Conduit (2 page)

Mrs. Linder was crazy. Emily Monroe came
to that conclusion during the first ten minutes of their initial consultation.
Her assessment of both Mrs. Linder’s personality and mental health held true
today.

Two months ago, Marilyn Linder walked into the offices of Monroe
& Reid Investigators with a clear image that her husband, Randolph, spent
his lunch hours entertaining Francine, her longtime bridge partner. Mrs. Linder
described their trysts in such detail that at first, Emily believed she had witnessed
the affair firsthand. When Mrs. Linder admitted the affair was less her eyewitness
account and more the fanatical tales of her trusted psychic, Emily knew the
case would require more work than typical for cheating spouses.

The handset of the phone matted Emily’s ear against her head.
She readjusted it to keep her tiny gold stud earring from putting a hole in the
side of her head. Unable to get comfortable, she placed Mrs. Linder on speakerphone.

Doodles filled the top page of the yellow, legal notepad on Emily’s
desk. She flung the tip of her pen onto a blank spot in the corner of the page,
leaned back in her office chair, and resumed her random drawings.

“Mrs. Linder, I appreciate that you want us to continue investigating
your husband, but he isn’t having an affair with Francine. There’s really nothing
more we can do for you here.”

“Emily, you’re such a dear, but you are a bit naïve,” Mrs.
Linder said. Her shrill voice mixed pity with a hint of condescension, but
Emily didn’t take her tone to heart.

“I will be glad to continue following your husband and try
to catch him cheating on you with Francine,” Emily said, ignoring Mrs. Linder’s
words, “but after two months, I have not found them together once. The only
time they were even in the same vicinity was last Tuesday night when he picked
you up from bridge. He barely acknowledged her presence.”

Cassie Reid popped into the doorway of her office, and Emily
looked up. Arms crossed, Cassie leaned against the doorframe. An amused smile
played on her lips. “Mrs. Linder?” she whispered.

Emily nodded and spoke through the speakerphone with her
client. “I just hate to take more of your money since we’ve found no evidence
your husband is having an affair with Francine, or with anyone else for that
matter.”

Cassie’s eyes widened and she signaled to Emily with wild
gestures. Emily translated the frantic charades to mean Cassie wanted her to
take Mrs. Linder’s money since she wanted to part with it.

Emily mouthed the word, “Okay” at Cassie and continued
speaking to Mrs. Linder without any change in her tone. “If you would like us
to continue investigating, then you can come in and sign an extension to your
contract.”

Mrs. Linder sighed through the phone and Emily detected sadness
in her voice. “I was so sure he was having an affair with that...that whore and
her new breasts.”

Emily did her best not to laugh at Mrs. Linder’s abrupt
commentary, but Cassie couldn’t contain her laughter. Emily decided to forget
about re-signing a contract and instead took on the role of psychiatrist. “Mrs.
Linder, may I be frank with you?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Francine may be eight years younger than you and she may
have acquired some recent surgical alterations, but you offer so much more to
Randolph than what she could ever give him. You’re a classy lady, and I know that
goes a long way with him. You shouldn’t look at your husband being faithful as
a bad thing, but use this as an opportunity to renew your affection for him. Consider
it a refresher for your marriage.”

“You are sweet, Emily. Still, you are a bit naïve.”

Emily rolled her eyes at Cassie, who held a hand over her smiling
mouth. “I’ll be sure to work on that, Mrs. Linder.”

“Now, my psychic said Randolph is having an affair with Francine,
and she’s a good psychic. She gets just about everything right. Do you think
she’s talking about a future affair?”

Cassie raised her hand in a good luck wave and disappeared
from the doorway. Emily picked up her pen and flipped to a clean sheet in her
notepad for another round of nonsensical drawings. “I can’t predict the future
for you, but most psychics are not completely honest with their clients.”

“You mean she’s a sham,” Mrs. Linder said. “It’s okay if you
just say that, Emily dear. A lot of people tell me that. I know Randolph gets a
bit upset with me when I go see her, but if only you could see what she can do.
Why don’t I give her a call for you? I’m sure Madame Zelda can tell you
everything you want to know. Maybe she can tell you if there’s a nice man
somewhere in your near future. A sweet girl like you deserves a nice man.”

