Grounds to Kill Page 11

  I swallowed.

  “Deal.” To Beth I said, “Did he ride over with you?”

  “No he followed in his own car.” To Fred she said, “You owe us. Don’t mess this up.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  Once he was gone, Mallory busied herself in the kitchen making dinner.

  “Okay, I’m still not convinced Fred is the answer, but I appreciate you trying,” I told Beth.

  “You’re welcome. Now are you ready for whatever kind of faux food Mallory has baking in the oven?” Beth asked. She topped off my wine glass before downing and refilling her own.

  “It smells good,” I said, trying to be a champion of Mallory’s attempt at cooking for her non-veggie friends. Truth was it took all of my willpower not to stop at Burger King on the way over, but last time I did that Mallory kept sniffing the air all night, swearing she could smell animal carcass somewhere nearby.

  “What kind of vegan horror are we having?” Beth asked her, winking at me.

  “Nothing fancy,” Mallory said, opening the oven door and checking on a few different dishes keeping warm. “Veggie fajitas and some pasta primavera.”

  “Wow, that sounds almost edible,” Beth said, sounding impressed.

  “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

  My stomach growled in anticipation. I’d had a day-old blueberry muffin at lunch and that was it.

  Mallory set out plates and dinnerware for four.

  “Four? Don’t tell me we’ve got another surprise guest,” I said, taking a small sip of wine.

  “It’s nobody you know,” Mallory said sounding vague. “But I’m sure you’ll like her.”

  “Uh oh.”

  I took a large gulp of wine this time, because she said it in the same tone my dentist used when he told me I was only going to feel a little pinch. After the Fred surprise, I didn’t know if my heart could stand anything more.

  Before I could make an excuse to snag my dog and get the hell out of Dodge, there was a knock at the door. While Mallory hustled off to get the door, I listened and heard her greet the guest, then heard a distinctly female voice respond.

  I whispered to Beth, “Tell me the truth. How afraid should I be that Mallory appears to be setting me up on a date with a woman?”

  “Oh, this isn’t a date, Jen,” Beth snickered into her wine. “But by the end of the evening we might all wish it was.”

  Before I could ask anything else or feign a sudden appendicitis attack, Mallory was leading the way followed by a fortyish woman about four-foot-eleven with wild auburn hair.

  “I’d like you both to meet Zelma Turnquist,” Mallory announced to us then to Zelma, “These are my friends—”

  “Wait, let me guess...” She pointed a stubby finger in my direction and said, “Beth.” Then pointed to my friend and said, “Jen.”

  “Um. No. Actually it’s the other way around,” Mallory said.

  “Oh, well.” Zelma shrugged. “Names aren’t my thing.”

  “Nice to meet you, Zelma,” Beth said. “What exactly is your thing and how is it that you know my good friend Mallory?”

  Zelma opened up her mouth to speak, but Mallory quickly shut her up.

  “Let’s eat first, shall we? Before everything gets cold?”

  Beth poured everyone more wine and I introduced Zelma to Mojo, who was intently sniffing at her ankles.

  “I love Yorkies,” Zelma squealed and she bent to pat Mojo on the back gently. “You’re not her first owner,” Zelma said to me as she straightened. “But you are the better one.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing of importance,” Zelma said, waving her hand through the air as if to shoo the words away.

  The woo woo train had left the station and was on the tracks to crazy land.

  Mallory had the table set, wine poured and produced enough vegan food to feed a small elephant or one Zelma Turnquist. I’ve never seen anyone pack away that much food in such a short period of time. In comparison, Beth and I gingerly nibbled at the morsels on the table. In our defense we were still recovering from an overcooked spinach layered tempeh loaf that Mallory made for us three months ago.

  It was halfway through her third helping of food that it became abundantly clear why Zelma had been invited to be our guest.

  “So Mallory told me that you’ve been given the gift of a spirit guide,” Zelma gushed.

  I inhaled the mouthful of wine I’d been about to swallow and had a coughing fit that lasted five minutes. By the time I’d cleared my lungs of alcohol, I narrowed my watery gaze at Mallory.

  “I don’t know why Mallory would tell you such a thing, Zelma, but—”

  “Okay, let’s get down to business,” Zelma announced. “I don’t have a lot of time tonight and I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”

  Mallory dropped the fork that was halfway to her mouth. Beth giggled nervously and poured herself another glass of wine. I just sat there in stunned silence.

  “If, in fact, you are gifted, and who knows if Mallory’s guess is correct, but if it is, then you should know I’ve seen your type before. Automatic writing is fairly common as a device in channeling. Don’t be afraid of it,” Zelma continued. “I’m here to help and answer questions, if I can. Of course there’s no psychic handbook to refer to, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say...” And that was the truth. I put my hand to my side and once again debated faking appendicitis.

  Zelma narrowed her eyes and I got the strange feeling she knew what I was thinking.

  “We don’t have to do this. It’s to your benefit, but if you’re afraid to face your gift, that’s fine,” Zelma said. “But I don’t have all night and your friend here only paid me for an hour so—”

  “You paid her?” Beth shouted.

