Madame Petrovsky nodded and knitted her brows. “He is well, he has no pain now. He says that he has been watching you and he says that you must go on, move forward with your life.”
The lady and her date looked at each other as if this was the sign that she was waiting for to give her all. Like a scene from Gone With The Wind, I expected her jump up from her chair and throw herself into the arms of her man and say something like, “I’ll neva… be hungry… again!”
Madame Petrovsky moved onto the next couple. They wanted to hear from Jim Morrison. They both were trying to keep straight faces as Mrs. Petrovsky was doing her stuff—conjuring spirits from the chandelier.
“He is unavailable to speak tonight,” she said in her spooky voice.
“Yeah, well it is Saturday night,” the young man said. His girlfriend couldn’t hold it in. She looked down at the table and by her motions you could see that she was fighting hard to not make any noise with her laughter. The professor and I had little difficulty controlling our mirth since we were professional investigators, experienced in hiding our true feelings.
Mrs. Petrovsky looked at the Professor. “And now, who was it you wanted to contact?”
“It’s my sister, his aunt.” He pointed to me.
“Do you have some clothing from her, a remembrance that I could use to summon her spirit back from the nether world?” Mrs. Petrovsky asked in her non-spooky voice.
“This is her keychain, the one that she always carried,” he said as he handed it to her.
It was his keychain. I recognized his office keys, those big brass ones that have “DO NOT DUPLICATE” stamped on the side. She held the keys and gave Palma a skeptical look that said, “I don’t believe it, but it’s your dollar.” She clutched them in both of her hands and pressed them to her chest.
What’s the story? The other two couples didn’t have to bring anything for the lights to dim for them. Why us? If anyone should be considered non-believers of this hooey it should be that young couple, the gigglers.
“You said that your sister’s name was Irma?” she asked.
“Yes,” the Professor said quietly.
“She has many things to tell you about your life and her new life. More than we can discuss tonight.”
What a nice way to get us to come back and charge us another admission charge. She’s no dummy.
“Irma says that she wants her bracelet, the one with the colored stones.”
“Does she mean the scarab one with the slides?” Palma asked.
“I will ask her,” Mrs. Petrovsky said and she assumed the trance position—head down, palms flat on the table. She shook her head and quietly moaned. Then she said, “Yes, that is the one she wants. She said that you should bring it to me and I will transport it to her.”
How dumb are we supposed to be? She’ll transport it to the next world? Yeah, like maybe into her own jewelry box.
Palma said, “Is there anything else she needs?”
Yeah, I thought, some angel food cake, or maybe Suntan oil, depending on where she ended up.
Mrs. Petrovsky went into her trance position again and said, “She wants her slippers.”
Good diversionary tactic.
“And,” she added, “her favorite ring. She said that you would know which one she needs.”
Well that’s a good way to add to her séance income, used jewelry. I’ll bet that if I went to her next séance, she’d say, in her spooky voice, “Your husband commands you from beyond to buy this quality watch—Visa and Master Card accepted.”
“Yes,” Palma nodded. “I know the one she means.”
I think this is meant to be like a pay-as-you-go soap opera. “Next week, your brother will reveal his true feelings for Chad, and where they hid the book which contained the map to the lost mine that held the secret to the true identity of Ida. Was she really his lost sister or was she her own mother? Stay tuned after this commercial break from Suburban Jewelry from the Beyond,”
Madame Petrovsky said: “This now concludes tonight’s visit. Thank you for your cooperation. If you need further assistance, please see my assistant, Charles.”
She got up from the table and walked toward the door when the professor stopped her by saying: “Madame Petrovsky, I have a question.”
She turned giving him a scowl. “What is it?”
“Would you be able to help us find a lost object?” the Professor said.
“What kind of object?”
“A small antique bowl,” he replied.
Antique is right, about 23 hundred years worth of antique, I thought to myself.
“A small bowl?” she said to herself. She looked at Palma and asked: “Is this something of yours, something personal?”
