Three Sisters (19 page)

Beatrice Spencer poured fresh coffee into Charlie Moon’s cup. “Cream or sweetener?”

“I like it black. But if you’ve got some handy, sugar would be dandy.”

She passed him a silver bowl.

Moon helped himself to six heaping spoonfuls.

The psychic’s sister beamed on the girl. “Would you like a soft drink, dear?”

Sarah Frank shook her head, tried so
very
hard to sound grown-up. “I’ll have some coffee.” Before the woman could ask, she added, “I don’t use cream, but I’ll have some sugar.”
Just like Charlie drinks it.

Moon gave Sarah a sideways glance.
I didn’t know the kid liked coffee
. Daisy would have been glad to tell him that there were lots of things he didn’t know. Much less, understand. The big gourd head.

Beatrice Spencer, who had once had a crush on a history professor old enough to be her father, understood perfectly. She poured a cup for the love-struck child, turned to ask Gerald Sax if he was in need of liquid refreshment.

Absorbed in his work at the control console, the assistant director shook his head, mumbled something about camera three’s focus control.

In the Parlor with Sister Cassie

Cassandra Spencer gazed across the coffee table at her elderly guest, who had just returned from the bathroom. “Do you feel quite all right?”

Daisy nodded in the halfhearted gesture of one who will die trying. But, following a healthy belch, she did indeed feel quite all right.
I should’ve asked for some baking soda in a glass of water. That was all I needed.

Cassandra had planned to raise the critical issue after the show, but the moment seemed right. “Daisy—when we met in the Sugar Bowl, you mentioned a young lady who wanted to speak to me.”

She must be talking about that hillbilly girl.
“Sure. I remember. April Something.”

“Valentine.”

“Oh, right.” Daisy smiled at the memory. “The Dixie belle.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was the way she talked. Like somebody from Georgia or Alabama. I bet she was raised on hog belly and grits.”

The mention of “hog belly” caused the psychic’s fingers to tingle. “April was…is from North Carolina.” As if on the verge of prayer, she clasped her hands. “Have you spoken to her since that day in the restaurant?”

Surprised by this question, Daisy shook her head. “And it’s not likely I will. The poor girl was just some drifter or runaway. Likely as not, she’s in another state by now.”

She doesn’t know.
Cassandra dropped the bomb: “Daisy—April is no longer with us.”

The tribal elder stared.
She’s a little bit slow on the uptake.
“That’s what I just told you.”

“I do not refer to earthly separation.” How to put it? “When you spoke to April, she was not among the living.”

The Ute elder blinked. Blinked again. “Are you dead-sure about that?”

A curt nod. “I’ve spoken with her mother. And I have a collection of news clippings about her death.”

“With pictures of that hillbilly girl?”

“Certainly.” Cassandra made her way over to a cluttered corner book shelf, opened a labeled stationery box, found the article that Daisy needed to see, and brought it to the coffee table.

The shaman examined a black-and-white reproduction of a photo under the headline
LOCAL WOMAN DIES IN FARM ACCIDENT.
“That’s her, all right.”
I must be losing my touch—I should’ve spotted this one for a dead person right off.
She was squinting to read the small print when her host snatched the article away, stuffed it into a magazine rack.

Cassandra locked eyes with her guest. “Daisy, it is terribly important that I communicate with April Valentine. I’ve been attempting to make contact with her spirit, but without success. There must be some kind of cosmic barrier between us. But I believe we could use you as a kind of go-between. So I would be enormously grateful if you would make some effort to—”

She was interrupted by Gerald Sax’s voice barking from the intercom; “Heads up, Cassie—countdown!”

On a small black panel on the coffee table, a green light-emitting diode blinked on. One minute to show time.

The psychic glanced at the small television set under the coffee table. A Jeep commercial was running. About forty-five seconds. She produced a pocket mirror, performed a final inspection of her makeup.

Yellow light—thirty seconds.

As the unseen assistant director performed a final check of the instruments of his trade, camera-lens assemblies whirred in and out, tripod-mounted lights brightened and dimmed, and the boom microphone above the coffee table was lowered and raised by a hand’s breadth. All was well at the remote-control console. At Gerald Sax’s manual command, camera one zoomed in on the star’s left eye, magnifying the orb to fill monitor one, automatically recorded sixteen shots over a period of 530 milliseconds, zoomed out to frame her semifamous face. None of this video information was broadcast…not yet.

Sarah murmured, “I don’t know how she keeps from blinking.”

Sax, over his shoulder: “Ah, Cassie blinks all right. What you see in the intro is a single frame from a close-up shot that I make a few seconds before she goes on the air.” He turned in his chair to brag to the skinny little girl, “The eyeball shot was my idea.”

“I really like it.”

“Thanks.” Sax swelled with pride. “Most directors would make just one shot at the beginning of the season and use it for months. But I take a new picture for every broadcast. And if I don’t like what I got, I’ll take another one—sometimes during a commercial break when our star doesn’t know I’m doing it.” He added, “Posed photos are okay if that’s all you can get, but candid shots are always best.”

