David Peters demanded to know what I’d seen. Since I was still on his dime, I reluctantly told them about the woman. I was still trying to take it in myself, so I left out the bit about the jungle and merely said she seemed to be in some kind of trouble.
Jennifer’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean, trouble?”
“Um, maybe strangled?”
David looked sick. Jennifer asked me to describe her, which I did.
“Do you mean Margarita?” Jennifer asked.
“She, uh, didn’t have any ID on her,” I muttered, clearly out of my depth.
“And she was being strangled?” Jennifer’s voice rose an octave. “By who?”
In answer, I could only shake my head.
That’s when David regained his coloring, though he passed Caucasian beige and moved straight to fire engine red. “I get it. This is part of your scam. I called you on your lousy performance and you decided to frighten my wife.”
“With the description of a Hispanic woman I’ve never seen before?” I asked. Though I knew the scenario I’d just described sounded crazy, Aunt Gertrude had advised me to always back up what I said, no matter what. That was the only way to keep credibility.
“Like that’s a stretch,” he sneered. “Most of the household help around here is Mexican. We said our maid no longer worked here, so you made a good guess with the description.”
“The woman who watched Sandy was your maid,” I said. “Then you know where she went after she left your employment and you can call her and see if she’s alright. If she is, I’ll refund your money.” I rooted for a refund because I could still feel the woman’s terror.
“We don’t know where she is,” Jennifer Peters said with a quick glance toward her husband. “She just disappeared one day.”
I swallowed hard. “What do you mean—disappeared?”
“She just took off, that’s all,” David said. “I asked her to change her day off from Wednesday to Thursday. She said she was fine with it, but apparently she was lying.”
Jennifer picked up the story. “I came home from an appointment and the front door stood open. Sandy was on the porch wearing his leash. I thought it was odd she would take him for a walk on her day off, but when I didn’t find her inside…well, I didn’t know what to think.”
“She left us, and she took my Remington with her,” David grumbled. “The most expensive piece in the house.”
I didn’t even want to know what a maid would do with a shotgun. I told them it was none of my business, wished them a good day, and ran like hell. A white van with Hi Tide written in ocean-blue letters blocked my way out of the driveway. I was not going back in that house to look for the driver, so I plowed over the edge of the Peters’ lawn to get around the obstacle.
On my drive to the Prickly Pear Bistro, I went over every second of my appointment and came up with several explanations for what had happened. Even though I’d recently snacked on dog treats, I might have been a little hungry. All that crouching by the dog and standing up could have made me light-headed. Or maybe it was the dog treats! Maybe hallucinations were a side effect Canine Cuisine didn’t want to list on their packaging, mainly because they didn’t expect human beings to indulge in their cheddar cheese biscuits.
Or maybe I’d passed out for a minute and dreamed it. I’d hit my head pretty hard. Or maybe David or Jennifer studied the art of hypnotism and were having a laugh at my expense. Those explanations were stupid, but anything sounded better than what I suspected—that I had actually seen something. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?
I thought back to when I first stumbled on the idea of making money from gullible pet owners. Twelve years old at the time, I was bicycling over to Penny’s house when I saw Jimmy Simms standing in his front yard with a small cairn terrier at his feet. While the little nipper wagged his tail and waited for attention, Jimmy fawned over Mrs. Downing’s Labrador retriever. When the lady and dog continued on their walk, Jimmy turned away from his own dog and headed inside.
“Hey!” I called out to him, skidding to a stop on the gravel shoulder in front of his house. “What a cute doggie.”
I laid my bike on the grass and scratched the pup’s ears while it wiggled and snorted. The poor thing was starved for affection.
“Cute,” Jimmy repeated with disgust. “You want him?”
I looked at the great big Labrador and then down at the petite Cairn. It seemed to me Jimmy wished he had a larger dog, and it didn’t seem fair the Cairn should be neglected just because he wasn’t the size of a Boxer.
I’d watched Auntie ply her craft on gullible clients long enough to know three-fourths of the trick was showmanship, so I placed my hands on the dog’s head and whispered, “He’s telling me something.”
Jimmy edged closer, curious, though his voice held scorn. “Dogs can’t talk.” Everyone knew what Auntie did for a living. I think part of him wanted to believe I had her gift.
