The Tarot Reader, page 8
“The cleansing of the ring has proven harder than I initially believed.” I stepped toward her, but instead of letting the curtain fall closed, I draped it behind a nearby shelf, showing her the full damage the water had caused. Or in her mind, the curse.
The ceiling had quickly degraded to a murky brown-and-black paste. Clumps of it had fallen onto the mosaic of towels I’d laid on the floor. The water spot was now nearly as long as a grown adult—exactly how she’d described the moldy spot on her own ceiling. Where I saw hundreds of dollars’ worth of damage, she saw spiritual infection.
“The ring needs further cleansing. I was just about to call you with an update.”
“So it’s not working?” Lisa asked in a pitiful whisper.
“Not yet. But it will. I have a few tricks left up my sleeve.” Tricks. That was all I had. She just didn’t know it was literal. I waited for her to concede as she blinked back at me, but the steely resolve that overtook her previously anxious face took me by surprise.
“How about you give me the ring back? I can drive it as far away as possible and throw it out the car window. Or off a cliff. Anything.” Her eyes were wide, nearly vibrating with a sudden anger. Was the anger at the ring or at me? “Just give it back. I’ll still pay you. Give me the ring.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I couldn’t think of anything to say. There was no finesse left in me, no more smooth words nor charm. She was growing more frustrated and she stuck her hand out, palm up and open in demand.
“You must not disturb a cleansing,” Stevie said from the doorway, making me jump. She was dressed in black, likely on her way to a shift at the bar, but with her dark hair and bloodshot eyes rimmed with black makeup, she looked like more of an expert on the occult than I did. “If you interrupt the cleansing of a cursed object, the spirit will grow stronger. Then it won’t even need an object anymore. It would only need a person.”
Lisa closed her hand into a fist and snatched it away. “Fine,” she murmured. “Do whatever you need to do.”
“We’ll get you your life back, Lisa. I promise.”
* * *
I stood in the Pulaski Pawn Shop vestibule, growing colder by the second as the wind blew through the cracks in the external door. It was unseasonably chilly again today, the clouds thick and menacing overhead as they blotted out any hint of sunshine.
I buzzed a second time and followed it up with an impatient series of knocks on the glass doors, wondering where the hell Mr. and Mrs. Pulaski were. I’d never seen the shop open but empty. Even if there were no customers, there was always some sort of under-the-table business going on inside. After all, the Pulaskis lived in the apartment above the shop and could pop downstairs at any hour.
A minute or two later, Mr. Pulaski emerged from the back room and rushed to buzz me. “So sorry, Jade! My apologies,” he said breathlessly as I entered and shook off the lingering chill.
“No problem. You all right, Mr. Pulaski? You don’t look all that well.”
His skin was clammy, and his usually coiffed silver-and-black hair was plastered against his forehead. He brushed it back and released a huff of breath. “Busy day, but feeling great. You know I always look great too.” He patted his belly, and the signet ring on his pinkie glinted against the fluorescent light. He always poked fun at his appearance, but today’s joke lacked the usual smile.
He had sweat building in his armpits, darkening his gray polo shirt to a deep charcoal where his arms met his chest. He pushed back his shoulders under my gaze, and I could swear that despite his forced confidence, he was squirming a bit. “You sure?”
“Yes, yes, what is it you need today?” He waved his hands in front of him, then leaned against the glass countertop.
“I just wanted to check on the status of the ring I brought in. Has it sold?”
“Hmm, the ring? The ring…” Mr. Pulaski tapped his fingers along the glass, and with each tap, my patience wore thinner.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Pulaski. Don’t act like you forgot about the ring I brought you yesterday. The vintage gold diamond ring from Prague?”
“Prague, ah yes. It hasn’t sold yet.” He pushed off the counter and crossed his arms against his chest, then immediately unwrapped them to unlatch the display case under the counter and bent down to fiddle with his merchandise.
I crouched to meet his eyes through the glass case, not letting him off the hook yet. If he was uncomfortable, he had to know I was ten times more uncomfortable with the weight of this scheme on my shoulders. “How is that possible? That David Yurman bracelet sold in one day—you reminded me yourself. This is five times more valuable.”
“Yes, that’s part of the problem. Something that expensive narrows the market to a select few buyers.”
“How narrow?”
“There are only three interested.”
I groaned. My family had worked with the Pulaskis enough to know the cadence of these types of sales. Mr. Pulaski straightened, avoiding my gaze once more. Unfortunately for him, I had grown up with a younger sister who challenged me nearly every day as to who could be the most annoying.
I stood and leaned against the counter. “Is there another problem you’re not telling me about?”
There was a rustling in the back room, and a burst of movement made the curtain separating the shop from the back room swish slightly in response. I wondered if Mrs. Pulaski was in the back eavesdropping. I wouldn’t fault her for it—I would have done the same. Floorboards creaked above me, and I eyed Mr. Pulaski as he shifted on his feet.
“Are the boys here?” I asked. They had two sons a bit older than me, and I wanted to be nowhere near them. They had none of the gentle charm of their parents and had gotten involved with the wrong people, so their parents had kicked them out years ago.
