Prologue
I'd taken the wrong turn. Again. Story of my friggin'
life — eh?
Earlier in the day, I'd stopped for gas and a quick bite
in the town of Holbrook, Arizona. It barely qualifies as a
town — one of those places by-passed by both the
interstate and prosperity. A quart of chocolate milk and a
package of Hostess Ding Dongs from a convenience store was
dinner. In the midst of my chocolate feeding frenzy, I
missed the sign to get back on I-40 — just blew right
by it. So, there I was, sitting in my new blue four wheel
drive Toyota 4Runner, watching the sun set on the Painted
Desert. It was breathtaking. A barren landscape awash in
watercolor hues of lavender, rose and turquoise. The sun set
it on fire in a crimson glow.
Sometimes there's a lot to be said for taking the wrong
turn. The road less traveled and all. Did I say "less
traveled?" Try deserted. Not a single soul in sight. The low
whistle of the desert wind was the only sound. Wait a
minute. It was dead calm — there was no desert wind.
Oh, shit. I got out of the car and watched the left rear
tire go down with the setting sun.
"No problem. I'll just call Triple A," I said to the
desert. But when I flipped open my cell phone, "Yes problem.
No signal. What now?" Sound like a pitch for "On-Star" or
what?
Fighting down panic, I pulled myself up by my Nike
straps. "You can do this, Tildy."
The owner's manual gave step-by-step instructions and I
have to say, it wasn't going too bad until...
"Insert the lug wrench over the nut and turn
counterclockwise." Sounds simple enough, you say. That's
what I thought too.
The penlight clenched between my teeth, I angled it down
on the lug nut in question. The head of the wrench fit like
a dream — like they were made for each other. Imagine
that. I was feeling pretty handy, just call me Tildy the
Tool-Time Gal, when I noticed it wasn't moving. I leaned
harder. Hmm. Harder. Nope. Pounding — kicking —
until finally, I was jumping up and down on the blasted
thing. Thank God it finally gave way. Only four more to go.
A sob of self-pity choked me, but I refused to give in to
it, and moved the wrench to the next lug nut.
*****
Two sweaty, grimy hours later — I was sitting in
the dirt, leaning back against the car, black crap all over
my face and hands, not to mention my winter white virgin
wool slacks. But lo and behold, the spare was on the left
rear wheel. The tire with the hole was in the back of the
car. I was queen of all I surveyed, feeling pretty good
about myself. Tildy, Warrior Princess.
When off in the distance, something wild howled. And then
something else yipped. And the Warrior Princess suddenly
realized she was all by herself in the middle of the desert
with the snakes and the scorpions and the "what-evers"
making all the racket.
I jumped up, threw the rest of the tire stuff in the
back. The howling was definitely closer. And when the
howling gets close, the scared get going.
I opened the door and put one foot up on the running
board when something very cold and very wet touched —
no, slimed — my ankle.
"Yeeek!!" I jumped into the car, jerked my feet up and
grabbed for the door handle just as a furry blur landed
smack in my lap — "Ohmigod!" — then it started
to whine.
When I could see again, I found myself looking down into
the small brown, terrified eyes of a matted dirty little
West Highland Terrier.
The howling was closer by the second and that sent the
little guy into a fresh round of shivering.
"Where'd you come from, fella?"
I slammed the door, muffling the cries of the prowling
predators. He put his paws on my chest and began to lick my
face — I could almost hear him: "Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you."
As I held him close against me, something opened up
inside, and I began to cry. He gave me some more kisses and
my sobs turned to laughter.
There we were, both abandoned, both strays. Two lost
souls who somehow managed to find each other in the middle
of nowhere. We belonged to each other — belonging is
good. I gave him a name right there on the spot —
Haggis. Love at first sight.
Yep. Sometimes there's a lot to be said for taking the
wrong turn...
Chapter One
...but not always.
The first wrong turn was twenty years ago when I stood at
the altar with Andrew the Anus and said "I do," when I
really didn't. It's taken me all this time to find the right
path.
My name is Matilda MacNamara — my friends call me
Tildy.