“I was a golden retriever in my last life,” I said in a hypnotic voice. “It sucks being small. I need you to teach me some tricks, so I can feel better about my size.”
Jimmy never looked at his dog the same way, and they wound up capturing first prize in the Performing Pets competition later the same year. That’s when I knew I was onto a very easy way to make a living. That’s also how I know I’m not psychic. I made up the bit about the golden retriever.
It wasn’t possible I’d seen something. My talent lay in my ability to cold read people. I threw out questions and watched the body language and went where it led me, just like Aunt Gertrude.
I turned my car onto Main Street and slowed down to find a parking space. When I’d moved here a year ago, Wolf Creek was just starting to recover from an economic slump. Many of the shop windows had been empty and boarded. Penny had lured me here by referring to the town’s slump as “an opportunity.” And I had personal reasons for wanting to get out of Wisconsin.
Nestled on a dried creek bed between the Phoenix suburbs of Hidden Hills and Fountain Hills, the town’s economy rebounded due to Wolf Creek’s proximity to gorgeous desert scenery. The natural beauty and cheap rental prices lured budding artists to the area. We were now infested with creative types. I drove past a bead store, a photography studio, and saddle maker before I found a parking spot.
The regular customers of the Prickly Pear were already sitting at the round tables and booths decorated in various shades of rosy pink, bright yellow, and green—the colors of the restaurant’s cactus namesake. Local artists competed to decorate the walls. Each painting included a tiny price tag on the frame to encourage diners to carry one home along with their doggie bag.
Our usual booth sat under a brilliant sunset in watercolors captured by a local teenager, and as I made my way across the room, I hurried past a few familiar faces without stopping to say hello. My mind was still on the Peters’ appointment. I took a seat and waited for Penny to finish up in the kitchen. She kept a selection of California wines on hand for the dinner menu, and I swallowed the last of my second glass by the time she joined me.
“Whoa there.” Penny held up a hand. “Did you even taste that?”
I grimaced, sorry I’d maligned such an excellent Zinfandel. “I’m a little bit stressed.”
“Two glasses of wine will fix that,” Penny said as she sat down. “Not.”
“Today’s been weird,” I said.
“I guess weird is a relative term,” she said, placing a finger on her chin. “Your entire life is unusual by most standards. I mean, most people couldn’t imagine communicating with animals.” She sighed with a tinge of envy. “I guess it just runs in the family.” She leaned forward, her voice and expression earnest. “If it hadn’t been for your Aunt Gertrude, my mother would still be with my jerk of a dad. She never would have met Larry.”
Aunt Gertrude had seen Mr. Newcombe fawning all over a floozy during an afternoon showing of The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Again. When Penny’s mom popped in a few days later to get her cards read, Auntie jumped on the chance to reveal John Newcombe’s dalliances, using the cards, of course. With her eyes freshly opened by Auntie’s interpretation of a complex Movement in Relationships Spread, it didn’t take long before Judy Newcombe caught her husband in the act. She got a nice settlement from the divorce, and a few years later met and married her current husband, Penny’s adored stepfather. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Penny the truth. Necking during The Apple Dumpling Gang? She’d never recover from the embarrassment.
“Forget Aunt Gertrude.”
Penny stopped smiling and tilted her head. “Something’s really bugging you. What is it?”
“Just the usual,” I lied. “My last client accused me of being a fraud.”
Penny laughed. “If he only knew. Maybe I should tell him how you predicted Maybelle would have a girl foal.”
I was twelve, I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, and I had wanted Penny’s dollar.
“Not to mention how you knew Muffin was pregnant.”
I had seen Penny’s cat having a tryst with the Rawley’s tom in an alley, and Penny had another dollar.
“And Hector.”
Hector. Hector the beagle was the reason I could never, ever tell Penny I was a fake. The poor thing was sixteen years old, blind, deaf, and afraid to move lest he run into things. The animal practically held up a gun and begged every passerby to put him out of his misery, but how could I tell Penny that Hector hadn’t actually said he heard his mother calling and needed “the sleepy shot” to go join her? I remained silent.
“You have a gift,” she said, victorious.
“I have a headache.” My response was automatic, since I’d been suffering from nearly nonstop temple throbbing all week, but my head actually felt clear, almost airy. I did have a sore spot on the back of my skull. I ran my fingers over it. “I really hit my head when I fell.”
“Fell?”