“No, it’s from the school where I work. Someone stole it and you were recommended as a person who could find it.”
“Really?” she drawled, “Someone recommended me? Now who could that be?”
“The person asked me not to mention her name,” Palma said.
She looked interested. Another opportunity for billing a client. “I believe that I may be able to help you. When would you like to do this?”
“The sooner the better,” Palma answered.
“Charles, bring me my appointment book.” She said this breathlessly without looking at him. Charles left the room quickly with clenched fists and pursed lips—not a happy personal executive assistant. He returned momentarily with a dark red leather appointment book. It had what looked like a Jewish star on the cover in silver, six pointed. Madame Petrovsky opened it and paged through several leaves before she said: “Tomorrow, would tomorrow evening be convenient for you?”
“That would be good,” the professor said as he nodded to me. “We’ll be here tomorrow night. Same time?”
“Yes,” she said as she, without looking, passed the book to Charles who was standing at her side looking away, feigning non-interest in the discussion. This could be good. Maybe tomorrow we can see the unappreciated Charles duke it out with the Madame of the netherworld.
Professor Palma paid Charles with a handful of bills and then we left.
On the way to the car, Palma was smiling. “What, professor?” I asked.
“Are you enjoying this Ralphy? I am. I never did anything like this. I don’t believe in this magic and spiritual mumbo-jumbo but what can we lose? She might know something about the theft and reveal it through her pretend spiritual friends. Who knows?”
“Yeah, I am enjoying it too. Not only the part about the LaMonicas screwing up, but this whole thing about starting with an idea and following it through to its end. If this is detective work, then I like detective work.”
“This is a part of it, following a hunch. But most of what we do in investigations involves waiting. We wait for appointments, for opinions from coworkers. We wait for suspects while sitting for hours in a non-heated car, needing to go to the bathroom. But it’s very rewarding when you conclude a case. You feel like you bested the criminal, you beat him at his own game. And also, you have taken a criminal off the streets, someone who could harm people we care about.”
We got into the car to join the non-talking LaMonicas who were sitting in the back seat looking out the windows pretending not to notice our arrival.
“Good undercover job, girls!” I said. They both turned from the window and stared directly at me. Veronica said slowly, her eyes boring through me: “Randolph, if you tell one person what happened here tonight, I’ll, we’ll…get you!” She continued staring, using her laser eyes to accentuate her point. “Not one word—to anyone—ever!” I nodded my agreement. I could see the professor trying not to smile. He glanced at me to see how I was taking my scolding. I looked down, smiling.
* * *
Professor Palma called Wednesday morning. “Ralphy, you and Veronica have to go. I can’t make it.”
“Why me, Professor? And with Veronica? She wants to kill me!” I said. “Can’t we change our appointment?
Or maybe ask Monica? At least she’s human, not scary like her sister.”
“We need to get this done as soon as possible. I’ve got a meeting tonight called by the department head. I’ve got to be there. And, Veronica is very professional. You’ll make a great team and get the job done—if she doesn’t kill you,” he said with a laugh. Some joke.
Chapter 15
Trouble with the Jag
Veronica was not happy to see me. I told her that she gets a free dinner. Looking back, I should have said nice dinner. I got money to pay Madame Petrovsky and for dinner and for gas for the Jag and the Professor gave me instructions on what to do. I told her that he said, and I quoted him: “Ralphy, you and Veronica can pose, like last night, as brother and sister. Tell Madame Petrovsky that the bowl was stolen from school and then show her a picture of it. Mention that there is a reward for anyone who helps recover the bowl and the reward is from the insurance company and the police are not involved.” He also said that I should tell her that I’m willing to pay the same as last night and that there will be another tip. And I should look for something in my wallet to flash the cash around.
“Did you tell anyone about, you know?” She asked, sticking her face into mine. Talk about aggressive females… “If you told anyone, I mean anyone, Ralphy Deidrich, you are dead meat. Do you understand? You will never get a date on this campus ever! Ever!”
