He cleared his throat when my pause becamefar too drawn out and uncomfortable.
“Oh, ah, sorry. Yeah, my number—”I pushed a hand into my pocketto retrieve my card.
I paused.
For so many reasons.
Firstly, my card would be sopping wet, andthe 10-year old inkjet printer I’d used with recycled paper wouldmean my card would be nothing more than a soggy blob of fadedink.
Oh, I also paused because this guy wasa friggin detective, forcrying out loud. My business card had a clipart cartoon of a womanstaring into a crystal ball, that, on closer inspection was toosmall and looked more like a marble.
“Ah sorry, I got soaked by the rain lastnight, so my cards got wet. If you have a pen, I can write mynumber down—”
Before I could finish asking, he plucked apen from his pocket and handed it to me.
I turned his card over and wrote on theback.
I handed it back to him, and he plucked outanother card to give to me.
“Thanks for that. I know your grandmotherdied recently, and I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. ButI…” he winced in thatpolite way people do when they know they have to ask you somethinguncomfortable, “I have a case that’s proving impossible to crack.If you’re feeling up to it – and only if you’re feeling up to it,”he stressed seriously, “I’d sure appreciate your help.”
My mind wasn’t working quickly enough, andmy hands kept slipping off that proverbial crane’s tail. “Ha? Youwant me to work for you?”
He paled, obviouslythinking I was indignantthat he’d asked the question. He put his hands up. “Look, I’m sosorry. It’s too soon. I wouldn’t have asked, but the case isserious—”
“No, no it’s not too soon. You can employme,” my mother answered.Her words. Her sentiment.
Never turn down work. Especially work thatpays.
He relaxed. “Well, how about I give you achance to settle in? I’ll call you in a couple of days?”
I nodded.
“Great.” With that, Detective Coulson turnedaway.
I watched him until he walked thedown the garden path tothe gate and disappeared into a car on the opposite side of thestreet.
It took until I turned and closed thedoor before I realizedsomething.
Something seriously important.
“Crap!” I crammed a hand over my mouth. “What didI just agree to?”
That detective wanted me to help him with acase.
This wasn’t some $3 text where I’d tell himto join a dating site and watch out for the color red.
This would have real implications. Mainlyfor me.
I slapped a hand on my head, and thewhiplash sound echoed down the long corridor.
I’d been way too quick to accept hisoffer.
I yanked up his card and looked at hisnumber, memorizing it as I muttered it under my breath.
If his number came up on my phone, Iwouldn’t answer.
It was as easy as that.
And if he came to the house? Ah, heck, I’djust pretend I was too overcome by my grandma’s death to take upthe job.
“Sorted,” I told myself firmly.
Now that little drama was managed, my mindturned to something far more shocking.
Joan had been a fortuneteller?
If you believed my father, the reason fortheir split was that Joan didn't agree with ma’s fortune-telling.She thought it was for charlatans. Snake oil sellers.
People who meddled in other’s destinies fornothing more than money.
Heck, she was right. But she was wrongabout one thing – that didn’t make us bad people. I wasn’t solelyresponsible for fortune-telling. It had existed long before I’dbeen born and would continue to exist long after I died.
Fortune-telling was a fact of life. Of theeconomy. It was human nature that people wanted to find out whatwould happen next without having to wait around for the future tohappen.
Me? I just provided that service, even ifthat service wasn’t technically fit for purpose. It still providedpeople with a feeling that they were okay and that everything wouldwork out.
And that? That wasn’t a bad thing.
Which meant I wasn’t a bad person.
Still, Joan had hated fortunetellers, so unless Detective Coulsonwas playing some cruel game, Joan had been a damnhypocrite.
I went to shove Detective Coulson’s cardback in my pocket butshrugged and discarded it in a wastepaper basketinstead.
Almost immediately, I felt a prickle crawlup the back of my neck.
I turned to see the cat on the stairs.
It was watching me intently.
Its brow was furrowed, and its almond eyes elongated in a very human expression ofwithering disappointment.
Cats couldn’t show withering disappointment,though – so it had to be hungry.
“Yeah, yeah – I’ll head to the store after Icheck out the house.”
I felt its eyes follow me as I pushed pastto explore the house.
… I'd never inherited anything. Especiallynothing as large as a house. A couple of my friends back in thecity had told me that I should stay here. If the house was nice andwell-appointed, why not just live in it rent-free and save somemoney until I figured out what to do with my life?
“Yeah, that's never going tohappen,” I told thedisembodied voices of my friends as I walked down the long corridorand found the kitchen.
It was pretty, large, too, with an island bench, newappliances, a massive stainless steel fridge, pots and pans arrayedon hooks above the cooker, and a beautiful French-style dresser.Little teapots and cups and hand-painted plates were arranged onthe dresser, drawing the eye to their intricate detail.
The whole place was artful,tasteful. And exactly100 billion miles away from my tiny, scrap of an apartment back inthe city, furnished with second hand stuff.
I shifted forward and opened the nearest cupboard, surprised tofind it full of baking goods. Back in the way, far distant past,I’d once had a dream of starting up my own bakery. As Imethodically shifted through the cupboards, I realized mygrandmother had some great gear. Heavy cast-iron Dutch ovens,expensive copper-plated pans, a massive wok that could feed anarmy, and the best baking gear I'd ever seen.
Once I was finished with the kitchen, I went on to explore therest of the house. It was just the same. Artful, expensive, decent.I could almost fool myself into thinking she was a nice lady simplyfrom looking through her stuff. Except there was still one massiveomission. No family photos. Not one. And as for any photos