Sarah reflected the man’s infectious grin.
I bet it would be fun to work on TV.

The Jeep commercial was replaced by the happy face of an up-and-coming Denver weather forecaster, who provided a rapid minireport: The late-spring snowstorm in western Colorado was building. Expect eight to twelve inches above seven thousand feet.

Red light—five seconds. Cassandra returned her attention to the small, on-the-air monitor. Four seconds. The screen went coal black. The lady’s face was as calm as sculpted marble. Her pulse raced.

Three seconds. From Denver, bloodred script was painted on the black electronic canvas:

Casandra Sees

Two seconds: Bea’s older sister put on her most alluring smile.

One-point-five seconds: Gerald Sax pressed a button to feed the on-site video stream to the satellite uplink.

One second: The psychic’s magnified eye filled on the screen.

Zero seconds: Cassandra’s face flashed over the air-waves.

In the Dining Room

Beatrice Spencer, Charlie Moon, and Sarah Frank were looking over Assistant Director Gerald Sax’s shoulder. Though they uttered not a word, each of these four souls was occupied with a private thought.

Sister Bea, glancing at her wristwatch:
I wonder what has happened to Andrew.

Charlie Moon:
Don’t get nervous, Aunt Daisy—just be yourself
. He grinned.
On second thought…

Sarah Frank:
Cassandra is so gorgeous!
A sideways glance at the grinning Ute.
I bet Charlie likes her
. Men were pushovers for a pretty face.

Gerald Sax:
Raise the ratings through the roof, Spider-

Woman.

Chief of Police Scott Parris, who was watching
Cassandra Sees
in the small but well-appointed living room of his girlfriend’s condo, had momentarily lost interest in said girlfriend (who was fifteen years his junior, and quite a looker). He used the remote to turn up the volume. Annoyed by the commercials and distracted by the warble of his cell phone, he pulled the thing from his pocket. “Parris here.”

The SUPD dispatcher said, “Hello, Chief,” into his ear.

“Hello yourself. Whatcha got, Clara?”

What she had was a Wye-Star report of a vehicle accident. Clara Tavishuts read the text. The gist of which was that Wye-Star Central had received an automated transmission of a motor vehicle’s onboard-accelerometer trip, which indicated possible collision. The alarm signal from the vehicle was lost almost immediately, which could indicate serious damage. An operator had attempted to contact the driver via the vehicle’s built-in cellular telephone. No response. GPS coordinates of the vehicle’s last known location were referenced to the intersection of two state routes and the National Guard armory. The telephone number of the nearest residence was registered to one Beatrice Spencer. The registered owner of vehicle was one Andrew Bedford Turner.

Bedford?
Parris was scribbling this information on a pink paper napkin.
I didn’t know Andy Turner had a middle name.
“When did we get this alert?”

“About eight twenty-nine.” Expecting an outburst, Clara hurried along: “I know that’s a long time ago, Chief—but most of these reports turn out to be fender-benders, and both of our on-duty units have been occupied with serious business. Unit 240 is attending to a three-car accident out by the rodeo grounds, and car 260 has responded to a silent alarm at the Corner Drugstore. Corner Drug got hit last month by burglars who packed away a big haul of prescription painkillers.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Parris maintained an even tone. “When’ll we have a car rolling?”

“Can’t say, sir. But I’ll dispatch one just as soon as—”

“How about an ambulance and some EMTs?”

“Negative on that. One team is with car 240 and the other ambulance is broke down—”

“See if you can put a call through to Andrew Turner’s cell phone. If you can’t get him, try to get in touch with Bea.”

“I couldn’t get access to Mr. Turner’s cell number, but I should be able to contact his wife—she’s usually at her sister’s home for the TV show.”

“Thanks, Clara.” He hung up, pulled on his jacket, muttered an apology to his sweetheart.

Sweetheart was engrossed in the television program. “Cassandra looks really great tonight. And that little old Indian woman is so
cute.
” She tried to think of something to compare Daisy with, and did: “She reminds me of one of those little granny dolls that have dried-up apples for faces.”

Imagining how Daisy Perika would respond to that innocent observation, Parris grinned. That little dried-apple face might look cute, but it had a mouthful of teeth. Sharp ones.

When the telephone on the dining-room wall rang, Beatrice picked it up. “Cassandra Spencer residence, this is her sister speaking.” She listened to the police dispatcher’s terse report.
What is she talking about?
“Clara, dear—what, exactly is a Wye-Star alert?”

The dispatcher explained that this was an electromechanical sensing system installed in some automobiles. If the car bumped into something, a signal was transmitted via cell phone (or, if that link failed, via satellite) to the Wye-Star headquarters in Kansas City, where it would alert an operator to a potential accident and provide a GPS location of the automobile. The operator’s initial task was to contact the automobile and speak to the driver. If the driver did not respond, the next step was to contact the local police so that appropriate emergency vehicles could be dispatched to the scene.