Murder Under a Mystic Moon

  We were almost nose-to-nose and yet George crowded still closer. Uncomfortable, I took a step back.

  “Take me in as a partner,” he said, his eyes blazing. “I can help you. You can teach me to read for the public and I’ll teach you all the stuff you’ve ignored, that you really should know. We could make a killing at the psychic fairs in Seattle. We’d make great partners.”

  Oh good God, so this was what it was all about? “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but if you’re looking for a mentor, you’d better drop the idea right now, because it’s not going to happen.” The headache that had been looming since Cathy first came in the shop struck, and struck with a vengeance.

  “Why not? Are you afraid of the competition? What would you do if another tarot reader set up shop in town?” he asked, a look of triumph in his eyes. “Isn’t it better to have the competition working with you rather than against you?”

  I snorted. “What would I do? Nothing. We live in a free country, or so the government claims. If someone wants to open a tarot shop in Chiqetaw, I’m not going to stop him. Get it through your head. The Chintz ‘n China sells—gee, guess what?—china! I make most of my money off tea and teapots, which is the way I want it. So don’t worry yourself about me. My clients come to me because they like how I read the tarot. If they want to go elsewhere, they’re free to do so.”

  I put my hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him back a few steps. “And George,” I said, “don’t ever get in my face again. I have a strong sense of boundaries, and babe, you crossed the line but good.”

  With a snort, he said, “Want some free advice?”

  “I think you’ve said enough as it is.”

  “Fine, so you think I’m some punk and you don’t need advice from me. Go on giving your penny-ante readings. But man, you’ve got real psychic power. The dead show up in your house and ask you to solve their murders. You could open up a ghost-busting type of outfit. Or a psychic institute. You could probably make some real money. I’d work with you! But will you help somebody who really wants to study the path to enlightenment? No, you just want to play tea party.”

  I’d had enough. I pointed toward the front door. “Leave. Now.”

  “Sure. Kick me out. You think you’re such hot shit around here, but you’re just a two-bit carnival queen. I’m telling you the truth right to your face; if you can’t handle it, then it’s not my problem.” He wheeled and strode out of the shop. By now, everybody was listening. They watched him exit, then silently turned to me.

  Astounded, I stared at the door as it swung shut. That little bastard. How dare he come into my shop, break my merchandise, and proceed to treat me like dirt! I leaned against the counter and tried to shake off my anger, studiously avoiding the questioning glances. Just then, Lana popped through the front door and I motioned to her.

  “Take over here, please. I need a break, and I need it now.”

  I slipped into the bathroom, washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face. As I stared at myself in the mirror, I felt a wave of doubt rise up. Could anything he’d said be true? But then, reality took hold and I shook it off. I just needed some lunch and a quiet moment in which to regroup. I headed to the tearoom for a cup of soup and a sandwich when Jimbo wandered in.

  “Hey, O’Brien, gotta minute?”

  I flashed Jimbo a tired smile. “For you? Maybe even five. I’ve had the most horrendous morning. Have lunch with me?”

  Jimbo grunted and selected two sandwiches and an assortment of cookies. He swung one leg over the back of the chair and stuffed his mouth with turkey and pastrami. I ladled out a bowl of soup and slid into the chair next to him, launching into a diatribe as I vented my frustration over the morning.

  After a moment, I realized that my voice was a little loud. “Ugh, I’ll finish telling you later. What’s up?”

  The shop bells tinkled as he stuffed the last bite of his second sandwich into his mouth, followed it with a swig of raspberry tea, and licked his fingers. He tossed a ten-spot on the table. “Good grub. I just wanted to make sure you remembered how to get to my place. Scar’s still missing.” His eyes flickered with worry.

  I’d been out to Jimbo’s a couple times during the summer, mainly to ferry the kids for a swim in Miner’s Lake. “Yeah, I remember how to get there, but why don’t you draw a map so I can give it to Murray. I’m not sure if she knows and I go by landmarks, rather than street names.”

