Getting Sassy (6 page)

I do believe in psychic phenomena. There’s more to this world than what we can see—at least I hope there is—and I suppose that
some people can peer over that fence, so to speak. But I was raised and schooled to be dubious. My mother blew the Santa myth for me when I was seven, and journalism school taught me to check things out. But Erika Starwise had an impressive website, chock-full of recommendations. She’d had a successful business in California, and I made a mental note to ask her why she’d moved from the L.A. area to Fowler of all places. Further Googling revealed a number of conferences where she’d been featured and a yearly retreat she’d helped to establish.

When Bix and I returned to the apartment, I checked my voicemail while Bix retired to one of his two doggie beds. He has identical beds—one in the living room and another in my bedroom—so he doesn’t have an anxiety attack when he wants to be in the same room I’m in, but has nowhere to curl up.

I had two voice mail messages. The first was from Connie telling me that the leniency Dryden was giving me in paying for my mother’s room was “highly irregular,” but April had made the decision and now Connie must abide by it. But if my mother had not been moved out of Dryden by the fifteenth, Connie would see our feckless butts in court. Well, those weren’t her words exactly, but the sentiment was there.

The second message began with: “Hey there. It’s me.” Before I could ponder the possibilities, he added, “Mick. Mick Hughes.” I assumed he was calling about the money we were diverting to Dryden. But then he went on, “How about I take you to the casino on Saturday night. A little gambling, dinner...”

Sighing, I punched “7” to erase the message, then “off” and returned the phone to its charger. Mentally, I dusted off my file of excuses, knowing I’d go with the truth. There were variations on the truth, of course, but wasn’t it always the hard one that worked the best? While it was true that I experience a Bix-like state of agitation the moment I set foot in a casino, that was only a stop-gap excuse. Mick would suggest another baseball game or maybe just dinner, and
then I was busted. No, it was best just to say outright that I liked him as an accountant and money manager, but his personal life made me a little nervous. Maybe my honesty would cost me an accountant, but we’d both move on. I wasn’t the kind of woman who men pursued beyond the end of the block.

I still had an hour before my meeting with Erika, so I made myself a light dinner of grilled chicken on romaine with black beans and a few toasted walnuts, topped off with a balsamic vinaigrette I’d been trying to perfect. It wasn’t there yet, but I was getting close. Maybe a little more pepper. I ate the meal at a small, ceramic-covered café table wedged into a corner of my kitchen while listening to a Runrig CD and watching for crow activity in the birch tree. I used to eat on my couch, off of the coffee table, while watching television. Then about six months ago I decided if I kept up the habit, I was going to need a bigger couch. At the same time, I stopped buying take-out and introduced myself to the stove, and what developed was, thus far, my most satisfying and longest-lasting relationship, which really wasn’t saying much. I am challenged in that area. Seventeen years ago I married a guy who I’d known for three weeks. I was bowled over by his charm, sincerity, and the way he looked at me. The day after the wedding he dropped the charm and the look changed from adoration to predation. I left after twenty-three days, and there are times when I wonder why it took so long. When you step into a river and see the bulging eyes and double-barreled snout of an alligator, you don’t continue wading to the other side on the off chance that he’s just eaten. No, you turn tail and run. And while I believed that everyone was entitled to at least one colossal mistake in her life, the experience left me thinking that there was something basic about the institution of marriage that I just didn’t get.

I added my dishes to the nearly full dishwasher, slammed the door shut and set the cycle to quick wash. What was it about me that attracted shadowy guys like my ex and Mick Hughes?

When I arrived at the Psychic Place the outer office was empty and the door to the back area closed. I thought about knocking but didn’t want anyone to think the spirit had arrived early, so I browsed around the office, trying to get a sense of Ms. Starwise. I smelled food—burgers?—and wondered if Erika had indulged before company arrived. The office looked better with furniture in it, although the carpet still needed cleaning. The pencil sharpener had found a new home on a black metal desk with a wood veneer top along with a phone and an appointment book. I glanced at today’s entry: “Patricia Melcher, 7 pm” it read. Not that I’d ever use it for the article, but I liked knowing a person’s name.

