“It seems incredible to me, too,” he said, aware that his voice was way too grim. He made another effort to relax. “So assuming the police let you go, what are your plans for the day?”
Olivia gave him a gentle smile. “I had always planned to spend another night here, and I’ll stick to that. I hate to sound shallow, but I guess I’ll just go on with my little shopping trip. That was my agenda for today. Now I kind of want to take my mind off them. I can’t help them or change the situation, after all.” She looked down at her cup and shrugged. “You know when you come to Big D, you’ve got to shop at the Galleria. A gal’s gotta have clothes. I’ll take in a movie, maybe go to a comedy club tonight. I could use a good laugh, especially after all this. You want to tag along?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m here to work, and I’m booked up today and tomorrow.” He was free both evenings, but he knew he’d need the time to recuperate. Besides, just now he didn’t want to go anywhere with Olivia.
“Work?” There was a faint question in her voice.
“Private readings.”
She looked at him seriously, as if she were really seeing him for the first time. “I hope you make a bundle,” she said.
“That’s the plan,” he said, and the waiter set his plate in front of him. He was glad of the interruption. Olivia smiled at his heaped plate, but he didn’t react. He poured syrup on his stuffed French toast and cut it up, hoping his appetite would return. He ate a lot on days he was working one-on-one, because the last thing he wanted was to get woozy. He dug into his food, gradually feeling hungrier since everything was delicious. Olivia drank more coffee, but he was glad she let the conversation drop so he could eat in peace. She charged her meal to her room and gathered up her cell phone and newspaper.
“Were you going to mention this to Lemuel?” Manfred asked.
She paused in pushing back her chair. “Why not?”
“Just wanted to be sure we were on the same page.” If there was one person in the world Manfred did not want to keep a secret from, that person was Lemuel.
A stocky man in a sports shirt pulled up another chair to the table. Startled, Manfred looked from the man’s dark face to Olivia. She looked mildly questioning and not at all alarmed.
“Manfred, this is Detective Sterling, Bonnet Park police.”
“Manfred Bernardo.” He shook the detective’s hand. “Did you want to talk to me, or shall I scoot along?” He glanced at his watch. He had thirty minutes until he had to meet his first client.
“Just a few moments of your time,” the detective said. He had a soft, conciliatory voice, contrasting sharply with a stern face. Olivia nodded and left, without a backward glance.
Great, Manfred thought. He did his best to look open and innocent. “I have an appointment soon,” he said, trying to sound neutral, when Detective Sterling didn’t speak immediately. “This is a working weekend, for me.”
“You know Miss Charity.”
“Sure. We live in the same town.”
“You met here by prearrangement?”
“No.” Manfred smiled. “We see plenty of each other in Midnight.”
“You ate in the restaurant here in the hotel last night?”
“I did. Had an eight o’clock reservation.”
“And you saw Miss Charity then?”
“I saw the back of her head, turns out. I was facing away from her, but there are mirrors all over this place. I even thought, ‘She looks familiar,’ but she didn’t turn around, and I was reading. I didn’t realize who it was until I saw her this morning.”
“What was she doing?” The detective looked down at a notepad covered with scribbles, but Manfred was sure he didn’t need to check someone else’s account—the waiter’s? Another diner’s?
“Last night? Talking to an older couple. I’d never met them.”
“How did they seem to be getting along, to you?”
Manfred let his surprise show. “Since I didn’t think I knew any of the people, I didn’t pay a lot of attention,” he said. “If something out of the ordinary had happened, I’m sure I’d would remember it. Raised voices or throwing a drink . . . major drama.”
“So that’s all you noticed. Three people, sitting in a booth, talking. You were pretty close to them, back-to-back. You didn’t hear any of the conversation? You didn’t form a conclusion about how they were all getting along?”
“No. None of my business.”
