Extra Sensory Deception (15 page)

“What painting?”

“I haven’t exactly bought it yet.” She placed the plates on the table. “But I’m going to, soon.”

Clara picked up her fork. “You went in there just to check him out.”

Jessie sat down opposite her. “Okay, so I was curious.” She lifted her glass and sipped the wine. “He’s a very nice young man.”

“Yes, he is.”

They were both silent for a moment or two while they tasted the chicken. Then Jessie said abruptly, “You’re worried I’ll ask him too many personal questions.”

Clara put down her fork. “You do have a tendency to interrogate people.”

“Interrogate?” Jessie looked hurt. “I’m just interested in people, that’s all. I don’t mean to pry into their private lives. If they don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

Clara sighed. “Look, I’ll fill you in on what I know. That way, you won’t have to ask. Then if Rick adds anything of his own accord, it will be new to both of us.”

“All right.” Jessie dug into her chicken again. “So why isn’t he married? He’s good-looking, successful and very well-mannered. A man like that should have a wife and kids.”

“He was married. He has no kids. His wife didn’t want them. He did. He’s now divorced.”

“Oh.” Jessie digested the news while chomping on her chicken. “Well, I can see how that might cause problems in a marriage. Where is she now? His wife, I mean?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Have you met her?”

“No, and I have no desire to do so.”

“Not even a picture of her?”

“Not even a picture.” Clara took a gulp of her wine. “You’ll probably be happy to know that I’ve given up asking questions about Lisa Warren’s murder.”

Jessie’s face lit up with relief. “You have? Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. What made you give up?”

Having steered her mother away from the subject of Rick, Clara phrased her answer with care. “Well, the person I thought was guilty actually has a solid alibi, and since I have no clue who else might be guilty, I figured it was time I let Dan take care of it.”

Jessie looked intrigued. “I figured you were doing more than just asking questions. So who did you think was the killer?”

Clara shrugged. “I thought it might be Paul Eastcott, but I was wrong.”

“Well, I have to tell you, I couldn’t be more pleased. I never did know why you felt so compelled to get involved in such a nasty business. It’s dangerous enough for the police, and much more so for someone like you, who has no experience or training. I think . . .”

Clara sat very still. Her mother’s voice had faded away, and the kitchen walls dissolved into a gray mist. The arena appeared before her. She could feel the hard bench beneath her, and a stiff breeze ruffling her hair. The sun shone full in her eyes, making it hard to see the two figures in the middle of the arena.

She shaded her eyes with her hand, and now she could see that the figures were clowns. One was Marty, in the familiar black and white checkered coat and striped pants. The other clown, in a bright blue suit and red wig, looked familiar, too.

As she watched, a movement caught her eye. Standing in front of the chutes stood a huge bull, pawing at the ground. She cried out, but as usual, could make no sound. The clowns must have heard the bull, however, as they both turned and raced toward him.

Holding her breath, Clara watched as the bull lowered his head and charged. Marty danced around him, and the bull thundered past, missing him by inches with his lethal horns. Then the other clown leapt forward, waving his arms. The bull charged again, and the clown dodged sideways. He wasn’t quite quick enough. The bull caught him with one of his horns and tossed the clown in the air.

Shuddering, Clara shut her eyes. When she opened them again she was no longer in the arena. It was nighttime now, and only a dim glow from a streetlamp penetrated the shadows in the parking lot. The breeze had cooled, chilling her bare arms.

She heard the roar of an engine and the pickup burst into view, heading straight at her. Every instinct urged her to jump out of the way, but she could see a shadowy figure at the wheel, and she desperately wanted to see the face of the driver.

The truck drew closer and closer, and still she stood her ground. Only a few more seconds and she could see—

“You’re having a vision, aren’t you?”

Clara jumped and opened her eyes.

She was back in the kitchen, and her mother sat across from her, studying her with an intent look on her face.

Clara drew a deep breath. “I’m what?”

“You’re having a vision. I’ve seen that look a dozen times or more on your father’s face, and now I’m seeing it on yours. You have the Quinn Sense.”

“That’s crazy. I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. I’m your mother. I know.”

Clara slumped her shoulders. “How long have you known?”

“For a while. Since you came back from New York.” Jessie sipped her wine and set down the glass. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want anyone to know. I still don’t.”

Jessie’s brow cleared. “You especially don’t want Rick to know.”

“Right.”

Jessie stared at her glass for a moment, then said quietly, “I know you care a great deal for this young man. I’m assuming he feels the same way. How long do you think you can keep something like this from him?”

