Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons (4 page)

And finally I had the nerve to open the subject. “So about the secret life.”

She looked as if I’d kicked her. For a full thirty seconds she stared at me full in the face, brow furrowed. At the time I thought she was furious, but in retrospect I realized she’d been trying to figure out what on earth to say. The things that whizzed through my head ran the gamut from gunrunning to black magic— with a bias, owing to the name of the group and Moonblood’s hostility, toward the latter.

In the end she opted for simplicity, a two-word statement that said it all— and left me thoroughly puzzled: “I’m psychic.”

I almost laughed I was so relieved. How wonderful that she wasn’t running a child-stealing ring! “Oh, is that all.”

“All? What do you mean ‘all’? Rebecca, have you forgotten you think psychics are bunk? I’m not a credible person anymore.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that— a lifetime of rationality. Gone. Wiped out.” I didn’t know if she meant mine or hers. Mine was ebbing fast. Okay, it was gone by the time I grasped what she’d said: Chris wouldn’t lie to me. Therefore she was psychic.

If a rational person couldn’t believe in psychics, then I no longer was one. But I was still about a million miles from having any idea what was going on. I proceeded with caution.

“What, exactly, does being psychic mean? I mean, to you.”

“Good God, Rebecca— if you can’t do any better in court, I’m going to the Big House.”

“Wait a minute— this is just you and me. Can’t we…” I realized what I wanted and said it, “…be friends?”

“What?”

“You’re so defensive you’re putting miles between us. How about just pretending I’m not going to kill you if you tell me? I know it’s asking a lot, but we’ve known each other six or eight years now, and I haven’t killed you yet. Not even when you let my mom talk you into talking me into hiring Kruzick.”

She almost laughed. I could see her face muscles hovering.

“And
that
was a killing offense,” I said.

“I don’t know how to talk about this stuff.”

“How about if I ask questions?”

“I don’t know how to answer them.”

“Well, just say something, okay? Pretend your life isn’t hanging in the balance. We’re just two pals exchanging girlish confidences.”

She stared at the battered table between us. “It started when I was a kid.”

I felt hurt that this had been such a big part of her life and she’d kept it from me so thoroughly.

“I saw things I wasn’t supposed to see— you know what I mean?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I started crying once and caused a big family stink because my Uncle Wade and Aunt Tootie were getting divorced. Only nobody knew it yet, including Aunt Tootie. Wade had a sweetie he finally married.

“And one other thing— don’t lose your lunch, please— I saw auras.”

“What!”
It was a statement of outrage, not a question. Only screwballs saw auras; auras didn’t exist. I pulled it together enough to ask what they looked like.

“Light around people,” she said. “Different-colored light. My mom would say, ‘Do you want to go play with Janet today?’ And I’d say, ‘I don’t like Janet. She’s green.’ Now tell me something. What do you think was the reaction of my family?”

“They told you there was no such thing, it must be your imagination.”

“At first, yes. After awhile I got punished for it. And of course I never knew what was going to get me in trouble because I didn’t know what I saw that nobody else saw. Sometimes I saw people— and sometimes they were in period costume, so I’d say, ‘Daddy, why is that man all dressed up like George Washington?’ And he’d say, ‘there’s no man over there, Chris. If you don’t stop telling these stories you’re going to bed without supper.’ So gradually, I can’t say how any more than I can say how a child learns to speak, I learned to tune it out. I got so I only saw the stuff everybody else did— when I was nine or ten, I guess.” She looked up at me, defeated. “And it didn’t come back until three or four years ago.”

“What happened?”

“I started seeing things. I started seeing colors where there weren’t any, and surrealistic visions that came out of nowhere. Remember that time I took a week off and didn’t say exactly why?”

“Yes. I thought you were just stressed out.”

“Well, believe me, I was. But it wasn’t the usual kind of stress. I thought I was going crazy. I really did. I was so depressed I felt like packing it in.”

“Chris!”

“Oh, I wasn’t suicidal. Just so scared and depressed and so miserable I was starting to wish I was. And I couldn’t bring myself to make an appointment with a shrink. I guess I was afraid of getting the bad news. I was basically just planning to lie around and try to figure out what to do.

