Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic Page 5

  “Hey, good morning.” Brenda, fully dressed and even sporting a hint of lipstick, handed me a mug of steaming coffee. “And you’re already dressed.” She sounded sincere, not mocking me in the least. “I slept with my clothes on,” I confessed.

  “Are you working today?” There we stood, like two polite strangers, exchanging meaningless niceties... so wrong. I shook my head no. “No more open houses until after Christmas. Kay says buyers and sellers have other priorities right now. I tend to agree.”

  Brenda kept nodding. The mug felt hot against my fingers, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I could hear Dior barking by the back door. And I was dying to ask about Officer Clarke but a little voice in my head told me not to. I heeded the voice.

  Did Brenda sense my edginess? She reached out and patted my arm. A feeling of serenity and acceptance exuded from her touch. I’m ashamed to say my first reaction was, “Oh, she got some last night.” I immediately regretted it and hoped with all my might she couldn’t read my mind.

  “Monica, relax. Bob isn’t here.” Ouch. Mind reader? “He’s my friend, not my boyfriend.” Her eyes searched mine; I nodded. Well at this point I couldn’t care if she had sex or if the Energy Therapist was a wizard; something about Aunt Brenda was different, in a major way, in a wonderful way. I followed her back to her house. Her pack of smokes sat at the usual spot, but I couldn’t see any forbidden junk foods. The place smelled of scrambled eggs and bacon, and I had to assume the bacon was real and she’d already cooked it because Dior circled the kitchen with fierce determination. Happy days are here again.

  We ate breakfast together. Brenda was ripping ads from the Sunday’s paper insert. “I need a dress, something black, simple, that I can wear to both my work Christmas dinner and a party at Bob’s office.”

  “Wow, you have twice the social life I have. My Sunday afternoon is yours. If you want, we can try the Mall or you may even like Stein Mart, across the street from the mall. I found a real cute top at half price.”

  “That’ll be fun. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it out of here before Tommy shows up with another one of his sad stories. By the way, that Kassandra is a riot, isn’t she? The way she described the usual participants at Psychic Fairs, she had the detectives in stiches.” She paused. My turn to redeem myself.

  “She had nothing but good things to say about the — about the therapist you are working with. She had told me he was a celebrity in the world of psychics, the ones with real degrees, I mean.” I stopped. Brenda smiled at me. Whoa, I felt like a mountain of worries just rolled off my back.

  “How about we leave around one o’clock. I’ll drive. And, remind me to share what little I know about Angelique.”

  I’ve no clue how I made it to one o’clock without calling Kassandra or wearing out the floor where I paced back and forth to kill time. While the changes in Brenda were all super positives, I missed her snarky attitude. Again that little voice in my head told me to wait. I was getting used to that voice – maybe it was called maturity?

  Brenda did find her dress at Stein Mart and only needed one size larger than usual. Interesting. Maybe she had already dropped some inches. I proudly flashed the email offering a 10% discount I’d received on my phone for being a Stein Mart subscriber.

  The collective sense of urgency that seems to permeate shoppers when December hits was alive and well in every parking lot, every store, big or small. As the sun started to set, the holiday lights came on, giving even gas stations a festive look. It all begged for a happy hour detour to end our day gloriously and — to speak ‘Angelique’ in a public place where I couldn’t possibly make a fool of myself, right?

  While we were both intrigued by The Covenant, a brand new restaurant that replaced the old vitamin store at the corner of Shea and Tatum, we headed to Z’Tejas where the covered patio seemed to hold the answer to our immediate mood, and the appetizers and drinks held no secrets after all our frequent visits over the years. We left Brenda’s purchases in her Honda and sat in the smoking section of the narrow, outside patio, with a great view of the busy surroundings. Brenda’s hand riffled in her bag before her derriere fully adjusted to the rattan chair. Cigarettes. Her tension was readable.

  “I left my smokes home,” she said. “On purpose.” The hand on the table shook. “Maybe I’m pushing too hard. I’m setting myself up for failure.”

