Skillful Death (28 page)

Dom nearly stopped walking. He was so startled by the pause that he had to think back to determine the question. He couldn’t make sense of the way the question was formed. He thought, Isn’t it something? What could that mean?

Fortunately, she didn’t require an answer.

“I liked what I was doing before. At least it allowed me to get out and socialize every day. We had lots of chores, but I didn’t even get very dirty. I’m not entirely sure why my aunt made me leave that job. At least she has come to her senses. I’m going to be here until the snow leaves the passes, and I can’t imagine spending what could be another half-year just sitting around. Could you?”

“NO!” he said, probably a little too enthusiastic. He was excited to know the answer.

“How much work are you going to be doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Dom said. He wondered at that question, too.
 

“Y
OU
HAVE
TO
COME
meet my aunt,” she says. No introduction, she just opens with that. When they come in hot like this, I don’t draw them out. I like to hear the version they practiced before I start asking lots of questions.

“Okay?” I ask. You could take this either way: let’s go, or tell me more. She opts to tell me more.

“She’s a Medium, and she’s been working successfully for several years, but now the spirits have taken over.”

“Taken over what?”

“Her! They’ve taken control of her body,” she says. “The other practitioners won’t go near her because they’re afraid that one of the spirits will jump to them. The church doesn’t want anything to do with her. They condemn her practices and won’t help her because she won’t repent.”

A significant percent of my cases are from people who come in as victims. “I don’t want the prize, I just need your help,” they say. I went to my boss a few years ago and suggested we put a clause in the contest rules. If you come in for help to stop some sort of paranormal activity, we’ll help you for free, but you don’t get the money. I figured that would put a quick stop this type of claim. He rejected my idea. I’m still not sure why.
 

I thought about telling people anyway. I figured I’d say, “I have to warn you—if you’re looking for help to stop paranormal activity, I’ll help you. But you won’t be eligible for the prize,” even if the boss wouldn’t let me put it in writing. I decided not to. It’s his money, and he pays me well, so I do as he says.

This lady surprises me with what she says next.

“I’m not looking for help to get the spirits out of her. I’ve found it really helpful, and the publicity is making her business explode. But I figured as long as she’s possessed, she might as well cash in on your prize. At least we’ll be able to take better care of her.”

“So you’re fine with her being possessed by evil spirits?”

“Yes, but I didn’t say evil. They’re actually pretty helpful. One of them gave me a great stock tip a few weeks ago. I made enough to get my van fixed. I mean it’s haunted now, but it drives. You ever try to ride the subway with three kids under five? Talk about evil spirits.”

I laugh. This woman is quite charming.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“I’m Franza. What’s your name?” she asks. She stretches her hand over my desk for me to shake.

“Malcolm. Should we go?”

“Oh, now? You want to come see her now?” Franza asks.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Okay, cool. I’m parked under the building up the street. You want to ride with me?”

“In the haunted van? I wouldn’t miss it,” I say.

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She’s a good driver. I don’t mean that she is safe, or cautious, or anything like that. I guess I mean that she’s a good navigator. In the city, being able to find your way around everything—traffic jams, pedestrians, laws—is crucial. Few people do it well.
 

The van is atrocious. She moved a blanket, sippy cup, used tissue, and a bunch of paperback books off my seat. I’m still squeezing my arms in close to keep away from all the clutter. There’s a wallet of CDs hanging from my visor, drooping in my face. There are postage-stamp-sized stickers pasted on my window. Does she let the four-year-old sit in the front seat? The pouch on passenger’s door is filled with coffee supplies—sweetener, creamer, lids, and sleeves. The floor is a carpet of mini pretzels and goldfish crackers. I’m not wearing the seatbelt because it seems to be smeared with grape jelly. If the van is haunted, these ghosts must not mind a mess.

She gets us there quick, forty minutes that would have taken me an hour. We pull into the tiny driveway of a little pyramid-roofed bungalow. There’s a dog house dormer on the attic, and it has one of those Palmistry signs in the window. She has a sign hanging in the shelter of the covered porch, as well.
 

“Don’t get out,” she says, touching her fingers to my elbow as I reach for the handle. “Just wait for a second.”

I’m a skeptic, so I figure that someone inside is going to signal Franza when their little production is ready for the next performance. We’re going to walk into a room full of pulled blinds, candlelight, and swinging chandeliers. We’ll find a moaning and thrashing aunt, tossed hither and thither and yon by raging spirits.
 

“I want her to come outside and meet us out in the sun,” Franza says. “That way, she won’t be doing anything theatrical in the house. When we bring clients inside, she’s supposed to put on a big show. If we wait out here, she knows to act normal.”

“I thought she was controlled by spirits,” I say.

“That’s who I’m talking about,” Franza says, “the spirits. Collectively, I refer to them as ‘she.’”

“Oh,” I say.

A plump, older woman—I’d say she’s about seventy-five, maybe a little less—pushes open the screen door. She shields her eyes against the bright noon sun, crossing the porch. She leans heavy on the railing as she climbs down the three steps to the walk. She gives us a little wave with her spare hand as her feet hit the stone.

“She’s only fifty-five,” Franza says. “The spirits average out to about a hundred years old. That’s why she moves so slow. You’ll see.”

I do see. I mean, I see that the woman is much younger than I originally thought. Up close, she’s a good looking fifty-five. Up close, you could mistake her for Franza’s older sister if she didn’t move like a septuagenarian.
 

The older woman makes her way to Franza’s door and paws at the handle. She and Franza exchange an awkward back and forth through the glass about who should let go and who should open the door. While they’re bickering, I get out of the van. It feels liberating to extract myself from the clutter. I close the door to the van and I can’t help but brush myself off. I know it must be rude, but they’re not paying any attention to me, so I indulge.

