“May I assume this has to do with Sailor?” I asked. “I spoke with him this morning.”
“I know you spoke with him this morning. Do you know how I know you spoke with him this morning?”
“Because . . . you’re psychic?” I suggested.
“Because I tried to speak with him this morning and they told me he’d already had his one permitted visitor.” She glared at me.
“I didn’t realize he was only allowed one visitor,” I said. “But I am his fiancée, after all.”
Patience rolled her eyes. “Is that still happening?”
“Is what still happening?”
“This so-called ‘wedding’?”
“Of course it’s still happening,” Maya said, an uncharacteristic touch of annoyance in her voice. “In fact, Selena and I are going to be bridesmaids. Aren’t we, Selena?”
Selena nodded but remained mute, apparently a little intimidated by the force of nature that was Patience Blix. I could relate.
“Great heavens above, someone please tell me that child is not going to be wearing that bilious little number?”
“Hey,” I yelled, planting myself between Patience and Selena. “Enough, Patience. Don’t you dare pick on Selena. Your argument isn’t with her—it’s with me. She’s having fun trying on dresses, and she looks adorable in anything she wears. Now, please apologize to her.”
Patience gave me another sour look, then flashed Selena a fake smile. “Sorry. You look super, peaches. You look like you’re ready for a Gypsy wedding. I’ll give you that much.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but figured it was the best we were going to get.
“Anyway, Lily.” Patience turned back to me. “I only came here to tell you that you’d better figure something out and right quick, or you’ll be spellcasting over the warden for conjugal visits.”
“I will not be . . .” I trailed off, realizing I was allowing myself to be baited. I stroked my medicine bag again and concentrated on keeping my temper. Patience could be of use to me—to us. “Of course Sailor won’t be convicted. He’s not even formally charged yet. All we have to do is figure out who the guilty person is, and he’ll be off the hook.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it? Easy-peasy. Best get right on it, then.”
I nodded. “I’ll grant you, it’s a lot. We have our work cut out for us.”
“We?” Patience said. “Who are you calling ‘we’?”
“All of us who care about Sailor,” Maya said.
“That’s right,” I echoed, warmed by Maya’s defense of Sailor. “Think of it this way: You’re not helping me—you’re helping Sailor.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Have you been able to see anything?” I asked.
Patience’s drop-dead good looks tended to distract me from the fact that she was tremendously gifted at reading cards and seeing in her crystal ball. Both would be helpful, and neither was my area of expertise.
A trio of college-age girls came into the shop, chatting and giggling. Maya went to help them, while Selena disappeared into the dressing room.
Patience let out a long-suffering sigh, and gestured with her head toward the back room. We passed through the brocade curtains that divided the workroom from the shop floor, and took seats on either side of the jade green linoleum table.
“Here’s the problem,” Patience said, looking around the workroom. For a moment I saw it through her eyes: the piles of clothes needing to be laundered or repaired, Bronwyn’s collection of kettles, the small fridge that kept our lunches and snacks cool. A few old thrift-shop oil paintings and some framed drawings of Selena’s studded the walls. They were amateur efforts, but hanging them on the wall added to my feeling of permanence, the sense that this was my forever home.
She hesitated so long I said, “You realize you haven’t finished your thought, right? What’s the problem? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“It looked like him,” Patience finally said.
“What looked like who?”
“I was able to see something from that night, and the truth is, it looked like Sailor.”
“What did you see, exactly?”
Patience sighed and looked at me as if I were slow-witted. “I went to the hotel where it happened. Hotel Marais, is it? I was able to ‘see’ the bloodied man stalking through the lobby. It was Sailor.”
Our gazes met over the colorful bowl of fruit I kept well stocked atop the kitchen table, in the vain hope that Oscar would eat something besides cheese and carbs.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Very. I assume Sailor had good reason to kill the guy. I just can’t figure out why he wasn’t smarter about it. He walked right through the hotel lobby, in full view of several guests?”
I nodded. “That’s what Carlos says.”
“Carlos is your friend, the cop?” Her arched brows rose suspiciously.
“Yes. And good thing, too, since he filled me in on what’s going on. He doesn’t think Sailor did it. Said it sounded hinky to him.”
“Hinky? What’s that mean?”
“It means something is odd; the facts don’t add up. Like you, Carlos couldn’t figure out why Sailor had been so stupid as to murder someone in such a blatant manner. But . . . you’re saying you think Sailor is capable of murder?”
The mask slipped. She grew serious, gazing at the pile of laundry, a faraway look in her eye. She seemed to be weighing her words.
“Yes and no. Is he capable of killing someone who is a threat? Yes. So am I. And so are you, notwithstanding your Miss Priss ways.”
“My Miss what—?”
She waved one hand. “Not important. The point is, Sailor would not kill someone unprovoked, not like that. He wouldn’t lie in wait and ambush someone, much less waltz into a hotel in front of witnesses. Unless”—Patience paused, took an orange from the fruit bowl, nicked the rind with her thumbnail, and sniffed its delicate fragrance—“he was trying to protect someone. You, for instance. Heavens to Murgatroyd, I can’t figure out why he’s such a fool for you.”
I opened my mouth, but didn’t know what to say.
“Did the victim—this Dupree guy—did he threaten you?” Patience asked.
Now it was my turn to weigh my words. “Sort of. He thought I had taken something of his. A bēag.”
One eyebrow lifted. “You stole something from him? Not too swift, my dear. That guy was bad news.”
“You knew Tristan?”
Her mass of shiny near-black curls bounced when she shook her head. “Not when he was alive. But . . . I could feel him there, at the hotel.”
“I didn’t realize you’re such a talented necromancer.”
“I have my abilities; you have yours.” After a moment she added, with a grudging shrug, “Actually, I’m not usually able to see dead folks, or things from the past, that clearly. Maybe it’s because of my connection to Sailor.”
We sat for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts. On the other side of the curtain were the normal, everyday sounds of Aunt Cora’s Closet: the bell tinkling as the front door opened and closed, the murmur of voices, a delighted coo when someone found something she liked, the ringing of the antique cash register, and Maya’s calm voice chatting with customers. They were comforting sounds, and I relished them, drew strength from their quotidian normality.
“What can you tell me about psychic projection?” I asked Patience.
“Why?” she demanded, her usual prickly demeanor having returned. So much for being on the same page.
I hesitated, not wanting to speak out of turn. Sailor, like the rest of us, kept the details of his life close to his chest. But then I reminded myself that Patience probably knew more about Sailor’s training with Renna than I did.
“Sailor told me he’s been working on projection. Would it be possible for a psychic’s astral self to have gone after someone like that? Could Sailor’s unconscious or id, or whatever you want to call it, have taken over and killed Tristan Dupree?”
I was hoping the answer would be a definitive no. After all, if Sailor had experienced an out-of-control astral projection, however unconsciously, it would mean he was not responsible for his actions. But good luck explaining that in a court of law.