Emily paused in her doodling to consider the trite name of
the psychic, but thought better of any comments. Mrs. Linder believed in her
psychic too much to try to convince her otherwise.

Her pen moved without thought over the notepad. Emily
fixated her stare on the winding lines of her computer’s screensaver. They
changed colors and shapes on the dusty monitor, hypnotizing Emily with the
random designs. “I appreciate the offer, but I think the future is best left
unknown and untouched. Why don’t I suspend your case for now? If down the road
you find evidence your husband is having an affair, we can pick up the
investigation at that point. Does that sound good to you?”

Mrs. Linder chuckled. “Oh, Emily, you always know what to
say to make things right. I may believe what my psychic says, but right now I
believe you just a touch more.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Linder.”

“I really do think she’s referring to a future affair. I’ll
have to ask her about that when I see her on Thursday.”

Emily smiled at Mrs. Linder’s polite stubbornness. “Of course.
I’ll put your final bill in the mail today.”

“And I’ll put your check in the mail as soon as I receive
your bill.”

Emily pressed the speakerphone button on her phone,
disconnecting the call. Mrs. Linder might be a little off center from the rest
of the world, but at least she paid on time.

She looked down at her notepad to make a note to have Beverly
Anderson, her receptionist and office manager, send a final bill to Mrs.
Linder, but Emily stopped before her pen touched the paper. Seated in the
middle of the doodles were the words,
hear
me
.

Emily dropped her pen and the hair stood up on her arms. She
lifted the pad of paper and studied the words. The chicken scratch letters slanting
to the left did not resemble her typical upright half-cursive, half-print. The distinct
E’s in the words were in small uppercase, while the rest of the letters were in
lowercase. She recognized the handwriting, having seen it one time before. The
same phrase in the same chaotic handwriting had appeared unannounced on another
sheet of doodles just last week.

Since her tenth birthday, when Aunt Susan told her she had
the ability to utilize her senses in ways normal people could not, Emily’s
talents made her uneasy. Day after day, her mom pounded into her that Aunt
Susan was old and losing her mind. Emily leaned away from her mom’s warnings
and secretly rendezvoused with her aunt after school for cookies and
conversation.

Aunt Susan explained Emily’s talents to her and told stories
of her own abilities. She knew things Emily couldn’t explain, convincing her
that their gifts were real. Though the tales impressed her, she didn’t want any
part of special talents. She longed to giggle with other girls on the
playground, worry about math tests, and complain about unfair parents.

Emily’s only problem with being like the other kids her age was
that she, like Aunt Susan, knew things she couldn’t explain. When she touched
Mrs. Wilton’s desk, she knew Ben Saunders stole her plastic apple with the silly
worm coming out of the side. The image of her mom sitting in a bar invaded her
mind whenever her mom came home late at night and told Emily she had worked overtime.

During the last twenty-two years of living with her gift, of
learning to be around people without allowing their private thoughts to enter
her mind, of expanding and focusing her abilities, not once had Emily’s talents
included automatic writing. The words in front of her now, in the same handwriting
as the message last week, told Emily her talents were leading somewhere new, somewhere
she didn’t want to go.

The words on the notepad jumped out at her again. Emily
absently reached into the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a black elastic
band. She pulled her honey-colored hair into a loose ponytail, taking a moment
to focus on something other than the writing. She leaned her head against the
cool leather back of her chair and closed her eyes.

Her talents came with more problems than she liked. Sensing
things she didn’t want and hiding her true self to the world to avoid
humiliation both had their share of stress in her life. But the things she didn’t
understand, the whisperings she couldn’t explain, made her wish for Aunt Susan’s
quiet explanations over a steaming cup of lavender tea. Then there were the words
appearing on her notepad that downright frightened her.

Emily.

At the sound of her name, her eyelids lifted. She expected
to see Cassie standing in the doorway again, but the hall leading into her
office appeared empty.

