In that moment before pocketing the check I got a “buzz,” if you will, like a telephone ringing in the background letting me know there was a message to be picked up. I turned my head for a moment and listened with my mind. My left side felt thick and heavy—my sign for no. I checked the indication by sending out a question in my mind: Should I take the check? My left side again felt thick and heavy.
Often I get messages that, at the time, seem off. This one was pure bull. Why the hell not? I asked in my head as I looked longingly at the check. Immediately in my mind’s eye I saw an image of a baseball field and a playground. I looked at Milo and asked, “Were you considering donating some money to a baseball field or a playground or something?”
Milo had been watching me intently as my head cocked to one side and I searched out the meaning of the messages coming to me. He now looked a little astonished when I asked this question, and said, “Actually, I was. The Boys and Girls Club in my neighborhood has been struggling financially, and when I was a little kid they were the ones who kept me out of trouble and pointed me in the right direction. A lot of kids in my old neighborhood ended up dealing drugs or dead, and I was lucky enough to steer clear of all that because of the club. I’ve already sent them some cash, but every little bit helps.”
I hungrily looked at the check for another beat, my left side feeling thicker and heavier by the second. Finally I took a deep breath and tore it down the center, then again lengthwise and handed the pieces back to Milo with a chagrined look. “Milo, let’s not give just a little; let’s give ’em a lot and make a damn difference.”
He took the bits of paper from me and asked, “All of it? I mean . . . that’s a lot of money. You could quit doing this and retire to someplace tropical if you wanted to.”
I held my hand up in a “stop” motion. “Please don’t tempt me. Besides, this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m meant to be in this line of work, and winning the lottery isn’t going to change that purpose. Trust me, this money will be of better use in your old neighborhood.”
Milo patted me on the back good-naturedly and said, “I always knew you were a sucker for a good cause.”
“I’ll agree with you on the sucker part. You want to come in?” I asked, turning to unlock my office door.
“Wish I could, but I’ve got a meeting with the captain in a little while, and I don’t want to be late.”
“The captain? I thought you quit your job.”
“I did, but losing me and Dutch at once has really hit the department hard. They’ve asked me to consider coming back part-time for a while.”
“Are you gonna do it?” I asked, already subconsciously scanning his energy.
“You think I should?” he asked me seriously.
Automatically I said, “Yes. There’s something they really want your help with, Milo. Something big, and you’re the guy for the job. I really feel like you’re the one who will help solve the crime. But be careful. You’re playing with fire.” At that moment a cold prickle tickled my spine. I didn’t know why, but I shivered involuntarily.
Milo looked at me quizzically for a minute, then soberly nodded his head. “The truth is that retirement is pretty boring, and I could use something to focus on. Thanks, I appreciate the advice,” he said, leaning in and giving me a quick hug.
“Anytime. By the way, Dutch will be back tomorrow. Why don’t we all get together for lunch soon?” I asked as he stepped back.
“That’d be great. Have him give me a call when he gets in, and we’ll set it up. Happy Halloween, Abby.”
I waved good-bye, then let myself into my office. I glanced at the clock and noticed that I’d better get a move on if I wanted to be ready for my one-o’clock appointment. I hurried through the tiny lobby into the back office and put my coat and purse away.
My office suite is set up in a T formation. As you walk through the doorway you enter a tiny lobby with two chairs and a side table laid out with magazines. Straight ahead is my inner office, where I have a computer, phone, filing cabinets and fax machine. To the right of my lobby sits an empty space that at one point was occupied by my best friend, Theresa—a medium who moved to California a few months before—then by a massage therapist who was scared off by the same serial killer who’d put me out of commission for several weeks. I was currently interviewing possible replacements for the space, but as yet no one had seemed like a good fit.
To the left of the lobby was my reading area, a quaint ten-by-eleven-foot space painted a beautiful azure blue with cream trim and wood floors. The room housed two overstuffed plush chairs that faced each other and a small table that held a tape recorder dividing the space between. A large credenza butted up against three enormous windows on the room’s east wall, and the daylight through the windows played nicely over the various crystals I had arranged on top of the credenza. Candles dotted surfaces here and there, a mosaic mirror hung on one wall, and a large waterfall sat in one corner, giving rhythm to the room.
My reading area had always been a source of comfort for me. It was the room where I fully became myself. A place where I wasn’t someone’s neighbor, sister, friend or girl-next-door; but me, Abigail Cooper, professional psychic. Only in this little nook had I never been self-conscious of my gifts. Only here were there never any worries about being accepted or rejected. I could be completely myself, and for that reason it was the most precious space in the world to me.
I paused for a moment in the doorway, letting the serenity of the room wash over me like a cool shower on a hot day. With a sigh I quickly began lighting candles and incense, then picked up a brand-new cassette from the credenza and put it into the recorder. After that I sat in one of the white plush chairs and closed my eyes, getting my mind ready for my first reading.
