Murder In Her Dreams (10 page)

Oak cupboards lined one wall with one counter
beneath them and another along the adjoining wall. A large pine
table filled the center of the room. Plates of food covered the
table and the counter beneath the cupboards. A large coffee urn, a
sink full of ice, and bottles of soda occupied the other
counter.

No alcohol, not even wine or beer here. Like
smoking, Tula had a thing about drinking. The body as a temple or
some such. Or maybe, her Irish father’s drinking had led to it.

Cassie looked over the food. Cold cuts,
hummus, garbanzo beans, black beans, baby ears of corn, trays of
fresh and pickled vegetables, and a variety of cheeses and breads.
It made her stomach growl, but she found it all together too much.
Rather than sample a little of each, she decided to make a ham
sandwich. She slathered the dark rye bread with grainy mustard,
layered on thinly sliced ham, added a slice of Havarti cheese, and
topped it with pickled cauliflower. At the sound of a step behind
her, she turned to see Tula.

“Cassie, you okay? I didn’t see you in the
other room and thought I’d better look for you. How did you and
Bert get on?”

“Just fine. He went off to get some pizza,
but I’m not up to riding motorcycles.” Cassie looked down at her
sandwich. “Tula, does he work for Ian McLeod?”

“McLeod? I’ve no idea. Why?”

“He’s an accountant.”

“So? I don’t know who he works for, but I can
ask if you want.”

“No, it doesn’t matter. I guess I’m just
jittery. After Bert left, well ... I sort of felt out of it. So, I
started to wander and just naturally ended up in the kitchen. When
I saw all this food, my stomach reminded me I hadn’t had
dinner.”

She held up her sandwich. “Want some?”

“Not just yet. I sampled everything earlier.”
Tula half sat on the corner of the table and played with her
pendant. “What did you think of Bert?”

“Oh, he seemed nice enough, but a little
young for me. I’m not into muscle men.”

Tula snorted. “Don’t let the exterior fool
you. Under the bod lurks a savvy mind.”

Cassie poured a glass of cola. “Ambitious,
yes. I don’t know about the rest. We didn’t talk that long.”

Tula grinned at her “I guess we’ll have to
look for an older type with red hair, eh?”

Cassie picked up her sandwich. “I don’t know.
It’s just, well, after Rod ... maybe I’m too suspicious. I want
someone who accepts me for what I am, dreams and all. Rod couldn’t
do that. I’m not sure many men could, especially an accountant
type.”

“Cassie, Cassie, it’s okay. You have a talent
— one to rejoice in, not regret.” She pulled Cassie into her arms
and hugged her. “Rod was a stinker. Not every man is like that.
Some men have premonitions, others dream. The power lives in all of
us in some way, though many deny it. You’re lucky. These dreams
give you the power to do something.”

“Yeah, sure they do, but too late to change
anything.” Cassie buried her face on Tula’s shoulder, taking
comfort in the smell of vanilla and cloves.

“Hey, you just haven’t learned to understand
them yet, that’s all.” Tula lifted Cassie’s chin, her amber eyes
filled with sympathy and concern. “When you learn to decipher them,
then you can act. The dreams mean something. We just don’t know
what yet.”

“Symbols, smibols. I’m tired of it. Let
someone else work it out.”

“It’s not as easy as that. I know you would
rather not have the responsibility, but it’s not like you have any
choice about it. I don’t know why you’ve been chosen, Cassie, but I
do know you have to do something about it.” Tula fingered the sun
pendant. “Somehow, we’ll figure out that rabbit.”

Cassie shuddered and rubbed her arms. “I have
done something. I sent Ian McLeod a note. Now it’s up to him.”

“I hope you’re right.” Tula picked up a plate
with a cheese ball and crackers. “Come on, I have to feed this
hungry throng.”

“In a bit, I’ll just finish my sandwich
first. I’m okay, Tula, don’t worry about me.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, to worry
about us. If I don’t see you in five minutes, I’ll be back to drag
you out.”

Cassie smiled. “Five minutes. I promise. Say,
Tula, did you tell Leah Chernowski about me? I mean about Ellie
Latham.”

“What?” Tula stared at Cassie for a moment.
“Leah? No, I’ve never discussed that with anyone. Why?”

“She read the Tarot cards.”

