Tea, Anyone Page 3

  Brooke stiffened. “Well, you’re young. I’ll excuse your nosiness. Actually, I mostly work for the local library as a researcher. I take calls here. They’ve given me a direct line.” Is she kidding? No way am I going to talk about my work with the police.

  After a bite of her Danish, Abby gently returned it to her plate. “So, your notes all about sack cloth bags, and your photo of what looks like a murder victim, whose head is covered with one, is part of a research project through the library? Interesting. And by the way, I’m almost twenty-five. How old are you?”

  Definitely nosey. And sarcastic.

  In the silence that followed, June chose to wrap her body around the legs of her new friend, Abby, with obviously no more thought to her owner.

  Traitor.

  “No offense meant, Brooke, I swear it,” Abby said. “Really, just curious, is all.” She reached down and scooped up the cat, who let loose a tsunami of ecstatic purrs.

  “I’ve worked with the police some myself,” Abby continued, speaking so low, Brooke leaned in to try and catch it more fully.

  “What about the police?”

  Abby ignored the question and pointed to a nearby framed photo. “I like your family pictures. You sure were a cute little girl. I assume it’s you––with your parents and what looks like an older brother? I have a brother, too. Well, had…”

  Brooke went on alert. Not high alert, but alert just the same. “Had? He’s no longer around?”

  Gulping, Abby nodded. “Yeah, he died––with my mother.”

  Come on, what are the odds? Henry and now her, too?

  “Wow. I lost my brother, too,” Brooke said, her chest tightening. “And both my parents. In a car crash. You?”

  “Drunk driver. Crossed over four lanes to hit them as they were walking down the side of the road. On Route 7.”

  Gooseflesh rippled up and down Brooke’s arms. Route 7? Wait a minute! Is this an alternative universe?

  Abby resumed. “My dad remarried and ever since I’ve been stuck with Cinderella’s wicked stepmother.”

  “Sorry, but our stories are way too much alike,” Brooke said, softening a bit. “I was left with an evil grandfather, who would probably put your evil stepmother to shame.”

  “Wanna bet?” Abby chuckled, then paused. Time enough for June to leap over to Brooke’s lap. “All right. What other things do we have in common, I wonder? For instance, what kind of music do you like?”

  “That’s easy. Eighties rock. Can’t beat Cyndi Lauper. Or Hall & Oates––”

  “No way. Me, too!” Abby laughed. “Don’t forget Eric Carmen’s “Hungry Eyes,” UB40, Queen, Berlin, and––”

  “Hold on,” Brooke butted in. “Not the sixties? My God, you dress like you came straight outta San Francisco and the Summer of Love.”

  Abby’s laugh eased up a bit. “That’s out of respect for my mother. When I was young, she’d tell me stories at night about her living up in San Francisco during the 1960s. She also talked about going to Woodstock. She taught me a lot about…” She hesitated.

  Brooke cocked her head. “A lot about?”

  “Buddhism and…” Her eyes turned watchful. “Psychic phenomenon.”

  Oh boy here we go––just when I thought we had a lot in common.

  “I can tell you don’t believe in that stuff.” Abby sniffed.

  Brooke’s shrug came on fast and strong. “I’m sorry, I just––”

  “Look,” Abby said defiantly, “My mother not only believed in psychics like Edgar Cayce, she had certain gifts herself. Gifts that I…”

  “Gifts that what? What gifts do you have?” Brooke tried not to sound too flip.

  “Yes, I have gifts,” Abby said defiantly. “I’ve even helped the police before. By the way, so have many other psychics.”

  Crossing her arms, Brooke leaned back against the throw pillows.

  “Clairvoyance. Time travel. That kind of thing.” Abby’s voice had grown loud enough that Junebug’s ears flipped backward in alarm.

  “You mean like when people explore their former lives and find out they were a princess or at least a count? But never, ever a lowly servant or gravedigger?”

  “No, that’s not how it works. Just past times and what happens back then, like events.” She paused. “And hey, what about your own police world, where everyone in it is a suspect of some kind? That can get a little crazy, don’t you think?”

