Search for the Dead Page 5

  Sarah followed Abby to the kitchen. “Why?”

  Abby filled two mugs with coffee, which was still warm from breakfast. “I’m not really sure. I know this is real, but I’m not looking forward to trying to defend myself, either against doubters or against anyone who is trying to fool me. I’m not very good at conflict.”

  “Why do you expect conflict? Why aren’t you visualizing a nice bunch of little old ladies who like Ouija boards?”

  Abby smiled reluctantly. “I’m not really sure. I’m still working through this whole thing, and then there’s Ellie to consider—she sees more than she should, for a child her age, even if she isn’t quite sure how or why. It’s like treading on eggshells. If I move too far or too fast to help her, Leslie may get pissed off and stop me—and Ned—from seeing her at all. So I can’t say as much as I’d like.”

  “I see the problem. Explain to me what you and Ned think you’re doing?”

  “As far as I can tell, people have been experimenting and taking part in psychic events in this country since the middle of the nineteenth century, and it’s still going on. There’s been research done by some credible scientists, but never a lot, and never conclusive. I got sucked into it when it first happened, and then when Ned told me he shared it, by the whole genealogy thing, which has held up pretty well. Although a scientist would say the sample is too small, plus we’re prejudiced. But since conveniently Ned is a DNA expert, I want him to look at that particular angle.”

  “Makes sense. Who’s this guy who’s coming to dinner?”

  “An old friend of Ned’s, who happens to be a genius of some sort with brain scans. Maybe Ned’s mentioned him? Kevin Johansen?”

  Sarah nodded. “I think I’ve heard his name. Where does Ned think he fits in this equation?”

  “I’m not sure. Kevin’s some kind of genius with high-tech machines, I gather. And with the right ones he can see what parts of the brain react to stimuli, and maybe we can correlate that to something else. Or maybe he thinks pretty color pictures would be cool. I haven’t met Kevin yet, so I really don’t know.”

  “Well, it should be an interesting meal.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Sarah drained her cup. “You ready?”

  “I guess so. It’s being held on the edge of town, in a Victorian house a local realtor is trying to sell, so I guess they borrowed it for atmosphere. I can drive.”

  “Fine. Do we have a battle plan? Like, try to meet with as many mediums as possible, but make sure you and I don’t overlap? Or do we want to talk to the same people and see if they say the same thing to both of us?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far. Why don’t we see how crowded it is and take it from there?”

  “That works for me.”

  The house was a handsome Queen Anne Victorian, recently spiffed up with a new coat of paint. Abby had been admiring it for a while as she drove past, but she’d never been inside it. From the number of cars parked along the residential street, the event was popular, and once again Abby wondered just what she had gotten herself into. She turned off the engine but didn’t hurry to get out. “So, which things would you like to try, Sarah?”

  “What’s on the menu?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m not sure. Card reading, I’d guess. Probably palm reading. Scrying?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the crystal ball thing, although it can be looking into just about anything. Or there’s touching something to get a reading. If you’ve got something in your bag that isn’t yours, you might see what kind of response you get. And of course, there’s always the plain old clairvoyance, looking at the past or the present. You can ask if anyone on the other side has a message for you.”

  “Oh, so I can talk to them?”

  “I think so. They may ask you if you have any questions for them. Or the spirits.”

  “Hmm. Do you have a plan?”

  “I’m not sure how many there will be, but I want to talk to as many as I can before my brain gets fried and I can’t remember who said what. I’m guessing three or four each will do it.”

  “Can we take notes? Or does that mess up the mood?”

  “I don’t know. You can ask. Or maybe you can jot down a few notes after you’re done with each one.”

  “And if one is obviously faking it?”

  “Relax and enjoy it. We can meet up when we’re both done and go get a coffee or something. Just remember—as far as I can tell, these people do take what they’re doing seriously. I know you’re too polite to laugh at anyone, but there may be others who aren’t. Or kids who just want to make fun of them. I hope there’s somebody coordinating this so they’ll weed out those. Ready?”