Her closeness let me breathe in that flower smell she always has. Maybe it’s magic, or something, but it makes me think of her as a woman, not as a fellow investigator. “I haven’t told a soul, I swear,” I raised my hand.
It was almost the truth. I told Jason. How could I not? He’s on the team, I see him everyday, and he’d find out somehow. He was really peeved that he missed the show and asked me to describe the finer points of the LaMonicas but I didn’t. Maybe I’m a gentleman? So I didn’t really tell anybody anything—really.
“You better not have because if I, or my sister, hear one snicker from anybody on this campus—ever—you’re dead meat. And I mean it, Ralphy.”
I better tell Jason not to tell anyone and not to let on with the LaMonicas that he knows. I changed the subject. “OK,” I said as I opened the car door for her. She was dressed to go out. I know that she is a coworker and I should treat her just like Jason, but jeeze, under her coat she’s got on a short skirt that bounces when she moves and, she smells so good. Why does she do that?
“OK, we’ll go to Petrovsky’s first then get some dinner and compare notes. How does that sound?”
“I have to eat with you? Couldn’t we forget the socializing part?” She pulled her coat tightly around her, buckled in and looked straight ahead, like I was her driver. At least she didn’t climb in the back seat.
“It ain’t socializing. This is all business. Professor Palma thought it would be a nice treat for us, for working on a school night.”
“As long as you remember that this isn’t social and start getting cute.”
“Thank you, your Highness. I will be sure to remember my place,” I said, regretting it as the words were leaving my lips.
Still looking ahead, she folded her hands in her lap like she was getting ready for the dentist’s drill. I cranked up the old Jag and hit the gas a couple of times just to hear its purr turn into a roar. I can understand why the professor doesn’t want to get rid of this old nag—it has so much class. If only it were more, well, modern: I mean no global positioning system, no satellite radio. Hello?
We were just turning off 17 and onto county 34 when the car jerked. It was a pretty big jerk. We both bounced forward in our seats and looked at each other. Then the car resumed its smooth acceleration up the slight incline on the tree lined road. We were most of the way there. Madame Petrovsky’s was about seven miles ahead on 34 when the engine stopped. We were driving and then: silence. The engine just quit.
As we were slowing down, the countryside looked scarier, the trees closer to the road looked like they were hiding something. We rode over a small crest in the road and coasted noiselessly down the incline. The road leveled out and we started to slow down. I aimed for the shoulder and put on the brakes.
We had been driving for a while so the car was nice and warm inside. I put it in Park and looked at Veronica. She looked at me, hands in her coat pockets in her lap. “What are you trying to pull Diedrich? Get this thing started and let’s go.”
“Hey, first of all I didn’t do anything. The car just stopped.”
“Right.”
“No, really, something’s wrong with it.” I turned the key and tried to start it. The engine turned over but nothing, not a pop.
“You’re a man, fix it.” She now sat with her arms wrapped around her chest.
“I’m not Jason, I can’t fix everything! Cut me some slack, let me think for a minute.” I sat there. I don’t know diddly about cars. I reached under the dashboard and felt around. I pulled the hood release lever and got out. I lifted the hood and it went up about two inches. I bent down to look in the crack between the grill and the hood to see what was holding it. It was too dark. I couldn’t see anything. I heard the door slam. Veronica was next to me bending over looking in the crack. She stuck her hand in and wiggled it around a little and the hood came up. She gave me one of those looks that could freeze Florida.
We both peered under the hood and then looked at each other. In the moonlight you could see the silvery top of the engine and the black battery all shiny and clean; it ticked as it cooled. But I had no idea what could be wrong. I’m not really a car guy.
“What do you think it is?” she asked.
“Could be the trans,” I said, saying the first car word that came to mind.
“What are we going to do now?”
She was full of questions. I didn’t know what to do next. “You know, we have our cell phones. We can call the Professor,” she said.
