Getting Sassy (19 page)

He pressed his lips together and sighed. “How come?”

“I’m not ready to complicate my life—not in that way.”

“You were ready in the barn.”

“I know.” I smiled and added, “Having a horse and a goat for an audience turns me on.”

“You’re an exhibitionist.” He nodded to himself as though confirming a thought.

“I guess I am.”

“I’ve got a friend who raises goats.” He shrugged. “Bet I could be back with one in a half hour.”

I laughed, and he lifted his hand off the steering wheel in a can’t-say-I-didn’t-try gesture.

“Okay, so how about I come by tomorrow, and we can talk about your idea.”

“It was a three-beer idea. Worth about that much.”

He frowned, squinted as he cocked his head. “If Edison thought that, we wouldn’t have electricity.”

“Edison drank?”

“I’d bet on it.”

I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he didn’t respond to, but continued to hold onto my gaze when I drew away. In the dim light provided by the setting sun, I couldn’t read his eyes, but I didn’t think I needed to.

“Thank you,” I said, and then added, “I didn’t go just because of Bull.”

“Sure,” he said.

I changed into my walking shoes and after taking Bix around the block, I checked my voice mail. None of the Mary Waltners had called, and the only message was the one from Jane Goodwin, which, for some reason, I had saved. I deleted it.

I sat down and poured myself a scotch and thought about my mother’s situation. If I told Jane Goodwin yes, I would have to move my mother in two weeks—after explaining it all to her. If I told her no, I would either have to come up with the money or I would have to move to a larger place. I couldn’t do that again. Could I? If that possibility—however remote—didn’t give me impetus to steal, kidnap, whatever, then nothing would.

Tomorrow morning I would reevaluate the scheme. In the daylight, with my sanity and sobriety returned, I was sure it wouldn’t be worth considering any longer. But I would wait until then to decide.

I watched Bix, splayed on the floor chewing a dog biscuit I’d given him. Sassy was three times the size of my dog, and probably wouldn’t stop at dog biscuits. It didn’t take much to imagine him feasting on furniture and peeling off the wallpaper in the kitchen. And when I considered what a goat would do to Bix’s sensitive psyche, well, I knew it wasn’t worth considering further.

By the time I’d worked that out, I had finished my drink. I almost poured myself another, but I try to set my limit at one, although I will admit to pouring a rather dark scotch.

I changed into a T-shirt and slipped into bed. The storm had cooled the air and it was nice sleeping with the window open. I lay my hand in the space beside me on the bed and tried to decide if I was sorry I’d rejected Mick’s advances. Maybe a little. He’d kissed with passion and took his time. And, given the situation—being in someone else’s barn and all, that had to take something—either incredible concentration or a complete disregard for consequences. He’d been a jockey. He probably had a bit of both.

I rolled over on my side and tucked one hand into the cool underside of my pillow. But when I closed my eyes, sleep was the last thing my body wanted to do. Images rioted in my mind—my mother, Willoway, cigarettes, Mick, Bull and Gwen, Blood, Sassy—and I didn’t know how to turn them off.

I sighed into my pillow. If Mick were here, I wouldn’t be counting leaping goats. That’s for damned sure.

I woke with a mild hangover: Not the searing headache precipitated by consuming too much red wine, but that “my head is stuffed with cotton” feeling and a stomach doing flip flops, thanks to the combination of beer and scotch. The scotch god is a jealous one—the unfaithful are punished. I turned off the radio and rolled over, seeking oblivion. But my brain picked right up on the looping thread from last night—my mother... Mick... goats—and I knew I stood a better chance of putting these thoughts out of my mind by getting out of bed and doing something.

So I got up, threw on a T-shirt and jeans and drank a large glass of orange juice, followed with a bowl of Cheerios and a banana.

While walking Bix, I ticked off my tasks. I had an article to finish. I had to handle my mother’s demand for a séance, I had to give Jane Goodwin my answer, and then I had to deal with that decision because, in the sobering light of day, I realized the one thing I was not going to do today was steal a goat.

I decided to finish the article first because, frankly, that was the easiest to face. This meant I had to visit Erika at her shop to ask some follow-up questions, so at the same time I could talk to her about another séance.

While I took a quick shower, I thought back on that insane discussion Mick and I had had in the barn. (Not to mention the lapse of self-control.) It was a parlor game, really. Stealing a goat and holding it for ransom. Ridiculous. I would not bring it up again and hoped
that Mick would do the same. And maybe it was time to change accountants.

When I arrived at Erika’s shop, there was a man sitting at the desk in the reception area. He was in his late forties with broad shoulders, which contrasted with a narrow nose that was the centerpiece of an outstanding face. When he looked up from his cell phone, I had to remind myself to keep moving. I’m not usually bowled over by a man’s looks, sensing, perhaps unfairly, that a gorgeous man was apt to be as faithless, and as preening, as a rooster. But his rather sharp features were offset by kind eyes, and the slight smile he gave me produced a set of dimples. His brows rose a fraction of an inch and he raised a finger as though asking me to wait a moment. Then he said into the phone, “Yeah, I know, but...”

I wondered if he was Erika’s receptionist. He wore a rust-colored T-shirt that accentuated the cut of his arms. The conversation he was conducting didn’t sound work-related. Although he wasn’t talking loudly, and I wasn’t straining to listen, I picked up words such as “next week” and “Dallas.”

