Three Sisters (9 page)

Cassandra Spencer was astonished at how easily (and quickly!) Beatrice snagged her man. The psychic wondered whether her pretty sister might have bought a spell from one of those Mexican
brujas,
because she seemed to be doing nothing at all. As if by magic, Andrew began to drop by Bea’s home. Call her on the phone. Within a week, the blooming romance was the talk of the town. There were quiet dinners in fine restaurants. Hand-in-hand walks in the park.

The shortest engagement in the recent history of Granite Creek was announced at a gathering of close family and friends. The date was set for the same day in April, forty-one years ago, when Beatrice’s parents had exchanged solemn vows—and not quite a month after Astrid’s death. It was quite a scandal, of course, which set tongues-a-clucking, eyes-a-rolling. For those who were not invited to the wedding, the fascinating details (with a splash of color photographs) were published in the Granite Creek weekly.

The Colorado Springs Airport

Cassandra Spencer lifted her dark glasses, leaning until her nose almost touched the plate-glass window. The aircraft the newlyweds had boarded just minutes earlier roared down the runway, lifted off the asphalt like a silver missile catapulted from little David’s sling. The elder sister watched the sleek aircraft downsize to blackbird size, shrink to a mere speck in the sky, vanish into the southern mists. The thought that her ecstatic sister and drop-dead-handsome Andrew Turner were on their way to Costa Rica for a blissful honeymoon was irksome.
If I had pulled the whole toothpick, the bride clinging to Andy’s arm right this minute would be me instead of Sister Bea. And she would be standing here, watching our plane leave
. But moping over bad luck was for losers.
I must drive back to Granite Creek, concentrate on my career. Think things out
. There was plenty to think about. Like how to come up with something really creepy that would grab the TV audience by their collective throats, give them a good dose of the shiver-shudders. That would take something more than your ordinary, run-of-the-mill spirit. Ghosts from ancient times were old hat. And so she would put on a brand-new thinking cap.

Thus resolved to come up with some really nifty notion—something that would make even Nicky Moxon sit up and listen—the psychic installed the blue shades over her luminous eyes, turned, and listened to the click-click of her high heels on the floor as she headed for the atrium. She was unaware of the eruption of human cargo currently being disgorged by the flight from Albuquerque. But soon enough, it would catch up with her.

A Hazard of the Profession

Cassandra Spencer was approaching the exit side of the security portal when she heard the shout behind her.

“Hey, you—hold on there!”

She stopped abruptly, turned.

A spry, snowy-haired old lady in a black dress spotted with tiny white polka dots was fairly tripping along, attempting to wave, which was a difficult maneuver with a heavy purse in one hand, a black canvas bag in the other. “I thought so—you’re Cassandra. The spooky lady on TV!”

Oh, no. A fan
. Which was, Bea had once informed her, an abbreviation for
fanatic
. The television personality was about to deny her identity when the enthusiast laughed and said: “And don’t say you ain’t, because I watch you practically every week!”

Trapped, Cassandra decided to make the best of it.
I’ll autograph something for her, make an excuse about an urgent appointment, then hurry away
. She forced a smile, and was about to say that she was always pleased to meet a viewer, when the fanatical fan cornered her victim, gushed, “I flew in from the Duke City just to see you and tell you about poor April. I’d planned to ride a bus all the way over to Granite Creek and rent a motel room that’d probably cost me at least eighty-five dollars a night and me trying to live on Social Security and what little money my daughters—the two who are still alive—send me every once in a while—” She paused to gasp a breath. “But the very
minute
I get off the airplane, who do I see—just like she was meant to be here waiting for me?”

“Myself?”

“Well of course. Which means I don’t have to pay for all that extra transportation, or a big motel bill, and what it’d cost to eat three times a day in the coffee shop—” Another breath. “Well, you know how much it costs; I expect you travel a lot.”

The psychic’s full, sensuous lips had gone thin. “I’m in quite a hurry at the moment, so—”

“Well of course you are, dearie—big TV star like you must have oodles of things to do. So I’ll get right to the point.” She lowered her voice. “My name is Florence Valentine.”

She’s probably sent me e-mails. Or letters
. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, no, honey, we’ve never met before right now—and this is my first time in Colorado. I’ve only been in New Mexico for about a year. It was after poor April’s death that I come out here to live with my first cousin, who has a cute little adobe house in Taos. Well, it’s actually in El Prado, but that’s just north of—”

“I’m
really
in quite a hurry.” Cassandra made a point of glancing at her wristwatch.

“Don’t fret, this’ll just take a minute. But I’ve got to sit down—I’ve got arthritis in my hips and knees and my old feet are just killing me.” Collapsing onto a cushioned seat, she patted the vacant one beside her. “Now you sit down too, and I’ll tell you what this is all about.”

Her other options being limited, Cassandra sat.

Florence Valentine explained that she knew that Cassandra had lost a sister because she had read “everything I could get my hands on about how poor Astrid had been attacked by bears—” gasp for breath, “and right there in her own bedroom. Well, I say!”

The psychic listened with increasing tension.
Somehow, I must disentangle myself from this goofball
.

But as is so often the case, there was considerably more to this dotty old lady than one might expect. As the words fairly poured from her mouth, what she had to say became more interesting.