  This time the silence stayed put for a good five seconds before Brooke broke it. “So, I have a question. Why do you sometimes disappear into your garage for a couple of hours? Are you restoring your car? It sure looks well kept up. I didn’t see anything else in there.”

  “Look who’s snooping around in my stuff now,” Abby said.

  “I’m sorry. Try me. I promise to be more open to whatever it is you do.”

  Abby sighed. “I told you my mother was really into psychic things. She had this ability to know whenever someone she had just met or knew well was in trouble. Then, after she was killed, I tried to see if I could foresee things, too. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Until after I had grown up and inherited that car.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Abby put one finger up like a teacher warning her kindergarten students. “Well, I’ll tell you––if you let me.”

  Surprised, Brooke stayed still and waited. She’s sure tougher than she looks.

  “I discovered an old set of Tarot cards in the glove compartment.”

  “Tarot cards? You’ve got to be kid––”

  Abby shot Brooke a dirty look. “Anyway,” she continued, “I knew all about them from my mom. She had shown me how to use these cards off and on, my whole childhood. Well, this time, something clicked. I could see things.”

  What the––

  “I started to tell you that I’ve worked with the police before. And believe it or not, I actually helped them with a couple of cases. I feel I could help your department if need be.”

  Brooke shook her head vehemently. “Not with Chief Bruner. No way that would work.”

  Shrugging slightly, Abby continued. “My mother also taught me some things about Buddhism. You seem like you’re wound really tight. There’s a very lovely Buddhist saying: ‘Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.’”

  Oh, brother. Brooke stood up and looked at her watch. “Well. We’ll have to do this again sometime, Abby. Sorry, gotta do some stuff.”

  Abby rose as well. “Yeah, right. Goodbye, then, Brooke. Nice meeting you. And thanks for the Danish.”

  Two days later, Brooke felt odd. Well, not odd, exactly. Just not as confident of her usual of-course-I’m-right opinions. Never mind the fact that after their meeting, the next day Abby had left an envelope at their front doorstep, which contained a list of supposedly viable psychics who had helped police departments around the world. That alone wouldn’t have made any difference. It was after Brooke had spent quite a bit of time looking up the various spiritual healers named in the document that catapulted her into unchartered territory. Frankly, into a world she had always been the first one to verbally pitch out the window. But the list of cases involving psychics and “remote viewers” had been compelling. OMG, can this stuff be true?

  By the time Henry came home from the library, she didn’t even have to speak. He took one look at her leaning over a manila file folder marked “Abby,” and blurted out, “You, too? I mean, who knew these people even existed, much less gave credible help to police everywhere. I think maybe Chief Bruner should––”

  “Henry,” she said. “Don’t even go there.”

  “But what if…?”

  * *

  Just outside of Hillside, the blue and white New England-style house looked innocuous enough. Inside was a different matter altogether. At the end of the ground floor’s long hall was a ten-by-ten-foot room with a single low-hanging window. Sparse, uncluttered, a simple chair and stool were its only furnishings, both dimly lit by an old bulb and pull cord. But it was the so
utheast wall that was jam-packed.

  A series of photographs covered it, mostly of individuals, but some were large group shots. And all of the photos had obviously been painstakingly taped onto the moldy wall––shrine-like.

  Another photograph was now being extracted from a big, black backpack and when it, too, was taped up onto the wall, the person standing before it, scribbled a note across the picture in thick, black marker letters:

  “Next up: My second Naughty Girl.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The second Brooke and Henry entered the Fun & Fit class, they were bombarded by color. No longer a pristine white, Brooke noticed not only the walls had been coated with multi-hued posters, her classmates’ smiles were plastered across their faces. Giant letters, “Fight The Bulge,” “You Can Do It,” “You Were Born to Succeed,” shouted from the framed pictures. Their fellow class members gestured wildly, and their laughter was downright catching. But it wasn’t until Grinning Gary came over to them that they found out why this was all happening.

  “Ruth Novak is definitely out,” he told them. “That sub, Helen Lawson, is in. Simple as that.”

  Wandering Wynnie and Clueless Cathy must be happy.