Now, I’ve read a lot of books by other psychics who say they spend hours meditating before beginning their sessions. I’m a Capricorn, and we just don’t have that kind of patience. For me it’s literally a two-minute routine in my head, where I clear my mind as best I can and focus on the task at hand. Think of it as what you might do before taking a test. You’ve studied, crammed, memorized and prepared, but in those final moments before you’re allowed to turn your paper over, mentally you’re telling yourself, “You can do this . . . piece of cake . . . you know the answers!” It’s a bit like holding a mini pep rally in my head.
At exactly one o’clock there was a small knock on my door, and I hurried out to the lobby to greet my appointment. My one-o’clock was a new client named Cathy Schultz, a pretty girl I’d guess to be in her late twenties with shoulder-length blond hair and bright pink lipstick. We shook hands and I led her into my reading room. After taking our seats I got comfortable, turned on the tape recorder, closed my eyes, focused on her energy and began.
“Cathy, the first thing I want to say is congratulations. Did you just graduate from college or something?”
“Yes, this past August,” she said.
“Cool. Now, this wasn’t undergrad but graduate, like you got your master’s, right?”
Cathy chuckled and said, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“And did you also just get hired, or find a new job?”
“I’m going for my third interview at an advertising agency today at three.”
“Great! I have the feeling that you’ll get the job, or they’ll want you, but you may ask for time off before you start or something.”
“Uh . . . I hadn’t planned on it.”
I opened my eyes at that point and looked quizzically at her. “Really? Because my feeling is that you’ll need some time to tend to something before you can start.”
“Uh, no, honest, I can start right away.”
I get this all the time. Sometimes how I phrase something won’t fit a situation exactly at the time I say it, but connects perfectly a little later. I figured this was one of those times, so I didn’t push. “Okay, then just in case you need to attend to something before you start, it’s all right to do that
. Also, what’s going on with your headaches?”
“What headaches?” she asked.
I put my hands up to my head as if it hurt and said, “You know, your headaches. Have you gone to the doctor yet about them?”
“I don’t have headaches,” she said, looking at me like I was from Mars.
I checked in with my crew, who were insisting that my information was correct, so I said again, “Well, this is really weird, because the feeling that I get is that you’re going to see the doctor about your headaches, and not to worry; you’ll be fine.”
Cathy just shook her head at me, clearly not understanding. I dropped that subject and asked my crew for something else. “So who’s the skier?” I said.
“The skier?”
“Yeah, the skier. Is there a guy who likes to ski who’s been hitting on you? He’s got dark hair I think?”
“My boyfriend has brown hair,” she said by way of explanation.
“Does he like to ski?”
“Not that I know of.”
I focused a little harder and said, “Is your boyfriend mean to you?”
“No, he’s really sweet.”
“Did you just start dating?”
“No, we met in undergrad three years ago.” Cathy’s tone was beginning to turn from cooperative to impatient.
“Okay, the feeling that I have is that there’s this guy with dark hair and he likes to ski. He’s a real jerk, though. He may hit on you or try to flirt with you, but you shouldn’t have anything to do with him. He’s totally bad news.”
“Is this someone I know?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, he feels new to me, and if you don’t recognize who this guy is by my description then obviously he hasn’t made himself known to you yet. He may come off as being really nice, but he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, so be very careful around him.”
Cathy was just staring at me with a confused look, so I moved on. Now I’m getting something about procrastination. Do you always put stuff off? Like errands or something?”
Finally I got a chuckle out of Cathy and a nod. “Yeah, that would be me.”
“My crew is telling me that you need to spend a little time breaking this habit. They’re specifically saying don’t wait until the last minute to go grocery shopping. You need to take care of business when you should, not put things off.”
“Ugh, I absolutely hate grocery shopping. In fact, I’ve been meaning to go for a couple of days and I haven’t made it there yet.”
“They’re saying take care of business, because if you don’t, it could cause problems—like you could get to the store and it’s closed or you could be late for something else.”
“All right,” she said.
For some reason, though, I couldn’t let this topic go, and the thought kept spinning in my head. “Cathy, I’m not sure what they’re getting at, but this is really important. You can’t put your errands off; they keep repeating it.”
“I get it, tell them message heard.”
Still, the thought persisted to whirl in my mind. I tried for another topic and got nothing but the same message. I closed my eyes and concentrated, but all I could hear in my head was the message about the grocery store. For the first time in four and a half years of being a professional psychic I was stumped. I couldn’t get past this message about Cathy’s errands. After a very long pause I opened my eyes and looked with a pained expression at Cathy. I knew what my guides wanted me to do. “Cathy, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but that’s all I’m getting for you. I can’t move beyond this message about you procrastinating, so I’m just going to stop. I won’t charge you for the session, because we’ve only been at it fifteen minutes. Also I think you should get your errands done before your big interview.”
Cathy looked at me with a rather shocked expression, and finally said, “Uh, okay. That was weird.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, a touch of pink hitting my cheeks. “Listen, if you want to reschedule for another date I’d be more than happy to try again. This has never happened to me before. I don’t understand what’s so important about you going to the grocery store right now, but that’s the only message I can come up with.”
