Which was worse, psychosis or possession?
It didn’t matter. At her desk, Wendy’s desk, she opened her notepad with the list of appointments from Wendy’s planner.
“Divinity,” Cameron whispered in her head.
“A psychic reader? Don’t make me laugh. The psychiatrist.”
“The psychiatrist won’t tell you a thing.”
Max twisted her mouth. He was right. “Fine. I’ll try her hairdresser.”
“What are you afraid of?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then go see Divinity. Next to Lilah, she’s your best bet.”
Her fingernails drummed on the desktop. A refusal would be tantamount to admitting she was scared. Which was a ridiculous notion. “You win. I’ll go.”
Divinity. She traced the name with her finger. So other worldly, so out-of-character for an accountant like Wendy. Except that Wendy had committed desperate acts.
On the phone, Divinity’s voice wasn’t other worldly. It was scratchy with too many cigarettes. Yet the welcoming sound of it made Wendy cry out inside her. Max set up a 5:30 appointment for a half-hour psychic reading. The address was in an industrial area on the opposite side of the freeway to Hackett’s, only a couple of miles from the shop.
When she arrived at a quarter after, she found Divinity’s address wedged between a used office furniture store and a car repair shop. The sign above the window advertised plumbing supplies in faded blue lettering. Max looked down at the slip of paper in her hand and matched the number—it was the right place.
She climbed out of the Miata, slammed the car door, and darted across the four-lane road. Once on the other side, she thought she saw Witt’s innocuous tan vehicle parked three doors down from her bright red convertible. The angle of the sun, however, obscured the occupant, if indeed, that blob was a person.
“Still checking up on me, Detective?” She considered for a moment if she should run back and confront him. “Screw that.” He could rot inside the heat of his unmarked car. She jerked open the door of the plumbing supply house.
Avoiding him had nothing to do with that morphmare.
Inside the shop, narrow aisles were stacked floor to ceiling with pipes, fittings, and toilets. The light from the front window failed to penetrate the gloomy maze. A counter filled one wall, its glass so scratched she couldn’t make out what was inside. Years of fingerprints stained the surface. Dust powdered the air. An ancient mariner, wearing a sailor’s cap and a filthy navy shirt with the sleeves chopped off, sat on a stool. The tattoo of a naked woman undulated as he flexed his arm. He looked like Popeye. All he needed was a can of spinach and a pipe.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Divinity.”
He grunted, grumbled, lifted his rear end, scratched, and finally pointed to a doorway two feet beyond his countertop. Light from a hallway window streamed through a curtain of gold plastic beads that twinkled and glittered in a slight current of air. Just behind, Max could make out a set of wooden stairs.
“Thank you.”
Max pushed aside the beads, and the scent of incense drifted down the stairwell. Better than any doorbell, the steps creaked as she climbed.
“You must be Max.” Voice unmistakable, Divinity stood at the top, her lips curved in a slight smile.
She was older than Max had expected, judging by the leathery texture of her skin. She wore black leggings and a loose sweater that stretched to mid-thigh, and held a pencil between her fingers as though it were a cigarette.
Stepping aside, she waved Max in.
The room was the antithesis of the store below. The windows were open, a breeze fluttered the lace eyelet curtains, and pots of incense sat on each of three round, flower-covered tables. A tall banquette separated the room from a small kitchen. Savory smells wafted from a crock pot on the far counter. Max’s mouth watered. Her stomach rumbled.
“Have a seat.” A rattan sofa scattered with pillows sat beneath the windows opposite a soft cushy chair that beckoned Max. She sank down into it.
Divinity perched on the sofa and pulled a pillow across her lap.
“Tarot cards?” A deck lay on the coffee table between them.
“No.” Max rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, then let it pop back out. “I’ll be honest with you.” The last time she wasn’t, someone died. She tried to sit forward in the chair, but the deep cushions wouldn’t give. “I didn’t come here for myself. I came to ask you about Wendy Gregory.”
Divinity shuffled the cards in front of her, then wrapped them up in a soft, black cloth and put them aside. “No cards, then. Instead I’ll need something of yours to hold. Something personal. I get vibrations, sensations. It’s how I’ll get to know you better. It will help the reading.”
“But I just said I don’t want a reading. I’d like to talk about Wendy.”
“Are you with the police?” Divinity assessed her.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”