The dragon stared up at me, cool eyes gazing into my own. For a moment, I could almost swear I saw them flash red, but then I blinked, and they were the pale milky jade as before. “Little guy, do you know something about Daniel that I don’t?” I asked. “Do you know where I can find his family?” The dragon remained silent, but I had the uncanny feeling it heard me and understood everything I was saying.
Chapter 2
WHEN I RETURNED to the alcove set aside for my readings, I sat down and stared at the wall, wanting nothing more than to get away. Thank heavens I’d reserved a cabin out at Tyler’s Resort for next weekend to celebrate Kip’s recent release from being grounded for three months. The kids were really looking forward to this getaway, and after today, I needed to get away for a while, too. I’d put down a hefty nonrefundable deposit, but it was going to be worth it.
Finally, I picked up my deck and rapped it on the edge of the table to align the edges. As I slid the deck into its velvet pouch, I pondered Daniel’s accident. Was there anything I could have done to prevent his death? Any chance I could have read the signs clearer? But then, a thought hit me. Maybe I hadn’t been able to read his future because maybe Daniel didn’t have a future. Maybe he’d been doomed before he walked into my shop. Shaking, I stashed the cards in my office, hiding them in my bottom desk drawer. As I forced myself to return to the front counter, Cinnamon asked if I wanted to leave early, but I told her no, I’d probably just brood if I sat around the house. At least here I could keep busy.
Busy. That was an understatement for the pace we’d been running lately. Ever since Susan Mitchell’s ghost showed up, begging me to prove she’d been murdered, my shop turned into a shrine for those wonderful old ladies like Mrs. Halcyon Maxwell, president of the Psychic Occult Society of Rachel in The Ghost & Mr. Chicken. All they wanted was a little taste of adventure, a chance to contact the “other side,” and tarot readings now appeared on the menu next to the daily tea selections. I’d been able to hire Cinnamon full-time and Lana part-time and relegate myself to the background, managing, organizing, helping customers with special orders and—of course—reading the cards.
The shop bells jingled as Kip wandered in, carrying a backpack full of books. He’d become very studious the past few months. Back in December, Kip had managed to set loose a tidal wave of trouble with a nasty ghost right before Christmas. During the three months he was grounded, he somehow got the idea that the more he studied, the better my mood. I wasn’t about to break the spell.
His face was ashen. “There’s a police car out there, and they’re cleaning stuff off the road. What happened?”
How could I explain what had happened? My children knew about the realities of death, but I didn’t want them to dwell on it. I opted for an honest yet simple answer. “A man got hit by a car and died. The driver didn’t stop.”
“People shouldn’t run away from what they do,” Kip mumbled. “I guess he just didn’t want to get in trouble.”
“You’re right; he should have stopped and tried to help.” I gave him a hug and a gentle shove toward the tearoom. “Now go have some lemonade and cookies. Only two, though. Remember, Miranda’s making dinner tonight.” He grimaced, then his eyes lit up as he spotted Lana. Oh, those little-boy crushes that were both terribly sweet and sad at the same time. Lana thought he was adorable, thank God, and endured his attentions with the utmost grace.
Cinnamon asked if I would watch the till for her while she took a break to go drop her paycheck in the bank. I waved her off and peeked into the tearoom to see who was there. Mabel Jones, with her daily cuppa and slice of pound cake, saw me and nodded, then went back to the romance she was reading.
The only other person in the tearoom at this point was Ida Trask, the best baby-sitter this side of the Pacific. I poured myself a cup of tea and joined her when she motioned me over.
“You look tired, dear.” She put her hand on my arm.
I shrugged. “Tired isn’t the word for it,” I said and plunged into the story about Daniel. She let me ramble on until I finished, coming to an abrupt stop.
“How sad,” she said.
I nodded. There wasn’t much else to say. Destiny, fate… no matter what you called it, the man was dead.