  I searched for words of comfort, found none. This was supposed to be my time. My moment of happy discovery when Brenda would tell me that there was no marriage. Angelique was Tristan’s stepmother, or his aunt, or anything but his wife. Scenes reminiscent of old movies with young women having to give up the man they loved to marry the old rich man chosen by her impoverished family flashed through my mind in spite the fact there was no correlation with anything related to the Dumont’s marital status. Meantime, Brenda’s nicotine needs reached the drama status. Tension must be contagious. I found myself shaking.

  “Brenda.” I breathed deeply. “I think we should get up and drive home. We’ll be there in five minutes. You can have a cigarette and we can share a glass of wine and a piece of cheese so we don’t mess with all that you’ve accomplished so far.”

  At first she just blinked, then it must have sunk in. She stood, still visibly shaken, turned to the smiling waitress heading our way. “Miss, I’m so sorry. We have an emergency; we must leave. Please excuse us.” She laid a $5 bill on the table and pushed me toward the small gate opening onto the street. We drove in silence. About six minutes later, Brenda lit her cigarette. She blew the first puff of smoke with the same expression I probably wore after a particularly satisfying orgasm. I went to the kitchen to get a bottle of Pinot Grigio from her refrigerator. I had to get the right mood back for our Angelique chat. That’s probably where I was when Bob Clarke knocked on the door. When I got back with the two stem glasses he was discussing Christmas lights for Brenda’s front yard Palo Verde tree.

  He nodded at me. I rested the Pinot and the glasses on the low table by the couch, picked up my purse and headed home. I doubt Brenda even noticed my exit. And Dior seemed as bamboozled by Bob as Brenda was. I suspected Bob of using that bacon trick like Jack Nicholson in the movie As Good as it Gets; not that it really mattered at this point.

  EIGHT

  M IS FOR Monica, and also for moody.

  M is for Monday. Make that a double M, for Monday Morning. Put it all together and what do you get? Monica is moody because it’s Monday morning. The end. Well, not really. More like the beginning of a new week. And what a way to start the week. I don’t know why but I found myself driving south on the 51 instead of Tatum Boulevard.

  On a Monday morning. Shoot me now.

  Everything was going south, not just me. My Fiat didn’t handle as smoothly as usual. Maybe it’s true that we attract what we project. I read that in a book. So now my car acted moody, just like me. I got off on Glendale Avenue and drove surface streets to the office where I parked next to Scott’s truck.

  “Morning Scott. Lots of new listings?” Scott was in charge of installing and removing our real estate signs.

  He looked at me the way I look at bugs. “New listings? It’s December. I’m taking the rest of the month off. I’m going to Utah, skiing.” Then he did something rather peculiar, even for an odd guy like Scott. He walked to the back of my car and kicked my tire. “You need to get your tire fixed. This one is flat. How long have you been driving on a flat tire?”

  “Flat tire?” I echoed. That explained why I had trouble driving. Ah. Damn Mondays!

  Scott watched me squat down to check out the tire, or at least pretend I did. It looked a bit out of air, but flat? Except, it seemed to get flatter as I watched. I grabbed my stuff, “Thanks. I’ll call AAA. I have a spare.”

  If he heard me he didn’t care. He kept rearranging the white wooden posts on the back of the truck. Skiing in Utah. Hard to imagine snow in the next state when it was like late spring weather in Phoenix. Max was supposed to be skiing in Tellurid
e. Good for him. I grew up in the Italian Dolomites and ski slopes were only about thirty minutes from home. Even so, I had never had any interest in skiing. However, I did like the après ski. Liked it? Loved it. All the fun without huffing and puffing to get to the top of crowded slopes. The fun memories put a smile in my heart and a skip in my steps. Inside, the office was busy. Or maybe it looked that way because more agents sat around the bullpen and chatted now that sellers didn’t want us in their homes.

  “Hi, Kassandra.” I bypassed her desk and headed straight for the kitchen and the coffee maker.