“I see.” Tula nodded and smiled. “Leah has a
talent, like yours, but a bit different. I’d pay attention to any
advice she gave me. I trust her, Cassie.”

Tula’s words reminded Cassie of Leah’s “Rely
on yourself and your friends.” As Cassie watched Tula sweep through
the door to the dining room, she pondered Leah’s advice. A hidden
enemy. Sacrifice. Trust.

She stared down at her half-eaten sandwich.
Why did that awful rabbit have to pick on her?

Chapter
Eight

As she drove to work, Cassie decided Tula’s
party had been a good idea even if she hadn’t mixed much. Anyway,
Leah’s advice, for what it might be worth, contained some hope.

Shyness wouldn’t get friends. Just being out
among people again made her feel less isolated and lonely. She
hadn’t encountered Rod either, but Tula would never have invited
him. Many of her guests brought friends along. She could never be
sure who would be there. At the next party, Cassie would mingle
more and talk to people instead of hanging back and watching
others.

For the first time in over a week, she
concentrated fully on her job instead of her fears. At least she
understood and enjoyed her work. The library harbored no horrors
except those beneath the covers of Stephen King and Clive Barker’s
books. The worst she could expect was another of Jimmy’s awful puns
or the occasional raucous teenager.

“Hi, Miss Blake.” Jimmy Wilson, his unruly
hair falling over his right eye, gave Cassie his usual grin.

She smiled at him wondering if he’d been
there all the time, and she had glimpsed him from the corner of her
eye. Had that triggered her subconscious to dredge up thoughts of
him or had she somehow summoned him? Get a grip, girl. She sure
risked going off the deep end.

“Hi, Jimmy.”

“I got another riddle for you. What do you
call a cowardly cur?”

Cassie took a deep breath and pushed her long
hair out of the way over her shoulders. “Cowardly cur?” She rested
her chin on her fist. “Let me see ... umm, that’s hard. Cowardly?
Timid? Craven?”

As she watched Jimmy’s face, his grin
widened. “Last time you used colors. Yellow belly? Yellow."

Jimmy said nothing, but his grin faded a
tad.

Encouraged, Cassie considered the synonyms
for cur. “All right, yellow. Yellow ... cur ... mutt ... mongrel
... hound ... dog.” Jimmy looked woebegone. “I know, a yellow
dog.”

“Doggone, Miss Blake, you’re too good. I’ll
have to work harder.” He scuffed one toe of his tennis shoe over
the other.

Cassie laughed. Maybe she should let Jimmy
win one for a change. “How did your report on William Henry
Harrison go?”

“Great, I got a B+.” He grinned from ear to
ear, but then sobered. “Now I have to do one on Zac ... uh, Zachary
Taylor.”

Smiling, Cassie nodded. “Another Indian
fighter, a general in the Mexican War, and President of the United
States.”

“Huh? Another President?” Jimmy stared at
her.

“He saved Fort Harrison in the Indiana
Territory and defeated Chief Black Hawk in Wisconsin.”

“Oh, he did? I never heard about him. That
must have been a long time ago.”

Cassie grinned. “He served almost eight years
after Harrison, more than a hundred and fifty or so years ago. Good
luck on your report.”

“Thanks, Miss Blake. Next time I’ll have a
harder riddle for you.”

Ready with her own riddle, Cassie dimpled,
curious to see how well Jimmy did. “I’ve got one for you. What do
you call a rabid rabbit?”

“A rabid rabbit? Say, that’s a good one.”
Jimmy frowned. “What’s rabid anyway?”

“You go look it up in the dictionary.” His
puzzled look made her consider a hint. “Try the
Roget’s
Thesaurus
while you’re at it.”

She watched Jimmy walk off, mumbling to
himself. At least the darn rabbit had resulted in something useful
and would teach Jimmy about another library tool. Thinking about
his sudden appearance, she reminded herself all the schoolchildren
with assignments stopped by the library after school. She knew the
cycle. Nothing mysterious or sinister there.

She rubbed her arms. The dreams and that
crazy rabbit had shaken her. She’d followed Tula’s advice and
warned Ian McLeod. Now, he had to take care of himself.

