Read Online A Veiled Deception by Annette Blair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annette Blair
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sixth sense you’ve always had, a long-dormant gift . . . that flowers in this kind of life-or-death situation . . . a situation equal to a near drowning.”
Why did my dream, er, memory of moon dancing with my mother and Aunt Fiona come to mind when Eve said that? “Say again?”
Eve sighed. “Just for the record, I don’t believe in anything I’m saying.”
“So noted.”
Eve cracked a smile. “It’s like the stars are in alignment for your gift to reveal itself. Could be your instincts are kicking in, Mad. Maybe you were too stressed in New York to listen to the voices in your head.”
“I do not hear voices in my head.”
Eve hummed the theme song from the Twilight Zone . “Either that or vintage clothes talk to you because they have pasts and secrets to share.”
I gave her a double take. “You think I stumbled on a secret from the past?”
“Hell no. But I have heard of people who get psychic readings when they touch old objects. They learn things about the object and the people who owned it. There’s a name for that type of telepathy, I think.”
“Aunt Fiona might know.”
“I guess.”
“Eve.”
“What?”
“I’m scared.”
“Being psychic is nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m scared my sister will go to jail, nut job.”
“Nut job? Me? Bit like the pistachio calling the geek a cashew, isn’t it?” She poked me again, which helped me relax. Normal. That was what I needed right now. Normal. And look who I was trying to get it from . . . Eve. Hah.
“Police station parking on your right,” she said, shattering normal.
“How did you feel when you found Jasmine’s body?” Eve asked as I pulled in. “No visions, then?”
“Nope.”
“How inconvenient.”
“You’re telling me.”
The police station smelled musty, a combination of old books in attic trunks, rain-soaked dogs, hardworking men, and unwashed lawbreakers. Werner met us at the door—a man who smelled, amazingly, of Armani’s Black Code, a scent reminiscent of fruit, lavender, and a walk in the woods. Silent, he led us down a barren institutional hall—top: cream, bottom: tan—separated by a bruised walnut chair rail. A dozen doors with knobby-glass windows revealed a slide show of sinister shadows.
He brought us to a sterile, pale puke green room where Justin and his family sat on backless benches along one wall.
As we joined them, the Vancortlands looked everywhere but at us, except for Justin, who came for Sherry and led her to a spot beside him, away from his parents. Deborah surprised me. Aside from her feeble whine when Justin got up to meet Sherry, she was quiet. The Deborah I knew would be highly insulted and shrilly vocal about being made to wait in a dingy police station. This Deborah must be on tranquilizers. She wasn’t even sporting puffy eyes. Maybe she’d gotten Botoxed this morning. At any rate, she looked more serene than she had last night. Being so fond of Jasmine, you’d think she’d be in mourning, especially given the arrowed Morgue sign on the wall across from our open door. It freaked me to know Jasmine’s cold body lay just down the hall. I rubbed my arms to warm myself . . . in August . . . without air-conditioning. Deborah’s husband, Cort, sat a distance away from a wife who should need consolation, but didn’t.
Were the Vancortlands on the outs, and was Jasmine the reason? After all, Cort had been visibly interested in the cake lady. Maybe he’d been just as smitten by Jasmine, which would give either of the Vancortlands a motive for killing Jasmine. I sat, took out a small notebook, made a very rough sketch of the room I’d seen in my “vision,” for want of a better word, and I handed it to Eve. Then I listed the details of said vision. On a roll, I took out the copy of the guest list that Fiona had given me and checked off anyone who might have had a motive for killing the girl. We had, unfortunately, provided the opportunity, the party, and the means, the
Why did my dream, er, memory of moon dancing with my mother and Aunt Fiona come to mind when Eve said that? “Say again?”
Eve sighed. “Just for the record, I don’t believe in anything I’m saying.”
“So noted.”
Eve cracked a smile. “It’s like the stars are in alignment for your gift to reveal itself. Could be your instincts are kicking in, Mad. Maybe you were too stressed in New York to listen to the voices in your head.”
“I do not hear voices in my head.”
Eve hummed the theme song from the Twilight Zone . “Either that or vintage clothes talk to you because they have pasts and secrets to share.”
I gave her a double take. “You think I stumbled on a secret from the past?”
“Hell no. But I have heard of people who get psychic readings when they touch old objects. They learn things about the object and the people who owned it. There’s a name for that type of telepathy, I think.”
“Aunt Fiona might know.”
“I guess.”
“Eve.”
“What?”
“I’m scared.”
“Being psychic is nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m scared my sister will go to jail, nut job.”
“Nut job? Me? Bit like the pistachio calling the geek a cashew, isn’t it?” She poked me again, which helped me relax. Normal. That was what I needed right now. Normal. And look who I was trying to get it from . . . Eve. Hah.
“Police station parking on your right,” she said, shattering normal.
“How did you feel when you found Jasmine’s body?” Eve asked as I pulled in. “No visions, then?”
“Nope.”
“How inconvenient.”
“You’re telling me.”
The police station smelled musty, a combination of old books in attic trunks, rain-soaked dogs, hardworking men, and unwashed lawbreakers. Werner met us at the door—a man who smelled, amazingly, of Armani’s Black Code, a scent reminiscent of fruit, lavender, and a walk in the woods. Silent, he led us down a barren institutional hall—top: cream, bottom: tan—separated by a bruised walnut chair rail. A dozen doors with knobby-glass windows revealed a slide show of sinister shadows.
He brought us to a sterile, pale puke green room where Justin and his family sat on backless benches along one wall.
As we joined them, the Vancortlands looked everywhere but at us, except for Justin, who came for Sherry and led her to a spot beside him, away from his parents. Deborah surprised me. Aside from her feeble whine when Justin got up to meet Sherry, she was quiet. The Deborah I knew would be highly insulted and shrilly vocal about being made to wait in a dingy police station. This Deborah must be on tranquilizers. She wasn’t even sporting puffy eyes. Maybe she’d gotten Botoxed this morning. At any rate, she looked more serene than she had last night. Being so fond of Jasmine, you’d think she’d be in mourning, especially given the arrowed Morgue sign on the wall across from our open door. It freaked me to know Jasmine’s cold body lay just down the hall. I rubbed my arms to warm myself . . . in August . . . without air-conditioning. Deborah’s husband, Cort, sat a distance away from a wife who should need consolation, but didn’t.
Were the Vancortlands on the outs, and was Jasmine the reason? After all, Cort had been visibly interested in the cake lady. Maybe he’d been just as smitten by Jasmine, which would give either of the Vancortlands a motive for killing Jasmine. I sat, took out a small notebook, made a very rough sketch of the room I’d seen in my “vision,” for want of a better word, and I handed it to Eve. Then I listed the details of said vision. On a roll, I took out the copy of the guest list that Fiona had given me and checked off anyone who might have had a motive for killing the girl. We had, unfortunately, provided the opportunity, the party, and the means, the
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