A certificate from the Psychic Institute of Cambridge hung on the wall above a metal bookcase. Closer inspection revealed its location to be the Cambridge in England, although I saw no claims that it was associated with the university. On top of the bookshelf, a short row of volumes shared space with a photo of a pretty young girl—maybe twelve—with long, dark hair and a sweet smile. She stood in front of a wooden bridge, and orange and gold leaves covered the ground.

I had just picked up the photo for a closer look when something touched my shoulder. I jumped and spun around for my first eyeful of Erika Starwise.

“I startled you.” She retracted her hand and folded it into her other.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said, thinking she might have cleared her throat and at the same time sensing she’d known exactly what she was
doing. I replaced the photo on the bookcase, adjusting it so the angle was as I remembered. “Your daughter?”

Her gaze wandered toward the picture, then back to me. “Yes,” she answered.

She was a tall woman, around fifty. Her conservative beige linen jacket and slacks contrasted with her short, spiky red hair and penciled-in eyebrows. Bright red lips curved into a cool smile, and she said, “I am assuming you’re Robyn Guthrie.”

“I am,” I replied, then added, “And you’re Erika Starwise,” feeling the silliness of the name as it tumbled off my tongue.

She assured me that she was, then said, “We first must settle a few things.”

I nodded, noting the precision in her speech, almost as though English wasn’t her first language. But I detected no accent.

Sure.

“This is an intimate experience you’ve been invited to share. My client was not at all eager to have you here.”

“I thought you okayed this with her.” I hooked my thumb around the strap of my shoulder bag.

“Of course I did. You see, when she told me she had two friends who wanted to share the experience, I asked if she could find another. I explained to her that an odd number of participants is the most welcoming number for spirits. Five is an especially meaningful number.” She paused, then added, “As in the five points of the pentagram.”

“Of course,” I said, not sure if I should be playing it straight here. Did she really believe this or did I detect a wink and a nudge in her delivery? “So she was willing to let me join the group.”

“Correct.” She hesitated. “Although she was not pleased to have a journalist among us.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” I was on the verge of adding: because if it is, I’d be more than happy to go home and scrub grout.

She sighed deeply, but I had the feeling this sigh wasn’t aimed at me. Then she said, “I convinced her that you would follow the terms
I mentioned, and I have promised to return her money if we are unsuccessful.”

“Okay,” I said, hitching my purse strap up on my shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

“Yes,” she said, eyeing me up and down. Then she walked to the back door and opened it, allowing me to enter the sanctum of her offices, which, until only a month ago, had been the Embroider Me Emporium.

I stepped into the narrow hall and said, “Do I smell hamburger?” The aroma was undeniable back here.

“Whopper with fries. It was the deceased’s favorite.” Then she added, “We must make his spirit welcome.”

I looked at her, trying to decide whether to ask her how ghosts ate. She must have picked up on the question, because she said, “Scents are highly evocative.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Patricia is asking her late husband for permission to remarry.”

“And she’s going to do what he says?” I found myself whispering.

“That will be her decision.” Erika reached in front of me to open the door to the room on the right then gestured with a nod for me to enter. “I only form the conduit.”

As I stepped in, the rich, grilled smell nearly knocked me over. If this guy died with his sense of smell intact, he’d show up, and if I were him I’d be madder than hell that I no longer required food.

Three women were seated at a round table, and as I walked in, one stood. I wasn’t sure what I expected of the person who was paying a psychic so she could talk to her late husband. Certainly not this small, scrubbed woman with shiny chestnut hair who seemed more inclined to light a candle in church for her dead husband than to pound on his door.

“You’re the reporter?” Patricia said, making it sound like an accusation.

“Yes.” I introduced myself.

“Erika told you I don’t want my name being used. Our names.”

“That’s not a problem,” I told her.

I glanced at the other two women. One, I’d have bet, was Patricia’s sister—she was heavier but had the same close-set eyes and thin lips. In contrast to these two women, the other appeared somewhat disheveled, with her straight blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. I wasn’t expecting Patricia to bother with introductions, but she nodded at the one who looked like her and said, “This is Cynthia,” then at the other, “and that’s Laura.” Both women said “hi” but only Laura offered a smile.