I see things, sometimes. And sometimes I just know
things. Back when I was a kid, Mom passed it off as a vivid
imagination. The neighborhood mothers decided I was a
disruptive influence. The nuns told everyone I was Satan's
spawn and threw holy water on me. That was a fun one. But
when I was fifteen I found out what all the hunches, all the
visions really were — I'm psychic (that's psychic,
folks, not psycho). My Grandma told me. I was pretty
surprised to hear from her since she'd been dead for two
years.
To Andrew the Anus, my "loving" husband, it was an
embarrassing nuisance. What full-of-himself big-time Chicago
lawyer needs a carnival side-show freak for a wife? To say
he had no real use for me is putting it mildly.
The straw that broke Andrew's back landed during our
Christmas dinner party when two martinis got the best of me
and I blurted out to the senator's wife, "Oh my God, Bunny!
Your gardener gave you herpes!?"
The senator choked on a bite of lobster and turned
purple. We called 911. When the paramedics wheeled out the
senator, it was pretty obvious the party was over and so was
my marriage.
Andrew closed the door behind the last guest. "I'm done
with you." He strode purposefully into the bedroom. "I hate
that goddamn soothsayer bullshit."
I trailed behind him miserably. "Okay, I could have
been more discreet. I don't know what came over me."
"The same thing that always comes over you. Stupidity."
He pulled a suitcase off the closet shelf and began loading
up his designer boxers.
He was serious, leaving for good this time.
"Andrew, please don't go." Yeah, I was groveling —
and I'm not even sure why. You couldn't call it a marriage,
not really. But that didn't stop me from being scared.
And suddenly — WHAM! There's this vision of Andrew
and Elizabeth Worthington, his bleached blonde law partner
with the saline implants doing the nasty in her antique
Victorian bed. It was vivid, in full Technicolor with
Surround Sound, yet. Andrew hadn't touched me in three
months — not that I minded — and in all honesty,
he never touched me like he "touched" Elizabeth
Worthington.
I stood there, my mouth hanging open like a bass, tears
of humiliation streaming down my cheeks.
"You're doing it with Elizabeth!?"
He sneered, "Figure that out on your own, did you? Some
psychic you are," and walked out.
I escaped onto the balcony and stood looking out over
Lake Michigan. The December air was cold and sharp, like a
slap in the face — yet, the velvet silence cocooned me
comfortingly.
It was easy to rationalize staying with him all those
years. I'd chosen the devil I knew over the devil I
didn't.
But standing there watching a freighter head out to open
sea, its lights flickering on the horizon, I realized maybe
those weren't my only choices.
The front door slammed. The sound of finality. It hit me
like a blow to the gut. For the first time in my life, I was
alone. I went back inside, laid down on the bed and stayed
there for forty-eight hours.
I was angry. I was scared. I was a complete wreck.
Didn't comb my hair. Didn't brush my teeth. But I did eat
chocolate — eat, hell — I binged! Chocolate
candy. Chocolate cake. Chocolate brownies. Chocolate ice
cream. Chocolate milk. Chocolate covered potato chips. You
name it. I ate it. If chocolate was heroin, I'd be dead from
an overdose.
On the third day, I got up and hired the best damn
divorce attorney in Chicago. It turned out he was well worth
the money. My "half" was one and three-quarters of a million
dollars.
So there I was, footloose, fancy-free. Who was I kidding?
I didn't have a clue what to do or where to go. One year and
six weeks from the day Andrew left me, a letter from a
Phoenix attorney found me still sitting in my living room
doing nothing, killing time.
My great Aunt Matilda — the reason I got stuck with
this swell name — had crossed over. She was always a
bit of a weirdo, but I loved her. I guess I was the only one
who did. She left everything to me including her home and
book store in northern Arizona.
Sedona.
Red-rock country.
A place where psychics (and maybe even psychos) are not
only accepted, but celebrated.
So I loaded up the car, took my hefty divorce settlement,
my maiden name and hit the road.
*****
I drove into Sedona, Arizona, exactly one week from the
day I'd left Chicago. Just outside of town, just like
everyone else, I had to pull off the road and stare. I got
out of the car. Haggis jumped out too.
I had never seen anything like it. The cliffs, red as a
persimmon, were dotted with clumps of jade cedar. Under a
turquoise sky, Bell Rock glowed pink and cinnamon and
scarlet.