“For as long as I possibly can.”

“Is that fair to him? What if you have one of these visions while you’re with him? How are you going to explain it?”

“I already have. He thinks I have a problem with indigestion.” Clara leaned forward and fixed a hard stare on her mother’s face. “I absolutely forbid you to tell anyone else about this. Especially Rick.”

Jessie shook her head. “Of course I won’t say anything. That’s your obligation, not mine.”

“Obligation?”

“Would you want him to keep something like that from you?”

“Maybe not, but I’d understand.”

“Well, let’s hope he does too, when he finds out.” Jessie pushed her chair back. “I’ll do the dishes. You go ahead and make your call to Stephanie. She’s probably waiting to hear that she’s still in business. That woman worries far too much about everything.”

Clara had to smile at that, since Jessie was a chronic worrywart. Her smile soon faded, however, as she walked into her bedroom, Tatters anxiously hovering at her heels. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe Rick did have a right to know about her weird inheritance.

She should talk to him. Try to explain about the Quinn Sense, and what it was. Sitting down at the computer, she buried her head in her hands. He was never going to understand. He’d think she was completely off her rocker and do his best to avoid her after that. She couldn’t talk to him about it. There was just no way.

Trying to shake the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her, she turned on her computer. After zapping a dozen or so spam e-mails, she saw one with a file attached. It had been sent to both her and Stephanie from Molly.

The file turned out to be pictures from the rodeo that Molly had sent from her phone, with the message, “Having a blast at the rodeo!”

The first pic was of a barrel racer, caught going at full speed across the arena. The girl’s hat had slipped from her head and hung on her back, while her long red hair streamed behind her. She leaned across her horse’s neck, her face a mask of grim determination.

Recognizing Anita Beaumont, Clara studied the photo a moment or two longer before clicking on the next one. This one was of Sparky the clown, capturing the moment he burst a balloon over his head.

Molly had quite an eye for photography, Clara thought, as she clicked through the next five pics. Any one of them would be good enough to win a contest. She’d be sure to mention it to the young assistant when she saw her on Wednesday.

The last pic was of the finale. Clara glanced at the clock. A little after ten. Molly must have sent the pics moments ago, as the rodeo had only just ended. She looked back at the last photo. The presentation was spectacular, with all the contestants, most of them on horseback, circling the arena. The clowns bounced around in the center, while Sparky had let go a bunch of balloons, allowing them to float up into the air.

She clicked through the pics again, aware of an odd sense that something wasn’t quite right. She took another long look at Anita’s photo, then paused at the one of Sparky bursting the balloon. He seemed different somehow, though she couldn’t think why. She saved the pic to a file and enlarged it. Marty Pearce’s face stared back at her, his yellow lips curved into a massive grin.

Everything about him looked the same, and yet she couldn’t rid herself of the niggling feeling that something was off.

Switching to a search engine, she brought up the local news station. There was a video of the opening night of the rodeo—just a few clips from the performance. She found the one of Marty and ran it. The clown went through his routine, just as she remembered seeing it.

But there it was again, that weird feeling that something wasn’t right.

Wes had thought the same thing that night. He’d said that Marty was off his game. She ran the video again, but still couldn’t see anything weird or different about the clown.

A soft sound behind her turned her head. Tatters sat there staring at her with soulful eyes.

Are you going to sit there all night, or are we going for a walk?

“Okay, Tats.” She got up from the computer. “Let’s go. I could use some fresh air. I’ll call Steffie when we get back.”

Grabbing her jacket on the way out, she called out to Jessie that she was taking the dog for a walk and stepped outside. The night breezes from the sea cooled the air enough for her to pull on her jacket as she followed Tatters at a brisk pace toward the beach.

There were few people about now that darkness had settled in, and she reached the beach without passing anyone. Tatters strained at his leash, anxious to be free to dash onto the sand. Mindful of the time she’d lost sight of him in the dark, Clara tugged him back.

“You stay close enough for me to see you, understand?” She wagged a finger at him. “If you don’t, it will be the last time I let you off the leash.”

The light from the streetlamp lit up the dog’s eyes, flashing gold in his black, furry face.

Spoilsport.

She sighed. “I don’t want to lose you, Tats. Be reasonable.” She glanced over her shoulder, worried someone might hear her asking a dog to be reasonable, for heaven’s sake. That reminded her of the moment she’d found out her mother knew about the Sense.

Jessie was right, she thought, as she followed Tatters down the steps and watched him leaping toward the water. If she was going to have any hope of a real relationship with Rick, she needed to tell him everything.

