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

looked at her, stretching her legs and pushing the pack of cigarettes and empty chips bag under a stack of magazines. Ah! “Officer Clarke?” I asked, sporting my best Cheshire smile.

“His first name is Robert.” She rolled her eyes, ran her fingers through her hair. She walked toward the door, brushing off a few dry crumbs from the front of her blouse, Dior at her heels. While I headed to the back door I heard her say to me, “Bob to his friends.”

I hurried to let myself out through the back door before Bob made his entrance.

NONE OF THE snippets I found on the Internet identified Jane Doe as Miss Fortune. At least not yet. What if that wasn’t her real name? I mean, how perfect was that combination? Your local psychic, Miss Fortune. I googled the name. Fortune didn’t bring up anything related to a drowning victim, but a lot of stuff about Fortune 500 and business magazines. I tried Miss Fortune and for a minute I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Well, on closer look, I hadn’t. The Facebook page with that name belonged to a now gone musician or band. It also appeared to be the name of some mythical legendary fighter. Disappointed, I turned off the computer and went to bed. I had three voice mail messages from Max. If I didn’t listen to them I wouldn’t feel obliged to reply. I wasn’t proud of myself, not a bit but didn’t know how to get out of the situation without feeling even guiltier for breaking Max’s heart, again.

That night I dreamed of Tristan, like the night before and the night before that.

THREE

“MUST BUY A car, must buy a car,” I repeated over and over in my mind, like a mantra, hoping it would do the trick. No need to sell or trade my Fiat. Against all logic, I had come to consider the pink car my lucky charm. It had been a gift from my father-in-law, Brenda’s brother. To him, it didn’t matter I was already divorcing Tommy, or maybe it did matter and it was his way of letting me know it was all right. Married to Tommy or not, I’ll always be a member of the Baker family. That was a big part of my attachment to the car and the easiest to explain. I grew even more attached once Tristan Dumont nicknamed me Fiat. The rest had to do with vague feelings of patriotic pride, Fiat being an Italian brand and all that.

Brenda had suggested a four-door sedan, slightly used, with low mileage so it would still be under warranty. The idea sounded practical, if not exciting. I could use my share of the commission from the horse ranch and finance the rest if necessary. I didn’t have a set dollar figure because the Dumont’s ranch deal happened while I was still employed as Sunny’s assistant and had no legal claim to a commission. Regardless, she offered to share with me. Escrow closing had been dragging due to unpaid taxes and the seller’s attempt at skirting responsibility. Lawyers from both sides were busy sorting everything out. I avoided the subject as much as possible. Somehow, associating Tristan with my paycheck felt too... mercenary.

THE NEXT MORNING I proudly crossed the threshold of Desert Homes Realty before nine a.m. A first. But instead of Kassandra’s familiar face, who sat on her chair but Scott, our signs installer and all around handyman. Weird.

Phones rang. Scott didn’t seem in a hurry to answer them. I could see real estate agents in the back, the so-called bullpen, none paying much attention to the front lobby turmoil. “Where is Kassandra?” I asked.

Scott shrugged, “Home?” Had all twenty-somethings taken a vow to speak in the fewest words possible or was it just tall, muscular sign installers?

“Oh, is she sick?” I asked. I remembered her not eating and only drinking wine at North happy hour last night.  Nah, it couldn’t be that. I’d seen her guzzle a lot more alcohol and drive home without noticeable side effects.

Scott shrugged. “Sick of the cops maybe. They are at her place, with a search warrant.”

“Noooo. Because of the bra?”

“The what?” Finally something sparked his interest and his youthful face lit up. Still he wasn’t answering the phones. Lucky for him our boss hadn’t arrived yet. Suddenly he got up and grabbed his clipboard. “You need to mind the phones until Kassandra gets here,” he said. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

And before I could compute the meaning of that, his tall frame was out the door. I had no clue how the thing with the flashing buttons worked. All I could do was pick up the phone and answer one call at a time. That alone would be an improvement from what Scott did, or didn’t do. And so I answered the calls and made notes instead of forwarding them to the correct extensions. Besides, I had no time to check who was in the back and who wasn’t. Some coffee would help, but no one came to my rescue. I sighed and diligently made notes as the calls kept coming. After about twenty-five minutes it all quieted down. Good.

Search warrant. That’s what Scott had said. What were the police looking for? I wasn’t even sure where Kassandra lived. She’d recently rented a condo in a multi-story complex around Seventh Avenue and Northern, but we never really got into details. I hardly ventured west of Central. Maybe I should call her. What if the cops were still there? All because of a stupid bra. And a dead psychic. Better clear my mind and take care of my own business. Someone else could mind the phones. Where was Sunny? Ah, coming through the door at that very moment — with Tristan Dumont in tow. Mercy. He looked so good and no more walking cane. I opened my mouth a few times but no sound made it through. He winked at me.

“Good morning, Fiat.”

Three short words,