“Something unusual happened at my last appointment,” I said with reluctance.
“Unusual for a pet psychic?” Penny was impressed. “You heard voices?” She gasped. “The animal actually spoke out loud!”
“No!” I wanted to head that idea off before Penny started asking me to interpret for every dog that barked. “Nothing like that. It’s—it’s like I had a dream.”
Penny narrowed her eyes. “You never told me you had visions.” Actually, I steered the conversation away from my “talents” whenever possible. I felt better if I didn’t straight-out lie to my friend, though I knew Penny felt slighted I didn’t share more with her.
“It wasn’t a vision,” I said, sticking firmly to my belief the episode had a boring, normal explanation.
Penny looked out the window and bit her lower lip. “I don’t know why you never open up to me about your gift. It’s not as if you can’t trust me.” Great. I’d hurt her feelings.
“It was more like a hallucination.” I looked at my empty wine glass. “Isn’t there some condition that affects you as if you’re drunk? I remember a story about people getting pulled over and cited for drunk driving, but they hadn’t been drinking. Drunks hallucinate, don’t they?”
“You don’t have the disease of the week,” Penny said. “So, what did you see?”
“There was this woman, and…” I hesitated. Now that I was out of the Peters’ house and in the Prickly Pear surrounded by cheerful diners and colorful tablecloths and my best friend, the whole thing sounded ridiculous.
“Yes?” Penny prodded.
“And it looked like she was being strangled.”
Penny’s forehead wrinkled. “Strangled by the dog?”
“Dogs don’t have opposable thumbs,” I said and, remembering a small detail from my vision, added, “And they don’t wear gloves.”
“So, you were watching it happen from the dog’s point of view?”
That would make sense…if I was psychic.
“Anything else?”
I hesitated again. “It looked as if it was taking place in a jungle.”
“Jungle?” Penny repeated.
“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “It sounds like a bad Tarzan film.”
“Who was she? And who strangled her?”
“I think she may have been the Peters’ maid, but I didn’t see who was doing the strangling.”
She held up a hand and repeated their name.
“Peters. Wasn’t your appointment in Fountain Hills?” She gasped and clutched my arm. “Don’t tell me it was the David Peters. He and his wife look like the Bobbsey Twins all grown up?” When I confirmed this, she squealed. “He’s Peters Productions! He does all the major fundraising and publicity in Phoenix. He rubs elbows with politicians and celebrities.” She got a pensive look. “He could do wonders for your career.”
“Except he thinks I’m a lunatic, and with good reason.”
“I’m sure he believed in you.” Penny said this with the same certainty she would have had David been five and I the Easter Bunny. “And once we get some referrals from him and line up some high-profile clients, you’ll have to turn people away. This is so great! You’ve been complaining about your lack of business lately and look! Problem solved.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. I got sidetracked. Now about the maid.”
“I don’t know for certain who the woman was,” I said. “I just know she’s dead.”
Penny shook her head and I could feel a lesson in positive thinking skipping toward me. “Did you actually see her die?”
“Well, no,” I admitted. “No, I didn’t. That’s a great point.” I blew out a huff of air. “I’ve been getting worked up over some crazy scenario I imagined.” The most likely explanation was I had jogged some sense memory at the Peters’ house and brought up a vision of something I’d recently seen.
Was it something on the world news? Television was a definite possibility. Nowadays, even children’s shows contain violence. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn the latest superheroes were murdering the villains in cold blood. Then it hit me.
I laughed out loud with relief. “Rambo.”
Unable to sleep, I’d sedated myself with a classics channel. Apparently Rambo 3—or was it 4?—ranked up there with It Happened One Night and Twelve Angry Men. The latest Rambo film took place in a jungle. A woman was abducted. Though she was a blond, I’d probably just substituted the image from a photograph I’d seen in the Peters’ house or some dark-haired woman I’d passed on the street.
“It’s over,” I sighed, happy to have found a common-sense solution. Then I pulled down my bottom lip like John Rambo and repeated a line from the film. “It ain’t ever over!”
“What are you going on about?”
“I just figured out what I saw, and there wasn’t a murder.”
I waited while Monica set down our plates. We always dined on the special when we ate at the Prickly Pear. Today it was garlic roasted chicken with a side of Spanish rice and peas.
“Why not?” Penny asked as soon as Monica was out of earshot.