Ida took a sip of her tea, frowned, and added more hot water. “So, the police let you keep the dragon?”
“They know who I am and where I live. If they find any family he might have, they know I want to give the statue to them.” I tasted my orange spice tea and let the warmth stream down my throat. “Truth is, I’m really shook up. Do you mind if we talk about something else?” I had to get the vision of his body, sprawled on the pavement, out of my mind. “How about you? Has your nephew arrived yet?”
She leaned back against the chair, her starched linen dress crinkling with that scrunchy sound good linen always makes. Ida always dressed up when she went out; it was just her nature. She adjusted her glasses, making sure they were still attached to the chain that looped around her neck. “He’s due in on the bus this afternoon. I’m hoping to introduce him around this weekend, if he’s up to it.”
“Why don’t you start by bringing him over tonight? I’d love to meet him.” I knew vaguely that her nephew had been in trouble but wasn’t sure just what he’d done.
She smiled at me, obviously relieved. “Thank you, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I started with you. He’s only been out of prison a couple of days, you know, and there are bound to be adjustment issues.” She toyed with her cup. “I’m just sorry Caroline died before she could come to her senses and give him another chance.”
“How long has it been now? A year?” When her sister had died, Ida had been reticent about her grief; she wasn’t a woman given to histrionics. I’d made sure, though, that the kids and I spent a lot of time at her house, and she’d seemed grateful for the company, always welcoming us in with brownies or a loaf of freshly baked bread.
She bit into a gingersnap and tapped the side of her mouth with a napkin. “Caroline died almost a year ago. Since she was already a widow, she left me all her money. I put it away in a revocable trust fund, in hopes that Oliver would take me up on my offer to come stay with me while he gets his life back in order. I figured that he’d need a good start once they let him out. He’s a good boy, Emerald. Once I see that he’s really serious about finishing school or that he gets a good job and holds it for a while, then I’ll sign over the trust fund to him. I just don’t believe his mother should have cut him out of her will.”
It didn’t seem right to me, either. “What on earth did he do to make her so mad?” I couldn’t imagine Ida offering Oliver a place in her home if he’d committed some horrible crime.
She sighed and set down her cup. “Oh, nothing so terrible, but the fact that he got arrested was enough for her. Oliver was in the middle of his sophomore year at Oregon State University when he got involved in a cannabis club. He was growing marijuana for medical patients—it’s supposed to be legal there, you know. But the federal authorities didn’t see it that way, and Oliver was sentenced to three years.”
“Three years… that’s a long time out of a person’s life,” I said.
“Yes, it is, but since the trial took a year and he was in jail during that time, he’s actually been locked up a total of four years. Caroline wouldn’t post bail for him. I didn’t know about any of this until after he’d been sentenced. She didn’t want the family to find out what had happened.” She folded her napkin and shook her head.
“How did you find out?”
Ida poured herself another cup of tea and returned to the table. “Oliver started writing to me when he was in prison, once he realized his mother had disowned him.”
What a nightmare. “I can’t imagine turning my back on my children for something like that,” I said.
She shrugged. “That’s what my sister was like.” Flipping through her wallet, she pulled out a grainy picture of a young man, blond with
the barest hint of a mustache. “He sent me this a couple of months ago. The quality of the photograph isn’t very good, so it’s hard to see what he really looks like, but I sincerely doubt that they let the inmates pose for glamour shots.” She gave me a rueful smile.
“When’s the last time you actually saw him?” I asked.
“Oh, it must have been right before he turned thirteen; that’s when Caroline sent him away to boarding school in France. After boarding school, Oliver attended a private university in Switzerland for two years until he quit without telling his parents and showed up one night on their doorstep, suitcase in hand. He hated the pretentious attitudes at the school. My sister was furious. She gave Oliver an ultimatum; he could immediately enroll at OSU or head out on the streets. He went back to school, but it was only a few months before he was arrested.”