She came to a halt, shocked that she was actually hoping for a serious relationship. After being practically dumped at the altar in New York, she’d sworn never to get that involved again. Yet here she was, scared to death Rick would walk away once he found out what a weirdo he was dating.

It shook her to realize just how much she would hate that.

Deep in thought, she wandered down to the water’s edge, where Tatters was wrestling with a large piece of seaweed. “You’ll choke on that,” she said, then pulled a face when she realized how much she sounded like her mother.

Tatters ignored her, and played happily in and out of the water until his coat was soaked and covered in sand. He was reluctant to leave his ideal playground, and she had to call him twice, threatening to ground him if he didn’t obey.

He finally left the water and plodded up the sand toward the steps, his tail swinging back and forth behind him.

One more mess for her to clean up, Clara thought, as she trudged after him. Reaching the top of the steps, she fastened his leash to his collar. “Okay, boy. Time to go home.”

Remembering that Rick was coming to dinner tomorrow night, she started worrying all over again. Deep in thought, she stepped off the curb to cross the street with Tatters at her side.

She was halfway across the road when she heard the engine and saw the lights glowing out of the darkness. She froze, mindless of Tatters straining to pull her to safety. The truck was heading straight for her, and she seemed unable to move. Was she having a vision? It didn’t seem like it, yet she couldn’t seem to get up enough energy to move.

She let go of the leash, and Tatters barked a warning.

Run!

Her feet seemed glued to the ground. She shut her eyes against the glare of the headlights, and waited.

In the next instant she felt a hard thump between her shoulder blades, which sent her flying to the edge of the road. Ending up sprawled onto the hard ground, she felt the thunder of tires and the rush of wind as the truck grazed past her. She was alive.
Thank God.

One thing she did know—this was no vision. The sting of her scraped elbows and knees was testimony to that.

She turned her head, panic draining every ounce of energy she had left.
Tatters.
He was gone. She called his name, her voice sounding weak and high-pitched. Ears straining, she squinted in the dark, half afraid to see his still body lying in the road.

She could see nothing. Again she called his name, and this time heard a faint whimper in the distance.
Oh, please, no!
He’d been hit. She scrambled to her feet, prayers tumbling from her lips. The dog had saved her. Please, God, don’t let him have sacrificed his own life for hers.

Starting across the street, Clara was aware of screeching brakes. Farther down the road, the truck was backing up toward her.

She ignored it, intent on finding out what had happened to Tatters. He must have leapt at her to shove her out of the way. If he’d been hit she’d kill that driver. She frantically called his name. “Tatters?
Tatters!
Where are you?”

Another feeble whine answered her from across the street.

The truck was almost on her now, and she tore across the road toward the sound she’d heard. She could just see the dog’s head above the deep ditch running alongside the road. “Tatters!”

She fell on her knees beside him, heedless of the uneven footsteps coming toward her. Tears spilled on her cheeks and she dashed them away. “Are you hurt? Don’t move. I’ll get help.”

She jumped as a deep voice spoke behind her. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you in the dark. Did I hit you? I didn’t feel anything, but—”

She looked up into Marty’s anxious face. He looked pale in the glow from the streetlamp, and for a brief moment she felt sorry for him. Then anger took over. “I think you hit my dog.”

“What? Oh God. I’m so sorry.” He moved closer, and Tatters growled.

Turning back to the dog, Clara patted his head and said tearfully, “Don’t move, boy. We’ll get help.”

Quit that. I’m fine.

She stared at him. “What?”

I’m stuck. Get me out of here.

Mindful of Marty leaning over her, Clara swallowed her relief. “I don’t think he’s hurt after all,” she said, gripping Tatters’ collar. “He must have jumped in there. Can you help me lift him out?”

“Sure.” Grunting, Marty got down on his knees, and together they hauled Tatters out of the narrow ditch.

Throwing her arms around the dog’s neck, Clara whispered, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

For answer, Tatters licked her face.

Even so, she walked him back and forth a few times just to reassure herself. He limped a bit but otherwise seemed okay. When she was satisfied, she faced Marty. “You could have killed us both.”

“I know.” Marty ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry. I was looking for you. I remember you saying you took the dog for a walk around this time. I didn’t know where you lived so I came looking for you here. I just didn’t see you in the dark until I was almost on top of you.”

Still shaken, Clara let out her breath. “Well, okay. Luckily there’s no harm done. Why were you looking for me, anyway?”