“No,” he said quickly, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, a sale like this can be off-putting. One of the prospects will likely back out today. I’m waiting for confirmation.”
“Off-putting how? They buy stuff like this all the time.”
“Not necessarily. They buy plenty of stolen jewelry, but none so easily identifiable. Half-a-carat solitaires from Jared’s, or a tennis bracelet from Kay’s. A custom vintage ring from Prague—with an inscription, nonetheless—is like waving a red cloth in front of a bull. There are so many levels of provenance here that can point authorities right back to us. And to you.”
What the hell is provenance? I didn’t bother asking. “Okay,” I said, dragging out the word. My body was practically vibrating with anxiety, and I shifted my weight back and forth so I wouldn’t let out a frustrated roar. “Fine. Call me about the final three prospects, okay? We’re down to the wire with this one. The owner is starting to ask questions, and it’s only been a day.”
“The replica’s nearly done, so let that soothe you, please. I’m doing my best.” Despite his soft tone, he was sweating even more than he had been earlier. The intensified scrambling in the back room made me think Mrs. Pulaski was in a state of panic as well, but I tried not to let the energy in the shop get my blood pressure rising even more than it already was.
“All right, Mr. Pulaski. I’m sorry for coming on so strong. You know how it is with a rushed timeline.”
“Of course. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling less hopeful than ever. When I exited the pawnshop, the wind was whipping even harder and it had begun to rain.
CHAPTER
12
Jade
WHEN I OPENED the front door to Daniel’s practice, he must have heard the door creak open, because he shouted, “Be down in one second!” from his upstairs apartment. His footsteps were shuffling back and forth, and I smiled, picturing him putting on deodorant or peeling off a tiny square of tissue from where he’d nicked himself shaving. He’d asked me to join him for drinks with friends, and I was relieved we weren’t going to dinner alone just yet. This could bridge the gap. Ease me back into dating.
I studied the lobby waiting room, wandering over to the bookshelf where there was a collection of psychology textbooks alongside children’s books and magazines for patients. Daniel didn’t take children as patients, but one of his coworkers did, judging by the paper cutouts of Disney and Sesame Street characters pasted all over their office door.
Daniel’s phone rang upstairs. “Ugh, sorry! Make that two seconds,” he yelled down at me, clearly flustered. Daniel’s low voice reverberated through the walls as he spoke on the phone. It was clear he was trying to rush them off, but whoever was on the other end was either stubborn or clueless enough not to notice.
Daniel’s office door was cracked open as usual, and my eyes zeroed in on his filing cabinet. The greedy, dishonest part of my mind salivated at all that private information I could harness.
I took a step toward the door, then one back. That would be wrong, I chastised myself. Daniel trusted me enough to be in his space without being supervised, and he’d never done anything to deserve dishonesty.
Footsteps crept around the bend of the L-shaped staircase, and Daniel peeked his head out. “I’m so sorry. It’s my mom. I’ll be just another minute. Feel free to come up and grab a drink.”
“I’ll give you your privacy,” I said, waving him away with a smile.
The part of my brain that was raised on deceit whispered to me: Get rid of him. Take the opportunity.
I stepped forward again, listening to Daniel talk to his mother upstairs. I had no time to lose. I inched open the door and scanned the labels on the folders. Many of them were the same ones I’d seen the first time I’d been in his office.
There were about six patient files on the desk, but if I took all of them, it would be too obvious. I could probably get away with taking half. I picked a few at random and shoved the files in my tote bag. I could no longer hear Daniel speaking to his mother, just his footsteps. I knew the office door would creak, so I opened it as little as I possibly could, shoving my tote bag out through the crack first, then sucking in my belly as I slipped my body through.
I wasn’t even two steps into the lobby when Daniel started walking down the stairs, already apologizing for the holdup. “I’m so sorry. She hardly ever calls, but when she does, she tells you every single thing that’s happened in her life, all the way down to what she’s eaten. It can go on for hours if you’re not pushy enough.”
I laughed, but a tiny voice in the back of my brain wanted to tell him to be more grateful that he still had a mother to talk to. I would have given anything for my mom to be able to call and tell me what she’d eaten. I’d even listen to her tell me about her bowel movements—I just wanted to hear her voice. But all that wasn’t really something you should say to someone you just started casually dating, so I kept my mouth shut.
“You ready?” he asked, holding his hand out. I looked at his hand, then back up at his face, blushing. I’d never had a man want to hold my hand in public before and my palms were already growing sweaty at the thought, even though I liked the thought of it. A look of self-conscious worry was creeping over his face, but when I reached out to grab his hand, it disappeared. All he wanted was connection and I wanted that too, but I’d just stolen from him. What kind of a person was I?
It’s not stealing if you’re going to give it back, I argued with myself. It was true—I was going to take notes and put the files back—but I’d started our relationship on a horrible foundation of my own making.
I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night with the two opposing parts of me going to battle over what I’d done. I would have to do what I always did and pretend everything was fine and I’d done nothing wrong. It was the Crawford way.
“I’m ready,” I said with a smile. “Let’s go.”
* * *
After returning home, I pored over the files with a frantic energy, and I was nearly crawling out of my skin with the need to talk about them by the time Stevie returned to the apartment.
