Caught Dead Handed (6 page)

Once in a while in New England in October, there's a picture-perfect day, and I awoke to one of them. It was barely seven o'clock, and already the rising sun revealed a cloudless cerulean-blue sky. Gone was the drizzle and the dull gray of the day before, and the leaves remaining on the old maple tree outside my window seemed to glow in shades of red and gold. I'd slept surprisingly well, a deep, dreamless night's rest.

The familiar craving for morning coffee sent me padding downstairs. O'Ryan, an early riser, was already happily relaxed on the cushioned seat of a captain's chair. Before long, full coffee mug in hand, I headed for the dining room to face the contents of the canvas bags. The one with the cat's food in it would be the easiest to deal with. I carried it into the kitchen, and O'Ryan raised his head and blinked at the sound of nuggets of food being poured into a bowl. I placed it on the floor, and he sniffed at it.

He looked at me, looked at the bowl and back at me again.
Can cats sneer?
Clearly, he wasn't having any part of this menu. I dumped the food back into the open bag and folded it shut.

“Well, Mr. Fussy,” I told him, “somehow my aunt has spoiled you already with a couple of cans of tuna.”

With O'Ryan purring over a bowl of crabmeat chunks—we were out of tuna—and with a fresh mug of coffee in one hand and the canvas bag in the other, I returned to the dining room. Sitting down, I explored the contents of the first bag. Mostly hardcover books, a few paperbacks, tarot cards, and a small mesh bag of colorful crystals. The second bag now held only the obsidian ball. Forcing myself to look directly at its smooth black surface, I placed the ball on the table.

It's just a chunk of shiny rock. Volcanic glass.

There was a twinkling reflection of light from the chandelier overhead. Nothing more. I relaxed, leaned back in the chair, and reached for the top book in the pile.
Crystallomancy.

I opened the purple cover and began to read.

So far, so good,
I thought.

I put the book down and, resisting an urge to look at the black ball again, stared out the window. Dry leaves swirled in the brick-walled courtyard, and the yellow cat, apparently finished with his morning meal, batted at them kitten-like.

Content for the moment with the few basic facts about crystal, and wondering if obsidian even operated under the same rules, I selected another book.
A Student's Guide to the Tarot.

I'd already learned that most of the deck was divided into suits. Cups, wands, swords, and pentacles. There was even a card called the Fool, which seemed to be a lot like the joker in modern card games. But besides these, there was a bewildering assortment of pictures and symbols, with names like Death and Judgment. I counted seventy-eight cards in Ariel's deck, none of which made the least bit of sense to me. Under the heading “The Mystery of the Tarot,” I read,

“Gobbledygook,” I said aloud, closing the book. No way was I going to accomplish miracles of psychological insight with a quick read.

Aunt Ibby poked her head into the room. “Did you say something, Maralee?”

“Nothing important,” I said. “Good morning. I didn't hear you come down. I made coffee.”

“I smelled it. Already poured a cup. You're up early.”

“Doing a little studying,” I said. “Say, are there any tarot card readers around?”

“In Salem? During Halloween month?” She came into the room and sat next to me. “Every self-styled witch and charlatan for miles around has set up shop in Salem, hoping to make a fortune from the tourists. Why?”

“I was just thinking, since I'm supposed to be a Gypsy of sorts, I'll need a vague idea of what a card reader does.” I gestured toward the book. “This book isn't much help. I think I might get my cards read and maybe pick up a little lingo.”

“I suppose . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the things I'd lined up on the table. She put her coffee cup down. She picked up the purple book. “Do you really have to read all this stuff? I don't like this, Maralee. I don't like this a bit.”

Surprised at her tone, I felt a little pang of guilt. Something like the way I'd felt at ten, when she'd caught me reading
The Adventurers.
But back then she'd only looked disapproving. Now she looked . . . stricken.

“Must you read this dreadful nonsense?” She waved toward my display of books. Her hand brushed against the black ball, and she pulled away, as though she'd been burned.

“Why did you bring this thing home?” She pointed a French-manicured fingertip. Her voice quavered slightly.

Alarmed, I stood up. “What's wrong? I've never seen you like this.” Kneeling beside her, I put my arm around her shoulders. She was trembling.

“I'm sorry. I'm fine.” She sat up straight and patted my arm. “It's just . . . you shouldn't have brought that ball home.” She looked into my eyes. “Maybe that—what happened in the studio—was just what they said. A reflection. A coincidence. But please, get rid of it. Black reflective things like that, they're bad. Bad for you.”

“
Bad
for me? I don't understand.”

“Are you seeing things in it? Is that why you're reading this?” She shook the purple book. “Don't bother with this skinny little thing. I have volumes on the subject.”

“But why? And how did you know? Did . . . do you see things in it, too?”

Her head shake was vehement. “No! Never! And with all I've read, I've never understood why you could.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “And what do you think I've seen?”

“I don't know how it works. I've just always hoped it would never come back.”

“That what would never come back? Do you think I really saw a murder scene in the ball?”

“Oh, my dear! Is that what you believe you saw? How horrible! It's that job. Just leave the station. Get rid of that horrid black thing.”

She buried her face in her hands. The only sound was a slight creak from the cat door as O'Ryan came inside. After a moment my aunt stood slowly, extending her hand toward me. “Come with me to the study, child. I have several books you should see. We should have talked about this sooner, I know. I just . . . hoped it had gone away for good. This dreadful gift of yours.”

“Gift? I don't understand.”

“A gift . . . or a curse maybe . . . Hush. Come along.”

I followed her from the dining room, through the kitchen, and out into the long front hall. A recent vacuuming had left neat tracks in the plush surface of a burgundy rug. My thoughts were a jumble. I concentrated on the gently curving indentations and dutifully followed my aunt upstairs, into the book-lined study.

