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

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