A Vision of Murder

  I shoved my cart into the buggy post, and headed back to Dutch’s, keeping one eye firmly on the rearview mirror. I was almost disappointed that no one seemed to be following me.

  Dutch was waiting for me when I came in the door, my arms loaded to the gills. “Where have you been?” he demanded, his brows low and dangerous.

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, struggling to bring in the bags. “I got it . . . don’t bother yourself.”

  Dutch rolled his eyes and grabbed a few of the bags. “I was worried,” he said gruffly. “You could’a left me a note, you know.”

  “You were sleeping.”

  “Writing me a note would not have woken me up.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I said as I got the bags to the kitchen counter. “I went shopping.”

  “Abby,” Dutch began, putting his set on the counter as well, “you know damn well what the big deal is. I told you yesterday that it’s not safe for you with that lunatic running around, and the first chance you get you’re out the door without an escort.”

  “Cut me a break, Dutch,” I said, annoyed, as I began to feel smothered. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Really?” Dutch snapped, his voice rising. “And did you come to that conclusion before or after we had to take you to the hospital the other day?”

  I turned my back on him. My scare at the grocery store, being cooped up with my demanding boyfriend and all the other events that had recently turned my life topsy-turvey made my frustration bubble up to the surface. Fuming with anger, I began shoving the groceries into any available cabinet, mindless of where they actually belonged, and slamming doors and cabinets as I went about it.

  “Or are you talking about when you were tackled at U of M?” he continued.

  I shoved the eggs in with the glassware and continued to ignore him.

  “Or how about when you narrowly missed getting the stuffing beaten out of you at your office?”

  I put the brownie mix and potato chips into the fridge and slammed the door. “I don’t need a babysitter, Dutch!” I said as I stomped away into the living room.

  “I’m taking your car keys!” he yelled at my back.

  That stopped me. I pivoted on my heel and came back into the kitchen, fury coiling along my limbs. “Don’t you dare!” I shouted, but it was too late, he’d already plucked them off the counter.

  “It’s for your own damn good, Edgar. If you won’t behave, then I’m just going to have to limit your mobility.” And with that he snatched my purse off the counter and rooted around inside.

  “Hey!” I yelled and reached for my purse, “Give me that!”

  Dutch held it away from me and found what he was looking for, my spare set of keys.

  “You are a son of a bitch!” I yelled and stormed out of the room, absolutely livid.

  “It’s for your own good!” he called to me. “I’m only doing it because I care!”

  “Bite me!” I snapped as I stomped up the stairs, tears stinging my eyes. I hate being treated like a child, and I hated it even more that Dutch was the one treating me like one.

  A half hour later I heard Dutch come up the stairs. He walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed where I was watching television. “Can we talk about this?” he said in a low measured tone.

  I reached for the remote and turned the volume up. I’m such a grown-up.

  “Abby . . .” he tried.

  I turned the volume up higher.

  “Fine,” he said, then set something on the nightstand and left the room.

  After he’d gone I looked over at what he’d placed on the nightstand. A perfect Spanish omelet complete with hash browns and toast sat there looking warm and inviting, and in spite of my angst, my stomach rumbled. Glowering at the food, I leaned over and picked up the plate. “Jerk,” I grumbled through a mouthful of food.

  After I’d polished off the breakfast I gathered up the plate and utensils and walked them downstairs. I heard music coming from Dutch’s study. Good. I tip-toed into the kitchen, and placed my plate and fork on the counter being careful not to make any noise. Then I picked up my coat, which I’d tossed on a chair, and carefully opened up the back door.

  One of my worst habits is locking my keys in the car when I stop to pump gas. After calling AAA several times, I’d finally gotten wise and invested in a magnetized Hide-A-Key, which I’d stashed inside one of the wheel wells. Dutch may have thought he was a clever boy for thinking to grab my spare set, but I still had a thing or two left to teach him.

