And now, in my mind, I turned the keys...and on the table, as if manipulated by an invisible hand, the keys turned in real-time, too. In fact, they performed a perfect 360-degree turn.
I broke the connection and sat back. “Holy shit,” I whispered.
Watch your language, dear, said Millicent in my head, but you can say that again.
I smiled...and then I was laughing.
Almost hysterically.
Chapter Twenty-four
School was out.
They piled out in droves, laughing and running with their oversized backpacks. An ungodly long line of minivans and SUVs wended its way through school. Yes, some kids even walked home, although I sure as hell wouldn’t have let my own kid walk home. Not from this school, and not with a killer still on the loose.
I watched it all from the parking lot, from within my humble Honda Accord, looking, no doubt, like just another anxious mother. Of course, I was anxious for an entirely different reason. Perhaps even an unwarranted reason. I was going to speak to Penny’s fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Fletcher, and I was nervous as hell.
No, I hadn’t received a strong psychic hit that he was actually involved. But I knew I needed to speak to him, and I would.
I just didn’t like it.
I was, after all, just a telephone psychic and part-time personal trainer. I didn’t confront people, especially about murder. Yes, I could have called my private eye friend, Samantha Moon. She would have come out here for me. But it was afternoon, and she would have been picking up her own kids slathered in sunscreen and dressed in a lot of clothes to protect her from the sun. Besides, I wanted to talk to the bastard here, now, in the classroom. I wanted to size him up for myself, get a feel of him for myself, and then take it from there. Wherever there would lead.
Feeling strongly that there was a good chance Penny hadn’t headed home, that she had gone somewhere to sulk about Mommy being mean that day opened up the possibility that anyone could have come across her. Even Mr. Fletcher, whose alibi was airtight.
So, where were my friendly spirits now? Why did I suddenly feel so alone?
I knew the answer, of course.
They were nearby. They were watching me with extreme interest. The Universe wanted justice, needed justice. A karmic balance needed to be met. A girl had been murdered and a family had been torn apart. Karmic suffering had been great and the world, quite literally, was out of balance because of it.
Whether or not I could provide that balance, I didn’t know. Had no clue, in fact. But one thing was certain: I was going to have to go about this mostly on my own, using as many psychic hits as I could to help me along the way.
I drummed my polished nails on the hot steering wheel. My nails looked sexy. At least, that’s what I’d always thought. My nails were also expensive, and rooted in materialism and appearance.
Well, dammit, I certainly wasn’t as flashy as the other girls out here. And, well, I liked nice nails. Nails made me feel good about myself, and, I figured, feeling good about oneself should be paramount. Plus, I had a famous zip code to live up to.
So be it.
My car was heating up so I rolled down the windows. Buses came and went, and so did moms in SUVs. Some dads, too, in bigger trucks. Of course, the SUVs here were Porsches and Range Rovers and Escalades. Everything was big and polished, much like many of the moms. Everyone wore sunglasses. I did, too, of course. Hey, it was bright in Beverly Hills!
When the parade of polished cars and people were over, when most of the students had been picked up and as a smattering of teachers talked together, laughing, clearly relieved that another day had come and gone, I stepped out of my Accord, locked it with a beep, adjusted my sunglasses, and took a deep breath, And then, I went looking for Mr. Fletcher.
Thanks to the police summary, I knew just where to find him.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Hi, are you Mr. Fletcher?”
A man in his early thirties turned from the dry-erase board where he’d just written tomorrow’s date. Very efficient. He was also very handsome. He was not much bigger than my own 5’7”, although he had broad shoulders and clearly worked out. He was dressed in a light blue polo shirt and snug jeans. He wore designer Timberland boots that probably stopped somewhere at the ankle. He looked at once dashing and relaxed.
“You got him,” he said, recapping his dry-erase pen and setting it in the grooved metal slot at the base of the board. He next picked up an eraser. Had I not been standing in the doorway, he would have gone to town erasing various mathematical problems that looked, sad to say, too difficult even for me to puzzle out at first blush. Since when did kids get so damned smart? Instead, he waited for me with a pleasant smile on his handsome face. “How can I help you?”
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“I do, if you don’t mind if I clean up a little while we speak.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Then fire away,” he said, and began quickly working his way down the dry-erase board, wiping it clean as if magically.
I didn’t know where to begin, so I said lamely, “Whatever happened to good old chalkboards?”
“They went the way of the dodo,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder as he wiped. He tried to grin, but it came out awkwardly. I sensed he didn’t smile much, and as I stood here in the classroom, I got a very strong sense that he was a severe teacher, a strict disciplinarian. I reached out psychically to the classroom itself and sensed real fear here. Yes, his students were afraid of him. The teacher that no one wanted to have, despite his good looks.
I said, “Well, we had chalkboards when I was a kid, and I turned out fine. Just ask my therapist.”
Now he did chuckle lightly, but, again, it seemed forced. “Same here, but that’s progress for you. I’ve never seen you before. Are you a parent?”
“No,” I said, and now the nerves kicked in again, especially when I realized the significance of who he might be. “But I hope to be. You know, someday.”
He looked at me oddly as he returned the eraser to the metal tray at the base of the board. I would have looked at me oddly, too.
“So, what can I do for you?” He had moved over to his desk where he’d begun gathering paperwork and tucking it neatly into a file carrying case.
I took in a lot of air. And I mean a lot. I held it and suddenly wished I was anywhere else but here. My God, I was a psychic at the Psychic Hotline. A personal trainer. I was good at both jobs. I didn’t confront people. I didn’t, in fact, know what the hell I was doing.