The cathedral serenity of this wonderful place
touched my soul. Psychic currents coursed through me like
electricity.
The Vortex. They say Sedona is one of those spooky
places. You know, paranormal stuff. Alien landings and
psychic power points — like Stonehenge and Machu
Pichu.
And I felt it. It took my breath. Healing tears filled my
eyes and a sob of pure happiness burst from me. Haggis
yipped and jumped up into my arms, licking away my tears.
"You're right, boy. We are home."
I drove along Highway 89, excited to begin my new life,
just like old Theodore Schnebly who...
Chapter Two
...back in 1901, packed up his life and his wife Sedona,
and left Missouri, heading west — just like me. One
year later, they settled in the gorgeous red-rock country of
northern Arizona. A whole year. Geez. Guess they took a few
wrong turns themselves.
Back then, Sedona wasn't much more than a small cattle
settlement. Today, according to the brochure: "Sedona is a
bustling, picturesque vacation hot spot. The natural beauty,
the psychic phenomenon, its proximity to Phoenix and the
Grand Canyon. Brilliant red rock formations tower over an
assortment of shops, restaurants, B and B's, world class
resorts, museums and art galleries. Well-heeled tourists
move along the sidewalks, chattering in a multitude of
languages, taking good advantage of the thousand-and-one
photos ops."
The Spirit of the Vortex bookstore was just past the "Y"
on Highway 89-A in uptown Sedona. I circled and circled
wondering if it was always so hard to find a place to park.
The old Tildy would have just kept driving around looking
for a parking spot, but the new Tildy — ruthless,
predatory — simply stole one. A mini-van pulled out
and I whipped in ahead of the car already waiting. Andrew
would have been proud.
The other driver flipped me the bird and bellowed, "Who
taught you to drive, you stupid bitch?"
It seemed like a rhetorical question, so I ignored him,
put the leash on Haggis and got out of the car.
It was only about ten o'clock, but the town was already
swarming with tourists. Hot damn! Potential customers. I was
so excited I could hardly keep from jumping up and down. But
I couldn't do that. I was an entrepreneur now — no
jumping allowed. Screw it.
I jumped.
I danced.
I squealed.
Haggis danced, too. Other pedestrians gave us a wide
berth.
My high spirits were doused by the "closed" sign.
"Bummer," I said to Haggis, then, "Hello."
Just next door was paradise: Death By
Chocolate.
Maybe I haven't mentioned it; but I, Tildy MacNamara, am
one of the walking cursed, driven by a hunger that rules my
every waking thought, that pounds in my soul like a siren
song — chocolate. I was drooling on the window.
"Morning." A tall pleasant-looking woman came out of the
chocolate shop with a bottle of Windex in one hand and a
paper towel in the other. Her silver hair and gray eyes
stood out against her tanned skin. She was dressed in a rose
colored Indian-style skirt-and-blouse and nu-buck moccasin
boots. An ornately tooled concha belt circled her waist. The
most wonderful heavy necklace of inlaid turquoise and silver
lay against her chest. I couldn't help but notice it —
this sturdy gal was so tall, her throat was at eye
level.
"That's really beautiful."
She saw I was staring at the necklace. Her hand rose to
touch it. "It was a gift. Navajo squash blossom."
I stepped aside while she cleaned the nose prints and
drool off the window. "Sorry," I muttered.
"Happens all the time." She reached down to scratch
Haggis behind the ear. "What's your poison?"
*****
She served me decadent chocolate cake outside on a cute
little brick patio behind the chocolate shoppe. A cheerful
fire in a red clay chimenea took the chill off the brisk
February air. A slight rustle carried the song of wind
chimes over the otherwise quiet nook. From the store, I
heard voices and the ring of the cash register.
The Windex lady stood by expectantly, so I dove head
first into the chocolate cake. A tough job, but somebody had
to do it.
One bite and I was hooked. "Oh my God. This should be
against the law."
She smiled. "I know."
"What time do they open the bookstore?" I asked.
"It's kind of hit-and-miss over there since the owner
died. Chloe does the best she can, but her clock's out of
synch with the rest of the world. She's been holding the
place together until the new owner gets here from back
East."