  Ducking low along the side of the house, I shuffled over to the passenger side of my car and ran my hand up inside the rear wheel well. My hand connected with a small metal case, and I smiled wickedly. I pulled the Hide-A-Key loose and slid the top open. “Bingo!” I whispered. One car key, and one house key. I didn’t waste any more time congratulating myself. I needed some space between me and lover boy, and I needed it pronto.

  As I hopped in the Mazda and peeled out of the driveway, I couldn’t help but laugh as I imagined the look on Dutch’s face when he discovered I’d outsmarted him. “Take that, Cowboy!” I exclaimed and punched the button for the CD player. U2 jammed the interior and I smirked all the way to my house.

  I parked my car one block over, because I didn’t put it past Dutch to have it towed if he discovered it in my driveway, and trotted back to my front door. When I got inside I shivered. I’d set the thermostat low while I was away. I headed into the kitchen and got a Coke out of the fridge. I stood in the kitchen while I popped the top, trying to think of what to do next.

  I really needed to buy some more furniture for my sparse digs, and I also needed to get to the office and clean up the mess there. My heart sank when I thought of my office and I decided I couldn’t face that particular task quite yet. I looked at my watch, and seeing that it was a little after nine a.m., decided to head over to the furniture store.

  As soon as I walked into Englander’s, I was immediately surrounded by salespeople, all vying for my attention. Within the throng I noticed the guy who’d sold me my couch and I pointed to him. “John, right?”

  “Yes! I remember you,” he said, shooing the other clerks away. “Did you come back for the puzzle box?”

  I smiled and said, “No, thanks. I think I’m still gonna pass on that. What I do need to buy though is the rest of my living and dining-room. What can you show me in the way of an entertainment cabinet?”

  John pulled me over to a section of the store and walked me through the purchase of an entertainment cabinet, coffee table, dining room table and chairs and a desk for my study. The process took a while, mostly because my brain was elsewhere and it was hard for me to focus. The truth was that I was beginning to regret my tiff with Dutch this morning. That didn’t mean I thought he was right to treat me like a child; however, now that my initial anger had passed I was able to see that he was trying to look out for me.

  Still, I needed to establish the ground rule that Dutch could not dictate when I came and went. Outsmarting him by taking off was just good for our relationship—I reasoned. It set the precedence that he couldn’t order me around. Then again, I didn’t really need to overdo, so I could probably head back to his place after I’d finished with my shopping . . . having made my point and all.

  Around ten thirty I was done with my furniture shopping and ready to leave. Just as I was tucking the sales receipt away my intuition buzzed and the hair on my arms stood up on end. I jerked up my head and turned to my right. There, just inside the door was James Carlier . . . again.

  Anger welled up inside me and I began to march in his direction. I’d taken only a few steps when I heard my name called from across the store, “Miss Cooper! Miss Cooper!”

  I stopped short, and spun around. The voice belonged to the cashier who had just rung me up, and she hurried over to me waving my credit card. “You almost forgot this!” she said as she huffed to a halt in front of me.

  With effort I smoothed my features and accepte
d the card. “Thanks,” I said, casting a glance over my shoulder—James was gone. “I must have forgotten it on the counter.”

  “You don’t want to leave that lying around,” she said. “Not with all this identity theft going around.”

  As she said that my intuition went haywire, and I blinked and took a step back.

  “You okay?” she asked, putting a concerned hand on my arm.

  “Uh . . . yeah . . . fine. Listen, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for getting this back to me,” I said and tucked the card back into my wallet.

  “You look a little pale,” she insisted.

  “Low blood sugar,” I offered, and smiled at her.

  “Oh, we have doughnuts here if you want one.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a protein bar in the car. And I gotta fly.” Not waiting for her to respond I turned and left the store. I trotted to my car and got in, my mind set on one purpose. I turned the engine over and pointed the car in the direction of Opalescence. It was time to have a little tête-à-tête with James Carlier.