“For one thing, there’s no body. As self-involved as they are, I think the Peters would have noticed a dead maid on their kitchen floor.”
“But what if she was kidnapped?”
“There would still be a body. Somebody would have discovered it by now. You can’t snatch a girl in broad daylight and bury her corpse without anyone noticing.”
“Frankie,” Penny said, motioning toward the window. “We’re surrounded by desert.”
“The accessible desert is along the highway. Assuming a killer would use the cover of darkness to hide his evil deed, he would still have to transport the body by car. There’s enough traffic someone would have noticed a car driving off-road in the desert.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“At the very least, we’d see crows circling above the body, not to mention—”
“Yuck.” Penny set down her fork.
I apologized for being graphic—according to Penny’s standards—and we agreed to drop it. We ate in companionable silence until Penny casually mentioned, “I signed you up to do a little something at the Pet Expo this weekend.” She ducked her head.
“Define a little something.”
“They have a panel of animal psychics and there’s been a cancelation. The organizer of the panel is a school mate of Monica’s. She begged me to sign you up, so I did.”
I gasped so hard I started choking. “Are you insane?”
“I don’t see the problem,” she said. “You’re not afraid of public speaking, are you?”
“The Wolf Creek Gazette will probably cover the event. They’ll probably research the participants. Why don’t I hand out copies of Jeff’s expose?”
Jeff had been my boyfriend in Wisconsin. He offered to assist a cub reporter who was stacked like a brick house to write an exposé about fraudsters—featuring me. He supplied her with quotes, things I’d told him in private about how cold reading worked. Think a pet psychic can read your dog’s mind? Our own reporter Buffy Beamont blows the lid off of fraudsters and fakes. Once the article had come out, let’s just say I would have been lucky to get a job reading a ten-year-old’s cat in exchange for a SweeTart. When Penny said how much she loved Wolf Creek, I was ready to move.
Penny made a clucking noise, like a disappointed mother hen. “You’ve got to get over what happened last year. I’m sure the karma gremlins will ruin Jeff’s life and order will be restored to the universe, but until then, you’ve got to let it go. You deserve success. To be successful, you need publicity.”
With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the event that had driven me out of Wisconsin and into a state that considered a puddle a Great Lake. She hadn’t suffered public humiliation. Even my parents had stopped answering the phone and took to wearing sunglasses and hats everywhere.
“Jeff lied.” Penny fluffed him off like a gnat.
“He betrayed me, but he didn’t lie. I said those things. He just took them out of context.”
“Then you should be fine doing the Expo. It will give you the chance to set the record straight by doing what you do best.”
I grabbed her hand and yanked her forward. “You don’t get it. People who do what I do should never brag.” Aunt Gertrude stressed that one. As soon as you get cocky, someone will come along, knock you off your high horse, and step on your face. “Word of mouth is fine. One on one is fine. Giant posters that make promises—not fine.”
She held up her free hand to stop my protests. “This gig is really nothing. You’re a set decoration, that’s all. The local representative, if you will. The big draw is Devine.”
My heart stopped. “I’m not sharing the stage with a woman who’s been on Newsweek and People Magazine. She has her own show on cable, for crying out loud.”
“Kibble Talk.” Penny nodded. “I’ve seen it. She’s good.”
I’d watched the show and seen Devine manipulate people and make broad statements that her audience accepted with awe. She was a bigger fake than I was, but she was a polished fake and one of the best cold readers I’d ever seen. “She’s an attention whore. If she thinks I stink, she’ll make fun of me, so she can look better. If she thinks I’m good, she’ll try to make me look like an idiot.”
Penny snorted. “Get over yourself. No one will even know you’re there. They’ll all be there to see the famous lady.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You can’t make me.” We had dissolved back into our teenage banter.
“Fine,” Penny said, letting out an unsteady breath. “They’ll probably sue me for breach of contract. I’ll lose the business.” She rubbed the tablecloth as if she were saying goodbye to her best friend.
“Did you sign a contract?” I asked.
“There’s such a thing as a verbal agreement,” she said. She wiped her eyes. “At the very least, I’ll have to let Monica go at the end of her shift.”
My glance shot over to the corner of the room where the young waitress joked around with a customer’s toddler, her brunette ponytail bobbing as she laughed.
“Why?”