“Actually, Wes sent me. There’s something he wants to tell you.”

Clara frowned. “Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He can’t. The cops are watching his every move. He said it’s important he talks to you alone.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“He doesn’t have your number.” Marty lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “He said to tell you he found out something about Lisa’s murder that you should know.”

“Did he tell you what it was?”

“No, he wouldn’t say.”

Tatters stirred at her side and she didn’t need the Sense to tell her what he was thinking. “Why doesn’t he tell the police if he has new evidence?”

Marty opened the passenger door of his truck. “I asked him that. He said he needs to talk to you first. He’s afraid the police won’t believe him. Hop in and I’ll take you there.”

“Take me where?”

“He’s waiting for us in the arena.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Could she really trust this man? Why would Wes send him instead of Rick? What if Marty was Lisa’s killer, trying to lure her somewhere in order to silence her? In the next instant she dismissed the thought. This was Sparky the clown. The man who loved children and lived to entertain them. The man who himself was in danger from the killer. The Sense had convinced her of that much. Wes could have tried to get ahold of Rick and failed.

Marty half closed the truck door. “Look, I understand if you don’t want to go. I don’t blame you. It’s just that Wes sounded so upbeat about this. I really believe he’s found out who the true killer is and is excited about getting his name cleared.”

Still she hesitated. Her instincts told her she’d be crazy to meet a suspected murderer in an empty arena after dark. What if Wes was worried she would find evidence that he killed Lisa and had decided to get rid of her, too? Then again, it wasn’t that late. Surely other people would still be wandering around, perhaps doing cleanup chores.

She had to be nuts. What had happened to her decision to let Dan handle things from now on? On the other hand, if Wes wanted to kill her, would he send another person to bring her into a trap? Unless he planned to kill Marty, too.

None of it made sense. The only way she was going to find out what was going on was to go talk to Wes. “I’ll go if you’ll stay with me while I talk to him,” she said at last.

“Of course I will.” Marty patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m convinced Wes didn’t kill Lisa. He just wants to talk to you, that’s all.”

If that were true, she so badly wanted to know what it was Wes had found out. If Wes wasn’t the murderer, he could know something that would lead Dan to Lisa’s killer. He knew she was trying to help him. Maybe he really was innocent, and trusted her more than he trusted the police.

“All right.” She looked down at Tatters. “I’ll have to bring the dog along.”

“That’s okay.” Marty gave her a little bow, his arm outstretched. “Hop in.”

Clara noticed the dog stumbled a bit when he jumped up the step into the cab. She helped him up on the seat, whispering urgently to him while Marty walked around the front of the truck to the driver’s side. “You did get hurt, didn’t you?”

Tatters held up a paw and flinched when she touched it.

She waited for Marty to climb up and start the engine. “I think I’m going to drop Tatters off at home first, if that’s okay? It’s not far out of our way. He’s limping a bit and he needs to rest.”

Hey! No way!

“You’re going home,” Clara said firmly.

Marty gave her a strange look and she hastily told him how to get to her house. Moments later he pulled up outside.

“I won’t be more than a minute or two,” she told him, then jumped down from the cab. Tatters followed her, stumbling once more as his right front paw hit the pavement.

His brief yelp of pain convinced her, and even Tatters offered no resistance as she led him into her bedroom.

He jumped up on the bed and looked at her.

“You worry too much. You’re as bad as Jessie.” Clara took her cell phone from her pocket. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll try to call Rick. I’m sure he’d want to know I’m meeting Wes. I’ll ask him to meet us at the arena.”

Tatters slumped down and rested his jaw on his paws.

Clara dialed Rick’s number and waited. After a couple of buzzes his voice mail answered. That helped reassure her. Wes must have gotten Rick’s voice mail too, and, eager to report his discovery as soon as possible, had asked Marty, instead, to find her.

Quickly she thumbed out a text message and sent it to Rick. She gave a brief thought to calling Stephanie, then decided against it. Her cousin would want to know all the details, and Marty was waiting outside. “Rick should get my message,” she said, as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Now stay here until I get back, okay? First thing tomorrow we go see the vet.”

Tatters raised his head.
I don’t need a vet. I’m fine.
He flapped a paw at her for emphasis.

“I hope so.” She leaned forward and wrapped her arms about his neck. “You saved my life tonight, Tats. I won’t forget that. Thank you.”

He made a grumbling sound deep in his throat, and after a quick kiss on his nose, she let him go. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Jessie had already gone to bed, though she called out as Clara passed by her door. “Is everything okay?”