  “I hope so!”

  They got out of the car and walked the half block to the house. Abby made a mental note not to allow herself to get distracted by the details of woodwork and such, but she was always looking for ideas for Ned’s house. Their house? She certainly had a physical relationship with the house, as the grime permanently embedded under her nails showed.

  The broad wooden front door stood open, and just inside there was a desk with two people behind it. “Welcome! Come in,” one of the women said. “You’re here for a reading?”

  “More than one, I’m hoping,” Abby told her. “Is that okay?”

  “There’s a charge for each one, but you can have three at a discount. Ten dollars each, or twenty-five for three. If you didn’t know it, part of the proceeds from today’s event go toward the town’s food pantry. The rest goes to the medium.”

  Abby felt ashamed that she hadn’t read that far. “Do I sign up for specific people, or do I take pot luck?”

  “Some of our readers are pretty well booked up for the day. What kind of a reading were you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. What do you recommend?”

  “For a new person?” The woman looked down at the large chart in front of her on the desk. “Well, Melissa has a slot for a card reading coming up. Then there’s Bertha at noon—she likes to read objects, yours or someone else’s, up to you. And if you want something simple, there’s Christine—she might want to look at your palm, so tell me if that bothers you. The touching part, I mean. Some people don’t like to be touched by strangers.”

  Abby suppressed a smile—if only the woman knew! “No, no, it all sounds fine. Let me take all three.” Abby handed over three ten-dollar bills, listening with half an ear to the other woman explaining the same thing to Sarah. Apparently the desk wardens were handling different people, so there was no overlap. As the woman handed Abby her change, Abby asked, “How does this work? Are they all together in a room or spread out?”

  “We’ve tried to give each reader a room of her own—more private that way, and less distraction. You’ll find Melissa in the last room on the right—that’s the kitchen. Here’s the layout.” The woman handed Abby a photocopy of a hand-drawn map, showing who was where. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Melissa should be wrapping up in a couple of minutes, so you can go stand outside her door.”

  “Thank you.” Abby checked her house map: the house appeared to be a mirror image of Ned’s, and she wondered if the same architect had built them both. Sarah passed her, headed for the next door on the left, and winked at her without saying anything. Abby stationed herself outside the kitchen door and watched the few people she could see. She didn’t recognize anyone, but she hadn’t spent long in the town. Most of them were women, but their ages varied from twenty-something to well past sixty. None of them looked upset as they left their reading. Were the psychics dispensing only good news? Maybe it was all just a game for them, an adventure for a free afternoon, something to talk about with friends later. Did anyone here take this stuff seriously?

  Finally a woman about her own age came out of the kitchen, gave her a perfunctory smile, and went down the hall quickly. Abby walked into the room to find a
woman seated at a card table draped with a dark tablecloth in the middle of the kitchen.

  “You’re Melissa?” Abby asked.

  The woman nodded and gestured toward the chair opposite her. “Sit down, please. In case nobody explained, I read cards, and I tell you what I see happening to you in the future, although I can’t tell you exactly when. Have you ever done this before?”

  “I don’t think so,” Abby started to say, but then she had a quick flash of memory. “Actually, no. I think my mother used to do it with some of her friends—bridge ladies who got tired of bridge, or had had an extra glass of wine at lunch. I don’t think they took it very seriously, but it looked like they were having fun.”

  “They never invited you to take part?”

  “No. My mother kept telling me I was too young, and had too much future ahead of me, and besides, she knew me too well to be objective. You don’t look any older than me—how long have you been doing this?”

  “I started in high school, with some of my friends. You know, we’d dabble with the Ouija board, and try to call up spirits, but we usually got bored when nothing happened.”

  “But you stuck to it?”

  “I did. More of my predictions came true than anyone else’s. So I’ve been practicing. I’m not a professional—actually I’m a computer programmer—but I still do it for friends, and for things like this. Come on, let’s get started.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Get comfortable, first. I’m going to let you shuffle twice, then cut the deck into three piles. Okay? Oh, and don’t turn them over.”