Nevertheless, if he wanted to give me his attention, I decided I would be grateful for it.

I felt those friendly eyes follow me as I walked past the desk, seeking some distraction that would allow me to refocus. I’d noticed the smell when I’d walked in—a mix of fruits and spices—and I saw that, since Friday, Erika had begun peddling psychic paraphernalia. I walked over to the shelves to see what was for sale. Aside from candles, incense and crystals, there were also sets of Tarot cards and a small tray of amulets ranging from pentagrams to bats. A single shelf was filled with books on Tarot cards, crystal balls and one on the psychic power of animals. I picked up the latter, thinking perhaps I was a mere 189 pages away from learning why Bix attacked the vacuum.

I was skimming a paragraph on reading a dog’s body language, when the rooster spoke. “Are you here to see Erika?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes. I’m Robyn Guthrie. Are you the receptionist?”

A quick smile. “No, I’m Jack Landis. Her brother.” He stood and walked around the desk—I just knew he’d look amazing in a pair of jeans—leaning his butt against its edge and crossing his arms over his chest.

“So Starwise must be her married name.”

That made him laugh and, although it was a little on the high-pitched side, it fit the rest of him. Then, with a sheepish shrug, he crossed one ankle over the other, grinned and said, “I’m afraid that was my idea. Not the Starwise. Just that Erika Landis didn’t sound... authentic.” He finished with a half-hearted shrug and then locked his gaze onto mine. “Name withstanding, she is the real thing.”

I nodded agreeably.

His brows drew together as if something about me had belatedly sparked a memory. “Are you that reporter who’s doing the story on

Erika?”

“I am.”

“Oh.” He drew the word out to two syllables and just nodded, looking me over.

I glanced to either side. “Am I infamous?”

“Not really. She said it was an interesting session.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“She’s got a client now. Shouldn’t be long.”

I cocked my chin. “Are you psychic?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No. I’m afraid Erika is the only one who inherited our grandmother’s gift.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Yeah. She could predict the gender of a child six months before it was born.”

“I guess ultrasounds put her out of business.”

That earned me an amused grin, and Jack looked like he was about to respond when the first few notes from the James Bond theme erupted from his phone. He flipped it open to answer the call.

I went back to the book, silently cursing the inventors of all annoying conveniences, and attempted to focus on the words before me. But that proved difficult because the paragraph I read made no sense—something about using a Ouija board with your dog. Still, I kept skimming the page. I wanted to keep busy because I figured if Jack and I continued to talk, I would blather, and he would know that maturity didn’t necessarily have anything to do with social grace. As it was, he was eyeing me, I thought, with some interest, and I didn’t want to disillusion him too early. I was nothing, if not patient.

Out of the corner of my eye, an item on the countertop caught my attention. I set the book down and picked up a small, gold-colored metal bowl containing a wooden stick that was padded at one end in an embroidered red and turquoise material. I lifted the stick from the bowl and stood there for a moment, not sure whether I should whack the bowl’s side or just return it to the shelf before I embarrassed myself.

“It’s a Tibetan singing bowl.”

I looked up to find Jack standing right behind me. His eyes were a tawny shade of brown and he had long, feminine lashes. He blinked once.

“Really,” I said.

“It’s used for meditation.”

“It sings?”

“You have to make it sing.”

“Ah.” I lifted the stick out of the bowl. “Does it do requests?” I asked, then instantly regretted the sarcasm.

One of those dimples flashed in his left cheek. “Just let it sit on your palm. So you’re not touching the bowl part. Then rub the outside rim with the stick.”

I tried, but I was holding the stick like a fork and not having much success.

“Like this,” he said and took my hand, adjusting my grip so the padded part of the wooden stick circled the outside of the bowl, barely
touching its rim. “A gentle touch on the rim...” He guided my hand around it. His hand was soft, but his fingertips rough, calloused. “Keep the pressure even.”

After a turn around the rim, he released my hand and I kept going. The bowl began to hum.

“Increase the speed as it begins to vibrate.”

Behind me, his voice was a whisper in my ear, and I believe I began to vibrate before the bowl did. But the sound grew, filling my head and then every crevice in the room with the hum and vibration. It was an all-consuming sound, but mellow. The bowl trembled in my hand.

A door clicked. “Robyn Guthrie.”

I clamped my hand on the bowl—the room went silent—and lost my grip on the stick. It fell to the carpet and Jack scooped it up and handed it to me with a little smile. He then returned to his perch on the desk.

Erika now stood at the door to the back of the shop, arms crossed over her chest, watching me. “I’d like to buy this,” I said, raising the bowl.

She glanced from Jack to me and then turned to the young woman standing just behind her who had purple-and-white-streaked hair and a stud in her left nostril.

“Thank you so much, Erika,” the young woman said as she gripped the strap of her hemp bag with both hands.

“I’ll see you next week,” Erika told her.

The young woman cast more than a casual glance in Jack’s direction as she walked past us and out the door.

Then the three of us stood looking at each other in the silence for several moments. Erika’s arms were crossed over her chest and her posture was quite rigid. She wore a thick, gold bangle bracelet on one wrist and a ring with a large black stone.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Erika,” I began. “But the other night I left in kind of a hurry. There were a few background questions I needed to ask you. And I also need to get a photo.”