When I handed my wrap to the coat-check girl just inside the front door, she grazed her own deeply kohl-rimmed eyes ever-so-briefly, and pointed to a door past the library. Grateful, I touched up my make-up in a bathroom large enough to house a family of five. In the mirror, my ravaged face reflected my mother’s fears about my gift. Her message, hidden under the dismissals, had always been that the dreams would endanger me because others would want my power for themselves. Never once had she suggested it was okay to use it. But who or what was she afraid of? No one had ever threatened me, not until I’d arrived home. I wasn’t even sure those voodoo dolls were meant for me.
Face repaired, I joined Bailey at the bar. She handed me a martini and pulled me into the crowd. I followed, nearly ramming a waiter passing a tray of steaming shrimp skewers. Why were the only black faces in the room on the guys carrying the hors d’oeuvres? When the throng parted, I found myself face-to-face with a beautiful white-haired woman.
Bailey said, “Maria, this is Clara Montague. Clara, Hugh’s wife, Maria Leiber.” She winked and headed off on her own, the rat.
Maria took my hand and looked at me for so long it felt offensive. “I have heard so much about you over the years. And I’m so sorry Constance is jailed for Hugh’s murder.” She pressed my hand. “I don’t believe she did it.”
“Thank you.”
Her grip was almost painful. “I have reasons.” She drew me off to face a small glass table with a smooth white rock on it. Above it hung an all-black painting. “You always were a very insightful girl. I hear you’ve been asking questions about Hetty.”
“Actually, Hetty—”
“That’s smart.” She barreled on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My husband had a lot of questions about Hetty. Did you know she gives readings?”
“What kind of readings? Poetry readings? Psychic readings? Aura readings?”
Maria’s face flushed and the palm that rested on my arm seemed sweaty. “Psychic readings. She apparently has a blue and white room in her house where she conducts her interviews.” She said the word as if it tasted like a mouthful of bug spray. “At least that’s what I hear.”
I stared at her. Had Mother told Hugh about the cottage after all? Had Hetty snuck into the cottage? How would she know what it was used for, unless…she’d spied on Mother? She’d been a kid, and there was a cool little cottage on her parents’ property, and she’d be bored and curious and do what any kid would do.
But why would she think she was psychic?
Maria wasn’t finished. She lowered her voice to a rumble, like a subway train running underneath the sidewalk. “Some of Hugh’s patients consulted Hetty as well. He was convinced Hetty was…a fraud. He confronted her about it.”
“You think Hetty killed Hugh?”
“I don’t know who killed my husband, but I intend to find out. I imagine you’re as motivated as I am.” She turned abruptly away and left me staring at the painting. Its blackness wasn’t uniform; the artist had woven in shimmers of color—a wash of red-black or blue-black or green-black; it looked like a bruise a long time after the wounding.
“Clara! So glad you could make it.” Andrew’s voice startled me and I nearly crashed my drink into his sister’s precious side table. He slithered his arm across my shoulder. “What do you think of my sister’s taste in art? Hideous, isn’t it?” He went on without waiting for my answer. “Listen, I need you to go make nice to that elderly gentleman over there in the corner.”
He gestured with his head. I craned to see. “Melton Honey?”
“Ah, good. You know him. See if you can talk him into a sizeable donation.”
I frowned at him, but he just smiled. He was dressed tonight as the hard-working candidate: light wool dress slacks, white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up, red silk tie with little blue boats on it. Serious colors, but a touch of whimsy to show he was a regular guy. But no polyester had ever sneezed within thirty miles of Andrew Winters.
Now would be the moment to do as Bailey wished. I reached for his arm as he turned away, but then he turned back. I dropped my hand, relieved.
“Mary Ellen says you know things.”
White noise exploded in my ears. I dug a fingernail into my thigh to ground myself. “I know a fair amount about landscape architecture, and flight times in and out of Paris.”
He granted me a small, nasty smile, acknowledging my dodge. “I’ve known your mother a long time, Clara.” He moved closer and I could barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. “You will answer my question. Maybe not now, but you will.”
I didn’t need to touch him to be flooded with his malice. “Hetty does readings.”
His eyes, already dark, darkened further. “What do you know about that?”
“Why do you believe in psychic phenomena, Mr. Winters? A rational man like you.”
“Your mother used to talk to me, years ago. Once, she told me that the darkness would burn me unless I conquered it. I have spent my life, Ms. Montague, striving to bring light to people, to create laws that would create justice and fair play. So yes, I listen.”
“My mother doesn’t think you or Mary Ellen have much to recommend you.”
“And yet, you’re here,” he sneered. “Now,” he shoved his chin in Melton Honey’s direction, “go do your job.”
Maybe Mother was right that I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I bit my tongue. As I turned, he patted me a little too close to my ass. I cursed