Turning back to her work, she began to read
the various reviews of new children’s books and consider her
recommendations for purchases. She loved this part of her job and
especially when they received a lot of new books on approval.
Children’s books used far more graphics, pictures, and even
experiments and illustrations to teach and educate than adult
books. Fiction books remained less affected, but spiffy cover
designs made even these more colorful.

The library always bought several copies of
the Caldecott and Newbery winners, but there were many other books
to consider as well. Books by well-known authors and the major
publishers were almost certain to be chosen. New publishers cropped
up all the time and presented the biggest challenge. Some produced
excellent books, but others focused on showy books without much
value.

It gave her special pleasure to discover a
new author. This month she was tracking down information on
Margaret Mannus, who according to one review, had written a
delightful fable. Produced by a small New England publisher, the
book was not included among the approval books, nor did the
distributors list it among their inventories. Cassie muttered to
herself as she reread the review.

In The Barnyard Seer, Margaret Mannus has
produced a charming fable of a fortune-telling pig, Henriette Le
Cochon, and the ridicule she faces from the other animals who laugh
at her prophesies. They regard her as just another Chicken Little,
another false prophet. Henriette persists in the face of opposition
to save the barnyard animals, but one obnoxious rooster loses his
head and Henriette is in danger herself of becoming hams and bacon.
In the end, she triumphs and saves Old Sam, an almost toothless
yellow dog, and Windy, the garrulous cow. The illustrations by Bram
Baker add just the right touch of whimsy. Not since E.B. White’s
Wilbur have we had such a delightful porker.

Cassie felt a kinship with the visionary pig
and wondered if Margaret Mannus had used Henwen from Celtic
mythology as her model for Henriette. Cassie had always loved Lloyd
Alexander’s Henwen in his
Black Cauldron
series. The
personality of the clever white pig delighted her.

Stung by Rod’s desertion, she had reread
Lloyd Alexander’s books and found some comfort in Henwen’s success.
Dreams held too much of her attention.

She needed people in her life, but not a
confining relationship such as the one Rod had forced on her. She
had met only one of his buddies. Most often, they went to movies or
watched football on TV. He idolized the OSU football team. It hurt
to realize they only shared a bed and not much else.

He even avoided Tula’s parties. After he
left, she had curled into herself and hibernated, too hurt to risk
being with other people. Not healthy, not healthy at all.

She looked down at the Mannus book. Maybe she
should post a query on Kidlit, one of the Internet bulletin boards,
asking about Margaret Mannus and
The Barnyard Seer
. She
could always count on getting a response from someone. Librarians
shared information freely and liked helping others — the things she
liked best about her profession. Once on Kidlit she had even gotten
a response from New Zealand.

Five titles comprised her list for discussion
at the book selection meeting tomorrow. She reread the list and
added Margaret Mannus. By tomorrow, she should have some response
from Kidlit, and if not, she could always delete the Mannus
book.

At home that evening, as Cassie prepared for
bed, she congratulated herself that tonight she would not have to
worry about Ian McLeod. The note told him what he needed to know.
Now it would be up to him. She settled down in bed, scrunched the
pillow into a comfortable position, and closed her eyes.

* * * *

Fully relaxed, the dream caught Cassie
unprepared. Ian McLeod’s face hung in the air before her, a
sardonic smile on his lips. His auburn hair fell over one side of
his forehead, just like Jimmy Wilson’s. Cassie wanted to reach out
and brush it away.

No, she wouldn’t be drawn into this. “Take
control,” Tula had said. She steeled herself to do just that.

“I sent you a note.”

McLeod raised an eyebrow. “What made you
think I’d fall for a childish note? A friend’ You can’t get rid of
me so easily. And a rabbit yet?”

“But you saw it. It attacked you. I acted,
now get out of my dreams.” She pulled the comforter over her
head.

“Stop the ostrich act. It won’t work.” He
laughed, a rich, deep throated laugh.

“If you don’t do something, the rabbit or
whatever will kill you.”

He sighed. “So you say, but rabbits don’t
kill, and I have no enemies.”

“You do, that horrible rabbit...” She paused
a moment. “He’s someone you know. I’ve warned you. What you do
about it is your business. I want to sleep.” Cassie pulled the
pillow over her head and put her hands to her ears.

“You can’t shut me out.”

“But I can wake up.”

“Can you? Try it.” The image, now a head and
full torso, crossed his arms.