Ida shook her head. “That boy always did set things atwitter. He’s a born crusader against social injustices.” She stared into her cup, sobering. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much better than Caroline. When I first found out what he’d done, I was so disappointed in him that I didn’t have the heart to go visit. And then… well, we started writing, but I’ve just never managed to make the time, what with one thing and another.” Her voice trailed off, and I knew she was feeling guilty.
I rested my hand on hers. “Don’t beat yourself up, Ida. You’re going to help him now when he needs it, and that’s what counts.” I knew that Ida missed her own son who had moved to Japan a few years back to teach English. She must be looking for a way to make up for that sense of loss. “So he’s going back to school? How old is he now?”
“He had almost two years left to go when they raided his apartment, and he’s agreed to enroll at Western Washington University this fall. What with waiting for the trial and all, he just turned twenty-six, so it’s not too late, by any means. I’ll pay his tuition and give him a place to live as long as he keeps his grades up and stays out of trouble. He has to finish his degree within the next two years, and then he can get on with his life. He was an art history major, though I’m not sure whether he’ll go back to that or not.” She glanced at her watch and gathered up her things. “Why, here I’ve gone and talked your ear off, and he should be in on the Greyhound in less than twenty minutes. I’d better run!”
I waved her out and, when Cinnamon returned, vacated the counter. “I’m going to finish up some paperwork.” I headed into the office, making sure that I had the dragon with me. I could hardly wait until six o’clock rolled around.
KIP POPPED HIS head into the living room as I sat cross-legged on the sofa, trying to repair a hangnail. “Mom, I need to get the tools out of the shed so I can work on my bike chain.”
“The key’s on the Peg-Board in the kitchen, next to the spare house key. Don’t lose it.” I waved him off as he nodded and disappeared. I heard him say something to Miranda, who was in the kitchen fixing dinner, then the sound of the back door slamming. I winced. One of these days he was going to shatter the window panes, and then I’d be taking the money out of his allowance for weeks.
I aimed the remote and punched on Channel 7. Oh joy. The news was on, and there was Cathy Sutton, our perpetually perky local reporter who had the aplomb of a self-satisfied cat and the personality of a thorn bush.
“At approximately three o’clock this afternoon, Daniel Barrington, a former resident of Victoria, British Columbia, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while crossing Main Street and Third. Police are looking for a beige van, which witnesses say made an illegal left turn before hitting Mr. Barrington. The van’s speed was estimated at forty miles per hour. Paramedics hastened to the scene but were unable to save his life. Mr. Barrington appeared to be transient, with no permanent address and no next of kin. He had just exited the Chintz ’n China Tea Room, where he is thought to have purchased a tarot reading.”
Her co-anchor, good old Jack Sullivan, raised his eyebrows. “The Chintz ’n China? If I remember right, that’s the shop owned by our local heroine, Ms. Emerald O’Brien.”
“That’s right, Jack.” Cathy flashed the camera a smooth grin that was never quite reflected in her eyes. “In fact, witnesses say that Ms. O’Brien was hailing Daniel as he crossed the street. He turned to answer her right when the van sped around the corner and hit him.”
Jack frowned. “Too bad Ms. O’Brien couldn’t use her fortune-telling powers to warn him about speeding motorists.”
Fortune-teller! Jack Sullivan was always making snide cracks that left a sour taste in my mouth, but this was the first time one of them had been aimed at me. I almost choked on my Talking Rain, and the sparkling water spurted out my nose, the carbonated bubbles stinging all the way. Fortune-teller indeed. First thing tomorrow I’d write a letter to the station and complain.
I glanced at the clock as Miranda came dashing into the room, a panic-stricken look on her face. “Mom, what do I do when the soup starts boiling?”
“Turn it down to medium and stir, unless you want to scrub pots until way past your bedtime tonight.”
