Clarity (3 page)

“To meet Nate at Yummy’s. I’m starving. Plus, it will give Mom some time to cool off. We’ll eat, chat, and by the time we get back for the next appointment Mom will be chill.”

I nodded, knowing he was right. We rode in silence past gift shops, a pirate-themed mini-golf course, rose-trellised cottages, and clapboard-sided Capes until we reached the restaurant.

Yummy’s started out thirty years ago as a breakfast-only diner. After the addition of a large dining room, an outdoor patio, and a bar, it was now Eastport’s most popular eating and drinking establishment. Tourists loved the chowder. Townies loved the bar. Kids loved the hot-fudge sundaes. And teens loved to use Yummy’s as a hangout. It was our Peach Pit, except we didn’t wear designer clothes and drive Ferraris. Eastport was far from 90210.

As soon as Perry and I entered, Nate waved to us from a booth, and we sauntered over. Yummy’s décor was overwhelming. Lobster traps suspended from the ceiling. Anchors in corners. Giant fish on the walls. Framed bragging photos of deep-sea catches. And, of course, bright blue Yummy’s T-shirts for sale. The tourists ate that stuff up.

Perry shoved Nate aside, and I sat on the opposite side of the table.

“How’s it going, Clare?” Nate asked. His unusually bright green eyes twinkled when he smiled.

“It’s going, Nate.” I nodded toward the menu. “What looks good?”

He winked. “The waitress.”

Perry laughed at him. “Dork.”

As long as I could remember, Nate Garrick had been Perry’s best friend. He lived down the street, and they’d been through everything together: their
Star Wars
phase,
their skateboarding phase, their discovery of girls. But Nate wasn’t quite the womanizer Perry was; he was more the academic type. Nate wrote for the school paper and had done such a good job this year that he’d scored an internship at the local paper for the summer. He was headed off to college in the fall, majoring in journalism.

I considered Nate as much my friend as he was Perry’s. I’d been hanging out with the two of them even more since I’d broken up with my boyfriend. I didn’t really have friends of my own, but Perry and Nate never made me feel like a third wheel.

I glanced at the menu, even though I pretty much had it memorized by this point. Yummy’s specialty was fresh seafood, which doesn’t appeal to me. Yes, I live on the Cape and don’t eat seafood. It’s a crime, I know. Thankfully they also served breakfast all day so when the waitress came, I ordered a short stack of blueberry pancakes and hoped the boys wouldn’t order anything too stinky. My silent chant of “no clams, no clams, no clams” must have worked because they both ordered burgers and fries.

“So what gives?” Nate asked Perry. “When I called you about an early lunch, you said you guys were booked.”

Perry grinned. “Clare had one of her foot-in-mouth moments that freed us up for an hour.”

“Well lucky me,” Nate said.

I leaned back in the booth. “Glad my inability to hold my tongue could bring you boys together.”

“Did you hear about the murder?” Nate asked.

I nodded. “Milly busted in during a reading and told us.
Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be out there doing whatever it is reporters do?”

“Gathering information to write a story?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m doing it. You’ll see.”

The door opened, and a man I’d never seen before came in. Tall and broad-shouldered with tan skin and black hair, he was handsome for an older man. Just as I thought that, his younger clone walked in behind him. The younger guy’s walk oozed confidence and his body radiated heat. He wore low-slung jeans and a black T-shirt that clung just so to his muscular frame. As he walked past our booth, he glanced at me with his dark eyes and then cracked a small smile. I nearly melted right there in my seat.

“Speaking of yummy,” I whispered.

“He’s why I’m here,” Nate said.

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you swung that way, but you’ve got good taste, boy.”

Nate rolled his eyes. “That’s Eastport’s new detective and his son.”

I snuck a glance over my shoulder and watched them settle into a booth in the corner.

“Supposedly he’s some hotshot from New York City, but he’s moved here full-time,” Nate said. “His son will be a senior this year.”

A new hottie joining my school. Nice. “What’s his name?” I asked.

“The detective is Anthony Toscano. His son is Gabriel.”

Gabriel Toscano. Damn. Even his name was sexy.

“What would a city hotshot want with a small-town gig?” Perry asked.