  “Monica, someone called about your appointment for a photo shoot. You have a new listing you forgot to enter in the system.”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m following Kay’s suggestion. Yes, we are taking pictures, lots of pictures and I’ll probably list the property by the end of the week. Oh, Scott just told me he’s taking time off and going skiing in Utah. What am I going to do about the post and the sign?”

  “Don’t pay too much attention to Scott. He did the same thing last year. He was back in the office after the second day. Too cold,” she snickered.

  “You talking about me again?” Scott stood by the front door, looking more bored than upset. “I’ve got to go to pick up a sign in Scottsdale. Do you want me to move it over to your new listing?” he asked.

  “Oh, that’s so nice of you, but it’s a gated community, and I need to get the okay from the HOA before I do anything,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t forget your tire.” He turned around and left.

  “What’s wrong with your tire?” Kassandra asked.

  My coffee was getting cold. “My rear tire went flat. I’m going to my cubicle and call AAA; they are really good about it. Hey, want to stop for a chat after work?” I winked at her, she knew I meant drink. Her big grin was a yes.

  I could see Sunny in her glass domain, talking on the phone. I was curious to know if Kassandra had told Sunny about Celine’s presence at the Physic Fair. It ought to be interesting. The bad feeling brought on by Brenda’s dismissal of our planned and highly anticipated chat about Tristan in favor of an evening with Bob Clarke still lingered, but not as strong. Plus, I had to get the tire taken care of, my appointment with the photographer was in one hour, and it was too late to reschedule. I pulled out my AAA card from my wallet and dialed. I made the mistake of telling the road assistance operator I wasn’t in any danger, but sitting comfortably in my office, so my call wasn’t entered as an emergency. Damn. And it was Monday.

  I was too fidgety to sit back and twiddle my thumbs. Might as well get my files organized. Checked my SupraBox key container. Okay it wasn’t mine. Sunny loaned it to me, but the eKey was all mine, bought and paid for with my first commission. I checked, fully charged. Each time an iBox is opened, both the key and iBox record the date, time and the identity of the key holder. That’s why I had to have my own. Sunny had warned me, “Guard it with your life.” I had memorized my code and plugged the eKey in every evening, whether I had used it or not.

  Kay’s office door was closed. That explained why I didn’t see her car in the parking lot. Time moved slowly, too slowly. I needed to get on the road in about fifteen minutes in order to make it to the Scottsdale listing in plenty of time. I called the AAA road service number again, got a different operator and explained my problem. Only to be told that it would be another twenty minutes before their technician got to me. Rats. I couldn’t sit still. I walked back to the kitchen, rinsed out my mug and put it back on the shelf.

  “What’s with you?” Not much got by Kassandra. Probably why everyone liked her. I told her about my conversation with AAA.

  “You’re not picking up clients, just meeting the photographer, right?”

  “No. No clients, and the home we are photographing is vacant. The owners left a few pieces of furniture so we can do a little staging for the photos. Makes the rooms look better, you know.” I kept an even tone, but inside I was screaming to get on the road.

  “Here.” Kassandra handed me a key.

  “What is this for?”

  “The key to my Kia. Just take it. Get the photos done and then bring it back. Leave me your keys and your AAA card. By the time you’re back your tire will be replaced. Now stop hyperventilating. You’re stressing me out.’

  “Huh, I — you’re sure?”

  “Really Monica, my car is a piece of crap, but it will get you there and if you really feel like you owe me, put some gas in the tank. It’s unlocked. Go, already, go. No speeding, you hear me?”

  I felt overwhelmed by her kindness. Or maybe it was something I ate. Fill her tank, yes, that’s what I would do. I thanked her again, took the key and left.

  Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so where were all those slow pokes going? Some crossed the road while smoking and holding a Styrofoam cup of something. Of course, mid-morning break for office folks on salaries. Not something people on commission, like realtors, get to enjoy. Breathe Monica, breathe and stop bitching.

  Kassandra’s car made some funky noises. Pong, pong, grind, pong. The series of sounds recurred at precise intervals almost like a refrain in a song. Maybe I should stop by a gas station. There was one up the road. I pushed the gas pedal. Time wasn’t on my side. I made a quick right, cutting off a mud-covered SUV full of kids. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead in case one of the SUV’s occupants used fingers signs. I made it to the gas station without too much fuss. It only had four gas pumps and a line of waiting cars for every one of them. Darn Mondays. What now?

