Omens
Page 44
“If Gabriel put you up to this—”
“My nephew puts me up to nothing. He is owed money. I would like to see him get it.”
I reached for the door handle to leave.
“It’s an easy matter to resolve, Ms. Jones. Ask Lena Taylor for the money. Or allow my nephew to make your claim on the proceeds of Pamela’s book. It will cost you nothing, and it will free you from the shadow of this debt.”
I laughed and turned back to face her. “What shadow? My mother hired Gabriel because she’s in jail for murdering eight people. That has nothing to do with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“What? I was two years old at the time. I—”
I stopped myself. Don’t feed the crazy lady, Liv. What did I expect from a fortune-teller? I grasped the door handle again.
“He’ll be very persistent, Ms. Jones.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will, but the guy drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. If he’s in hock, he should sell it and live within his means.”
“My nephew lives within his means.” There was genuine annoyance in her voice now. “He’s a Walsh. We pay as we go. We owe no one.”
“And neither do I. Which is why I wouldn’t ask my adoptive mother for the money. As for the book, I consider that stealing a debt owed to the victims.”
She eyed me with the same intense appraisal I’d gotten from her grandnephew.
“He’s right,” she said finally. “You have a backbone.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
She shrugged and put her hand on a pedestal table, letting her posture relax. “You’re an attractive young woman. Gabriel isn’t usually blinded by such things, but it is possible, combined with the equally blinding attractions of a healthy bank account and an intriguing back story.”
“So you were . . . what? Seeing if you could bully the money out of me?”
“It was worth a try. He worked for that money, and he deserves it. I understand why you don’t want to go to your adoptive family for it, but I think you’re a fool for rejecting the book income. Pamela Larsen is your mother. You’ve been damaged by that. You will be damaged more. I don’t need the second sight to foresee that. Maybe you’ll change your mind. In the meantime . . .” She waved toward an open doorway. “A reading.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s on the house.”
“Right. Let me guess. My future will be so much brighter if I paid my mother’s bills.”
A harsh croak of a laugh. “That would be insultingly obvious.”
She headed into the side room. I followed. Once I crossed the threshold, I stopped to stare. To the layperson’s eye it might look like a cheesy fortune-teller’s room, but to anyone who knew something about the history of spiritualism, it was like stepping into a museum exhibit.
I stopped in front of a very old reproduction of a photograph, showing what looked like tiny, gauzy-winged people in the grass.
“The Cottingley Fairies,” I murmured.
Five photographs taken in 1917, probably the most famous “evidence” of fairies. Four were of two girls playing with little winged people. This was the fifth, without the girls. The photos were a huge sensation at the time and were taken as proof of the existence of the little people. It wasn’t until the eighties that the girls admitted they’d faked the first four photographs using cutouts of fairies from a book. On this fifth one, though, they disagreed, one claiming it was another fake and the other insisting it was real.
How did I know this? Because the best-known article written on the Cottingley fairies was by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, published in a Christmas edition of the Strand. He’d been convinced they were real. That had been the actual subject of my master’s thesis—a reanalysis of his ultralogical famous detective in light of Conan Doyle’s interest in the otherworldly.
“It looks real, doesn’t it?” Rosalyn said.
“It’s a double-negative. That’s the theory anyway. The girls shot a photo of the cardboard fairies and got a double-negative of the images.”
Another croaked laugh. “You have a very firm opinion on the subject, don’t you?”
“I do. I could tell you my opinion of fortune-telling, too.” I turned. “I’ll warn you, prognostication is wasted on me. I had my palm read once, on a lark with friends. The psychic told me I’d marry a handsome, rich man.”
“Which you were going to, were you not?”
“Past tense. Meaning it was wrong, though I’m sure if I pointed that out, she’d say there’s still time. Even if I married two ugly, poor men in a row, she could tell me there was still time.”
“It was a reasonable guess, though. She could tell you come from money. Even today, you may think you’re hiding behind department store attire, but you’re wearing a Cartier watch. Besides, a trained ear can pick up the softened midwestern accent that suggests private school. If you come from those circles, it is likely your husband will be wealthy.”
“And handsome?”
“Beautiful women sometimes choose unattractive men to move up on the social ladder. Again, you don’t need that. So it is a reasonable guess you will marry a man who is both wealthy and handsome.”
“She also said I’ll have two children.”
Rosalyn settled into a chair at the table and motioned for me to do the same. “There she was wrong. Or relying on outdated information. The current national average is less than two. Higher socioeconomic status often results in fewer children. Based on that alone, I’d have said one. However, in your case, I’d say none.”
“Because I won’t want to pass on my tainted serial-killer genes?”
“No, because you don’t like children.”
When I started to protest, she continued. “Perhaps that’s too harsh. You don’t dislike them. But to you, they are like parrots. Pretty to look at, fun to play with, but you wouldn’t want to be saddled with that responsibility for the rest of your life.”
“That’s a big leap to make for someone you just met.”
“Not really. I don’t know who broke the engagement, you or James Morgan. The papers say he did. I suspect it was you. Pride, most likely. Either way, had you been eager to start a family, you would have tried to work it out. Also, you don’t strike me as being particularly maternal. So I would have said no children is most likely, though I would hedge my bets by adding that there is the possibility of one later in life. What else did your fortune-teller say?”