“But I got up and went to a coffeehouse one day, and while I was sitting there all forlorn with my cappuccino, I picked up one of those free magazines that list all the weird stuff you can do— you know those things? Seminars on how to meet your ideal mate and classes in prestidigitation? Well, there was a whole section on psychics, and there was this one who would do a phone reading and put it on your credit card. I’d never have done it if I actually had to get up the energy to make an appointment, but, you know, all you had to do was dial. I don’t know why, I just did it.”

My head was reeling at the strangeness of it all, but this part sounded familiar. When I’m about as far down in the dumps as you can get, I can’t resist reading my horoscope in every magazine at the supermarket. It’s not that I expect any of them to be right— I just want a moment’s flash of hope: “Look for money when the moon goes into Aries; harmony will return to your house after the 24th.”

“She started out by saying, ‘You’re really depressed, aren’t you?’ And then she said, ‘There’s something you don’t understand in your life.’ And she said a few innocuous things that sailed on past me, and then she just said, flat out, ‘Look, I’ve got to stop the reading and just talk to you. The same thing’s happening to you that happened to me. Tell me something, are you aware of your psychic abilities?’ Can you imagine? I nearly hung up.”

I laughed, putting myself in her place, at my wit’s end with a crackpot on the phone. “What’d you say?”

“I said no, I wasn’t. Rebecca, I’d completely forgotten what happened to me as a kid. Or at any rate, I didn’t connect it with being psychic— it was just some strange thing that I managed to outgrow. She said, ‘Are you seeing things that aren’t there? Hearing voices? Anything like that?’ And when she said it, I was so grateful I wasn’t hearing voices I sat down on the floor and started crying. She said it happened to her, the whole thing, and she actually went to a shrink who gave her drugs that turned it off pretty well until she did the same thing I did— happened on a psychic who knew what it was. And then she told me it was curable.”

“Wait a minute. You mean you aren’t psychic after all?”

“The craziness, the randomness is curable. It’s like anything else, you just have to learn what to do with it. You know how kids start out making random sounds? And then they finally say, ‘I keem,’ and their parents say ‘ice cream,’ Rebecca. Say ‘ice.’ Okay now, ‘cream.’ Psychic focusing is a skill that can be taught. It’s a whole little science, and that’s what psychic readers are all about— they’re people who’ve learned to tune in to their intuition.”

You don’t believe that,
I wanted to say.
You can’t. You’re a rational person in business with me. Psychic readers are charlatans.

“You make it sound like anybody can do it.”

“They say anybody can. But something tells me it would take a lot more work if you weren’t already out there like I was.”

“You signed up for the course, I take it.”

“That one and a few more. Sanity restored— praise the lord and pass the ammunition. All’s well on the Western front.” She stopped and ate a potsticker. “There’s only one thing. When you have something like this— I hesitate to call it a gift— it nags at you.”

My ex-boyfriend Rob has a close friend who writes fiction and who describes a similar syndrome.

She shrugged. “Hence the Raiders of the Lost Art.”

“Wait a second, you lost me.”

“Well, we were all doing this kind of work, and we happened to meet— I don’t know, at different workshops and things. There’s a whole culture around this, you know.”

I did know. You couldn’t live in the Bay Area and not know. The Psychic Fair, for instance, attracted thousands of people every time they had it— maybe hundreds of thousands. But the idea of Chris among the crystal-wearers just about broke my heart. Why? I wondered.

Because I felt betrayed. Lied to. Left out.

She polished off a shrimp and mushroom dumpling. “Well, actually we didn’t all know each other till Rosalie got us together. I’ve known Tanesha forever. Rosalie was my teacher once, and also hers— I lied at the police station. You know when I said I didn’t know her? I’m sorry, I just…” She let it tail off, letting me fill in the blank: “I didn’t want to admit I did.”

“So she’s really the center of the group; she asked the four of us to join about three months ago.”

“Wait a minute. If she was your teacher, why don’t you know her last name? Or were you just withholding it?”

“She doesn’t use it. None of us do much. I mean I know Tanesha’s, and Rosalie knows everybody’s, I guess, but it’s a weird world— you don’t necessarily want people to know that much about you.”

I nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“Well, at first I didn’t want to join the group. And then, about a week ago, I just felt a desperate need to do it. I knew I couldn’t leave it alone; I really needed to work with other people.” She stopped and stared at me a moment, obviously trying to decide whether she should continue. Finally she said, “I really wanted to push the edges of the envelope.”

“Just what are you doing in there?”

“Oh, different things. Last night was my first meeting, you know. But I think they’ve been doing a lot of group readings; and Moonblood wants to try predicting the lottery numbers, but I was in a group once that worked on horseracing, and we didn’t have any luck at all. The future is far and away the hardest part— hardly anybody ever gets it right, which is probably what makes most people think we’re a bunch of charlatans. Because that’s what everybody wants to know about, and so the temptation is to try to tell them. But we’re usually wrong.” She stopped again, getting to the hard stuff. “And then, there’s some stuff we do that’s a little harder to describe.”

“Like what?” I couldn’t help myself.

“You really want to know?”

“Umm. Maybe later.” Maybe this was enough for now.

She had been animated when she was telling about her secret life, as she called it, but the fear took over again.

“It’s the same as not having an alibi, you know what I mean? Martinez and Curry are going to interview those people and decide they’re a bunch of weirdos that no jury would believe.”

“Tanesha seems all right.”

“Tanesha’s so terrified someone’s going to find out about her you’d think she was a Commie in the McCarthy era. You think she’s going to get up on the witness stand and say she was with me, trying to contact the ghost of Christmas past? More likely she’d say she’s never seen me before in her life. Ivan’s okay— in fact he’s really got the most interesting story of all— except that he got fired once for trying to do psychic healing on a patient. Just doing it wouldn’t have been so bad, but the patient hadn’t asked for it. He sees trouble spots on people’s bodies, and he just wants to go for them.”

“I don’t see why that would come up in court.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Ivan blurts stuff. He’s very young, I guess, I don’t know. No way I’d let him testify for me. You just couldn’t trust him. And then there’s Rosalie, who pretty much speaks her own language; and Moonblood’s name alone would make half the jury laugh and the other half throw up. Besides, Rebecca, here’s the thing— we were all in deep trance last night. If that came out, which it’s bound to, nobody’d believe a word any of us said.”

I thought about the way Martinez and Curry would think; all they wanted was to make a case. She was right— the alibi she had was like none at all. And, assuming she got off, if being accused of murder didn’t wreck her career, becoming a known psychic— read flake— most assuredly would.

I was defeated. “Okay. The odds are against us. Let’s talk strategy.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. If they’re so sure I did it, they’re busy checking out my alibi, trying to find a motive, all that stuff, right? But of course you and I know they’re barking up the wrong tree. The real question is who did kill McKendrick.”

“You’re psychic. You tell me.”

She gave me a pained look. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Well, why the hell didn’t it? I made up my mind to ask, eventually, but for now I couldn’t afford to get distracted.

“Ladies,” said a voice from my past, “if I may make so bold, who killed McKendrick is only the first question.”

Our heads swiveled to behold Mr. Rob Burns, my ex-boyfriend, who was standing at the end of our booth, where he’d apparently been eavesdropping on us.

He put up a placating hand. “I only heard the tail end. Really. I just got here.”

“To what do we owe the honor?” I asked as coldly as I could.

“I just came from your office, where, incidentally, I observed Inspectors Curry and Martinez. I convinced Alan I could help, so he sent me over.”

A million questions pushed to the forefront of my brain, but I hit him with the most immediate. “How do you know they didn’t follow you?”

“You think Kruzick and I are amateurs?” He sat down across from me, nudging Chris toward the other end of the booth, suffering not a second’s conscience. Rob is a reporter for the
San Francisco Chronicle.
Chutzpah is a requirement for the job.

The next question popped out: “How’d you find out what’s happening?”

“I work for the
Chronicle,
remember? The same as Jason McKendrick did; he was a friend of mine.”

“Oh, Rob, I’m sorry. I never knew that.”

“Well, he wasn’t the kind of friend I saw outside the office. Or he wasn’t by the time I met you. Jason had a lot of enthusiasms— one after the other.”