“And what did the cops say?” Bobo asked.
“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Manfred shrugged. “Rachel didn’t have a mark on her, and the hotel staff knew what I was doing, having people into my room. I didn’t exactly tell them I was a psychic, but one of my appointments did.”
“What about your other appointments? What did you do about them?” Fiji asked. Her mind was a great one for tangents.
“They moved me to another room. I saw two of them the next day, but two others canceled,” Manfred said. He wasn’t surprised, and he understood their reluctance to come into a hotel under media scrutiny, especially since they were going there to do something that would embarrass them if it became widely known. Meeting with a psychic wasn’t as reputable as going to a charity dinner, say.
“Really?” Fiji was incredulous. “You were able to focus on business after that poor woman died?”
“I would have been out of there,” Bobo said. “I would have been on the road back to Midnight as soon as I could pack my bags.”
They looked at him expectantly.
“At first I was shook up,” he admitted. “But Rachel passed so quickly, almost peacefully. After I got over the shock of it, I thought, if she had to die so young, maybe going that way was what she might have wanted. I’d never been in such close touch with a passing, not even my grandmother’s. Annelle — the daughter — was at Vespers in forty-five minutes. I was so relieved. She told them how much Rachel had looked forward to the session and how happy talking to me had always made her mom. She also said that she’d begged her mother to stay home until her lungs were clear,” he added more practically.
“What exactly happened?” Bobo carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it. “To make her die, I mean?”
“They’re doing an autopsy. But Annelle told me Rachel had been taking medication for high blood pressure. There was more wrong with Rachel than I knew. If she’d died at home, I don’t think they would have questioned her death, because she’d been under a doctor’s care. I hope they got the bottle of water she drank from. Surely they did. She had a big old purse full of stuff. And it was all messed up, because she’d dropped it in the lobby, she said, and she just threw things back in there.” After a minute, he added, “She said people in the lobby helped her pick up all her stuff.” He tried hard not to look like he was wondering if Olivia had been there, in the lobby, being helpful.
“So what about the son, Lewis? The one you said was so crazy?” Fiji picked up Manfred’s plate and took it to the sink. Surreptitiously, she dropped a scrap of roast beef into Mr. Snuggly’s bowl. Though the cat hadn’t been evident until then, suddenly he was there, head down and chewing. She smiled.
“That was the worst part.” Manfred shuddered theatrically. “It was awful. Just when they were wheeling Rachel out, Lewis showed up, screaming and making a terrible scene. He was making an asshole out of himself, like his mom’s dying was really all about him. It would have made Rachel so embarrassed. I don’t mind telling you, when I heard him yelling? I asked the police if I could go to my new room.”
“What was he saying?” Fiji was fascinated.
“Oh, he said I’d killed her,” Manfred said bitterly. Bobo and Fiji were horrified, their mouths open, their eyes wide. “He said there’d been people following her for days. I guess those were supposed to be my many minions. Worst of all, he said that she’d been carrying a king’s ransom in ‘jewels’—that’s what he said, jewels — in her purse, and I must have stolen them.”
3
Fiji, who’d been getting the dessert plates out, paused. “You’re kidding,” she said, thinking of how scary that would be, being accused of something so low.
“No,” said Manfred. “That part was awful. Maybe even worse than Rachel dying like that.”
“The police didn’t believe him, surely?” Fiji began to cut a cherry pie into generous triangles. They can use the calories more than me, she thought, and squirted whipped cream from a can into fluffy spirals on the pie. It looked pretty.
“I think it was obvious he’s nuts,” Manfred said. Though his words were confident, to Fiji he sounded uneasy. “And I had already told the police that Rachel had just said that she’d hidden her jewelry from Lewis.”
“Did she tell you where?” Bobo asked.
“No,” Manfred said. “I didn’t even think of asking her. None of my business.”
Bobo looked delighted to see the cherry pie. Fiji smiled at him, curbing her stupid urge to pat him on the head. Over dessert, the conversation veered away from Rachel Goldthorpe’s death and the trouble it had caused Manfred to broader concerns. They talked about Midnight things: the latest curiosity a customer had brought into the pawnshop, the continuing search for a permanent manager for Gas N Go, and the way an overabundance of zucchini in Madonna’s garden was affecting the cuisine of Home Cookin. Manfred seemed to feel better since he’d vented, Bobo seemed thoughtful, and Fiji herself was content in her kitchen (still sunny at seven thirty) with her company. It had been hot work cooking, but the window air conditioner kept the room at a tolerable temperature.
Fiji watched as Bobo ate all of his pie, and Manfred ate about half of his. She urged them both to take another piece home, and both the men said they would, Bobo with more enthusiasm than Manfred. She was grateful. Leaving her alone with the remains of the pie would not have been a friendly act.
Bobo offered to do the dishes, but Fiji said, “Nope, tonight’s my treat. Next time, you can help.”
He protested a little, but she stood firm. Bobo and Manfred thanked her profusely for the food, and then the two men left, walking across Witch Light Road side by side. Bobo was returning to his apartment above Midnight Pawn, Manfred to the house situated to the right of the pawnshop. The sun was a red streak to the west, and the sky was gathering violet shadows.
“Maybe it will rain tomorrow!” she said to Mr. Snuggly, who’d come onto the front porch with her. He licked a paw, but he suddenly raised his head and glided off into the bushes. She went back inside to clean up. While Fiji washed the dishes, she thought about Manfred’s story.
And just as Manfred had, Fiji wondered about what part Olivia had played in it.
Of course, there was a lot Manfred had left out. Any fool could see that. He’d been conspicuously silent about what Olivia had actually been doing at Vespers. As Fiji scrubbed, she speculated. When you added up Olivia’s mysterious absences and her closemouthed policy about her job, combined with her obviously abundant cash, it was logical to wonder if Olivia was a prostitute. Though no one in Midnight had ever said that out loud, it was easy to see they’d all considered that a possibility. But there were good reasons to doubt that hypothesis.
For one thing, Fiji knew Olivia… at least a little. Olivia was more than capable of taking care of herself with extreme force. Though Fiji admitted to herself that she, Fiji, was not that knowledgeable or experienced in sexual matters, Olivia didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d gladly cater to anyone else’s demands. Even if her gig was as some kind of bondage dominatrix, Fiji couldn’t picture Olivia putting on spike heels and spanking someone unless she chose to do so.
Plus, more logically, why would a prostitute live in Midnight? Why not live closer to her clientele? Also, how many prostitutes could afford to fly all over the country for “dates”? Not too many, Fiji guessed, though she would be the first to admit she was almost totally ignorant about the actual business of renting one’s body.