Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic by Maria Swan (read a book .TXT) 📗

change. It felt sort of natural for him to follow me. He gave me a copy of the proposal for the Dumont Foundation he is setting up and offered me a seat on the board. It’s a great project. The City of Tucson is getting involved. You have no clue what I’m talking about, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Has to do with the Ranch he’s purchased. You know about the horse sanctuary. Well they are adding a small condo project for retired ranch hands and farmers on low incomes. The county will help with the construction, and the retirees will work with the horses to make up for part of the rent. Look, I need to really assimilate everything he has given me. It’s not something to be taken lightly.” She checked her watch, “Fifteen minutes and we eat. I’ll make a salad. Hey Kassandra, did you find the wine?”

Brenda paused and looked at me, I mean, there was something in her eyes that made me feel like I had done something wrong.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked.

I could feel Kassandra behind me, listening.

“Is that why I haven’t seen Max around lately?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Max is in Telluride with his parents. They own a condo there. Anyway he’s a friend, not my husband.”

My tone a tad too loud for a guilt-free conversation. Again, I felt that sense of unease deep down inside. Guilt about what?

“You noticed it too?” Kassandra spoke from the kitchen door. “It’s the same at the office,” she quipped, “The minute he comes through the door, his eyes are searching and she’s hiding in her cubicle or rushing out to run ‘errands.’ It’s sort of cute, as in high school crush cute.”

OMG! They were talking about me and — Tristan. No, no. So wrong. “What’s wrong with you people? The man is married. M-a-r-r-i-e-d. Get it?” I was so angry I wanted to hurt them, to make my own hurt go away.

“Monica, are you talking about Angelique?”

I shook my head yes and avoided looking at Brenda. The oven timer went off and the three of us just stood there, the only sound was that of Dior crunching his kibble. “Look, I know Tristan’s private on the subject of his wife, but certainly he must have shared something with you.”

I felt anger and sadness rise in my chest, how dare these women assume that Tristan shared his marital life with me. Or did he? That ‘important’ message Tristan had emailed me that day after I visited him, the one I deleted without reading it because... because... I couldn’t for the life of me remember what compelled me to do that. And what if indeed that was Tristan’s way of opening up to me?

A light knock at the front door.

“Must be Bob. Let me get the meat from the oven before I burn everything. Kassandra, can you get the door? Monica, I think you should freshen up a little, you look like you’ve been watching a sad movie. No crying on my china,” she teased and disappeared into the kitchen. I couldn’t move. Dior toddled along with Kassandra to the front door.

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice. “What a surprise. We are looking for Brenda Baker.” I moved toward the open door where stood Adam and Eve, the couple of detectives I met that evening at the office. The she-cop with her fake smile.

The Homicide Detectives.

Looking for Aunt Brenda.

SIX

I ATE MY cold lunch and cried in my $1 white dinner plate purchased at last year’s January sale at Big Lots. Big Lots closed their doors a few months later so this felt like a relic.

Not the way I had envisioned spending my Saturday. What a disappointment. After the two detectives politely invited Brenda to go to the precinct to look at some camera footage, they asked Kassandra to join the party. Since she was a regular at the Psychic Fairs, they concluded she might recognize some of the people who came in contact with Miss Fortune. Before she headed out, Brenda insisted I help myself to the food and to please keep an eye on Dior. She spoke while carefully avoiding looking at me as Officer Clarke, AKA Bob to his friends, showed up and offered to take Brenda to the station. Kassandra drove her own car, and Dior and I came back to my place with a plate full of cold pot roast. And my mind full of self-pity.

Too much to digest, and no, nothing to do with the leftovers. First, Tristan showed up for no apparent reason. I simply couldn’t accept Brenda’s explanation and then — then I found out Brenda had gone to the fair. The Psychic Fair. How could she? She never, ever told me a thing about it. I tried to recall our precise conversation that day when she claimed she read about it in the newspaper. Yeah, sure, before or after she paid for reserving a spot. A spot for what? A séance? An astrological chart? Or that thing — the aura reading. Someone at the office was talking about that.

Apparently, everyone I knew was somehow connected to the fair, except me, of course. How about Tristan? Was that what he was discussing with Brenda? All the suspicions and hurtful questions gave me a headache. And Dior was getting restless.

“Hey big boy, how about we go for a walk? What do you say?” My first instinct was to hit 40th street, on the horse trails. And, no, I wasn’t going to go chasing Tristan Dumont until Brenda spilled what she knew about Angelique. Finally, a wise decision.

“Okay Dior, we’ll do the neighborhood. We need to be back here when your mom comes home so I can get all the dirty details. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault. They started it.” They? Discussing my problems with a dog?

I grabbed the leash and Dior got excited. I slipped a poop baggie in my jeans pocket