The Witch and the Gentleman (4 page)

“
No.”

“
It was my mother’s.”

“
She was a witch?” I asked.

“
And proud of it.” He held up the book, eyebrows raised. “But this has been in storage in the garage. I’m sure of it, with her other books. Truth is, they give me the damn creeps.”

And as he said this, more goose bumps appeared on my skin. and not just on my arms, but over my entire body. I was suddenly certain, without a doubt, that this book was meant for me. Whether I wanted it or not remained to be seen. As Peter scratched his head and bit his lip, I came to a decision...a decision that would change my life forever.

“Peter, I think your grandmother wanted me to have this book.”

He tore his eyes off the book and placed them on me. “What?”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but I think your mom wants me to have this book.”

Peter shook his head. “When it comes to Mother, nothing is crazy. Trust me.” He looked at the book again, looked at me, then shrugged. “Knock yourself out—but I would caution you to be careful. This is nothing to take lightly. I’ve seen...
things
.”

He handed me the book, and as soon as I took the book from him, two things happened simultaneously: one, I shivered nearly uncontrollably, and, two, the ghostly image of a tall and regal woman appeared behind Peter.

She smiled at me, nodded, and disappeared.

Chapter Seven

Morning couldn’t have come soon enough. I’d had a rather strange night, filled with dreams of ghosts and girls, of witches and murder.

Now I was sitting on my couch sipping a cup of coffee, with my laptop where it belonged: on my lap.

On the screen before me was simply a local phone call. The Psychic Hotline portal that I logged onto each day only provided me with the caller’s city. Never a name or full phone number. This call, I saw, had originated in nearby Santa Monica.

“Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling The Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”

“
Oh, thank God,” said a familiar voice.

“
So, how long did it take this time?” I asked.

So, when I heard the familiar voice, it was a pleasant surprise...and a bit of a break. I’d just dealt with a longwinded woman who would rather hear herself talk, than me. Which was fine. I wasn’t getting a good read on her, anyway, and was questioning what I was telling her. I hated when that happened.

“Took me nine tries this time,” he said. “And cost me fifty bucks to finally get you.”

“
I’m an expensive date,” I said.

“
Well, it’s as close to a date as I can get. For now.”

“
Forever,” I said, laughing, although I admired his persistence. “You know my rules.”

“
You don’t date clients. Plus, you have to say that because
they
might be listening.”

“
Well,
they
might fire me. And I happen to like this job.”

“
You have to say that, too, because
they
might still be listening.”

I laughed at that. I was sitting on my couch with my legs crossed under me, sipping on a decaf Americano. If I wasn’t drinking a protein drink, I often drank decaf before and during sessions. Caffeinated drinks made my mind race just enough that I couldn’t tune into the spiritual. In fact, it was a rare day that I actually did have caffeinated coffee. And when I did, I almost always regretted it. I’d become used to connecting to what I thought of as my higher self. This connection was deeply spiritual, and it allowed for some fantastic results, especially when I was tuning into another person. I suspected that it was my higher self that tuned into others, and then reported its findings to me. Caffeine cut off that connection. Not good.

My sliding glass door was open. A bee had found its way inside and came right over to me. I said howdy, then ignored it completely. When it was done checking out the crazy lady in the headset, it found its way out again.

“
They’re not listening now,” I said.

“
You’re sure?” he asked.

I checked again how I felt about that, and a certain
knowing
came over me. “I’m pretty sure.”

“
That’s good enough for me. So, what are you wearing, baby?”

I laughed. “Nothing you would be interested in.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

“
Don’t be creepy,” I said.

I liked Conn. In fact, I was very intrigued by Conn. I got a very good feeling from him. A warm feeling that I couldn’t deny. Conn was also a Scorpio, and I knew that you had to keep Scorpios in check. It was easy—very, very easy—for them to turn something fun and light into something steamy and sexual. It was in their natures. God bless their natures.

“Sorry,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I know Conn liked to present small openings, always hoping I would jump into them. I never did, although I admired his persistence. And, again, God bless those randy Scorpios. They kept things interesting.

“Forgiven,” I said. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

“
Do I have to have a reason to call?” he said. “Perhaps I just need to hear your voice.”

“
Perhaps you need to get a life.”

“
I do have a life,” said Conn. “I’m just missing one thing.”

“
A cat?” I asked.

“
You,” he said after a moment.

I snorted at that. “You are such a goofball, Conn. You’ve never even met me.”

“We can change that, you know. I could meet you tonight for drinks.”

“
That’s not gonna happen.”

“
Yes, I know,” he said.

“
I’m sorry.”

“
It’s okay,” he said. “If this is the only way I can spend time with my dream girl, then I will accept my lot in life. Better a few minutes a week with you, Allison, than no time at all.”

I was touched again by his words. “It’s your money,” I said after a moment, although my tone was now much softer. “Do what you want with it.”

“I am,” he said, “and I can think of no greater way to spend it than by spending time with you.”

“
Geez, Conn, have you always been such a romantic fool?”