“Because I told them you’d do it and so they’ve already made hundreds of flyers—probably thousands—and placed the ads and done up the name tags and posters and… I’ll have to reimburse them.”
“I can’t believe a couple of flyers cost that much, and if they’re for the Expo, then they probably include a lot of other information. Nobody will even notice my name.”
She chewed on her upper lip. “But these flyers were made specifically for your event. And they used photographs. It’s much more expensive to run off flyers using color ink.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” I said, placing my hand on my cheek in mock horror. Penny nodded agreement with a mournful expression. I narrowed my eyes. “And how did they get my picture?”
Penny sailed right by the question and moaned. “I won’t be able to afford two waitresses.” She rubbed her stomach. “I wonder if I can still fit in my old uniform, in case I have to let Ann go, too. I shouldn’t have made a promise for you,” she said mournfully. “I’m completely responsible. The additional advertising costs are my fault. I have to take responsibility.”
Monica wandered up to our table and asked if we needed anything. I declined for both of us and watched her walk back behind the counter.
“She’s paying for college herself,” Penny whispered.
I could envision that young, happy girl growing older and older behind a dime store cash register (since that’s the only job she’d get, now that she couldn’t afford college), never taking classes, never moving out of her parent’s basement (even though I had no idea where she lived.) She’d be seventy years old when her arthritic arms would drop a customer’s glass ashtray and she’d smile sweetly, go back home to her parent’s basement (they’d be ninety by now) and hang herself. It would be my fault. Not that I believed Penny, but I felt guilty anyway, which is all Penny was after.
“Fine. But never sign me up for something without checking with me. Deal?”
She broke into her crooked grin a tad too quickly. “Deal.” She slid a folder across the table and told me to complete the enclosed forms by tomorrow morning. “And I have some good news.” The words came out in a singsong, and Penny had that fanatical gleam in her eye that meant one thing. She wanted to fix me up.
“Remember Mrs. O’Reilly?”
“Yes.” She had owned a quilt shop two doors down until her retirement three months ago. I’d seen contractors bustling in and out of the space over the last few weeks.
“Guess who moved in?”
“You’re not really going to make me guess, are you?” I hadn’t noticed any new signage.
“A doggie day care and trainer!” Penny threw open her hands as if she’d just tossed me the grand prize. “His name is Seamus McGuire. He’s five foot ten, has hazel eyes and auburn hair, and he’s the nicest man. He’s perfect for you!”
“From that description I’d be dating my twin.”
“There’s nothing girlish about Seamus,” she said.
“I’m not looking for a date.”
As usual, she ignored me. “Not only will you enjoy each other’s company, but you could refer business to each other. It’s perfect.” Her gaze flitted toward the hallway that led to the restrooms and the back entrance to my store. “We need to get a move on your space.”
Actually, I had no intention of cleaning up my space, an extra room off of the Prickly Pear Penny insisted I needed to have if I wanted to operate a respectable business. I hadn’t touched the place since she had handed me the keys one year ago. The act of setting up a business address seemed a direct challenge to karma. In a blink, I’d be a target for the Better Business Bureau. I also feared crazy people stumbling in and demanding I read their ant farms. Or worse, their dead pets.
“You’ve really pushed your luck to the limit today,” I said, getting up.
She grinned. “Not yet I haven’t. Wait right here.” She scurried behind the counter and rummaged through something under the cash register. She returned with a handful of newspapers, which she held up as she slid into the booth. “Last week’s papers from the recycle bin. I’m going to put your mind at rest. When did you say the maid left the Peters’ employment?”
I sat back down and slumped, my head on the table. “Let it go.”
“You know I can’t,” she sang out like a demented Mary Poppins.
“A week ago, so it must have been Wednesday.” I sighed, knowing it was hopeless to argue. Penny considered negative information her personal nemesis, and her need to render it harmless was a compulsion. I knew what she was doing. She was searching the papers to verify nothing odd had happened in the past week. Once she accomplished her goal, she’d be able to wave it in front of my face as one more proof I should walk through life in a perpetual state of happiness instead of as my usual cynical self. I was her pet project.
“Oh.” That one word, quietly spoken, sent chills up my spine. “It might not be the same person,” she offered as she pushed Friday’s paper across the table and pointed at a small caption.
Body of Jane Doe Discovered in Desert.
Crap.