I sat at the big mahogany desk that had belonged to Great-grandfather Forbes. I rubbed my palms along the smooth polished edges of the desktop, then folded my hands like a schoolchild. And waited.

Aunt Ibby pushed aside several volumes of
Encyclopædia Britannica,
revealing a hidden row of books at the back of the shelf. Soon the only sound was the ticking of a brass ship's clock on the wall and the intermittent
swoosh
as she slid each slim book across the desk. Soon four of them were spread in front of me.

“Here,” my aunt said. “Look these over. Then we'll talk.”

I read the titles.
Mirror Visions, Crystal Enlightenment, Gazers World, The Mirror and the Man.

Questions crowded my mind. “But what—”

“Read,” she said. “Just skim through them. It won't take long.”

I began to read. At some point I became aware of a new sound. Purring. O'Ryan had crept into the room and was curled up at my feet. I read on.

At last I closed the fourth book. “So,” I said, “you think there may be something to it? The seeing of visions, or whatever they are? Is that why you collected these?”

“Not just these,” she admitted. “A lot more.”

“But why? You think I . . . people . . . actually see things in crystals? In mirrors? In obsidian?”

“Particularly obsidian, in your case. Does looking into that cursed ball remind you of anything? Bring back any memories?”

I frowned and shook my head. “I don't know. I don't think so. And yet . . . there's something. Something kind of nibbling at the corners of my mind. I just can't seem to bring it into focus.”

“I never wanted to have to tell you this,” Aunt Ibby said. “But I think I must. You've had these visions before, Maralee. When you were a child. And they were real. I'm afraid this gift, or curse or whatever it is, may be coming back.”

“I don't get it.” I reached down and patted O'Ryan's soft fur. “I don't remember anything about crystals when I was a child. I don't remember any visions.”

“Thing is, of course, we didn't believe you. We thought you just had an unusual imagination.” She seemed to be talking to herself. “The pictures you told us about. The pictures you saw only on Sunday. You thought it was some kind of special TV.”

She laughed, a small, mirthless sound. “You were only five. A cute little girl all dressed up for Sunday school. Seeing pictures grown-ups couldn't see.”

I hesitated, then reached a hand toward my aunt. “Aunt Ibby, are you all right? Maybe we'd better talk about this some other time.”

“No. No, I'm fine.” She stood, holding herself erect. “Come on. I've saved something all these years. Something I think you need to see. Perhaps it'll help explain what's happening to you. Maybe together we can make some sense out of all this.”

Again, I followed my aunt upstairs. We walked past my room and several guest rooms to the door leading to the attic. Aunt Ibby unlocked it, and I felt in the dark for the smooth glass pull that would light the bare bulb at the head of the stairs.

“What are we looking for? Aren't you going to tell me?”

“I think I'd better show you. It may help you to remember.”

We ducked our heads, avoiding the low slanted beams. Aunt Ibby knelt in front of the small bureau where I'd selected jewelry for Crystal Moon's debut.

“We went through these drawers, except for the one that was stuck,” I protested. “There's not room for anything as big as a crystal ball.” I looked around.

“No crystal ball. But you've seen the books. I think you are what they call a ‘scryer.' Some call people who can do . . . what you do . . . ‘gazers.' And gazers throughout history, all the way back to Nostradamus, even the ancient Aztecs, have used mirrors, bowls of water, sword handles, whatever was handy to do . . . what they did.” Aunt Ibby opened the top drawer and removed a small key on a striped ribbon. “Apparently, a smooth polished surface is all it takes for some. Like you, I'm afraid.”

“But I'm sure that over the years I've looked at a zillion shiny surfaces. Nothing weird happened. Why now?”

She inserted the little key into the brass keyhole of the second drawer and sighed. “I don't know, Maralee. I don't know. And I just hope I'm doing the right thing.”

I knelt beside my aunt and looked into the open drawer. There was a small shoe box inside.

A shoe box?

I reached down and carefully lifted the oblong cardboard box. There were cartoon animals in bright colors on the lid. I sat back on my heels. “Should I open it?”

“You must.” Aunt Ibby put a protective arm around my shoulders. “I think you need to remember some things if you're ever going to make sense of what's happening to you now.”

I removed the lid and pushed aside blue tissue paper.

The tiny black patent-leather shoes were still shiny.

 

 

Little Maralee Kowolski loved Sundays. She and Daddy and Mommy and Aunt Ibby would get all dressed up and go to church. Sometimes it was Daddy's church, with the pretty colored windows and the man who said funny-sounding words. Sometimes it was Aunt Ibby's church, with the plain windows and the man in the black suit. It didn't matter to Maralee. She liked both churches. The music was nice, and, anyway, if she didn't want to listen to the man talk, she could watch the pictures in the toes of her Sunday shoes.

Then one day Mommy and Daddy went on vacation. Maralee stayed at Aunt Ibby's house. On Sunday morning

Aunt Ibby helped her get dressed in her prettiest dress. Maralee wore ankle socks with lace on them and her shiny patent-leather shoes.

“You may sit on the front steps, Maralee,” said Aunt Ibby, “while I bring the car around. Don't get dirty, will you?”

The little girl sat quietly and, to pass the time, looked to see what pictures might be in her shoes. First, she saw the little cloud. That always came first. Then the swirling colors and twinkling lights. Then the pictures. The child clapped her hands together in delight when she saw the image of a yellow airplane.

“Daddy! Mommy!” she whispered happily.

She saw the cliff. “Watch out, Daddy!” she cried.

She saw the flames.

 

 

I screamed, just as little Maralee had screamed all those years ago. Aunt Ibby held me close, whispering comforting words. She had done the same thing back then, not comprehending the horror I had witnessed in the shiny surface of my shoes.