“Famous psychic like you, no . . . emanations?” Detective Sterling wiggled his fingers in the air to indicate something spooky. It would have entertained a five-year-old. Manfred was not amused. He’d been sure that the detective knew who and what he was the moment he’d come up to the table. He was less sure the detective had any idea at all about Olivia’s means of making a living. It would have been informative and entertaining to ask Sterling, but he knew he couldn’t.
Manfred smiled tolerantly (he’d had a lot of practice at that). “Not a single vibration,” he said. He glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, I need to leave now.”
“Sure, go right ahead, Mr. Bernardo. You’re staying here tonight?”
“Tonight and tomorrow night, unless something happens to change my plans.”
“What could happen?” Sterling seemed genuinely curious.
“My clients may not want to come to a hotel where there’s an active police investigation.”
“So far, everything seems to point to a murder/suicide,” the detective said. “That’s what the electronic keycard activity indicates. Just one entry, when they came back to their room after dinner. Though we’re still checking every little fact.”
“Of course. You have to be sure,” Manfred echoed. Only keyed entrances would show up on the hotel’s computer, he was fairly sure. The computer wouldn’t register the room door being opened from the inside. Olivia hadn’t used the keycard Lucy Devlin had given her.
“After all, we’re not psychic like you,” Detective Sterling was saying, still with that fake-jovial edge to his voice.
“Wouldn’t it be handy if you were? Well, best of luck with your investigation.” Manfred rose.
“So if I need to talk to you . . .”
“Give me a call.” Manfred told Sterling his cell phone number, and Sterling wrote it on the pad. “I’m working, but I can spare a few minutes for the police.” On that note, Manfred left the restaurant, feeling better with every step away from the detective.
He was glad to have some time to collect himself before his first client arrived. Not only did he need to push away the gnawing worry about Olivia and what she might or might not have done, but he had to prepare himself for the day to come. He looked forward to exercising his true gift with both excitement and apprehension, and the last thing he needed was to brood about the dead couple. He was worried they would contact him, and he was very grateful he hadn’t met them or touched them. That would have made it easier for Stuart and Lucy Devlin to track him down from the blue hereafter.
Manfred’s first and second appointments of the day went well. He was able to tell Jane Lee that her grandmother approved of Jane’s fiancé, and he was able to suggest a place for Robert Hernandez to look for his mother’s gold necklace. He lay down during his lunch hour with his eyes closed, and his energy level went back up.
Manfred greeted his one o’clock appointment with some pleasure. He had had sessions with Rachel Goldthorpe before. She was a longtime client who actually lived in Bonnet Park; he’d visited her home. Rachel was in her midsixties, with two daughters and a son, and several grandchildren; she loved the grandchildren and her daughters, who made her happy. Rachel had been widowed less than twelve months before. She came to Manfred because she missed her husband terribly, not least because Morton had been the only one who could handle their son, Lewis.
Manfred had actually met the Goldthorpe children,
but briefly. His opinions about them had been largely formed from Rachel’s anecdotes. Annelle and Roseanna, the daughters (who were now in their later thirties), seemed both loving and dutiful. But Rachel’s youngest child, Lewis, was apparently batshit crazy. According to his mom, Lewis had been in and out of trouble and in and out of mental health care since he’d been fourteen. Now he was thirty-two, never married, and obsessed with his mother’s possessions. After losing his last job with a property management company, he’d moved back into her pool guesthouse. From there, Lewis watched Rachel’s every move and complained endlessly if she gave money to charity or even took her old clothes to Goodwill.
Today, Rachel wanted to consult with her husband, Morton, about the problem of Lewis. Manfred was fond of Rachel at least in part because he’d had great success with contacting Morton Goldthorpe, who urgently wanted to communicate with his wife. Since Morton had passed away, Manfred’s sessions with Rachel had been rewarding and exciting.
When he’d sent out an e-mail blast to announce he was available for private sittings again, Rachel was among the first to make an appointment.