  “Sure.” Abby took the deck that Melissa handed her, shuffled it, then split it into three piles, which she left facedown. Melissa reached for each pile and turned it over. She didn’t say anything immediately, but studied the three exposed cards. “This is your past, your present, and your future,” she said, tapping each one in turn. “That past one, the seven of hearts—somebody was unfaithful to you. Right?” Melissa looked up at Abby, who made a noncommittal noise. Everyone had been betrayed by someone in their past, hadn’t they? That didn’t mean Melissa meant Brad.

  Melissa didn’t seem upset that Abby didn’t gush with enthusiasm. She went on calmly. “The present one, the five of spades—looks like things are going pretty well for you, but there are some other people in the way. You’ll just have to work through that to get what you want.” Abby nodded silently. Again, a safe, non-specific answer.

  “Now, the last one, your future—the king of clubs, that’s an honest and generous man. Definitely one of the good guys. You know who I mean.” Abby smiled, but didn’t say anything again. Of course Melissa would give her a future hunk who would make her happy.

  Melissa cocked her head at Abby. “You’re not convinced.”

  Abby shrugged. “No, I guess not. I can’t say you’re wrong, but what you’ve said could pretty much apply to anyone who walked in the door.”

  Melissa nodded. “So you’re a skeptic. That’s okay—I get a lot of that. Shuffle again and pull out one card at random.”

  Abby complied, and pulled out the jack of diamonds. “A fair-haired guy?” she said.

  “Not exactly, but most people assume the face cards refer to specific people. No, this one is more often considered to mean ‘pleasant troubles.’ I know, that seems contradictory, but if you don’t mind my interpreting it, I’d say you’re working on something, and the work is unfinished or unresolved, but you’re enjoying the process. I’m not going to say that it’ll all work out in the end, but you won’t be unhappy with the results. That make sense to you?”

  “I think so. Is our time up?”

  “Yup. We all do twenty minutes, then we get a break to clear our heads. What do you think?”

  “About what you told me? I don’t really know. Tell me, do you ever give anyone a lousy story—you know, disasters all over the place, death and destruction, that kind of thing?”

  “Most people’s cards don’t show me that. Maybe that kind of unlucky person knows better than to ask to have their fortune told. Good luck to you, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”

  “Thank you,” Abby said, standing up. She walked out the door and stood in the hall checking her list and to see where her next psychic was located. Upstairs, back bedroom on the right.

  Chapter 7

  Abby trudged up the stairs, mulling over what she had just heard. She really hadn’t learned much. Melissa hadn’t been a cheesy ham (Abigail, what a silly metaphor!), which some small part of her had expected. Instead Melissa had been a matter-of-fact young woman. She hadn’t been offended that Abby wasn’t impressed, but she didn’t pretend she had said anything impressive. Maybe there was a message in that: there were fortunes to be told everywhere, and nowhere was it written that they had to be big and important and significant. They were as ordinary as the people they were attached to—most of whom probably forgot any predictions as soon as they walked out of the room. Unless the spirits had told them where they’d left the spare keys. Abby had to remind herself that she was supposed to be keeping an open mind. Where had she ever come up with the idea that all psychics were either fakes or kooks?

  Abby spied Sarah coming out from the door opposite. Abby raised one eyebrow, but Sarah just shrugged. Abby was beginning to feel like a spy in a bad movie. They couldn’t admit they knew each other because they were undercover, trying to bust a ring of unscrupulous . . . mediums? That was ridiculous. If those mediums were only earning five dollars an hour (assuming the ladies at the door split the take or took out a chunk for overhead), it would take a very long time to get rich doing this kind of event, and even if they were deceiving people, nobody was badly hurt by wasting ten dollars and a half hour of their lives. The publicity for the event had been kind of minimal, so the mediums weren’t even getting any decent promotion out of it.