Nate shrugged. “I’ll find that out when I talk to him.”

“So that’s why you’re here,” Perry said.

“Yep. Our new detective has established a routine already. Grilled cheese and fries for lunch every day at the same time at the same restaurant.”

“So what are you waiting for?” I asked.

“I’ll let him get his lunch first. No one wants to be bothered by a reporter when they’re hungry.”

Just then, the waitress brought our drinks. I was about to take a sip of my Coke when I saw something floating at the top that wasn’t one of the ice cubes.

“I think someone spit in my soda.”

“What? No way,” Perry said.

Nate slid my glass over to him and peered in. “Oh, that’s foul, man! Someone hocked a loogie in your Coke. Who would do that?”

Our waitress seemed nice enough. I didn’t think I knew any of the cooks at Yummy’s. And then it hit me. I turned around and looked at the other waitress who was leaning against the bar. She waved, her hot pink plastic fingernails glinting in the sunlight. Tiffany Desposito. The Lex Luthor to my Superman. The Wicked Witch to my Dorothy. The Maleficent to my Sleeping Beauty. I’m not exaggerating.

Tiffany Desposito is the queenpin of the Trifecta of Mean: Tiffany, Brooke, and Kendra. All three are blond, though only Brooke was born that way. They’re your typical mean girls, and during the school year, I was their daily target practice.
For years it was only your garden-variety ostracism, name-calling (mostly variations of “freak”), and pranks. But this past year, for some reason, Tiffany amped up the torture and made it more personal. And now I was staring at her spit in my soda.

“That bitch,” Perry said. “Do you want me to go over there?”

“No, I’ll take care of this.”

I marched over and slammed my glass on the mahogany bar.

Tiffany fake-smiled. “A psychic and a medium walk into a bar. The psychic says …”

“Screw you.”

She frowned. “That’s not how the joke goes, Clare.”

“You know where you can shove your joke. Just get me a new drink and try not to include any of your STD-laced body fluid in it this time.”

Tiffany dumped the soda out and began to repour.

“I’d like a whole new glass.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, then grunted as she reached for a new glass. “So how’s Justin?” she asked.

I wanted to use an upended stool to pole vault over the bar and gouge her eyes out. Instead I took a deep breath and talked myself through it.

Remain calm.

Don’t sink to her level.

You are a classy girl.

She is a psychotic skankbag.

You are the better of the two. Act like it.

Okay, now I was calm. “I don’t know how Justin is and I don’t care.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought you cared about him a lot.”

Maybe she’s suicidal? That’s why she keeps inviting me to kill her?
I fumbled with the coaster in front of me to keep my hands busy, since all they wanted to do at that moment was wrap themselves around her neck.

Then, suddenly, a shadowy flash came to me. Tiffany, taking an order, arguing with a girl. Shockingly, not me. Another flash, of Detective Toscano walking into Yummy’s minutes ago. Tiffany nervously kneading a coaster between her fingers. The coaster I held in my hands right now.

Tiffany was scared.

Why was she scared of the cop?

“Hey! Space shot! You want your Coke or not?”

I tried to ignore Tiffany’s screeching and hold on to the vision, but it blurred and disappeared. I grabbed my new glass from her outstretched hand.

“I heard you got into an argument last night,” I said.

Tiffany paled, which I never thought possible since her skin was so fake-and-bake tan. She nervously twirled a lock of her bleach blond hair around a finger. “Where did you hear that?”

“Doesn’t matter where I heard it.” I took a chance and added, “But it was pretty juicy gossip, considering who she was.”

Tiffany’s pale face turned to green and I involuntarily took
a step back, half expecting an Exorcist-style stream of vomit to shoot out of her gaping mouth. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. “Get away from me,” she growled.

And then it became clear. My flash of her argument. Her fear of the detective. She’d argued with the girl who was murdered last night. And she did not want Detective Toscano to find out about it.

I stepped away from the bar, giddy with my new knowledge. I had the upper hand on Tiffany Desposito. I could torture her with this. Drag it out. Hold it over her head for days, even weeks.

“It’s too bad you’re not with Justin anymore,” she said to my back. “He’s a cutie. And
such
a good kisser.”