  Brooke had overheard some gossip about why Ruth Novak was so hard on the sisters. Apparently, Ruth’s ex-husband, Peter, who had for years lent his legal expertise to the girls’ rich father, Joseph Whitman, had also become obsessed with the old man and his wealth. In fact, word was Ruth feared Peter had actually fallen under Joseph’s spell.

  It turned out, according to some locker room gossip Brooke took in, Ruth was right. After twenty-five years of marriage, apparently Peter was told by Joseph to dump Ruth. Why? Because, according to the business tycoon, “No woman is any good after forty years old.”

  “You guys weren’t here yesterday,” Gary said, “but wait until you get a load of Helen. Compared to our female version of Hannibal Lector, she’s a dream come true.”

  Brooke crossed her arms. “Nice image.”

  But after she watched Helen stroll in, set up her CD, and broad-beam magnetic smiles at everyone, Brooke had to agree it seemed like a very good start. Maybe now, because of Helen, the “fun” in Fun & Fit would actually be true.

  Helen shook everyone’s hand, passed out nametags so, as she put it, “I’ll be sure to memorize each and every single person’s name here.”

  Nice. Next to Brooke, Henry gave his nod of approval and suddenly, Brooke flashed on Abby’s saying, “You only lose what you cling to.”

  In addition, Helen’s choice of music actually fit their movements. Starting out with the slow but catchy Hall & Oates song, “One On One,” she led the class in some stretches that focused on more diverse body parts than what Ruth had always had them do. That segued into a picked-up pace and exercises to––be still my heart––some more ‘80s rock songs: “Billy Jean,” “You Make My Dreams,” and “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” With no fear of being scolded or physically abused, for the first time, people’s energy levels picked up naturally.

  Halfway through the class, when Helen called a water break, someone suggested they get a group photo shot.

  “Good idea,” several people said.

  Just then Creepy Collin happened by, so Bootleg Barbie motioned him to come into their class.

  “We need you to take a picture of all of us,” Barbie told him as soon as he stepped in.

  “What for?” he snapped.

  “Please,” Helen said pleasantly, “the students simply want this for posterity.” She peered into her purse and extracted her cell phone. “Here, you can use this. Let me show you how.”

  Grunting, Collin shuffled over to her phone, grabbed it angrily, and spat out, “I’m not an idiot.” He waited for the group to gather.

  Yet Brooke noticed something weird about his behavior. Once everyone started to cluster together, it was as if he did this for a living. He lectured them all about good composition, coming over personally to place each member in the right position. But when he approached Clueless Cathy and Wandering Wynnie, he bordered on shoving them.

  Instantly, Brooke perked up. “What’s that about?” she whispered to Henry.

  Collin finished the photo session with at least five snapshots, then left, looking a tad less annoyed than when he had first entered.

  “I guess sometimes we all need to be in charge,” Henry answered.

  After thirsts were quenched and weights raised, the next set of exercises began. Again, Brooke observed something else. The Whitman sisters didn’t appear as happy as the rest of their classmates were with the new teacher.

  What’s going on?

  Later, it became clear why they seemed so unenthusiastic. After Helen gathered her things, waved good-bye to everyone, and disappeared, Clueless Cathy and Wandering Wynnie announced loudly to everyone that they wanted to go another route. They had already hired a private exercise instructor. A real one. Someone who was going to come to their house three times a week and spend quality time with them.

  Wynnie raised her chin. “Frankly, we don’t need the class, no matter how nice the teacher is now. We’re looking forward to getting some specialized exercises that are geared just for us. You can’t get better than that.”

  “Yeah, this is gonna work out much better for us. So, good-bye everyone,” Cathy added, then strode out of the room with her sister, without even a backward glance.

  No sooner had she and Wynnie left, then someone said, “That’s easy for those two to do. Their old man left them tons of money.”

  On their way out, Henry told Brooke he wasn’t interested in going to the library that afternoon. “I’ve got other things to do at home,” he said a bit mysteriously. “And so do you.”

  Brooke’s eyes widened. “Such as?”

  “Such as having a guest over later, so I want to pick up our living room a bit.”