  Only twenty minutes left. I looked around to assess the situation without pissing off another overworked, driving mother. But hey, I had plenty of gas, I could always fill the tank on my way back. I drove to the end of the pump island and then made an attempt at a U-turn on a squeal of tires. No, not the Kia’s tires. The ones on a beat up camper truck that barely missed me. I could see from the corner of my eye the angry driver rolling down the window. Mercy me. Not now. I drove south, staying close to the sidewalk and when I saw an opening onto traffic I made a wide U-turn and headed north. I barely cleared the intersection as the light turned red. Good.

  I mentally patted myself on the back until I checked my rear view mirror. Nooo. The unmistakable crappy silhouette of the camper from hell was pursuing the Kia and gaining ground. All of this on a stretch of Camelback Road sided by hotels that made the list of favorite places of the rich and famous every year. Few cars on the road and absolutely no soul on foot. The grimy, old camper getting closer and closer and the ‘Objects in mirror are closer than they appear’ engraved on the side mirror was giving me the willies.

  This is Phoenix, the wild, wild west. People have guns. People with campers may even have shotguns and not be afraid to use them. I tried to drive with an eye on the camper. Like all Arizona vehicles, it didn’t have a front license plate, and then, just like that, I hit a red light and came to a screeching halt. The camper crept slowly next to me, and the driver got out. My hands shook so bad, I tried to remember what I used to say in Italian when the cops pulled me over, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. Plus, what if he mistook me for an illegal and he was one of those ‘This is America, speak English’ kind of guys. Ouch.

  He made it to the passenger side before I could spell C I A O in my mind. There was nothing threatening in his attitude. He had a stubby face with strange glasses, like reading glasses with those darker clip-ons people wear when it’s sunny. He knocked on the passenger window and in my spur of the moment lack of common sense I rolled it down. Yes, I had to manually open it. He checked me out, taking his time.

  “Hello,” I said and waited.

  Head cocked, he looked me over again, took a step closer to the window.

  “Young lady, you need to be careful. We could have both been killed back there when you made that U-turn. In a hurry?”

  His attempt at friendliness while ogling the interior of the Kia earned him an F, but I felt a sense of relief.

  “Huh,
I’m sorry. I’m borrowing a friend’s car and I’m not too familiar with it. And yes, I’m late to an appointment. Again, so sorry.”

  I rolled the window up, slowly, forcing him to step back. That was it. Not another word, he walked backward, his eyes on me. The light was green and I took off while he was getting back to his camper. It was crazy. The man didn’t say anything mean and yet I felt frightened to the core. I drove the rest of the way checking the rear view mirror to see if he was tailing me. And just before I arrived at the last turn to the gated community, I made a slight detour to see if indeed he had followed me. This was a busy street, so I parked behind a house under construction and I could swear a camper like his drove by. I was so nervous I could hardly get the Kia’s gear into drive. Finally the car moved and the noises begin to repeat, but after the latest encounter, it felt more like a lullaby.

  I entered the gate code and watched with a great sense of relief the small, white van from the R.E. Assist service follow me in. The photographer had made it here first. Safe at last. Until I noticed who was at the wheel of the R.E. Assist van.

  NINE

  JESSICA SMITH, ALSO known as J.S. Smith, or Jessie for short. The reporter from hell.

  “What did you do, kidnap the photographer? What for? This house is vacant and as far as I know nothing nefarious ever happened here. Nothing to write about it.”

  “You’re wrong about me, Monica. Cross my heart.” She looked sadly pathetic saying that. “I’m the new hire and I’m here to photograph your listing.”

  She handed me a business card. I opened my mouth a few times, and squinted, too, pretending to seriously study the computer-generated business card.

  “I got canned, again. So I figured I’ll take this job. After all, I’m good at taking photos, had a lot of practice while working under cover for the We Dig Deeper magazine.”