And that was my limit.

I spun around and dumped my brand-new Coke over her head. She shrieked and flailed her hands as the liquid streamed over her face and down between her giant boobs. She peeled her sticky hair off her eyes and snarled, “I’ll get you for this.”

I merely smiled, then sauntered over to the two Toscanos, who had apparently been watching this whole display with entertained grins on their faces.

“You’re the new detective?” I asked the elder Toscano.

He nodded. Either his mouth was too full with French fries or he was too scared of me to speak at the moment.

“Tiffany Desposito, the wet and sticky waitress over there? She had a fight with the girl who was murdered. Last night, at this restaurant. You should question her right away. I
wouldn’t even give her a chance to go home and shower first. I think she’s a flight risk.”

I strolled back to my booth, sat down, and tore into my pancakes, happy as a kid on Christmas. Nate and Perry stared at me in silence for a few moments.

Then Perry said, “Maybe you should have let me go over.”

Nate shook his head. “Nah. She did just fine.”

FOUR

THE BEST THING ABOUT SUMMER WAS BEING OUT of school, mostly away from Tiffany’s reign of terror and my daily dose of persecution. The worst thing was that I was shackled to the family business.

I should have been happy we were busy in the summers. Appointments meant money and we needed money. You know, to live and all. And it wasn’t like I had big plans this summer. But I sometimes imagined what it would be like to be one of those girls with no responsibility. To have the freedom to spend the whole summer on the beach. Or lock myself in my room for a day with music on and nothing to do. Simple things that normal girls enjoy.

After Perry and I got back from Yummy’s, the rest of the day’s readings went smoothly. And Mom, as Perry had predicted, had calmed down somewhat. She even let me sleep in the next day, which was unusual. But you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that, so I slept till eleven. I showered, and put on my standard summer uniform: denim shorts and a plain white T-shirt. I dressed conservatively,
especially in contrast to my mother. I figured I attracted enough negative attention, being a psychic.

When I finally made it downstairs, I found Mom pacing furiously in the foyer.

“Mom, you’re going to wear down the hardwood,” Perry said, coming out of the kitchen with a teacup in his hands.

“What’s up?” I asked, stretching.

Mom took the mug from Perry, then settled onto the couch and sipped at the tea. “Our next two appointments have already cancelled.”

“Why?” I asked, settling down in my favorite overstuffed chair. I slid the morning paper onto my lap.

“The tourists are fleeing,” Mom said, a quiver in her voice. “Word is out about the murder and they’re all checking out and heading back home to safety. July is our busiest month. If there are no tourists in July, we can’t pay the bills in winter.”

Perry scooted next to her and rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t wig out, Mom. Listen to me. This is what’s going to happen.” His voice was smooth, with a dash of authority mixed in. “A few will panic, yes. But most of the tourists will stay. And you know how these things are. Ninety-nine percent chance it was a crazy family member or something like that. Not a random killing. Once that news comes out, people will realize they’re safe. The rest of the summer will continue as normal. Worst-case scenario our business is down for two days. That’s it.”

“He’s right, Mom,” I said, watching Perry with appreciation.
Psychic gifts were great and all, but sometimes I thought Perry’s greatest gift was his ability to talk Mom down from the ledge.

She nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay, that makes sense.”

I didn’t mind the cancellations. It would be a rare treat to hit the beach with a book for a few hours. I was fantasizing about how I’d spend the rest of my day when I opened the newspaper and my jaw practically hit the floor.

The full-page ad displayed images of just about every psychic cliché: tarot cards, a constellation, a crystal ball, a candle. And it read:

Madame Maslov,
internationally respected psychic,
has come to Eastport!
What does your future hold?
See Madame Maslov today
to learn about tomorrow.

118 Rigsdale Road, Eastport, MA
Call now to book your reading!

My stomach dropped. This was not good. Not good at all.

“Oh no.” The words spilled out before I could stop them.

Mom, sensing something new to worry about, rushed over and squished next to me in the chair. I cringed, waiting for her inevitable overreaction. As I gripped my elbows, she
gasped. Then she raised her hands in the air in a silent plea of “why me?” Finally, she stood and began fanning herself while hyperventilating.