  Jimbo looked like he was about to say something, then grabbed a napkin and sketched out rough directions on it. “She should be able to understand these.” He bit into a gingersnap and then held it out, looking at it with a critical eye. “Not bad, not bad. You set a good spread at this joint, I’ll give you that. So, you read up on the Klakatat Monster?”

  “Murray told me a little about it. Like Sasquatch, but more unpredictable.”

  “And a damned sight more dangerous. Did you know that according to local legend, this thing has racked up over fifteen deaths since the prospectors first settled near Goldbar Creek? The creek runs out of the valley and feeds directly into Miner’s Lake.” He drew a map with his finger along the table. “Way I figure it, is the creature’s coming down from Klickavail Mountain. That’s supposed to be its home.”

  A flicker crossed his eyes and I noticed that he was sweating. Just a few beads of perspiration dampened his forehead, but it was enough to make me nervous. If Jimbo was scared of this thing, then I really didn’t want to get close enough to shake hands. That is, if it actually existed.

  “I didn’t know all that. What do the authorities say about it?”

  “Authorities-schmorities. What do you think they say? Cougar death, or bear mauling. Well, that happens now and again, but the cougars and bears around here are more afraid of us than we are of them. They don’t use people as chew toys and then leave them for dead. If they kill it’s for food, or because some idiot gets between them and their cubs.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay, see you tomorrow. Remember, you promised fried chicken. And make enough so I can take some home for the kids.”

  Jimbo pushed back his chair. “Sure thing, O’Brien.”

  “Can I come along, Emerald? This would be the perfect chance to see you in action!” George stepped out from a corner where he had been eavesdropping on our conversation.

  I stared at him, astonished first by the fact that he’d returned, and second, that he had the gall to try to invite himself along after I’d kicked him out.

  “I forgot my video camera,” he added.

  No longer caring if anybody overheard, I exploded. “I thought I told you to leave! Didn’t your mother teach you to behave better than this? Jimbo and I were having a private conversation. You have no business asking to go along. In fact, you’ve got no business ever darkening the door of my shop again! I want you out of here.”

  Both Jimbo and George stared at me; Jimbo’s eyes were twinkling.

  George snorted. “Man, you really turned out to be a bitch. I thought we were going to be friends, but you’re such a tight-ass that now I wouldn’t work for you if you got down on your knees and begged me to.”

  “If anybody’s getting down on their knees, it’s gonna be you, dude.” Jimbo stepped in between us, tapping George on the shoulder. “The lady wants you to leave. If I were you, I wouldn’t make her mad. I’ve seen her in action. She’s scary.” He pulled himself up to his full height. “And I’m scarier.”

  George stared up at Jimbo, who towered over him by a good seven or eight inches and outweighed him by at least seventy pounds. “Uh… uh… I’m leaving, okay? I just have to get my gear.”

  “You stay here. I’ll get it,” I broke in. “I don’t want you trashing anything else on your way out.” I headed into the back room and Jimbo followed me, to give me a hand. He lugged the metal case to the front door and dumped it on the sidewalk. George flashed me an odd smirk as he picked up his camera case and headed
toward a brand-new BMW convertible. The kid wasn’t hurting for money. Probably had rich folks, because you sure didn’t make that kind of dough on an intern’s salary.

  George screeched out of the parking space and down the street. Jimbo said, “He’s a little weasel. Be careful, he’s the type to hold a grudge.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re spot on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As the biker ambled down the sidewalk, it struck me that on one hand, there was George, who passed for a nice, well-situated young man until he opened his mouth. On the other hand, there was Jimbo, a rough-and-ready biker who looked dangerous but had turned out to be as good-hearted as he was rough around the edges. Books and covers, I thought.

  I returned to the tea room, searching for the instructions to Jimbo’s house. The paper was resting on the floor, beneath the table, and as I reached down to get it, a prickle of energy rushed up my arm. Maybe we weren’t off on a wild goose chase after all.