We got back into the car which was not as warm and comfortable as it was a few minutes earlier. The leather seats got cold pretty quickly. I dialed the Professor and got his voice mail. The message said he’ll be back at six. That’s fifteen minutes. I’ll call him then.
“What’ll we do in the mean time?”
“Make out.”
“Not funny, Randolf Deidrich,” she said as she looked at the barren fields out her window. She shook her head. “You’re such a pill!” She had her hands in her lap and her eyes narrowed. She turned to me. “Make yourself useful.”
I looked at her and said: “We could call…” Then we heard a noise, like the world’s largest bumble bee. We looked at each other and then out the back window. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere behind the car. It could be one of those small planes. I looked out the side window and scanned the sky around us. Nothing up there. Whatever it was, it was taking its sweet time getting here. Maybe it was on some parallel road and we would never see it or it was in the fields, like a dirt bike. It got louder, Veronica gave me a questioning glance, I shrugged my shoulders. I don’t know anything tonight. I’m not being much help. And, it was getting louder.
This reminded me of when I was in the Marine Corp. When army tanks would approach, you could hear them for miles, minutes before they arrived. But you could never tell from which direction they would arrive. They’d get louder and louder but you wouldn’t know where they were coming from until they appeared. This was the same thing. What is that expression, “Deja Vu all over again?”
It seemed like it was coming from behind us. We looked at the road we had just driven down. The moonlight allowed us to see a bit in these few moments after sunset. Over the crest of the little hill we had just coasted down, a light popped up. A small one. Not two lights like a car but one. What was it, a tractor, a snowmobile, a motorcycle, a cyclops?
Whatever it was, it was getting closer and louder. “Let’s stop the guy for help.”
“What if he’s dang
erous? We have no place to go. We are at his mercy!” she said quickly. I gave her my “get real” look.
The vehicle was getting closer. I made an executive decision. I jumped out and waved the guy down.
He was close now and his light lit up the Jaguar. He could see our hood up and that we were stranded. I made a show of taking away my cell phone from my ear so he knew that we weren’t totally alone.
As he came alone side the car, I could see what it was. It was a little motorscooter, small with dirt covering its faded green paint job. He jerked to a stop and revved the engine. He had a grin like those on born again religious TV shows, was my age and size, dressed in a leather flying jacket, levis, and shiny black leather laced shoes—not a serious gangsta look.
“What’s up, car trouble?” the driver said as he pulled up his Army surplus goggles. His brows were furrowed and his teeth were visible even with his mouth closed—about as scary as Daffy Duck.
“Our car stopped,” I shouted over the sound of his engine. “Do you know anything about cars?”
“A little. Let’s see what’s wrong. This thing has been giving me trouble.” He pointed at the scooter. “Doesn’t want to start.” He pulled it back onto the kick stand and climbed off leaving the noisy engine running, ring-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. He looked at the Jaguar engine and then opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. “Keys.”
I handed him the keys hoping he would easily start the car and then not steal it. The engine turned over a few times—nothing. Meanwhile, his scooter coughed and then the engine slowed and quieted. He flew off the driver’s seat and darted to the scooter: too late. He grabbed the handlebars to give it more gas, the engine coughed twice and stopped spinning: complete silence. I didn’t realize how loud it was till it stopped. No noise, no sound at all. I heard him rub his shoe on the loose stones on the road.
“Awe gee. This is going to be a pain to start again.” He walked back to the Jag and sniffed the engine. “Out of gas.”
“That’s it? Just out of gas?” I asked.
“Yeah, that should do it. I’ll give one of you a ride back to my place, it’s about eight miles. That is, if I can start this thing. There aren’t any open gas stations around here but we always have gas at the farm,” He said this while walking around the car, admiring it. “Nice car,” He looked at the driver’s side rear fender, then across the trunk. “Pretty neat, there’s two gas caps, you can put gas in from either side. Why don’t all cars have that?”