We were in for a real treat; Miranda was wading through the spring home economics unit required for all eighth-grade students at her school. This week she’d been assigned the task of preparing a three-course meal. Along with grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, we were also having what appeared to be a pulverized head of iceberg for salad and a selection of Twinkies for dessert. She’d begged me to sign her slip without making her do the work, but I warned her that cheating students didn’t get to cash in on their opportunity to go to Space Camp during the summer break. Since July was still several months away, she’d backed off immediately without a whine or the usual martyred-by-mom attitude she’d picked up the past few months.
“Then what?”
“Then when it’s hot enough, we eat. Did you leave the sandwiches cooking in that skillet without watching them?” I sniffed. The ominous whiff of charred bread drifted in from the kitchen.
“Yikes!” She clattered through the swinging doors, and I heard what suspiciously sounded like a swear word, but I decided to forgo comment. Cooking was hard enough even if you knew which side of the bread to butter. For Miranda, every cooking class was a lesson in hell. She hated it, and I had the feeling that, unless something changed over the next few years, by the time she was eighteen, both McDonald’s and Burger King would have another steady customer.
I peeked through the archway dividing the living room from the huge dining-kitchen area. “How long until dinner?”
She consulted her watch. “Ten minutes. I’ll go call Kip.”
I shook out my purse on the desk and went through receipts, throwing some away and filing the others in my business ledger. After I finished stashing everything else back in my handbag, I picked up the handkerchief holding the figurine and unwrapped it.
The dragon had made it home in one piece. I took a closer look. No machine marks. Definitely hand-carved, with delicate patterns etched in gold weaving along the surface of the jade. The carving was so intricate that I could see every nuance, every curve was polished and glowing. My bet was that this was an antique. If my guess was correct, this little dragon might just be worth a whole lot of money.
Where had it come from? And what did it have to do with Daniel?
I wasn’t a slouch with psychometry; I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the dragon’s essence. A medley of changing patterns swirled in my mind, and I was about to lower myself into the flow to see what I could pick up when Miranda poked her head around the door.
“Dinner!”
Reluctantly, I unlocked the étagère, tucked the dragon in alongside the rest of my collection, and locked the cabinet again.
Kip came racing into the room, a pained look on his face. He’d been in the kitchen; he knew what we were having. With a shake of his head, he said, “At least she can’t ruin the Twinkies.”
“Thank heaven for small favors.” I plastered on a smile. “Come
on, kiddo. We’re going to eat dinner, and we’re going to tell Miranda that we enjoyed every bite.”
AFTER DINNER, I punched in Murray’s work number. One of Chiqetaw’s finest as well as one of my best friends, Anna Murray had recently been promoted to detective, and both she and I were still trying to get used to her new status. “Hey, chickie, how goes it?” We hadn’t had much time to hang out together since her promotion, and I missed her company.
She exhaled slowly, as if she’d been holding her breath a long time. “It goes, I guess.” She paused, and I could almost hear her looking around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. “Coughlan’s on my back again. He’s making sure all the kooks are referred to me; I haven’t gotten a real case to work on in the month since I started my new job.”
I knew she’d been unhappy but didn’t realize things were this bad. “Kooks?”
“Em, I take calls from people who think their dogs have been possessed by aliens or the nosy people who are ‘just certain’ that their next-door neighbor is “that guy they showed on America’s Most Wanted last night.” Of course, the dude always ends up with a whistle-clean record, and then he blames me, not the drunken neighbor who turned him in. I don’t know what Coughlan expects. My record’s going to look like shit.”
Coughlan. I knew precisely what he expected. He expected Murray to get fed up and quit. I’d heard a lot about him over the past month. Head of detectives, he was a member of that elite group of supervisors from hell. A big man with a big ego, he didn’t like the fact that Murray was Native American or the fact that she was a woman. And he considered Tad Bonner—the chief of police who had been Murray’s previous supervisor—his continual rival. Over a late-night gabfest with plenty of coffee and cake, Murray and I’d come to the conclusion that Coughlan wanted Bonner’s job.