  Chapter 4

  SUNDAY MORNING, I woke up more than a little sore. Yoga class had gone better than I expected. Tina Gaylord, the instructor, had taken me to one side to assess me for placement in class. After touching my toes produced a loud grunt, and trying to balance on one leg for longer than a count of ten sent me toppling to the floor, Tina assigned me to the beginners’ side of the room.

  As I watched Murray lithely twist herself into one asana after another, I decided that it was time to kick the couch-potato habit. I might never be able to stand on my head, but by God, I was determined to be able to touch my toes without groaning.

  A warm breeze cascaded through the open window overlooking the backyard. I winced and climbed out from under the new comforter I’d recently purchased. The color of peacock feathers, the blanket had been the inspiration for me to redo my entire bedroom, and I’d lucked out, finding matching accessories so that now I felt like I was sleeping in an opulent harem. Even during summer, the nights in Chiqetaw were usually cool enough to warrant a cozy blanket.

  I took a quick shower, then slipped on the one-piece swimsuit I’d bought at the beginning of summer. The bra shelf supported my boobs so they weren’t doing the jiggle-dance that all large-breasted women dealt with, but the leg holes rode higher on my hips than I felt comfortable with. Harlow had helped me pick it out.

  A cautious peek in the mirror caught me off guard. Whoa. My, oh my. Apparently, Harlow knew what she was talking about when it came to fashion. Outside the glare of the dressing room lights, the suit looked good… real good. The high-cut legs made me look taller and less cushy around the middle, and the color was a gorgeous tone-on-tone embossed burgundy, which set off my peaches-and-cream skin, as Nanna would have called it.

  I slipped jeans and a tank top over the suit, slid into a pair of loafers, and wove my tangle of curls into a French braid that fell just above my waist. Silver sparkled among the brunette.

  In the kitchen, the feline brigade came bouncing into the kitchen, clamoring for food. Kip fed them while I finished making English muffin-and-egg sandwiches for breakfast. I fixed myself a quad-shot espresso and poured it in the blender, adding a dollop of vanilla ice cream, milk, a couple of ice cubes, and chocolate syrup. Might as well make it nutritious, I thought, tossing in a scoop of chocolate Slim-Fast that I kept around for emergency meals. As the blissfully thick, caffeinated shake ran down my throat, I sat down at the table with the kids.

  “Why can’t we go?” Kip said for the umpteenth time, his mouth full of muffin. His strawberry-blond hair reflected in the sunlight that beamed through the window, as he gave me that woeful puppy-dog gaze of his. Short for his age, he looked younger than his nine years.

  Randa chimed in. “Yeah, I hate chlorine. The lake would be so much nicer.”

  “I already told you,” I said. “A man’s missing. We don’t know what might be out there and I refuse to put you in danger. I tell you what, if everything seems okay, I’ll drive back, get you, and you can go swimming this afternoon.” I gave them my “no-more-complaints-and-that’s-final” look. They quieted down. “Stay around the neighborhood today, okay? I’m taking my cell phone, and Horvald’s going to be home, so go over to his place if there’s an emergency.”

  They pouted the rest of the way through breakfast, but by the time I was ready to leave, they’d managed to find something to occupy their time. Kip was playing superhero out in the front yard, and Randa was on the phone, calling to see if her friend Lori was back from vacation yet. A horn sounded from the front of the house. Murray had arrived. We were driving out separately, just in case her boss, Coughlan, called her back to the station. The jerk was so lazy that he had taken to interrupting her on her days off to take care of grunt-work that he didn’t want to do.

  I headed out the door, glancing at the still-unfamiliar Mercury Mountaineer parked in my drive. Yet another change this year. I had finally given up hope of ever finding my beloved Grand Cherokee, which had apparently gone the way of a chop shop when it had been stolen in April.

  I sauntered over to Mur’s pickup and leaned in her window. “Do you mind if we stop at the store before we head out? I didn’t want to torture the kids any more than necessary by packing a picnic basket here.”

  She nodded. “Not a problem. I’ll follow you, right?”

  I shaded my eyes from the sun. “Yeah, do you have the directions in case we get separated?” I handed her the map that Jimbo had drawn up.