  After a couple more minutes a woman came out of the bedroom, and Abby peered in to check out the next psychic. “Are you on break now?”

  The woman gestured her in. “No, I’m good to go. I’m Bertha. I practice psychometry.” When Abby looked confused, Bertha continued, “I see things by touching them. I hold an object and I can tell you something about the person who owns it, or who owned it in the past. Did you bring something with you?”

  “No, because I didn’t know what kind of medium I’d be talking with. Does it matter, what the thing is?” Was she supposed to have great-aunt Tilda’s precious opal brooch? Or uncle Charlie’s pocket watch?

  “No, it’s up to you. Not a coin, though, because nobody really owns those and they’ve passed through far too many hands. Reach into your bag and see what you land on.”

  Abby reached into her bag and fumbled around. The first thing she came into contact with was her key ring, with car keys, house keys, a small flashlight, and a couple of sentimental souvenirs that she kept thinking she’d remove but she was fond of them. “Can you focus on one item on my key ring?”

  “You mean, I don’t get to tell you the make of your car or how old your house is based on the type and amount of wear on your house key?” Bertha smiled. “Sure, bring it on.”

  Abby fished out the key ring, marveling once again how heavy the blasted thing was, and passed it over to Bertha. Bertha took it, hefted it a time or two, then sorted through the attachments. Finally she said, “Okay, this one.”

  Abby looked to see which one she’d chosen. An interesting choice: it had been a gift to Abby several years before, from someone she’d only just met, and it had little direct connection to her or to her life at the moment. “Fine. What can you tell me?”

  Bertha held it apart from the other items on the key chain. It was fairly heavy in itself, shaped like a cluster of leaves, which in fact represented the olive trees of the south of France. There was no inscription on the piece, but it felt pleasant in the hand, which was one reason why Abby had kept it. “It’s not local, is it,” Bertha said, more a statement than a question. “It’s come a long way. It was a woman
who gave it to you. Older than you, and someone you didn’t know well. I’m getting a foreign language—French? The woman had a lot of these—she was handing them out like candy. Nicely made, though—good quality, not throwaway junk. It’s lasted well. It’s been, what, three years since she gave it to you?”

  Abby wondered if her mouth was hanging open. Bertha was right on all counts. “You’ve seen one before.”

  Bertha didn’t seem offended. “Nope. Things like it, maybe. I could guess it’s a souvenir from something, but not how you got it.”

  Abby felt torn. Some of what Bertha had said, she could have figured out just by looking at it. Olive leaves—so either California or Europe, and Bertha had guessed France. A woman who’d given it to her: had to be one gender or the other. Lots of the item? Well, it was in fact a souvenir, a promotional item, and the woman had been a goodwill ambassador of some sort, so she probably had in fact given out a lot of them.

  “Don’t overthink it, dear,” Bertha said, unperturbed. “Sure, I may have made some educated guesses. You can believe me or not. I won’t be insulted if you don’t. But you look like you can’t make up your mind whether I’m for real or just a faker. Take your time, talk to other people. You have to make the decision to believe. No one can force you.”

  Abby stared at Bertha for a long moment. “Thank you. I’m kind of new to all this, so I don’t want to judge too quickly. But it’s good to hear you say that. I don’t want to be fooled, but I’ve read that you have to be open to . . . signals from wherever to even notice them, because they’re kind of subtle. Is that right?”

  “Pretty much. If you choose not to believe, you’ll never notice them. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you.” Abby turned and made her way out the door, where another woman was already waiting to go in. Abby smiled briefly at her, then walked away a few feet to stop and look at the sheet and find where she was supposed to go next. Downstairs, according to the map, to what she guessed had been the front parlor. She was supposed to meet with Christine, who was a palm reader. She probably should have asked that one be included, since physical touch seemed to play a role in her own ability, but the spirits had taken care of it anyway. She checked her watch—still a few minutes to kill. Bertha’s next client had certainly been eager.