“I see,” she said, looking very disappointed. “How about I call you if I get this job and we can set up another appointment then?”
“Sure,” I said, fully aware that Cathy was giving me the big blow-off. I handed her the cassette tape and walked her to the door. She smiled sheepishly as she took the tape and asked, “Are you sure I don’t owe you anything? I mean, I’m willing to pay you for the time you did spend with me.”
For the second time that day I turned away money I could have used. “No, really, it’s okay. I’m sorry; this has never happened to me before,” I repeated.
“It’s okay, Abby,” she said kindly. “I’ll call you if I get the job and we can try again.” Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .
One of the pains about having an inboard lie detector is that sometimes courtesy demands you pretend not to know when people are lying. “That’d be great,” I said, smiling politely. “Good luck on your interview.”
She waved at me as she walked through the door, and I rested my head against the doorjamb. So far today I’d nixed a guaranteed night of hot monkey love, a $2 million addition to my bank account, and any potential future business with Cathy and any of her acquaintances. Of all the days I should have stayed in bed, this one had to be a topper.
I sighed and dragged myself back into my office and sat down at the desk, looking for something to interest me before my next appointment. I glanced at the phone and was wondering who I could call to pass the time when it rang, making me jump a foot. Grabbing it, I said, “Abigail Cooper speaking,” in my most business-like tone.
“Hello, sweethot,” smoldered a deep baritone doing a great Humphrey Bogart impression through the receiver.
My slumped shoulders immediately perked up, and a smile plastered itself onto my face. “Hey, there, good-looking. This is a pleasant midafternoon surprise.”
“Yeah, I had a couple of minutes before they partner us up and hand out our assignments, so I thought I’d call and leave something inappropriate on your voice mail.”
“Oh, and instead I get to hear it firsthand. I’m so lucky!” I said playfully.
“Or I could just show you tomorrow night—”
My shoulders slumped again. Crap. I’d almost forgotten. “Uh, Dutch? About tomorrow night—”
“I thought I’d pick up some Chinese; you like Chinese?”
“Well, see, the thing of it is—”
“You don’t like Chinese?”
“No. I mean yes, I like Chinese, but there’s a problem with tomorrow night . . .”
“What kind of problem?”
“Uh, do you remember Kendal Adams? He’s that psychic friend of mine who helped cover for me when I was in the hospital. And, um, unfortunately because of that I kind of owe him a favor, and he decided to sort of call in that favor for tomorrow night.”
Silence.
I laughed nervously and continued. “See, he was scheduled to be the entertainment at this wedding reception with another psychic, but that guy had to have an emergency appendectomy. Kendal tried everyone else, but no one but me was available, and so since I sort of owe Kendal, I agreed to do the reception with him. . . .”
Silence.
“It’s not like I want to do the party. I mean, I fought really hard to get out of it, and I told him I had other plans, but he was just relentless, and he kept saying how I owed him, and, well, I caved. I’m really, really sorry. Can we possibly get together on Saturday instead of Friday?”
The air hung heavy between us for a very long time before finally Dutch said, “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk then,” and with that he hung up. I held the phone to my ear long enough for the dial tone to come on; then, as tears brushed my lashes, I hung up the phone. Now I could add “boyfriend” to my list of today’s nixes.
>
Several hours later I crawled home, wanting to wave a white flag. My afternoon hadn’t improved, as I’d had three more difficult readings to cap off the day. I opened my front door and was greeted by Eggy, my twelve-pound Dachshund, who slobbered wiggly kisses all over my face as soon as I picked him up. The best part about owning a dog is the wild, wet frenzy they perform when greeting you. It’s enough to make any kind of day just a little bit better.
Eggy wriggled and licked and kissed and squirmed, his tail beating a frantic rhythm against my chest, and, soon enough I found myself smirking. After a minute I heard, “Abby? That you?” coming from upstairs, accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps descending my staircase.
“Hey, Dave,” I answered as I set Eggy down.
Dave McKenzie is my handyman. He’s like a freeze frame from the movie Easy Rider, tall with broad shoulders and long blond hair braided down his back into a fine point, thick beard and mustache, abused shirts, ripped jeans and a chain connecting his wallet to his belt loop. Up close, however, are the telltale signs of decades passing, with hints of gray in his beard and sideburns, permanent crow’s-feet lining his eyes and the slightly rounded belly of a man in his mid-fifties.
In early March I’d purchased a home that had “lots of potential,” only to discover I was in way over my head. A client who knew someone who knew someone gave me Dave’s number, and I’d called him in desperation. He’d been a complete godsend, turning my dilapidated little bungalow into a cozy home sweet home.
My home had once been a ranch until the former owner added a staircase and converted half of the attic into a bedroom. Because the bedroom was small, and I really didn’t need the extra storage I was having Dave extend my bedroom by tearing down the wall that separated the attic from the bedroom. Of late he’d been busy ripping out the old insulation in the attic.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Getting there,” he said noncommittally. Squinting his eyes my way, he added, “You look like hell.”
“Gee,” I said flatly, “try not to bowl me over with so much flattery.”