Absolutely, Positively

  19

  Medford Millinery was appropriately located in Medford. Medford Square to be exact, about fifteen minutes north of the city.

  Preston said, “Next time I’m driving. You drive like a granny.”

  “Are you insulting Dovie?” I clicked my key fob and my car beeped twice, locking the doors. I slipped on my gloves and looked around, immediately drawn to the coffee shop across the street. Feeling the pull, I started toward it, only to be suddenly jerked backward.

  Preston held firm to the strap of my purse. “The hat shop is this way.” She started down the sidewalk.

  “Can’t I meet you?”

  “You’re not going to be able to focus until you get a latte, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Let’s hurry up then.”

  Ten minutes later, we stood inside the millinery shop, surrounded by some of the fanciest hats I’d ever seen. The man behind the counter didn’t look too pleased to see us.

  Preston marched up to the counter (she really needed to work on her finesse) and placed the Lone Ranger’s hat next to the cash register. “Hello. We found this hat, and were hoping you could help us reunite it with its proper owner.” She tried batting her eyelashes, but her direct manner of speaking overruled any kind of flirtatiousness.

  Thank goodness, because that would have been too much for me to handle. The shopkeeper looked to already have one foot in the grave. He was small and skeletal, his paper-thin skin stretched across his drooping features. Dark splotches covered his neck and face, rising onto his forehead and creeping across his shiny bald spot until disappearing into his receding dull gray hairline. Tufts of white hair shot from his ears, reveling in freedom by twisting and curling along the veiny skin covering protruding cartilage.

  He had to be ninety if a day.

  “Did you not see the sign?” he asked in a heavy Italian accent.

  “What sign?” Preston asked. “No returns? This isn’t a return; it’s—”

  He slammed his hand on the countertop. “No food or drink!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the windows.

  “Cripes!” Preston jumped back, splashing her coffee onto her winter white wool coat.

  The man placed both hands on the glass countertop, leaned forward, and huffed, much like a bull before he charged.

  I backed slowly toward the door.

  “Do you happen to have a paper towel?” Preston asked the man in a dulcet tone.

  He let out a hearty, “Arrrrgh!” that had those windowpanes shivering in fear.

  I confess to a shudder as well.

  “No need to be surly,” Preston growled in return, only mildly fazed by the outburst. I, on the other hand, was ready to run away. Far, far away.

  Preston spun, removed my coffee from my hand, and set both our cups outside the door. When she passed by, she said, “You just had to have your coffee first, didn’t you?”

  “We should go,” I whispered.

  “The Lone Ranger,” she forced through clenched teeth. She turned back to the shopkeeper, a broad smile stretching the limits of her face. “Better?”

  He smiled, a closed-lip affair sure to give me nightmares. He hooked his thumbs on his vest and drummed his bony fingers on his hollow chest. “I am Dominic Pagano. How may I help you lovely ladies?”

  “The hat?” Preston said, pushing it his way.

  “Ah yes.” He picked it up, ran a hand lovingly along the edges. He handed it back to her. “I can’t help you.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “My clientele is confidential. I absolutely cannot divulge who purchased the hat.”

  “But you do know who purchased the hat?” Preston asked, digging for information. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

  I stepped up beside her, just in case I had to hold her back from leaping the counter and strangling the old man.

  “My memory is limitless.” Dominic tapped his temple. “I never forget a hat, a face, or a name. I made this hat in 1989. July. An unusually hot summer, as I recall.” He ran a hand over the hat as though it were a pet.

  I rummaged around my satchel, pushing aside the files I’d shoved in there, a bottle of water, a hair pick, lip gloss, my overstuffed wallet, and finally found my card case and pulled out a business card. “Could you please contact its owner and tell him we found the hat and would like to speak with him? He can call anytime.”

  Spindly fingers clamped onto the card. “Valentine?” His bushy eyebrows rose. “As in ‘Oscar Valentine’?”

  “He’s my father.”

  Preston smiled triumphantly.

  The man flushed with pleasure. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Oscar is one of my favorite clients. He’s quite fond of the fedora, is he not?”

  “Not for long,” Preston snapped. “I doubt he’ll ever come in again once he finds out how you treated his daughter. His only daughter.”

  I sighed dramatically. I might as well play it up. If it helped track down the owner of the Lone Ranger hat, why not?

  “And her closest friend,” Preston added, linking elbows with me.

  Okay. That was pushing it.

  The shopkeeper hurriedly pulled a slip of paper from beneath the counter. In spidery penmanship he scribbled a name. He checked an old-fashioned Rolodex and jotted down an address as well. He slid the paper across the counter.

  Jeffrey Denham-Foster with a Randolph address.

  With a brittle smile, the shopkeeper said, “I don’t know how much good it will do.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Mr. Denham-Foster passed away a year ago.”

  That news certainly changed the direction of our investigation.

  Preston glanced at me, then back to the man. “Was he married?”

  “Why, yes. Lovely woman. Eva. They had three children together. Arnold, Matthias, and Linda.”

  I had the feeling, if asked, Pagano could provide birthdates. He wasn’t kidding when he claimed a great memory.