Clara hesitated, then answered carefully, “Sure. I’m just dropping Tatters off. I have to go out for a bit.”

“Where are you going this time of night?”

“I won’t be long!” Clara headed for the front door and slipped through it, closing it quietly behind her. There’d be time for an interrogation when she got back. For now, all her attention was on the meeting with Wes.

As she climbed back into Marty’s truck, she had to admit to a certain amount of anxiety. She tried to calm her fears, reminding herself that Marty would be there, and if Rick got her message in time, he’d be there, too. Settling back on her seat, she tried to relax. It was too late now to change her mind. She was on her way to talk to Wes Carlton and, with any luck, solve a murder.

—

“It’s really strange,” Stephanie said, plopping herself down on the couch next to George.

“Everything is really strange around here.” George pointed the remote at the blaring TV and shut off the sound. “What in particular is strange tonight?”

“Clara hasn’t called.” Stephanie glanced at the clock on the crowded mantelpiece. It was a little hard to see since the face was almost covered by the shield of a knight in armor that had somehow been knocked sideways. “She usually calls right after dinner.”

“She’s probably taking that hound for a walk. Or, I should say, letting him take her for a walk. That dog is bigger than my car.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “You do love to exaggerate.” She got up and walked over to the computer desk. “I’ll call her and see what’s up. I hope she’s not sick or something.” She unplugged the phone from the charger and carried it back to the couch, dialing Clara’s speed dial number on the way.

Clara’s voice mail answered her and she left a message. “That’s odd. She always answers when she knows it’s me calling her.”

George turned the TV sound back on. “She’s probably out on a date with Rick.”

“She would have told me if she had a date with him.”

“Maybe she didn’t know. It could have been a last-minute thing.”

“Still, you’d think she’d answer her phone.” Stephanie thrust the phone into her pants pocket. “For all she knows, I could have an emergency or something.”

“You’re always having an emergency or something.” George put his arm around his wife and pulled her close. “Relax. If Clara was in trouble, you’d be the first one she’d call.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Stephanie did her best to put her worry out of her mind. “She might have taken Tatters for a walk and forgot her phone. She’ll call when she gets back.” She settled down to watch the show, uncomfortably aware of the gnawing anxiety that wouldn’t go away.

—

Clara hunched her shoulders as Marty drove into the fairgrounds. It was the first time she’d seen it without all the lights blaring and crowds milling about. The entire place was deserted. The only lights still on were the streetlamps, and their glow barely reached the walls of the arena.

Marty parked the truck in the empty parking lot and switched off the engine. The silence that surrounded them made the murky shadows seem all the more ominous.

Clara stared at the dark void of the arena, her shaky confidence draining away. “Can’t you go and ask Wes to meet us out here?”

“He was firm about wanting to meet you in the arena.” Marty opened his door. “I guess with the cops watching him all the time, he needed a place where he could slip away in private.”

Wishing fervently she had Tatters with her, Clara climbed down from the cab. She was tempted to call Rick again, but Marty was already limping off into the dark, and she hurried after him, reluctant to be alone in the creepy shadows of the deserted fairgrounds.

She caught up with him, and together they entered the arena. The seats were all in darkness, and although Clara knew there was no one there, she felt as if unseen eyes stared at her from the stands.

Marty led her to the chutes, and halted in front of the gates. “This is where Wes said to wait for him.” He raised his wrist to look at his watch, but apparently it was too dark for him to see it, as he dropped his arm with a shake of his head. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Clara could feel little tingles of apprehension tickling her neck. She moved over to one of the gates and pressed her back against the hard slats. It made her feel a little less vulnerable. Now that her eyes were getting adjusted to the dark, she could see the outline of the arena walls against the sky.

“So how long have you lived in Finn’s Harbor?” Marty asked, leaning an elbow on top of the gate. A faint glow from a streetlamp fell across his chest, brightening the yellow shirt he wore.

Clara remembered the pic Molly had sent her. Marty had been wearing that shirt under his black and white suit that evening for the show. She’d noticed the bright splash of color at his chest. He must have kept it on when he changed into the jeans and jacket he wore now.

Aware that he was waiting for her answer, she made an effort to concentrate. “I was born here. I spent ten years in New York, but came back last year.”

“Ah.” Marty nodded his head. “You had to come back to your roots. I know how that feels.”

Something was trying to surface in her mind. Something important. Was it about Wes? Something she should know? She tried to bring it into focus, but it slipped away again. Once more she had to force herself to make conversation. “So where were you born?”