He thought about that. Little did he know that I could
see
him thinking about it, that I could see him now sitting in his rather lavish home overlooking the Pacific. That I could see that he was, in fact, everything he claimed to be, and perhaps even more. Never did he mention his money, of which he clearly had a lot. I knew his address, too, and I knew his home inside and out. Yes, I’d even checked out his attic and under his floorboards. No bodies. He wasn’t a creep. He wasn’t a sicko. He was just lonely.

Or perhaps, as he claimed, in love with me.

That he was also somewhat handsome made things all the more interesting. Of course, he knew none of this, knew nothing of the snooping I’d performed. And, thank God, he mostly wore clothes when he called me.

We chatted some more, about my day, about me, about anything that came to his mind. He paid, of course, for every minute of it. I suspected he could have talked to me all day, and, for some reason, I didn’t mind that. Not one bit.

He was halfway through a story about his dog—a dog I could see sitting by his feet now—when I felt a disturbance. Someone had picked up. One of
them
.

“
Thank you for the call, Conn,” I said, cutting him off. “I hope I was of service to you today.”

After two months, Conn knew the routine. “You were incredibly accurate, Allison. Never in all my life have I ever come across a psychic more accurate than you.”

Oh, brother,
I thought. One thing Conn was good at doing was pouring it on.

He clicked off and I sat back on my couch, decaf Americano in hand, and smiled.

Chapter Eight

It was early afternoon, and I was at The Whisper Lounge at The Grove with my friend, Bernice.

And, no, we weren’t whispering. Truth was, we rarely whispered. I didn’t think we knew
how
to whisper. On second thought, I didn’t think they much liked us here at The Whisper Lounge.

Anyway, Bernice Jepson was a fairly new friend of mine. I called her Bernie because it suited her better. She had been my trainer at The Psychic Hotline. As in, I sat in on some of her phone calls and made notes. As I made notes and listened in on a few days of her taking calls from clients, one thing had become rather apparent: Bernie was not a very good psychic.

As in, she rarely, if ever, got anything right. She had made an art out of backing out of her statements, re-wording and charging along by distracting the clients with some new “revelation.”

While it was true that Bernie was a bad psychic, she was a great friend. That she was slightly delusional and lived with her head in the clouds made her all the more endearing to me. That she thought she was a
good
psychic would be a nice case study in human psychology, one that I would leave to the experts. Perhaps even a team of experts.

Truth was, I found her hilarious. But not in a way that mocked her. She was genuinely caring. And certainly believed she had special powers.

Maybe I was enabling her, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I really thought of her psychic powers. Anyway, while the waitress brought over our mango margaritas, or mangoritas, Bernie was just wrapping up a story.

“
...so I told him that I saw him living in Florida at the beach.”

“
He must have liked that,” I said.

“
He said he burns easily and has to do all he can to stay out of the sun.”

“
But you saw him living at the beach,” I said, “in Florida?”

“
Right. Working as a, you know, one of those smartly dressed young men who serve you drinks on the sand...”

“
A cabana boy?” I laughed. Loudly. I might have even snorted. Some at The Whisper Lounge looked at us and frowned. On second thought, maybe coming to The Whisper Lounge, with its dark mahogany walls and high back booths, wasn’t a good idea.

“
Right. A cabana boy. Serving drinks on the beach. Not a care in the world. Living in paradise.”

“
What does he do now?” I asked, sipping from my drink, and enjoying the hell out of this conversation. Perhaps too much. Yes, I thought I enabled her. Did that make me a bad person?

“
He works in radio. Has a nice voice. Sounded familiar, actually.”

I nodded and tried not to smile. “Would you say he works his dream job now, maybe?”

“Well, maybe,” said Bernie, shrugging her rounded shoulders. “But he’s obviously not happy. Why else did he call me?”

“
True,” I said. “Why did he call you?”

“
He said he had a question about his love life, wondering if he would ever find ‘the one.’”

“
And you told him to quit his radio show and work as a cabana boy in Florida, a man who says he needs to stay out of the sun because he burns easily?”

Bernie shrugged again and finished the rest of her mangorita. “What can I say, Allie?” She had her nickname for me, too. “Spirit works in mysterious ways.” She waved until she caught the server’s attention. “I’m only the messenger.”

“You are something,” I said into my own drink. Luckily, she didn’t hear me.

“
So, what’s new with you, Allie Cat?” she asked after placing another drink order with our server, this time requesting that the bartender be a little more generous with the booze.

When the server was gone, I said, “I’m working with a client.”

“A client? What kind of client?”

“
I met him through the Hotline—”

“
We don’t meet with clients through the Hotline, Al. You know that. It’s against the
rules
.” She stressed the word and laughed and hiccupped, and now I laughed, too. One thing was certain: Bernie didn’t hold her liquor well.

“
I know,” I said, still laughing, “but he needed help. More help than I could give him over the phone.”

“
You could get in trouble for that. I’m being serious. It’s frowned upon, taking clients away from the Hotline.”

“
I’m not taking any money.”

“
Still, they would rather he spend his money on the phone, with
experienced
psychics. No offense, Al.”