  Chapter Twelve

  The drive to James’s shop took a lot longer than expected. The moment I hit the road I noticed cops on what seemed like every street corner. I had little doubt that Dutch had called in a few favors and was even now having the streets scoured for any sign of me. Trying to avoid detection forced me into taking back streets and side alleys.

  The problem is that I have a vanity plate that makes it really easy to spot me. When I’d purchased the Mazda, I’d indulged in a plate that noted my profession: LTWRKR.

  For those not in the know, lightworker is one of those hip and trendy metaphysical terms that means someone who works with the Light. As I know of no better way to describe what it feels like when I’m in psychic mode and giving a reading, I’d always had an affection for the term. Now, as I navigated the bumpy back alley of a hardware store, anxious to get to Opalescence, I was beginning to regret my impulsiveness at the DMV.

  At around eleven thirty I finally arrived at the jewelry store. After parking in a garage two blocks over and out of sight, making sure to back into the parking space, I double stepped it over to James’s shop, keeping a lookout for police cars or foot patrolmen. I made it to the store without incident, and just as I reached for the handle the door swung open unexpectedly.

  “Whoa!” I said, jumping back as a woman carrying a box nearly crashed into me.

  “Excuse me,” she said with a sniffle.

  After taking another look at her, I realized this was the salesgirl who’d gone to lunch when I’d first met James. “Oh! Hello,” I said as I held the door open while she struggled with her box. “Maria, isn’t it?”

  Maria nodded and pulled her head down low in an attempt to hide her face, which I only now noticed was tear streaked. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she pushed past me.

  “Hey,” I called as I let go of the door and moved to walk next to her. “What’s the matter?”

  Maria kept walking, her head low and tears dribbling down her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she said and hitched up the box.

  “You don’t look fine,” I said, refusing to go away. “Come on, what’s the matter?”

  Abruptly, Maria stopped and dissolved into a fit of shoulder-shaking tears. I took the box from her, which was about to slip through her hands anyway, and laid it on the ground, only now noticing that it was full of small personal effects—an umbrella, an empty Tupperware container, a small radio and a box of Kleenex. I took one of the tissues and handed it to her. “Hey, there,” I said gently, putting a consoling hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, really. Whatever this is about can’t be all that bad.”

  “He fired us!” she wailed.

  “What?” I asked. “Who?”

  “Mr. Carlier. He just walked in this morning and told Josh and me to pack up our things and clear out. No explanation, no severance pay, just handed us our final paychecks and buh-bye!”

  “Oh, Maria,” I said, rubbing her shoulder. “I’m so sorry!”

  “I’ve worked there for three years! I loved that job!” she blubbered between sobs.

  My heart went out to her and I offered comfort the only way I truly knew how. “Do you know what I do for a living, Maria?”

  She shook her head and waved the tissue at me like she couldn’t care less.

  “I’m a professional psychic, and what I see for you right now is you’ll have about two weeks where you’re feeling a little lost, unsure of what to do, but then there will be a terrific job opportunity for you, doing pretty much the same thing you did here.”

  Maria’s sobbing subsided a bit. “Really?”

  I scanned her energy to be sure, “Yes. You’re definitely going to be working with jewelry again. You’re good at it. And I see a little more money too. There’s something about a raise, or a promotion, so I would say that whoever is lucky enough to hire you will give you more responsibility, and even a little more money than you were making here.”

  Maria looked at me. “And I only have to wait two weeks?”

  “Don’t hold me to that,” I warned. “I’m not the greatest with time, but there’s definitely the number two in my head and a feeling of immediacy, which typically means within two weeks. It could be just a tad bit longer though, so let’s say three just to be safe.”

  “I can wait that long,” Maria said. “Still, I’m really going to miss this place. And Mr. Carlier too. I really liked him, and that’s what makes his firing me so hard. He was such a great boss—until recently, that is.”