  “I’ve been there before, remember? When I was checking out Jimbo’s alibi?” She tucked the napkin into her pocket.

  “That’s right. He’s changed in the past months, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “At least he hasn’t gotten himself tossed in jail since you dropped the charges against him. Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

  As I pulled out of the driveway, I turned on the radio to 107.7—The End. Nirvana came wailing out of the speakers and I chimed in, happily belting out the lyrics to “Lithium,” even more off-key than Kurt Cobain himself. Fifteen minutes later, the back seat full of bread, chips, soda, and beer for Jimbo, I turned left onto Myerson Road, with Murray keeping pace right behind me.

  Myerson forked into a “Y.” I flipped on my right blinker and turned onto Oakwood, which would lead us northeast. A spacious country road, Oakwood was free from potholes since the loggers took a different route that led them around Chiqetaw instead of directly through it.

  The road wound through patches of fir, cedar, and alder that were interspersed with sprawling country homes and vintage farmhouses. The big farms had been subdivided into one-to-five acre individual lots years ago, and the profusion of houses were surrounded by miniature corn fields and blueberry farms. Weekend gardeners made a killing at the farmers’ markets around the area. I veered left when we came to Lakeshore Drive.

  Miner’s Lake was actually more of an overgrown pond than an actual lake. While the other side was clearly visible, the lake was wide enough to fish on and swim in. I slowed, bumping along the uneven road, wondering if the city was ever going to get around to repaving it.

  Jimbo’s chopper, polished and shining, was parked in front of a ramshackle house that had long ago passed its prime. The house was surrounded by outbuildings and sheds scattered across the property. Half-finished projects, from engine motors to plumbing to woodworking, littered the yard, and a big old truck peeked out of the main garage. One of those rounded cab affairs, it had been jacked up for off-road use, probably for when Jimbo went hunting and trapping.

  As I pulled to a stop, Murray eased in behind me and Jimbo sauntered out into the yard. It still seemed odd to see him in his home environment. Instead of his leathers, he was wearing a mesh tank top and jeans. His perpetual bandana was nowhere to be seen, instead he’d caught his hair back into a ponytail that was hanging down his back. Roo, his brown and white three-legged dog, hopped along beside him, barking and wagging her tail. She was missing her left rear leg, but the pooch seemed happy enoug
h.

  Jimbo shushed her. “They’re friends, you dimwit. Good girl, that’s a good girl.”

  The dog came loping up to greet us. The first time I’d laid eyes on her, I’d been surprised to see how well she functioned with only three legs; but she ran and played just like any other dog.

  “Hey Jimbo. You remember Murray?”

  Jimbo’s eyes flickered from my face to hers. He gave her a wry grin and spread out his arms. “Yeah, yeah… Hey, Detective, you want to frisk me?”

  I choked back a snort as Murray cleared her throat. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. I heard you were frying up a chicken and decided to find out if you can really cook, or if you’re blowing smoke again.”

  As I watched them, a tiny bell went off in the back of my brain, but it flickered and vanished as quickly as it had come. I shrugged it off and looked around. “You know, before we eat lunch, why don’t you show me where your fence got torn up?” If there was something nasty out here, I might be able to get some sort of energy trace on it and at least figure out whether it was a cow gone rogue, or something more sinister.

  “Good idea. This way.” Jimbo led us past the jumble of fix-it projects sitting around the yard, to a field that spread out for a couple of acres. I inhaled sharply; his garden was more than a small patch of vegetables—it was huge, taking up the space of two city lots. Thick patches of zucchini and squash dotted the ground, and vine after vine of peas trailed up makeshift trellises.

  When we came to the carrot patch, however, it looked like Bugs Bunny’s evil twin had come calling. The carrots were trampled, and a number of them had been uprooted and gnawed at, then dropped. A nearby corn patch had received similar treatment, the stalks bent and broken. I knelt down, looking at the footprints Jimbo had been talking about. Whatever had made them had been big, all right, and barefoot.