Florence Valentine’s finger tapped Cassandra on the arm. “Lately, poor April has been coming to me in my dreams and telling me I should contact you and tell you all about how she died.”

Cassandra was pulled in opposite directions. The weary sister of the bride wanted to go home. The TV psychic, who loved to hear about such stuff as was her stock in trade, was inclined to stay—if only for another minute.

“The sheriff back in Clay County, North Carolina, said it was an accident. Said April must’ve slipped in the mud when she was slopping her prize hogs, and fell into the pen with ’em and she must’ve hit her head on the hollowed-out log feed trough and got knocked out and then the pigs et her!”

Cassandra heard herself saying, “The pigs…actually
ate
your daughter?”
That is really icky. Triple icky
. She would have gone further, but
quadruple
was not in her vocabulary.

“Oh, they et poor April all right. Pigs’ll swaller anything.” The black eyes were flashing with anger. “But it wasn’t no accident.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Shoot no. April’s bastard of a husband knocked her on the head and pitched her into the pigpen.”

“And how do you know this?”

Florence stared at the psychic.
She seems a lot more clever on the TV.
“Why, because April told me, of course.”

“Oh. When she appeared in your dreams.”

“That’s right. And I told the sheriff what she told me, but Poke Unthank—that’s the sheriff’s name—Poke’s as dumb as a poplar stump.” She paused, calling to mind a long list of Mr. Unthank’s shortcomings. “When I think about him, I almost wish I was still back in North Carolina, so’s I could vote against the big tub of lard!”

“Mrs. Valentine, that is quite an interesting story.” Another glance at the wristwatch. “But I really must run, so—”

“I understand, honey.” She patted Cassandra’s pale hand. “And I guess it would take way too long to tell you the whole, sorry tale.” The woman in the polka-dot dress got a firm grip on her black canvas shopping bag and plopped it into the psychic’s lap. “So you take this home with you—it’s alla my research. There’s some newspaper stories about poor April’s death. Read it when you get a chance and you’ll see why—out of all the spooky ladies in the whole U.S. of A.—my daughter picked
you
to help her.” The tired traveler got to her feet. “After you’ve read it, I’m sure you’ll be able to make contact with poor April, who’s just bustin’ a gut to tell you lots of stuff.” Florence V. found a small notebook in her purse, wrote down a telephone number and her cousin’s address in El Prado. “And if you want to talk to me again, here’s how you can get in touch.” She shot an anxious glance at the departure schedule on the monitors. “Now, I guess I’d best see if I can get myself on a plane back to Albuquerque.”

As she lugged the heavy canvas bag to her black 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham sedan, Cassandra Spencer considered tossing it into a trash can. She decided against this course of action, for two reasons. First, such an act in an airport might have appeared suspicious, and she did not wish to be taken aside, questioned by one of those hard-eyed Homeland Security types who might conclude that she was a disgruntled Arab in disguise. Second, the psychic had
that feeling
—which conveyed the strong impression that it would be unwise to discard the daffy old woman’s “research.” And so she carried it to her car, carted it all the way home, and dropped it in the hallway between Daddy’s ancient grandfather clock and Momma’s hideous elephant-foot umbrella stand. And there the shopping bag might have remained until cobwebs covered it. Except for the fact that Cassandra was an occasional insomniac.

Let us skip quickly past what happened between
then
and
now
. Watch the big hand on the granddaddy clock spin full circle—151 times.

Six days and seven hours later, long after she had gone to bed, Cassandra was not even slightly drowsy. When the hopeful sleeper would attempt to shut her eyes, they would pop open again. She tried reclining on her right side. Her left. Also flat on her back. After considering such time-honored remedies as sleeping pills, a glass of warm milk, a hot soak in the tub, counting stupid sheep jumping a rail fence, reading the history of Plano, Texas, or last month’s article in
PSYCHICAL REVIEW
about how death by violence affects the personalities of recently disembodied spirits—Aha—“Recently Disembodied Spirits!” This reminded her of that odd encounter at the airport with the talkative old lady from somewhere or other whose daughter had been dined upon by a herd of famished swine. The wide-awake lady switched on the light, found Florence Valentine’s black canvas bag between the tall, ticktocking timepiece and the deceased elephant’s foot, took it back to her bedroom, and began to examine the contents.

This was not the solution for insomnia.

Indeed, on this night, Cassandra would not get a wink of sleep. Not one.

A long, hot soak in the tub—
that
would have been the very cure for what ailed her.

Oh. Another thing. On the following morning, when Cassandra Spencer stepped onto her front porch to pick up the weekly newspaper, she noticed a letter-size manila envelope in the mailbox. No stamp, no address, no return address. Only a printed READ THIS on both sides. She opened it with a long, pointy fingernail, removed a single sheet of paper. The message was also printed:

Mandy the waitress was across the street in the Corner Bar, watching the darker of the Spencer sisters through a dusty window. She was unable to see the expression on the psychic’s face as Cassandra learned The Truth. No matter—merely knowing that her note had been received was enough. In fact, Mandy was so excited that she—No. It is too indelicate to mention.

But one might go so far as to observe that the wielder of the poisoned pen had, while waiting for the climactic moment, polished off three beers. Without visiting the ladies’ room.