  “Oka-a-ay,” I said, getting to my feet. “I do appreciate your offer to help, but I’m fine. Really. So maybe you should just go.”

  “No!” Mallory was on her feet and angry. “You’ve been dealing with this thing for as long as I’ve known you and you’ve never taken control of it, you’ve always let it control you. Now things are serious. Someone is dead for God’s sake! So if you never learn to control this thing and use the information to your advantage ...” She trailed off and threw her hands in the air. “Well, then I guess it’s all useless.”

  I quietly sat back down.

  “How about we start with your qualifications then,” I said to Zelma.

  “Well, I’m a psychic, of course. I get readings off people. Some people. And also some pets.” She paused to smile at Mojo. “And I also hold workshops and seminars about these matters. I thought you knew this since Mallory did contact me through my website and—”

  “Oh!” All of a sudden it was clear to me. “You’re the psychic on that site who teaches the ghost writing. Now I get it.”

  “Good. Glad you got it.” Zelma waved her hands in my direction. “So tell me about your thing so we can determine if I can be of any help whatsoever.”

  “It’s simple,” I said, although I felt nothing at all was simple about it. “I get an itch in my hand and when that happens I have to take a message.”

  “Which hand?” she asked.

  “Left.”

  “Always left?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you left-handed?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “But when you take a message from your spirit guide, that message comes through on your left side?”

  “I—I guess...”

  “Look, doesn’t an itchy palm just mean you’re going to get money?” Beth asked, her speech was slurred from too much wine.

  “Actually, left hand means giving money and itchy right hand would m
ean receiving it,” Zelma said.

  “No wonder I’m always broke,” I said dryly.

  “So can you control your hand once it starts?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “Look, years ago someone told me it was a spiritual guide who goes through me to relay the message, but if that’s true, I don’t get it. Why isn’t the message profound or at least meaningful? Sometimes it’s clear, like recently when the message was about my boyfriend cheating, but other times it makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “To you,” Zelma said.

  “Pardon?”

  “It makes no sense whatsoever to you. That doesn’t mean it makes no sense.” She shrugged. “Give me an example.”

  “For a while now I’ve had the message ‘#207B,’” I said. I snagged a paper and notepad from Mallory’s desk in the corner of the room and wrote it out for Zelma the psychic.

  “You’re right. It makes no sense.”

  Beth laughed. “None of this makes sense.”

  She was well past tipsy and on her way to drunk, so we ignored her.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not correct, though,” Zelma said. “This message, though unclear to you, is obviously very important to your guide.” She paused. “Who is your guide?”

  “I’m supposed to know? I have no freaking clue.”

  “Male or female? This decade or last century?”

  I just shrugged.

  “Well, this is your problem,” Zelma said, obviously finding humor in my discomfort. “Until you know who you’re dealing with, you can’t possibly know how to take these messages.”

  “Sometimes they start ‘Dear Jen,’” Mallory blurted.

  “Is that true?” Zelma asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well that’s interesting.” She drummed long fingernails on the kitchen table. “That means it’s personal. This person knows you on a personal level.”

  “I’ve asked,” I admitted. “I mean, I’ve asked the room at large during one of these message moments to tell me who or what is giving me the message and nothing, zilch, nada.”

  “Then you aren’t meant to know,” Zelma announced.

  “That hardly seems fair,” Mallory piped up.

  “There are no rules that say this spirit guide has to be fair.” Zelma chuckled. “Obviously they care enough to give you messages that mean something to you some of the time, like your boyfriend cheating. I’m thinking the other messages mean something, too, but you just don’t have the right context for them.” She tapped the notepad with her index finger. “This #207B could be an apartment number, an office or practically anything really, but whatever it is, you can bet it is important to your spirit guide if the message has come repeatedly over time.” She faced me seriously. “That doesn’t mean you have to give it credence. Something that’s important to one person is not necessarily important to others, right?”

  I nodded, because that did make sense on some level.

  Zelma looked pointedly at her watch.

  “So I’ve got only a few minutes left on the clock, let me give you a reading.” She snapped her fingers. “C’mon, c’mon, give me your hand already.”

  Reluctantly, I put out my left hand and she snatched it up and clutched it in her own.

  Beth coughed and muttered, “lesbian” under her breath.

  Mallory kicked her under the table.

  We were quiet for a full minute except for the occasional noisy slurp of wine coming from Beth’s direction.

  “You will see more psychics than me,” Zelma said quietly. “You’re at a desperate time in your life. There are many dangers. You are looking outside yourself, but all the answers are inside. You already know everything you need to know to solve your problems.”

  “Can you be any more vague?” Beth spat. “I mean, you got paid to show up, right? Try and deliver more than a fortune cookie. Sheesh! Unless, of course, you’re really a fraud.”

  A full minute went by without anyone saying a word. Zelma hadn’t let go of my hand and it was starting to sweat. I wasn’t sure if proper psychic etiquette said that I should pull my hand away or wait for her to release it. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and we all jumped.