  “Anyone I know? And thanks for not telling me ahead of time.”

  Henry’s throat clearing sounded forced. “Abby Bennett.”

  “Wait a minute! The crazy, hippie fortune teller? Shoot me now.”

  He shook his head. “You see? I rest my case. That’s why I didn’t let you know in advance.”

  A mutual pause followed.

  “Just give her a chance,” Henry finally said. “Like you did with me, remember?” He seemed to let that sink in. “I ran into her at the market yesterday, and we ended up having a couple of herbal teas together. She can also read tea leaves, by the way. I really think the girl is quite interesting. And bright as all get out.”

  “Sez you,” Brooke said.

  “I’m ignoring that. Look, I invited her over for an early dinner tonight. Pizza. My treat. You better be nice to her.”

  Something about his sudden intense expression made her probe further. “Henry, what’s going on? Why is it so important for me to get to know Abby?”

  Much to her surprise, his eyes instantly moistened.

  “Henry?” she asked softly.

  “Truth is, Brooke, she reminds me so much of my daughter. Maybe I’m trying to make up for the family I lost. I don’t know.” His sigh was long and shaky.

  “Okay, Henry. Let’s have her over. Maybe we can––” She halted mid-stream.

  In front of the lobby’s main desk, two women stood with their backs to Brooke and Henry. Well, actually they were strutting their stuff in skin-tight leggings and even tighter tank tops that covered, no, painted their perfect Barbie-esque bodies. They were giggling and practically pawing a couple of men.

  It was Larry and Tony, who suddenly strolled away from the nymphets and exited the front doors.

  Seriously?

  After the three of them gathered in Brooke’s living room to chow down on vegetarian pizza, Henry and Abby seemed to be in perfect sync. Movies, politics, you name it, both of their opinions were as one. So much so, Brooke felt out of place. Boy, I could use some good Junebug loving about now.

  Of course, Abby was wearing something appropr
iate for a Woodstock weekend: blue jean overalls, a red, white, and blue tie-dyed T-shirt, and her signature Birkenstock sandals.

  For the occasion, Henry had cleaned up and looked quite dignified. “How’s your tea, Abby?” he asked politely.

  What, royalty is visiting us?

  “It’s fine, Henry,” Abby said. “And thanks for your little teapot and strainer. I brought my own tea leaves to steep. Hope you don’t mind.” She pulled out a box and spooned several of them into the strainer.

  Oh, brother.

  “Brooke, tell Abby what you’ve been working on for Larry and Tony.”

  Are you certifiable? “Henry, you know that’s confidential.”

  “Look, Brooke, ordinarily I’d agree with you, but I believe Abby might really be able to help in this case.”

  Brooke’s lips flat-lined.

  Conspicuously quiet, Abby looked from Brooke to Henry. Then, she called for Junebug to come over. Their cat came trotting, Brooke noticed––with bells on.

  “You know,” Henry said, “as Abby’s told you, lots of famous psychics have helped police departments in the past. But, being as skeptical as you are, I looked up the cases she claimed she helped solve. There they were, just as she had described. Sometimes there would be mention of her name, sometimes not. But each case did mention they used outside help of a paranormal nature. So, here’s my own separate list for you to check out.”

  Brooke now felt both pairs of eyes boring a hole into her. Deep holes.

  “All right, all right, if you insist. But if I get in trouble with Chief Bruner again, trust me, I will never listen to either of you again!”

  “That’s my girl,” Henry said softly as Brooke went over to her desk, picked up a manila file folder, and brought it back to the couch, where she sat down again.

  Leaving everyone’s drinks, Henry cleared off the pizza and plates while Brooke extracted a single paper from the folder and handed it over to Abby.

  “First of all,” she said, “I had to do quite a lot of research on this. I looked up the kind of sack bag that was used on the victim. Apparently, bags often not only have different names of companies on them, different fabrics are used. It’s actually pretty interesting. For instance, the bag in question could be traced to the Sheffield Company in Boston. When I looked them up, turns out they’ve been in business since the mid-1700s. So, we’re talking about a very old company.”