“I can tell you have come a great distance,” the psychic said.
Helen felt the fear grip her stomach and pull it inside out.
She had run from St. Louis, crisscrossing the country to throw off her pursuers, before she had arrived in Fort Lauderdale.
“You are Russian,” the psychic said.
Helen giggled in pure relief. She was as Russian as bratwurst and sauerkraut. Her family was St. Louis German. Helen had changed her name when she ran. This woman was no more psychic than a cement block.
“Not even close,” Helen said cheerfully, shoving the book in a bag.
The woman handed Helen a card that said, MADAME
MUFFY’S PSYCHIC SERVICE. HELPFUL ADVICE ON ALL AFFAIRS.
TELL PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. $20 PALM READING WITH AD.
GET ONE FREE QUESTION IF YOU CALL NOW!!!!!
“Madame Muffy?” Helen said. “What kind of name is that? What sort of psychic wears a pink golf shirt?”
“Spirits on the astral plane do not care about frivolous earthly matters,” Muffy said.
“True. But people here have certain expectations. You need some Birkenstocks and dangly earrings.”
“Listen, sweetie, I have a lot of business clients. They want advice on the stock market,” Madame Muffy said.
“They don’t want me traipsing into their office in some weird getup. There’s a Lighthouse Point executive—I can’t give you his name because my clients are confidential— who is a million dollars richer because of me.”
“Right.” Helen handed Muffy her book bag. Only South Florida would have a psychic called Muffy. Helen figured that was why Madame Muffy did such a rotten job predicting her past. She was too normal for the paranormal.
“May I help the next customer?” Helen said.
Two boys stepped up to the counter. The eight-year-old gave her a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a copy of
“Another Captain Underpants fan,” Helen said. “Are you one, too?” she asked the older boy, a solemn twelve.
He looked offended. “That stuff’s for kids.”
“Who do you like?” Helen asked.
“Steinbeck,” the boy said. “Ever read
Las Olas was the fashionable shopping street in Fort Lauderdale, but it had nothing for her. She passed trendy restaurants where the entrees cost more than she made in a day, and chic shops where hand-painted gifts cost more than she made in a week.
The Coronado Tropic Apartments were only four blocks from the bookstore. In the slanting late-afternoon light, the white two-story Art Deco building looked like a vision of old Florida. The building’s exuberant S-curve seemed hopeful. The turquoise trim was jaunty. Purple bougainvillea spilled into the tiled pool in romantic extravagance.
Helen ignored the fact that the nearly new air conditioners were starting to rattle and drip rust down the white paint.
Peggy, the woman in 2B, was on a chaise longue by the pool, with Pete the parrot on her shoulder. Peggy looked rather like an exotic bird herself, with her dark red hair and elegant beak of a nose. She was beautiful in an offbeat way, but Pete was the only male Peggy tolerated. She seemed to have given up on men. Instead, Peggy spent all her money on lottery tickets.
“Hey, Helen,” she said, waving her over. “I’ve got a new system.”
Peggy always had a new system for winning the lottery.
Before Helen could find out what it was, a small woman in baggy khaki shorts interrupted. “Do you have the time?” she asked Helen.
It was Madame Muffy. Helen recognized the little psychic immediately, but Muffy did not remember her. People who wore name tags were often invisible away from their work.
“If you’re really psychic, why do you need to know the time?”
“I use my powers for serious things.” Madame Muffy stared at Helen until she said, “Oh, you’re the bookstore lady. I just moved into 2C. I’m your new neighbor.”
Helen hoped Madame Muffy could not read her mind.
She was not happy about this charlatan living at the Coronado.
“Let me read your palm—both of you—as a gift for my new neighbors,” Muffy said. “You can ask one question, no charge.”
Helen started to refuse, but Peggy looked amused.
“Come on, Helen, don’t be a stick. It will be fun.”
“Squawwwk!” Pete said. It sounded like a protest to Helen.
Three people and one parrot went upstairs to Muffy’s apartment. Her living room was as plain as her preppy outfits. There was a desk with a computer, a small round table covered with a brown cloth, three white wicker chairs from Pier 1, and a large poster with prices for tarot, palm, and crystal-ball readings. There were no pictures on the wall.
The speckled terrazzo floor was bare.
“You go first,” Peggy said.
Helen sat down reluctantly and put her hand palm-up on the table. The table wobbled, and she realized it was plastic patio furniture. When Madame Muffy took her hand, Helen stiffened, although the psychic’s touch was warm and gentle. “What is your question?” she said.
“What about my job?” Helen said.
“That’s it?” Peggy said. “What about romance? What about your life?”
I can’t risk any revelations about my life, Helen thought.
“My love life is fine,” she said. “I’m worried about work.”
“You have a powerful aura,” Muffy said. “As powerful as Martha Stewart’s.”
Helen saw her aura wrapped in white tulle and silk ribbons.
“You were meant to be a leader,” Muffy said. “You were meant to make money and hold a powerful position. You almost had it, and then you lost it.”
Helen could feel the blood draining from her face. In St.
Louis she’d made six figures. She’d been director of pensions and benefits for a big corporation. Then she came home early one day and found her husband, Rob, who was supposed to be building a new deck, nailing their neighbor, Sandy. Helen had picked up a handy crowbar and ended her marriage with a couple of swift swings. She still remembered the satisfying crunching sound.
“I see you working with money. You like it. You understand it. But you are working below your capacity. Something in your past is blocking your success. Your life will not move forward unless you remove this block. For a thirty-five-dollar palm reading, I can find out the name of the person who is blocking you.”
I can save myself thirty-five bucks, Helen thought. I already know the name. And I know what Muffy is: a fraud.
Of course she saw me working with money. She saw me standing at a cash register. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out I used to have money. I’m wearing four-year-old Escada. It’s a little threadbare, but better than anything I can afford now.
That’s what Helen hated most about bad psychics. They were good at messing with your mind. For a minute she’d almost believed the malignant Muffy could tell the future.
“You need me, sweetie, to straighten out your life,” Muffy said. “Come see me when you’re ready to talk.”
“I will,” Helen said, prying her hand from Madame Muffy’s grasp. Right after I marry G. Gordon Liddy on Las Olas in rush hour, she thought.
“And you can get me a discount at that bookstore,” Muffy said. “Next.”