“My nephew puts me up to nothing. He is owed money. I would like to see him get it.”
I reached for the door handle to leave.
“It’s an easy matter to resolve, Ms. Jones. Ask Lena Taylor for the money. Or allow my nephew to make your claim on the proceeds of Pamela’s book. It will cost you nothing, and it will free you from the shadow of this debt.”
I laughed and turned back to face her. “What shadow? My mother hired Gabriel because she’s in jail for murdering eight people. That has nothing to do with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“What? I was two years old at the time. I—”
I stopped myself. Don’t feed the crazy lady, Liv. What did I expect from a fortune-teller? I grasped the door handle again.
“He’ll be very persistent, Ms. Jones.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will, but the guy drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. If he’s in hock, he should sell it and live within his means.”
“My nephew lives within his means.” There was genuine annoyance in her voice now. “He’s a Walsh. We pay as we go. We owe no one.”
“And neither do I. Which is why I wouldn’t ask my adoptive mother for the money. As for the book, I consider that stealing a debt owed to the victims.”
She eyed me with the same intense appraisal I’d gotten from her grandnephew.
“He’s right,” she said finally. “You have a backbone.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
She shrugged and put her hand on a pedestal table, letting her posture relax. “You’re an attractive young woman. Gabriel isn’t usually blinded by such things, but it is possible, combined with the equally blinding attractions of a healthy bank account and an intriguing back story.”
“So you were . . . what? Seeing if you could bully the money out of me?”
“It was worth a try. He worked for that money, and he deserves it. I understand why you don’t want to go to your adoptive family for it, but I think you’re a fool for rejecting the book income. Pamela Larsen is your mother. You’ve been damaged by that. You will be damaged more. I don’t need the second sight to foresee that. Maybe you’ll change your mind. In the meantime . . .” She waved toward an open doorway. “A reading.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s on the house.”
“Right. Let me guess. My future will be so much brighter if I paid my mother’s bills.”
A harsh croak of a laugh. “That would be insultingly obvious.”
She headed into the side room. I followed. Once I crossed the threshold, I stopped to stare. To the layperson’s eye it might look like a cheesy fortune-teller’s room, but to anyone who knew something about the history of spiritualism, it was like stepping into a museum exhibit.
I stopped in front of a very old reproduction of a photograph, showing what looked like tiny, gauzy-winged people in the grass.
“The Cottingley Fairies,” I murmured.
Five photographs taken in 1917, probably the most famous “evidence” of fairies. Four were of two girls playing with little winged people. This was the fifth, without the girls. The photos were a huge sensation at the time and were taken as proof of the existence of the little people. It wasn’t until the eighties that the girls admitted they’d faked the first four photographs using cutouts of fairies from a book. On this fifth one, though, they disagreed, one claiming it was another fake and the other insisting it was real.
How did I know this? Because the best-known article written on the Cottingley fairies was by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, published in a Christmas edition of the Strand. He’d been convinced they were real. That had been the actual subject of my master’s thesis—a reanalysis of his ultralogical famous detective in light of Conan Doyle’s interest in the otherworldly.
“It looks real, doesn’t it?” Rosalyn said.
“It’s a double-negative. That’s the theory anyway. The girls shot a photo of the cardboard fairies and got a double-negative of the images.”
Another croaked laugh. “You have a very firm opinion on the subject, don’t you?”
“I do. I could tell you my opinion of fortune-telling, too.” I turned. “I’ll warn you, prognostication is wasted on me. I had my palm read once, on a lark with friends. The psychic told me I’d marry a handsome, rich man.”
“Which you were going to, were you not?”
“Past tense. Meaning it was wrong, though I’m sure if I pointed that out, she’d say there’s still time. Even if I married two ugly, poor men in a row, she could tell me there was still time.”
“It was a reasonable guess, though. She could tell you come from money. Even today, you may think you’re hiding behind department store attire, but you’re wearing a Cartier watch. Besides, a trained ear can pick up the softened midwestern accent that suggests private school. If you come from those circles, it is likely your husband will be wealthy.”
“And handsome?”
“Beautiful women sometimes choose unattractive men to move up on the social ladder. Again, you don’t need that. So it is a reasonable guess you will marry a man who is both wealthy and handsome.”
“She also said I’ll have two children.”
Rosalyn settled into a chair at the table and motioned for me to do the same. “There she was wrong. Or relying on outdated information. The current national average is less than two. Higher socioeconomic status often results in fewer children. Based on that alone, I’d have said one. However, in your case, I’d say none.”
“Because I won’t want to pass on my tainted serial-killer genes?”
“No, because you don’t like children.”
When I started to protest, she continued. “Perhaps that’s too harsh. You don’t dislike them. But to you, they are like parrots. Pretty to look at, fun to play with, but you wouldn’t want to be saddled with that responsibility for the rest of your life.”
“That’s a big leap to make for someone you just met.”
“Not really. I don’t know who broke the engagement, you or James Morgan. The papers say he did. I suspect it was you. Pride, most likely. Either way, had you been eager to start a family, you would have tried to work it out. Also, you don’t strike me as being particularly maternal. So I would have said no children is most likely, though I would hedge my bets by adding that there is the possibility of one later in life. What else did your fortune-teller say?”