  “Leave it. He can wait,” Zelma said, her voice had grown very quiet and we all leaned in to listen. “You can’t help your father, Jennifer Joyce Hamby. He is beyond your reach.”

  My fingers trembled a little. I didn’t know if Mallory would’ve told this woman my middle name, but I didn’t like her talking about my dad. I tried to pull my hand from her grasp, but her fingers tightened on mine.

  “There is a key. You need to find the key to find the killer,” Zelma stated.

  I gasped when she released my hand, and just then there was another loud knock at the door.

  “Open the door,” Zelma said. “His name is Clay? Clayton?” She shook her head with a laughter. “Like I said, I’m not good with names. Makes no difference, because he does love you.” She tapped me on the shoulder. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Zelma slipped her purse onto her shoulder and said goodbye to all of us. Mallory opened the door and we were all surprised to see it was Mitch.

  “Goodbye one and all,” Zelma called out. “Thank you for the meal, Mallory. Jen, you can call me anytime. Mallory has my number.”

  She stuck out her hand to shake mine, but when I placed my fingers in hers, she pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I get the feeling that it’s your sister’s past that will help you connect to your problems in the present.”

  She turned and looked Mitch up and down. “Clayton, a word of advice, dear...don’t keep waiting for what you want. Go after it!” She punctuated her comment by poking him in the chest and then she left.

  “Who was that?” Mitch asked. “How did she know me?”

  “She didn’t know you, dumbbell,” Beth snorted. “Didn’t you hear her call you Clayton?”

  “Yeah, but that’s my name. Clayton Mitchell Talbot. I’ve used Mitch for years because I can’t stand Clayton,” he explained.

  We shared a look of awe. Perhaps there was something to this Zelma psychic.

  Mitch took me aside and explained that he felt he owed me an apology for running away at my apartment. I agreed. All that woo woo stuff had scared the shit out of him, apparently. It was a good thing he didn’t show up five minutes earlier with Zelma holding the HOD and telling me to find the key with all the answers. Probably that would’ve blown his mind. I wasn’t entirely sure my own mind still remained intact at this point.

  “Jen, I gotta admit I’m still not sure if I got a handle on what you told me,” he explained.

  In other words, “You might be crazy, but I’m not counting you out just yet.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture that made him seem more boy than man.

  “I just wanted you to know that, as your friend, I support you in whatever you believe and it’s not my place to judge you so, yeah, that’s it.”

  I smiled stupidly at him.

  “Well, that’s a great start,” Mallory said. “Better than some anyway.” She looked at Beth. “You’re a friend and you don’t support her.”

  “I support Jen,” Beth announced loudly and drunkenly. “Just ’cause I think she’s got a brain tumor—”

  “Oh my God, you’ve got a brain tumor?” Mitch looked like he was going to pass out from the possibility.

  “Like I was saying,” Beth slurred. “Just ’cause she’s possibly sick in the head doesn’t mean I don’t support her, right? On account of we’re friends, so I support her even if she says she’s morphing into a werewolf or a vampire, or screwing another deadbeat cop. That’s what friends do. We support.” She slammed her fist on the table and knocked over her wine glass.

&nbs
p; “Well,” Mallory said. “Someone else is sleeping on my couch tonight.”

  “I’m not sharing.” I laughed. “I think I’ll go out for a drive to clear my head. Don’t wait up,” I said to Mallory, giving her a brief hug. “Thanks for dinner and thanks for, well, for everything. It was very enlightening and I know you did what you did for me so that means a lot. Who knows?” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll find a wayward key and all will be fine.”

  She smiled and gave me her spare house key, then convinced Mojo not to follow me out by bribing her with an organic dog bone.

  I left Mall’s apartment with Mitch right behind me.

  “So now what? You plan on joining me cruising around Seattle?” I asked only half-joking.

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  He walked me to my car, and before I could open the door, he pinned me by placing his hands on my car on either side of me.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  I swallowed thickly, nervous at his close proximity because I was a sexual ticking time bomb since Arthur had never finished what he started. Who knows what could happen being this close to a man while in my condition?

  “Wha-what do you want to tell me?” I asked.

  He looked at me for a second and his mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. I waited patiently for him to find the words, but then abruptly he decided on action instead and his lips were on mine. He kissed me long, slow and deep to the point where I finally knew what it felt like to have your knees go weak. His lips were soft but insistent. My own mouth quickly went from an O of surprise to melting against his. If it hadn’t been for his arms around me and my car behind me, I would’ve been a molten puddle on the street.

  My arms went up around his neck to draw him closer and then, just like that, it was over and he was turning and walking away.

  I opened my car door and collapsed behind the wheel, blowing out a long breath and touching my swollen lips with the tips of my fingers.

  “Holy smokes,” I murmured.

  Chapter Eight

  It took me a while to compose myself after Mitch’s sudden lip lock. I drove around thinking about that and about what Zelma had told me about finding a key and looking into Misty’s past. Both revelations had left me feeling like I needed more.