I stuck out my hand. "She's here. I'm Tildy MacNamara,
Matilda's niece."
She captured my hand within both of hers. "I'm Grace.
Grace Mason."
Suddenly smoke stung my lungs and my eyes. Grace's touch
burned; and when I looked down, her right hand was on fire.
Hot flames licked out from under her shirt sleeve. I jerked
away, but not fast enough to avoid the assault of a
bellowing inferno and the agonized cries of someone caught
within it.
"When was the fire?"
She frowned and looked down at the slash of white scar
tissue across the back of her hand. "Oh, that. I tipped over
a pan of hot fudge. Happened years ago. Been a lot more
careful since."
"I bet."
Fudge, huh? So there you go. Once again, Andrew was
proven right. Some psychic I am.
*****
A half hour later, I opened the door to my very own
bookstore and stepped inside. The smell of sweet incense and
rich coffee filled my nostrils. The tinkle of wind chimes
and strains of New Age music wafted throughout the place.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, dancing magically off
crystals scattered throughout the store. And books? Books
everywhere. Books about astrology. Books about Tarot. Books
about naturopathic healing. I ran my finger along the
spines, loving everything about the place.
I loved the flagstones laid across the floor. I loved the
rich earth tones and delicate patterns of the Turkish carpet
which spaced off the reading nook. I loved the display cases
full of intricately carved jewelry and talismans.
"Can I help you?"
I turned and found myself looking into the clearest blue
eyes I'd ever seen. Clear, calm, and somehow familiar. And
at total odds with the diamond nose stud, blue mascara,
black lipstick and spiky lavender hair. The kids in Chicago
looked like this a few years ago. I guess it takes a while
for things to work their way west.
"I'm Tildy MacNamara," I stuck out my hand, "the new
owner."
"Oh my gawd." She pulled me against her and hugged and
hugged and hugged. "I can't believe you're here."
Haggis ran circles around us — yip, yip, yip.
I pulled back for a look at the whole package. She had on
a neon green mohair sweater over orange leggings and purple
calf high boots. I thought back to what Grace said about
Chloe's clock being out of synch with the rest of the world.
She never said anything about her being color blind,
too.
"You must be Chloe."
"Oh, my gawd, you're psychic, too. We're going to be the
best of friends." She smiled. "I just know it. You'll love
it here. The store is awesome and wait 'til you see the
house. It's so the bomb."
*****
Chloe was right. It was the bomb — but not the way
she meant it.
I found the old house on two acres of high-dollar
creekside real estate, shaded by century-old apple trees. To
get there, you head north out of town on Highway 89 about a
mile and half, then turn where you see the stand of six
mailboxes. The road dips down across the creek, over a rise
and you're there. It's wonderful, quiet, the perfect
hideaway.
My home (doesn't that sound nice?) is a two story piece
of gingerbread with three bedrooms and one bath upstairs,
and a converted bedroom and a bath downstairs. The kitchen
was old, but tiled in a charming French blue-and-white
pattern. The bathroom floors were done in the forties style
with small black-and-white tiles. A porch with a veranda
wrapped around the whole house, and there was a small New
Orleans style balcony off the bedroom I'd claimed upstairs.
A patch of yellowed grass and a flower garden gone to seed
would need my attention come spring.
I have to admit I was a little intimidated. The place had
charm but my work was definitely cut out for me. Everything
needed updating. Sparks spit from the outlets whenever I
turned on the microwave. Water wouldn't run through the
ancient plumbing, but it did come through the Swiss-cheese
roof.
So much to do. But by the time I finished, it would be
well worth the effort.
After the first week, I figured out that running a
psychic bookstore wasn't something you could just step into,
so I promoted Chloe to store manager. Hell, she'd been
running it for years, anyway — ever since Aunt Matilda
got sick. I spent as much time there as possible, and I
picked up more every day. I learned I'm a quick study and
have a head for business. Eat your heart out, anal boy.
My personal life took longer, about four months or so. I
needed time to familiarize myself with the town and its all
too colorful inhabitants, and make Aunt Matilda's gentle old
dowager of a Victorian mansion livable —
— all the while trying very hard to pretend the
house wasn't haunted...
|
The Ghost Wore Polyester (a
hilarious paranormal mystery)