  “I’m quite sorry I can’t be of more help. But please do give your father my best. Have a lovely day. And…”

  “Yes?” Preston asked.

  “If you come back,” his smile turned to a snarl and he banged his hand on the counter, “remember no food or drink!”

  The glass shook again as Preston grabbed the hat and my arm and steered me to the door. Outside the shop, she bent and picked up our coffees. She handed me mine, and I tossed it in a trash can.

  “He’s pleasant,” I said, smiling.

  She tipped her head. “I kind of liked him. I have a soft spot for crankypusses.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Sipping her coffee, she frowned. “It’s cold.”

  “Imagine.” I started for my car and stopped short.

  “What?” Preston asked, following my gaze.

  My car sat at the curb, all four doors open wide. I quickly looked around.

  “What are you looking for? Should we call the cops?”

  “No use.” My pulse raced. “I’m sure Tristan Rourke is long gone.”

  20

  “How do you know it was Tristan?” Preston asked as Scarlett, my GPS, directed us from Medford to Roxbury. I’d lived in Boston and the South Shore my whole life, yet still couldn’t find my way around.

  “I just do.”

  “But how?” she pressed, tapping her fingernail on the console.

  “I’m psychic, remember?”

  “Not that kind. I’ve been reading up on psychics, you know.”

  I slid a look her way. Where was she going with this? She was leading me somewhere. “You have?”

  “I’m just fascinated, especially now that I know your powers are real. Did you know a lot of psychic ability is hereditary?”

  “Really?” I asked. “Because it was the lightning strike and the surge of electricity that gave me my abilities to find lost objects.” I wasn’t technically lying. I just left out the part where the surge had robbed me of s
eeing auras. The auras I’d inherited from my father.

  “Was anyone else there when the surge happened?” she asked as she changed the radio station.

  Though there was nothing overt in her tone, I heard the investigator at work. “My mother,” I answered. “And I was on the phone with Marisol, who rushed right over from her house when the phone went dead.”

  I remembered it all too clearly. How the surge had knocked me clear off my bed. Mum had rushed into the room to check on me, and I hadn’t been able to see her red aura. My colorful world had gone dark.

  “I’m sure either of them would love to tell you all about that day.”

  She stared out the window, a frown tugging on her lips. Mine hadn’t been the answer she had hoped for. It was obvious she suspected my father had powers. It was only a matter of time before she figured out he could see auras. Cutter, too. What would she do with the information?

  When she didn’t respond, I gratefully let it drop. “Did your shady contacts have any other information about Tristan?”

  “Most were reluctant to talk about him at all.”

  “Yet they all knew who he was.”

  “Without a doubt.” She shifted slightly to face me. “If it was Tristan who left your doors open, why would he do that? I don’t understand.”

  I checked my rearview mirror. As far as I could tell, there was no one following us. I didn’t feel relief. I felt duped. This was twice now Tristan had caught me off-guard. “I don’t know.”

  He had every opportunity to be malicious. It would have taken only seconds to slash my seats. Minutes to steal the radio or the GPS unit. Instead, he had simply unlocked the doors and left them open wide.

  In a way, it was more violating. As if he was declaring that not only could he find me, but also locks wouldn’t keep him out. If it was a subtle threat, it worked. I was skeeved out.

  I glanced in the mirror again. Still nothing.

  Scarlett demanded I turn left in one hundred feet. She was bossy and demanding, that Scarlett, and woe to the driver who didn’t do as she said. We were on our way to the location Preston’s tipster had given her—the address for Tristan Rourke’s underground headquarters. We were scoping the place out, doing a quick drive-by to see if the tip held any merit.

  “Do you know if this is a house or a warehouse?”

  “Not a clue. Two hundred bucks will only buy so much.”

  I suddenly thought of the homeless man on the bench on the Common and the money he’d slipped into his glove. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days and made a mental note to check on him, make sure he had enough to eat.

  I knew I couldn’t save the whole world. And maybe I couldn’t even help the homeless man, but I could try. I certainly had more than enough money sitting in my trust fund to be a benefactor. But first, I should ask if he wanted my help. Some people wouldn’t—and I could respect that.

  “About my expense report,” Preston said.

  “Were we talking about your expense report?”

  Scarlett told me to turn right in twenty feet.

  Preston ignored my question. “I think I should be able to write off a new pair of boots. I was on the job when these broke.”

  The superglue wasn’t holding. “But you weren’t on the job for Valentine, Inc. The Lone Ranger has nothing to do with Lost Loves.”

  Raising an eyebrow, she said, “But if I weren’t working the Lost Love cases, I never would have been downtown, ergo I never would have known about the Lone Ranger in the first place.”

  “Ergo? Did you go to law school when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Journalism law and ethics class.”

  She made a compelling argument. “We’ll stop at DSW on the way back to the office.”

  Smiling, she said, “Now I remember why I like you.”

  “Because I have a company credit card?”

  “Exactly.”

  Scarlett announced we had reached our destination. I drove past the storefront, banged a U-ey that had Scarlett pitching such a fit I had to turn off the GPS, and parallel-parked across the street.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I stared at the front of A Clean Start, the Laundromat owned by Tristan’s grandmother, as a woman came out with a laundry basket full of something other than clothes. I squinted but couldn’t identify the items. “What’s in her basket? Can you tell?”