Franza and her aunt finally negotiate a settlement and the older woman slides farther to the rear of the van so Franza can get out.

“Thank you, Laurette.” Franza talks loud and slow to her aunt. If anyone ever talks to me that way, I’m going to slap their face. It’s pretty clear from the look on her face that Laurette feels the same way.
 

“Well, I don’t know why you didn’t just come in when you pulled up.”

“I didn’t want you to put on a show for our guest here,” Franza said. She waves in my direction. I circle the hood of the van so I can be introduced.

“I wouldn’t put on a show. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“Hi, I’m Malcolm.” I put out my hand and Laurette pulls away.

“Oh,” she says.

“Laurette doesn’t like to be touched,” Franza says. “It’s a hassle when she falls in the bathroom.”

“Oh, dear!”

“It’s okay, Laurette, everyone uses the bathroom here,” Franza says. She turns to me for an aside. “I swear, where she’s from, nobody ever acknowledged dropping a deuce.”

I smile and nod. “Same where I’m from.”

Franza rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Laurette, let’s get you inside,” Franza says. She herds the old woman without touching her.

“You call me ‘Auntie,’” Laurette says.

“Okay.”

At the door, Franza flips over a sign with a paper clock. She sets the hands so it reads, “We’re closed, please come back at 3:00pm.” That gives us two hours with Laurette.

The three of us are in the front room of the house. It’s a lot like I pictured. The blinds are pulled, and candles burn on the windowsills. The scent of all the candles mostly masks the undercurrent of litter box. At least that explains why they have candles burning, but I don’t understand why they can’t let a little sunlight in.

“Laurette’s eyes are sensitive to light,” Franza says. “That’s why the blinds are pulled.”

Which one is the psychic? Franza seems to be anticipating my questions pretty well.
 

“Laurette’s a pretty name,” I say. “I haven’t heard it before.”

“It’s quite common, but it’s not my name,” Laurette says. “My name is Susan. I’m Franza’s aunt on her mother’s side.”

“Susan is my aunt’s name,” Franza says. “Laurette is the name of the spirit-group inhabiting Susan.”

Now it’s Susan’s/Laurette’s turn to roll her eyes. I see a family resemblance between Susan/Laurette and Franza when she frowns like that.

“This is confusing,” I say. “May I call you Laurette?” I figure I’ll go with the name that Franza prefers. Franza does not seem like the type of person to give up a fight easily.

“Why not? Everyone else does,” Laurette says.

Franza and I are sitting in a loveseat near the beaded doorway where we entered. Laurette settled into a puffy chair on my left. At everyone’s knees, a shiny, round table features pretty inlays in geometric patterns. Aside from where we entered, the room has only one other door. It’s a closet, I’m guessing, because the door opens out. Overhead, a slow ceiling fan revolves silently. It looks to have about a thousand years of dust clinging to its oval paddles.

I’m about to ask about the table—I really like the design—when Franza speaks.

“Tell Malcolm about his past,” she says.

I’ve spent way too much time with cold reading. It’s a technique where the psychic, or Medium, or whatever, pulls information from you and claims that they’re receiving the knowledge from the spirit world. They’ll start with something like, “The spirits communicate with me using a series of images, and the meaning is often unclear. They’re likely to mean more to you than me. With your help, we can learn the most about you.” They’re usually a little more subtle about it, but what they’re really saying is that they’re going to describe random things and then watch your body language for clues when they’ve hit on something.

The good ones will start with what you’re wearing, how you talk, and how you carry yourself. From those things, they start to pick out details about you. If they have a partner, like Franza sitting next to me, they’ll use them as another set of eyes. I’m going to watch and listen for any signals Franza might throw to Laurette.

“Malcolm already knows about his past,” Laurette says. “Much more interesting to talk about his future, no?”

“He’s not a believer,” Franza says. She has a mean edge to her voice. “You should be able to see that. You need to convince him of your gift first.”

“Oh,” Laurette says.

This is an interesting technique. Laurette seems so frail and embattled and harangued by Franza. My sympathy is with Laurette. She has chipped away at my skepticism before she has even performed.

“Malcolm,” Laurette says, “the spirits whisper to me. They like to tell me secrets about the people sitting with me. They’re bored of telling me Franza’s secrets, so I’ll see if they want to tell me anything about you.” Laurette moves like she’s going to put a hand on my arm, but her hand stops a quarter inch before she makes contact. She pulls her hand back and closes her eyes.

I raise my eyebrows. She didn’t ask me to help interpret. It’s probably coming soon, or maybe Laurette has a different approach than most.

“You were raised by a single mother in Virginia,” Laurette says.

Close enough—my parents divorced when I was in grade school. Seems like easy odds for someone my age. She probably got the Virginia from my accent. I’ve picked up some of the city’s lexicon, but I know my roots are still all Virginia. Even I can hear it in some of the words.

“You went to school up north—far north of here—but not college. You returned to Virginia for college,” Laurette says.

I’m so stupid. I bet they’ve been researching me for weeks. I didn’t just walk in off the street, they sought me out at my office. She’s not doing a cold reading. She’s probably memorized my transcripts. If this is all they’re going to do, I think it’s time to get back to the office.

“These are not secrets,” I say. I turn to Franza and say, “I’ll just call a cab. Thanks for the show.”

Laurette doesn’t give me time to stand up.

“You killed a dog when you were nineteen,” Laurette says. “I’m sorry to air your secrets, but the spirits want you to believe.”