Then Patricia addressed me again. “I’d like to make one other thing clear. This is my séance,” she said. “If Daryl doesn’t show up it may be because of you.” Then she turned to Erika. “I don’t think I should have to pay if that happens.”

“As I said before, Patricia, I will refund your money if your husband does not join us.” Erika pulled out one of the chairs and indicated for Patricia to plant her butt in it. “You will sit here.” She continued, placing us around the table so that I sat between Cynthia and an empty seat that I assumed was Erika’s. Laura was to Cynthia’s right.

“Patricia,” I said, scooting my chair up to the table, “may I ask you a couple of questions?” I pulled a reporter’s notebook from my purse along with a pen.

Patricia glanced toward Erika, who was closing the door. Then she said, “No,” and added, “I’d rather you didn’t. Maybe when we’re through.”

Smiling, I nodded my understanding and shoved my notebook and pen back into my bag. Then I cleared my throat in order to mask the sound of me pressing the “record” button of the digital recorder I carried with me everywhere. I know I should have asked permission to do this, but I was certain Patricia would have said no to that as well. But recording an encounter I’m going to write about is something I usually do so I can make sure I’ve got the quotes straight, and I also like to listen for the things I didn’t pick up the first time. I set
my purse on the floor and pushed it beneath my chair.

The room was small—the table just about filled it. A gauzy, lilac curtain hung over a shade covering the room’s single window. Beneath the window was a small, half-moon table on which a short candle burned atop a wrought iron pedestal. I thought I detected a whiff of cinnamon, but it was mostly masked by the burger’s smell.

Five more candles—three white and two purple—were strewn about the table, and as Erika lit each one, she explained that spirits seek light and warmth. I studied the group with whom I would be reaching into the hereafter. Patricia and Cynthia had their gazes fixed on the table’s surface—not like they were praying, more like they were avoiding the rest of us. Laura caught my eye, but I couldn’t read anything in her expression.

Erika crouched in one corner of the room, and with one red-shellacked nail, punched a button on a small CD player. The room filled with the sound of wind in trees and a gentle rain, and I hoped the ambient noise didn’t interfere with my recorder. With a click, Erika flicked off the light switch, and the room was illuminated only by candles. Then she took her place between Patricia and me.

“As I explained earlier to Patricia, I cannot know how a spirit will contact us. I may see him and be able to speak with him—although that is not common.”

“If you see him—” I interrupted “—will we be able to see him?”

“Probably not,” Erika said, and went on before I could ask why not. “It is possible that we will see something—faint lights or shadows. Do not be frightened by this. It means that the spirit has found us worthy. I may hear a voice in my head. All of you may experience thoughts that are not your own. I urge you all to keep your minds open. Listen to these thoughts. There may be rapping sounds. Perhaps not. All we may feel is a presence.” She turned to Patricia. “It may take some urging. Some spirits are eager to communicate; some are more reserved.” She paused. “If there is skepticism in any of you—if any of you doubt there is a spirit world—I ask you to leave now.”

Erika wasn’t the only one looking in my direction. I just nodded.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us hold hands. Join in a circle.” We did. Cynthia had a light, wet grip, while Erika had a firm, cool hold on me. Following Erika’s lead, we all placed our clasped hands near the edge of the table. “Now, let us close our eyes and embrace the silence.”

It was a long silence, and I could hear the grilled chicken rioting in my stomach. I opened my eyes just long enough to see that the others were following orders.

Finally, Erika took in a deep breath and said, “Our beloved Daryl Melcher, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, Daryl, and move among us.”

As I said, I was dubious, but I was also a little nervous. Part of me did believe in this—or at least was afraid to deny it. And who knew what kind of guy this Daryl had been? Why did Patricia need to ask his permission before remarrying? I began to write the article in my head and realized I was having a hard time making it a fluff piece. Between the medium and her client, this had become a rather edgy experience. And I had my doubts that Daryl would redeem it.