  Preston pulled binoculars from her bag and trained them on the unsuspecting woman. “Groceries. Milk. Cereal. Soup. No clothes. You’d think with that being a Laundromat and that being a clothes basket there would be clothes. There’s not even a sock to be seen.”

  I stared at the binoculars.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Do you always carry around an extra set of binoculars?” The other pair was back at the office, still sitting on the windowsill where I left them.

  “I was a Girl Scout,” she said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I like to be prepared.”

  “You were a Girl Scout?”

  “Don’t look so shocked.” She pointed. “Here comes someone else.”

  A young black man, early twenties, was headed into the Laundromat with an empty basket. Five minutes later, he came back out. The basket was full.

  “What does he have in it?” I asked.

  “Looks like two blankets, a loaf of bread, and a gallon of milk. Skim.”

  What was going on in that Laundromat? Was it a general store as well?

  “We need to go in,” Preston said. “Scope it out.”

  “Maureen Rourke knows what I look like. She’ll never tell me anything.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll go in.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t be such a nervous Nelly.”

  She was out the door and halfway across the street before I could even think to tease her about the phrase. Preston didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. In fact, as she rushed in, the woman coming out gave Preston a wide berth. I couldn’t blame her—Preston was a little scary herself.

  The woman had one hand clamped tightly around a little girl’s hand; the other was holding a paper sack with a loaf of bread sticking out of the top.

  The mother looked both ways, held tight to the girl, and crossed the street. They passed my car, headed slowly toward an apartment complex farther up the block. The girl, maybe four or five, was dragging her feet through the slush.

  On impulse, I jumped out of the car and jogged after them. I was closing in when the mother suddenly let go of the girl’s hand, turned, and aimed a pepper spray canister my way.

  “Stop right there,” she ordered.

  I skidded to a halt, nearly falling over with the sudden inertia. I swung my arms, teetered.

  “I mean it!” she yelled, thrusting her hand forward. Her thumb was on the button, poised for squirting.

  “She means it!” the little girl echoed.

  My foot slipped on the slush and my feet slid out underneath me. I fell flat on my ass. The icy slush immediately soaked through my pants.

  The little girl giggled.

  Her mother still pointed the spray. Right. I was going to jump her now, armed with a snowball. “I come in peace,” I managed to say, trying to find to find an elegant way to stand up.

  The woman eyed me suspiciously but reached out her hand (I didn’t see anything). She’d put the pepper spray away. “You scared the shit out of me,” she said.

  “Scared,” the girl echoed.

  “Shush, Nessie.”

  An icy drip slid down the back of my thigh. I didn’t even want to check the damage.

  “What are you doing chasing after me?” the woman demanded.

  “I, uh—” It had been a completely stupid thing to do.

  “Don’t you know this is a bad neighborhood? You’re lucky I didn’t have a gun.”

  “Lucky,” Nessie parroted, nodding her head. Jet-black twin pigtails bounced, brushing her shoulders.

  It was a bad neighborho
od. Yet I saw tiny gems of hope along the neglected street. New fencing, newer windows on some of the houses, and fresh paint covering gang graffiti.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw you come out of A Clean Start.” A quick look at the storefront didn’t show any sign of Preston, but I suddenly noticed how the building stood out. Bold paint, big windows, a bright airy feeling around it. The place fairly sparkled, which I supposed was a good image to have for a Laundromat. I wasn’t so sure it was the best idea to stick out like a sore thumb, even if that thumb had just been manicured and painted with a fresh coat of polish.

  “So?” she said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seemed strange you came out with groceries instead of laundry.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Yeah, why?” Nessie asked.

  She was the spitting image of her mother—her smooth skin a light brown, her dark eyes and lashes slanting slightly, her razor-sharp tone.

  I couldn’t very well come out and ask about Tristan Rourke. I stalled for time, but not only did my butt ache; it was now frozen also. I longed for home and a long bubble bath. I was fresh out of ideas of how to beat around the bush. “Do you know Tristan Rourke?”

  The woman raised a paper-thin eyebrow.

  “Robin Hood, Robin Hood,” the little girl chanted.

  I glanced at her, then at her mother. At the bag of groceries and the pair’s thin spring coats. It clicked. “Robin Hood? Robbing the rich to feed the poor?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” the woman said.

  Nessie smiled. A space was missing where a front tooth should have been. “Or me.”

  I smiled back. “Does he only provide groceries?”

  “Clothes. Food. Blankets. Cash. In some cases, tuition.”

  “And what does he get in return?”

  “I can’t say I know.” She started forward, stopped, turned. “This may still be a bad neighborhood, but a year ago, two years ago … It was hell on earth.”

  “Hell,” Nessie said, nodding.

  The woman tsked at her.

  As they walked off, Nessie looked over her shoulder and waved at me. As I waved back, I felt a presence behind me. I spun just as the man reached out and grabbed me.

  21

  Sean gripped my upper arms. His eyes were a dark, stormy gray. “What are you doing here?”