  “He’s been different lately?” I asked, my intuition buzzing.

  “Yeah, about a week ago he started acting all weird.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for one thing he was always checking the back door, to make sure it was locked. And he would jump when the phone rang. Then he got robbed and things got extra weird.”

  “I can imagine that getting robbed would make anyone act a little off.”

  “Yeah, I mean, we expected him to be even more paranoid, but instead he just didn’t seem to care about business anymore. He’d show up late, leave about ten minutes after he got here and couldn’t care less what we sold for the day. Mr. Carlier used to be a real stickler for details and the books, and all of the sudden he just doesn’t want anything to do with it. Then, yesterday, I heard him on the phone with Mr. Breger and he was yelling at him really loud . . .”

  “Who’s Mr. Breger?” I interrupted.

  “Willy Breger,” she explained. “He’s our accountant. From what I hear he’s been the store’s accountant forever. He even did the books for Mr. Carlier’s grandfather when he owned the store. Anyway, I heard them arguing, and at the end James says, ‘If you don’t like it then I’ll go find another accountant!’ and slammed down the phone. I guess I shoulda known then, huh?”

  I had been listening intently to Maria, and her question took me off guard. “Should have known what, Maria?”

  “That Josh and I were next to get the ax. Josh was so mad he didn’t even stick around to pack his box. He just grabbed his tools, flipped off Mr. Carlier, and walked out the door. I really liked Josh. Damn, I’m gonna miss him!” And with that Maria dissolved into another round of tears.

  I rubbed her shoulder some more and looked around self-consciously. People were beginning to stare. “Hey, now,” I said. “Come on, Maria. It’ll be okay. My feeling is that you’ll see Josh again, and you’ll love this new job too.”

  Another gulp and Maria nodded her head, then bent down to retrieve her box. “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry to lay this all on you. You’ve been really nice, but I just want to go home, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said with a smile. “Good luck to you.”

  Maria gave me a sad smile and walked away. As I watched her go, I felt an even more powerful wave of anger wash through me. Who did this Carlier guy think he was, anyway? Maria was a good, loyal employee; her energy said as much. Why would he fire someone like her?

  I pivoted
then on my heel and walked back to the store, stopping abruptly in front of a sign posted there that read CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  I tried the door but it was locked so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the pane. The interior was dark and no movement was evident from inside. “That was fast,” I said out loud as I moved away from the door. In the time that I’d walked halfway down the block with Maria, and talked with her, Carlier had closed up shop and vacated the premises.

  I scowled as I backed away from the door, pissed that I’d wasted so much of my afternoon chasing after some nutcase. Wasting no more of my time, I pivoted around and headed back to the parking garage. When I came out of the stairwell my day got a whole lot worse.

  Parked in front of my Mazda was a shiny, brand-new BMW 750i sedan with two occupants I knew very well. Milo sat in the driver’s seat and smirked as I came closer to the car. Dutch sat next to him and wore a look that could freeze a polar bear’s ass.

  “Shit,” I said under my breath, as I looked around nervously, wondering if I should bolt or cop an attitude. “What?” I demanded as I got up to the car, opting for the latter.

  Dutch got out, his look darkening to a level that made me shiver involuntarily. “Get in the car, Abby,” he growled.

  I thought about giving him a smarty-pants reply and running for it, but didn’t have it in me. With a shrug I got in the backseat of Milo’s car and pouted with my arms crossed.

  “Hey, Abby,” Milo said, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

  “Milo,” I answered as Dutch got in next to me.

  “This is how it’s gonna go down,” Dutch said, pivoting to eye me critically. “You’re going to hop into your car, and drive back to my house like a good girl. When we get there, you and I are gonna have a serious little chat.”

  “Bite me,” I said, lowering my own eyebrows. I don’t cotton to being talked to like a child—just ask my mother.

  “Abby,” Dutch said in a tone that meant business.