“What’s this all about?” Stevie asked me as I ushered her over to the couch, one hand firmly on her back. She reached for the television remote, but I scooted it out of the way with my other hand, sending it skittering across the coffee table and onto the floor. She studied me with wide, red eyes before muttering, “Okay, weirdo.”
Once she was seated, I reached behind the TV and grabbed the patient files, tossing them in front of her on the coffee table. I tapped them feverishly. “Open it.”
“How much coffee have you had today? Any crack?”
“I’ve had three cups of coffee. No crack. How much pot have you smoked?” I jabbed, half serious, half joking.
She blinked at me, her red eyes so irritated and dry that I could have sworn I heard her lids stick together when she blinked. “Not enough, apparently. What is this? You want me to read your poems about Daniel’s ample backside?”
“Just open it.”
She obliged, cautiously flipping the cover back. Her eyes drifted back and forth as she read before they snapped back up to me. “Who are these people? This is really… this is extremely personal information.”
“Extremely useful information,” I corrected.
She turned the page, reading on. Her eyes sobered, the redness remaining but any hint of a smile leaving. “Just because it’s useful doesn’t mean it should be used. Where did you get this?”
“I—” My voice croaked, self-consciousness seeping in as my confidence waned. For a split second, I wished my parents were on the couch instead of Stevie. They would have been proud of me, I thought bitterly. But was that what I really wanted?
“Is this from Daniel’s office?” She closed the notebook and stood, moving away from it as if it were poison. I remained silent, weighing my words. She studied me, watching as I chewed on the inside of my lip. “Jesus Christ, Jade. It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She blew out a huff of air and raked her fingers through her hair. She paced the floor. “Do you have any idea how illegal this is? Do you want to end up like Dad?”
“Don’t do that. You don’t even know what I’m trying to do with these.”
“Don’t do what? Bring you back into reality? There are other ways to earn money, Jade. I could get you a job at the bar.”
“I don’t want to serve watered-down drinks to college kids and perverts, Stevie.”
She balked at me, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Wow. Real nice. I work just as hard as you, if not harder and without stealing, so why don’t you shove—”
“Wait, listen,” I interrupted. “I brought you in here because I have an idea.”
“Oh, goodie. Would you like to steal from the Make-A-Wish Foundation next? Kidnap a blind person’s guide dog?”
“No. Just listen. We can help these people, Stevie. We can seek them out, get them to come into the shop. These are some seriously fucked-up people. Maybe they just need a little guidance.”
“They’re already getting guidance. From a professional— Daniel.”
I kept my voice calm despite her increased frustration. “A lot of these people are grieving—really struggling. You know I’m right when I say we can bring them comfort. Just take a look at the files yourself.”
She scoffed but began thumbing through them anyway, clearly uninterested in taking part. She paused on the last file, her eyes narrowing. “This guy. Ian Stellman. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, he’s the teacher that got suspended with pay after a girl came forward about him hitting on her. He’s the one who drives the yellow Hummer and scream-cries during his sessions. Didn’t they hire him while you were in school?”
Stevie nodded, and her face flushed. “Yeah, my junior year. A string of other students came forward after the first student, and a lot of their stories were worse.”
“This file is one of his victims. She was the second to come forward.”
Stevie flipped the page, anger glistening in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was high and tight. “He assaulted her in the classroom? What a sick freak.”
“I know.” I took the Stellman file off the table and flipped through the pages. “There are tons of references to a Tom in Stellman’s appointments. Who do you think that is?”
“No idea. The Stellmans have connections everywhere, so it could be anyone,” Stevie said.
I read from the file. “ ‘He shouldn’t have gotten involved.’ That’s from their appointment a few days ago. Involved in what?”
Stevie shrugged, but I could tell her energy was ramping like mine as she too felt potential connections coming together. There was something big here.
“Tom, Thomas… You don’t think there’s any way…” I half whispered.
“You think Tom is Thomas Nichols?”
“Only in the appointment after the councilman went missing does he ever start saying this Tom person shouldn’t have gotten involved. If he’s talking about the councilman, maybe whatever Nichols got him involved in is why he’s missing. And maybe Stellman is responsible.”
“If we could get proof of that, the cops would leave you alone. They clearly think your vision is suspicious.”
“We need him to confess.”
“And how are we going to do that? He’s sitting pretty in his house with his paid leave. He has no reason to change that.”
“We convince him to come to the shop. He clearly feels some sort of guilt. We can use that in our favor. I’ll do a reading and record it.”
“How are we supposed to get him here?” Stevie asked as she sat on the couch. “It’s almost impossible if someone hasn’t already shown interest.”
“We need to find out where he goes and what he does first. Then we can lure him in.”
Stevie rubbed at her red eyes and sat on the couch. Her knees bobbed up and down, full of nervous energy. “He’s come to the bar a few times since he was put on paid leave. Same drink. Same seat at the bar. Predictable—the best type of person for a hot reading.”
“Stevie.” I flopped down on the couch next to her. My head was spinning. “This is perfect. You can call me when he comes in so I can lure him back here.”
