Poor little man.” Anya shook her head. “Where will he go now?”

“Temporarily he can stay at Molly’s. But after the first of the month no one knows. I was talking to Herb Clemente earlier…”

“Clemente!” Anya’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes. He’s director of the Sunrise Blind Center.”

“I know who he is!”

“What’s the matter?”

“You’re not a friend of that swine?”

“I just met him tonight. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong! Look around this place. Do you see anyone?” She waved her arm violently.

I looked. “Just the bird.”

“That’s right.” She bobbed her head emphatically. “Just little Hugo and me. Jeffrey Neverman isn’t here and hasn’t been since that swine talked him into leaving home.”

“Wait a minute, Anya. Who’s Jeffrey? Your son?”

“My son?” Her voice rose an octave. “Jeffrey Neverman is my husband. At least he was until that Clemente lured him away from here.”

I remembered Clemente’s handyman, who had left his “dreadful old” wife. No wonder Clemente had smiled when Linnea mentioned Anya.

“How did Clemente lure him away?” I asked.

“By any number of vicious lies. That swine has an evil aura. He probably convinced Jeffrey he should run after younger, prettier women. Just because I’m ten years older than him is no reason to lust after young flesh.” Anya’s hand went to her face, and she rubbed it like a painful bruise.

I looked away from her anguish.

“He can’t have much luck with the ladies, though,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “How could he, sleeping on the floor in the basement of that old church?”

“He lives in the old church at the Blind Center?”

She nodded. “And, after all he’s done, you must think I’m a fool to worry about him. But it’s damp and drafty there, and he catches cold so easily. Why he chooses to stay…” She paused, eyes swimming. “Yeah, I still love him. Dumb, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” I said, feeling uncomfortable in my new role of confidante.

“Well, I do, honey. I do.” She sighed heavily and blew her nose on a lace-bordered handkerchief.

I asked, “How did Jeffrey get his job at the Center?”

She sniffed disdainfully. “I don’t know as you can call it a job. He never does a lick of real work. Jeffrey met Herb Clemente when he got out of prison. Clemente gave him some counseling, but it didn’t take. Jeffrey still didn’t have a job when Clemente and the Blind Center moved in over there on Twenty-fourth Street, so he looked Clemente up. Clemente let him run some errands. Then, two months ago, Jeffrey up and informed me he was leaving, to go live there in the church.”

“Why was he in prison?”

Her long jaw became set. “Jeffrey used to be a trucker. He made good money, was even going to start his own company. But, no, he couldn’t be satisfied with that. He stole stuff from the loads he hauled, and they caught him. He went to prison for two years, and I stood by him the whole time. A lot of good it did me—look at the reward I got!”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, honey, that’s life. That’s life.” She rose heavily. “But it won’t go on much longer. I’m going to get him back soon. I have a plan. You just wait and see if I don’t get him back.” She held the door open for me. “You let me know about those candles on Friday, all right?”

I said I would and started downstairs.

On the dim third-floor landing, I remembered the lima beans in my purse. The package was wet and soggy, in spite of whatever insulation my thin macrame bag provided. I looked at my watch: nine-thirty, only three and a half hours since I had bought them. I hurried downstairs and outside.

The windows of the Albatross Superette were dark. Mr. Moe must have closed up early. I peered at the second story, where the grocer lived. No light showed there either.

My momentum fizzled out, and I stood still. What to do now? The night was relatively young.

Well, Mr. Moe wasn’t available, but maybe Sebastian could use some company. Even though the brush man was blind, I suspected he knew more of what went on in the neighborhood than those of us who could see. I dumped the soggy lima beans in a waste receptacle and started off for Twenty-fourth Street.