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

came from her to-die-for pantry. That’s where she usually retreated when planning a large catering event. Something that hadn’t happened since her hospital stay due to her near fatal overdose of sleeping pills. Maybe the night was about to get better. “What’s up?” I asked. “You got a new gig? Where? How big?”

“Not yet little girl, but getting there.”

I smiled, remembering the last time Brenda called me little girl. Aunt Brenda was back, or close to it and I didn’t see Officer Clarke, Bob to his friends, anywhere around. Maybe things were improving all around. “Any food I can borrow?”

She turned to look at me. “It’s almost bedtime and you haven’t had supper? What happened?”

“If I start telling you the whole story without first getting some food, I’ll probably drop dead before I get to the good part. I’m that hungry.” She moved away from the corkboard wall and frowned. “Okay then, let’s step into the kitchen and see what we can do?”

Dior’s ears peaked at the word ‘kitchen’ and he beat us there.

I didn’t even pretend to help. I sat at my favorite spot and waited. Within ten minutes a plate found its way in front of me. I don’t know how she managed it, but a mouthwatering heap of steaming beef, carrots, mushrooms and water chestnuts covered a bed of rice. And, of course, a glass of Pinot Grigio. I knew she had smartly recycled some of the old pot roast we’d never gotten around to eating together, but I didn’t care where all that goodness came from because I knew where it was headed. Ignoring Dior’s well-rehearsed pleading look, I dug in.

ELEVEN

IT WAS ALL coming back to me now, the reason I didn’t like to drive anywhere before nine a.m. And yet, here I was, heading straight to the 32nd street entrance of the 51 South. All that because I couldn’t think of any other way to get to Northern and Kassandra’s condo. How crazy is that? Certainly there had to be another way. I blamed my directional brain fog on not getting enough sleep. It was pretty ironic that the loss of sleep was due not to the fear of what the future might bring but to the knowledge of what had already happened.

Sitting in Brenda’s place, the evening before, eating her food and sharing a glass of wine had created the illusion of turning back time. To the way things were, better yet, the way we were. It only lasted the length of the meal. I would lie if I said that Brenda’s confession that she was the one who told Sunny about Celine’s stroll through the Psychic Fair didn’t throw me for a loop.

How did Brenda know? Same way as Kassandra and the detectives, she told me. They all watched the same security camera footage. Sure enough, there was Celine buying something from the magic potions and lotions booth. Of course, after that reveal the elephant in the room was still Tristan’s marital status. All Brenda shared was that while they were legally husband and wife, it was a marriage necessary for legal reasons. That’s all she knew and, most important, all she felt free to share. She did stress that if it was so important to me I should ask Tristan directly. And on that sour note, I washed my plate, put it in the dishwasher and said good night. Ask Tristan directly! As if.

It seemed like my brain fog had been hanging around for a while, as I had a long list of unanswered texts, emails and, more urgent, phone calls. Today was the day, though. The minute I dropped Kassandra off at El Chorro to retrieve her Kia, I planned to make a beeline to the office, grab some coffee and sit in my cubicle until all those past due duties had been satisfied.

Oops, on the way to her condo I nearly bypassed the Northern exit. Apparently while the freeway was the busy place in the morning, traffic on Northern Avenue was flowing smoothly.

I crossed the main entrance of the Northern Star apartment complex and came to a screeching halt. Kassandra was waiting and ready to go. Good girl. I wondered how much she remembered about last evening.

“You may want to take Northern to Sixteenth Street and then south to Glendale Avenue,” she said.

I bet she remembered everything.

I nodded and follow her suggestion. For a while neither of us spoke. Awkward.

“Now you know why,” she said as I made a left on Glendale Avenue.

“Why what?”

“I normally don’t drink hard stuff.”

“Huh, that’s why you got sooo, sooo...”

“So drunk? Yes, and you can say it. I don’t get offended. I should have known better.”

Mercy. I had nothing to say and willed myself to keep my eyes on the now snail-paced traffic and not look at Kassandra. She obviously felt remorseful enough she didn’t need my two cents to top off the full glass of guilt.

We crossed over to the Paradise Valley side of the road without speaking. I had a million questions. Okay maybe not a million but at least a dozen. I checked her out sideways and she had nicely creased pants and a darling sweater I hadn’t seen before. She had tamed her hair and exuded that nice, clean, fragrance of a fresh shower. The happy hour disaster would be our secret. Period.

That’s what I told her. She patted my arm and whispered, “Thanks. I’ll tell you what set me off when you’re not driving.” I sighed and kept my eyes on the road. We had just passed a Starbucks where cars lined up as if, instead of selling expensive, over-caffeinated brew, they were giving out free manna from the heavens. One of the most annoying American habits, in my opinion, was the rush to leave home early to get in line for some coffee. Seriously? For coffee? I once tried to explain the phenomenon to my mother who, by the way, never had a driver’s license. She thought I was