Emily frowned and glanced around her cramped office. Everything
appeared in its place. Nobody lurked behind the lush houseplant shooting up
from the ceramic planter on the floor. The file cabinets appeared undisturbed. No
shadows crept across the sensible Thomas Kinkade print on the wall to her right.
No reflection jumped out of the decorative mirror on the opposite wall. Nothing
out of the ordinary.

Nothing except the words on her notepad that were not in her
handwriting.

She didn’t take coincidence lightly. In her world,
coincidence meant something was out of sorts, but she rose from her chair and
left her office in search of a rational explanation. The hushed voice that
called her name could have been Cassie or Beverly calling from behind a closed
door.

Emily moved down the hall and through the smoked glass door
to the lobby of Monroe & Reid Investigators. Beverly stuffed a folded
invoice into an envelope and bopped her head to a song on the oldies station. Beverly
smiled at Emily. “I’m almost done with these invoices. Did you have any others
that you need sent out today?”

“Mrs. Linder needs her final bill, please,” Emily said. She
hesitated and glanced around the lobby. No clients sat on the sofa or in any of
the chairs waiting to see her or Cassie. The magazines were tucked into the
wall rack. The coffee maker dripped out the last bit of a fresh pot for their
early morning clients.

Beverly had been a wonderful addition to Monroe & Reid
last year, Emily reflected. She kept a tidy lobby and an organized appointment
book, all while doing to-the-penny bookkeeping. She even watched over young
ones without complaint while their parents met with Emily or Cassie. But not
once in her year of employment with the firm had Beverly called Emily in any way
other than using the intercom.

Emily frowned and turned back to Beverly. “Did you call out
my name a moment ago?”

“I sure didn’t. I would have used the phone and saved my
voice. Maybe it was Cassie.”

“You’re probably right. Thanks for getting those invoices
done, Beverly.”

“No problem. I’ll get Mrs. Linder’s bill out today as well.”

Emily smiled and strolled back through the door leading to their
offices. She veered left past the conference room and into Cassie’s office.
Loud typing greeted her before she walked through the door. The angry clicks of
the keys sounded like the product of a rage-filled email, but it signified
nothing more than Cassie’s usual method of typing. On the rare occasion when she
was upset, her mouse took more of a beating than her keyboard.

Cassie had the larger of the two offices, part of the deal
they made when they started the business seven years earlier. Emily’s last name
went first in the company name and Cassie got the larger office with the
window. The deal meant nothing more than pacifying them by giving both women
something they wanted.

Larger and livelier than the rest of the offices, Cassie’s
space did not resemble a typical workplace. Instead of Kinkade, Salvador Dali’s
art graced the office walls. Decked in contemporary furniture, vibrant orange walls,
and enough plants to start a small nursery, the office mirrored Cassie’s home
décor. Emily considered it a bit extravagant, but the decorating suited Cassie’s
boisterous personality.

Emily pulled out one of the overstuffed chairs in front of Cassie’s
desk and plopped down into the plush cushions. “Did you call me a few minutes
ago?”

Cassie paused in her typing and shot a sideways glance at
Emily. “I haven’t been on the phone for some time.”

“No, I mean call me. Like yell out my name.”

Cassie resumed punishing the keys with fast typing. “Why
wouldn’t I have used the phone?”

Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard my name. Or at least I
thought I did.”

“Beverly always uses the intercom, but maybe it was her.”

“I asked already. My ears must be playing tricks on me.”

Cassie spun her chair to face Emily and folded her hands on
her desk. “How did it go with Mrs. Linder?”

“I suspended her case.”

“But she paid on time.”

“But her husband isn’t cheating on her.”

“Alright, you win the moral battle,” Cassie said. She
flipped her blonde hair behind her shoulders and settled back in her chair. “Mrs.
Linder kills me with her psychic stuff. I don’t know why you didn’t tell her
you’re a psychic and her psychic is full of it.”

“Because she’s attached to her psychic and that’s not a bond
easily broken. She needs to believe in something she can cling to. If I told
her from the get-go that Madame Zelda is nothing more than a scam artist, she
wouldn’t have believed me and we wouldn’t have gotten her case.”