When Manfred answered his door, he was shocked to see how wretched his client looked. “What’s wrong?” he asked, before he could think how tactless that sounded.
“I know, I know, I look bad,” she said. “I’m getting over pneumonia.” Rachel trudged past him and spotted the table, steered toward it. Her breathing was audible. Rachel was heavy, but she’d always been bouncy and vigorous. Today her flesh seemed to sag on her bones. There were circles under her eyes. “And then downstairs, somehow I dropped my purse. Everything went everywhere. They had to help me gather things up.”
“Rachel, should you even be here?” he asked, breaking one of his own rules. He never commented on a client’s appearance, pro or con.
She made an effort to smile, patting his shoulder. “I’m a lot better. This is the first time I’ve been out in three weeks. This morning I got my hair done and came to see you. Boy, does it feel good to be out of the house!” She patted her salt-and-pepper hair, which was arranged in its usual stiff curls. Her T-shirt read “World’s Best Grandma.”
“Who gave you the shirt?” Manfred said, figuring it was the kind of thing she’d like him to notice. He tried not to look as concerned as he felt.
Rachel sank into the chair with obvious relief. She pulled a refillable black bottle decorated with butterflies out of her purse and put it on the table in a handy spot. “Annelle’s kids. And Roseanna’s twins gave me the water bottle last Mother’s Day,” she said, with pride. “So much better than using a new plastic bottle every time, right? Better for the environment.”
“You sure you feel up to this?” Manfred said. He didn’t want to persist, but he was more than a little worried.
“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” she said firmly. “Let’s get to it. I need some good in my life. Otherwise, Lewis will be the death of me. Did I tell you he’d moved into the pool house?” She took a big drink and sighed, recapping the bottle and extending her plump hands. “Ready.”
Manfred sat opposite her and reached across the table to take her hands in his own. Other clients had different preferences. They wanted the tarot or the mirror, or they’d brought a loved one’s possession for Manfred to hold. Rachel always wanted the touch. He wrapped her chilly fingers in his warm ones and bowed his head, his eyes closed. “Morton Goldthorpe, husband of Rachel, I’m searching for you,” he said. “Rachel needs you.”
“Oh, boy,” she breathed. “Do I ever. That Lewis! He told me he was going to take charge of my jewelry. Take charge! Like I was an Alzheimer’s person! So I had to hide my diamonds and my rubies.”
Manfred heard her words from a distance. He was busy opening himself to receive Morton. But he felt relief that Rachel had hidden her jewelry. Though she dressed and looked exactly like thousands of grandmothers who passed through the doors of any given Walmart every day, Rachel was very wealthy. The late Morton had made a lot of money in real estate and had been smart enough to get out when the getting was good. Though Manfred had no idea what Rachel’s bank statement would read, he knew she was well able to afford his fees, and evidently a lot of sparklies, too.
But all those considerations faded away as Manfred connected with the plane that housed the dead. His eyes were closed, so that he could see that world better: He was faced with the usual wall of billowing mist, out of which faces manifested with frightening rapidity.
And there was a face he knew approaching rapidly through the mist. Rachel’s fingers felt oddly slack in his grip, but he kept his focus with ferocious intensity.
“Here he is,” Manfred murmured, feeling Morton speeding through him. The spirit manifested a little differently today. Usually, Morton stopped at Manfred’s fingertips, content to touch his wife through Manfred. But today Morton ripped through Manfred with such force that he passed right into his Rachel. “You will not suffer, my dearest Rachel,” Manfred said, to his own surprise.
“Oh!” Rachel said dazedly, and to Manfred’s ears she sounded both excited and a bit startled . . . but not frightened. Manfred’s eyes flew open to look right into Rachel’s, and in that flash of a moment her eyes went blank. She slumped forward onto the table.
And then her fingers relaxed completely.
Morton flowed back through Manfred. Taking Rachel with him. For five seconds Manfred couldn’t see anything at all, and he felt utterly empty.
