Endangered Species (28 page)

“Well—” I began when Louis interrupted. Doing that seemed to be a bad habit of his.

“Anyway, what she thinks is besides the point,” he said.

“It most certainly is the point.”

“No, it isn't. The point is that we don't want Mother taken advantage of.”

“That's right,” Helen agreed, entering the room. As she handed me an iced tea, I could see that her nails were bitten down.

“I was just curious,” Amy said, but her tone had changed from defiant to defeated.

“You'll have to forgive my sister,” Hillary told me. “She's just concerned about our mother.”

“As are we all,” Louis chimed in.

I took a sip of my tea and put it down. It had that chemical aftertaste of the powdered instants. “Does your mother have a name?”

“Oh.” Hillary paused. “I thought you knew.”

“Should I?”

“Of course not. Why should you?” She gave a dismissive little laugh at her own foolishness. “It's Rose. Rose Taylor,” she continued, idly caressing her arm with her hand.

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it, and I didn't ask, figuring I could always do that later.

“I suppose,” Hillary continued, “I could go to one of the larger detective agencies, but that seems like overkill.”

“Not to mention expensive,” I couldn't help volunteering. As an unlicensed part-timer I charged bargain basement prices.

“That, too,” Hillary conceded, her gray eyes widening a fraction. “I won't lie about that.”

“One hundred dollars an hour is a lot on a postal worker's salary,” Louis griped.

Hillary fingered the hem of her skirt. “Actually, I thought we needed a more personal touch.”

“So what is this job about?” I asked.

Louis and Hillary exchanged glances as Hillary sat down on the other side of me. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. She seemed to like the way they looked. I noticed she had a small half-moon tattooed on her left calf.

“Tell me,” Hillary asked, turning her head in my direction. “Do you believe in psychics?”

“Psychics? You mean people who communicate with the dead?”

“Yes.”

“No.” I'd tried one after my husband Murphy had died. It had cost me a hundred bucks and left me feeling like a fool.

Hillary and Louis exchanged another look. “Do you believe people have the ability to talk to animals?” Hillary asked me.

“I think we can communicate.” My dog, Zsa Zsa, was pretty good at letting me know what she wanted.

“I mean talking.”

I looked to see if she was joking. She wasn't.

“As in my cat telling me, watch out, the lady down the street is in a bitchy mood today?” I asked

“Something like that.”

“Not outside of the movies.”

“Well, my mother does.”

“She believes she can talk to animals? I don't think . . .”

“No, she believes a woman named Pat Humphrey can.” Hillary spread her hands and studied what was left of her fingernails.

“Go on,” I finally prompted.

“This is so embarrassing.”

I waited.

Hillary sighed and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “All right. Three months ago—more or less—my mother's cat disappeared from the house. At first, we thought someone let it out by accident Now, of course—” Hillary stopped. “Well, you decide. My mother was hysterical. She's very attached to . . . this animal. Anyway, the next morning at nine o'clock, this woman—”

“Pat Humphrey?” I asked.

Hillary nodded. “She appeared at my mother's door with the cat in her arms. She said she was a pet psychic. She said she'd found the cat wandering in the park and the cat told her where my mother lived.”

“So you're saying you think this woman might have stolen your mother's cat and then brought it back?”

Hillary gave me the kind of smile a teacher bestows on a promising pupil.

“She said she didn't want any money,” Louis continued, “but my mother insisted on giving her a reward.”

I leaned forward. “How big?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

I whistled. “Five thousand dollars is a fair chunk of change—even these days.”

“Not for our mother,” Amy blurted out. “She's rich.”

Hillary glared at Amy, who turned her eyes downward. “Comfortable,” Hillary corrected. “She's comfortable.”

While Amy bit her lip, Louis took up the narrative.

“In any case,” he said, “our mother talks to her every day now. Sometimes twice a day. We're worried. We think our mother is giving this woman money.”

“I assume you think this woman is running a scam.”

Hillary nodded.

“So, then, why don't you go to the police?”

“We will if we have to,” Hillary said. “But we're hoping to avoid that. We don't want to upset Mother unnecessarily. She's a very private person. She would be furious if she thought we involved the authorities in her private business.”

“It would be like saying we thought she's losing it,” Louis said.

Hillary nodded her head in agreement.

“But going to me wouldn't be?”

“She's not going to know.”

“I'm confused here. Now, what is it exactly that you want me to do?”

Louis looked at Hillary, and Hillary gave a nod.

“We've been thinking about that,” Louis said. “And this is what we've come up with. We want you to get an appointment with this Humphrey woman. And then we want you to tape your session with her. I don't care if it takes one, two, or five times. We want tangible proof that this woman is a fraud.” i

It seemed as if that wouldn't be too hard a task to accomplish.

Although the city of Syracuse is real, as are some of the place names I've mentioned, this is a work of fiction. Its geography is imaginary. Indeed, all the characters portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

 

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Copyright © 1999 by Barbara Block

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