It seemed like an eternity until his vision cleared. Immediately, he noticed the limpness in Rachel’s body. He knew that she was dead. He let go of her hands to wrap his arms across his chest. He shivered all over. He wanted to cry or scream or run shouting from the room, but he did none of those things.
Sometimes, as his grandmother had often said, shit just happens.
He rose to walk unsteadily to the nearest phone. He punched a number to reach the front desk. “Is there a doctor in the hotel?” he asked, hearing his voice crack. He hadn’t sounded as uncertain since he was thirteen. “My guest is unconscious. In fact, I think she’s dead.”
2
So what happened then?” Fiji asked him. It was three days later, and they were sitting in her little kitchen. Fiji had invited Manfred and Bobo over to share a roast for Tuesday supper. She didn’t often buy expensive cuts of meat, but sirloin top roasts had been on sale at Kroger in nearby Davy, where the Midnighters went to shop. She’d cooked it traditionally, with new potatoes and carrots around the meat, and she’d made lots of gravy, and biscuits, too. It was so good that Manfred and Bobo had both had second helpings of everything.
“Then all the police who had been downstairs investigating a murder/suicide came up to my room,” Manfred said grimly. “It took me about an hour to explain what Rachel and I had been doing. They assumed I was some kind of gigolo. I guess they were hoping that I’d had a connection with the couple who’d died the night before, though they’d already questioned me about that.”
“Man,” said Bobo. Tall, fit, blond, and with a gorgeous white-toothed smile, Bobo was much more like someone’s idea of an ideal lover. In point of fact, Bobo was not vain and did not seem to be aware of how attractive he was. “With the lady in her sixties? That must have been embarrassing.”
“I was too scared to be embarrassed. By that time, I figured if they only thought I’d been having an affair with Rachel, I’d be glad.”
“Did you call Olivia? You said you’d seen her in the hotel.” Fiji poured more iced tea into Bobo’s glass.
Manfred had not discussed Olivia’s connection to the murdered couple, much less his near certainty that she’d killed them both. He felt both angry with Olivia and a little frightened of her (when he thought about the Devlins), but he didn’t think laying that on his friends would be right. He chose his words carefully. “I figured I’d just drag her into trouble with me if I called her. I have to admit, I really wa
nted to see a friendly face, so I definitely thought about it.” For exactly a second. He didn’t believe Olivia’s face would have been too friendly if he’d involved her. And he’d had a bad moment, a second really, of thinking, The Devlins died and now Rachel died. Coincidence?
“And what did the cops say?” Bobo asked.
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Manfred shrugged. “Rachel didn’t have a mark on her, and the hotel staff knew what I was doing, having people into my room. I didn’t exactly tell them I was a psychic, but one of my appointments did.”
“What about your other appointments? What did you do about them?” Fiji asked. Her mind was a great one for tangents.
“They moved me to another room. I saw two of them the next day, but two others canceled,” Manfred said. He wasn’t surprised, and he understood their reluctance to come into a hotel under media scrutiny, especially since they were going there to do something that would embarrass them if it became widely known. Meeting with a psychic wasn’t as reputable as going to a charity dinner, say.
“Really?” Fiji was incredulous. “You were able to focus on business after that poor woman died?”
“I would have been out of there,” Bobo said. “I would have been on the road back to Midnight as soon as I could pack my bags.”
They looked at him expectantly.
“At first I was shook up,” he admitted. “But Rachel passed so quickly, almost peacefully. After I got over the shock of it, I thought, if she had to die so young, maybe going that way was what she might have wanted. I’d never been in such close touch with a passing, not even my grandmother’s. Annelle—the daughter—was at Vespers in forty-five minutes. I was so relieved. She told them how much Rachel had looked forward to the session and how happy talking to me had always made her mom. She also said that she’d begged her mother to stay home until her lungs were clear,” he added more practically.