A Vision of Murder: Page 7

  Back in September I’d gotten my own intuitive message to block out the entire month of January and take a nice long vacation. I hadn’t had more than a few days off for lollygagging since the previous February, and I’d trusted the message and not booked a single reading. This was a rather risky endeavor at the time, because even good psychics can see a sharp decline in income once they start ignoring their clientele.

  Still, I’d taken the chance and, as usual, everything had worked out for the best as Dutch’s injury and my new investment property were now taking up all of my time. “What’s wrong, Miriam?” I asked, willing to give an impromptu minisession for one of my favorite clients.

  “Well, as you predicted, my company downsized right before Thanksgiving and I lost my job.”

  I read for so many clients that all my readings tend to blend together, and even though I didn’t remember the details Miriam was bringing up now, that didn’t mean I couldn’t empathize. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How’ve you been holding up?”

  “Well, thanks to your insight, I was able to prepare myself for it, so I’ve actually been doing pretty good. And I’ve been interviewing all over town. You also predicted I’d be very popular with headhunters and prospective employers and that’s why I wanted to see if you could just answer me one question.”

  “Shoot,” I said, already turning on the antennae.

  “Well, I’ve been offered a job with two different companies and I don’t know which one I should take. They both pay about the same, but I’m just not sure which one I’ll be happier at.”

  “Hmmm,” I said while I focused on the messages already blipping through my mind. “I can tell you that both choices feel right, and that you won’t make a bad decision at either of them. However, does one company have a woman in a position of power with dark brown or black hair?”

  “Yes! I interviewed with a woman who would be my boss at Endicorp, and she does have black hair.”

  “Uh-huh, now that I know I’m on the right track I can tell you that this woman is heavy on the micromanagement side, and if that drives you crazy you may want to go with the other company.”

  “How much of a micromanager?”

  “Bordering on obsessive,” I said frowning. “She’s also just a bit cuckoo,” I added, making little circular motions by my head with my finger.

  “Cuckoo?”

  “Yep. She’s a nut, and my feeling is that the company didn’t know what to do with her so they just kept promoting her. If you take the job you may love the salary but you also may have your hands full trying to deal with her.”

  “You know,” Miriam said thoughtfully, “I thought she was rather odd when I sat down with her, but she seemed to like my credentials so much that I overlooked it.”

  “It’s always best to go with your own gut, especially when you’ll be working with someone.”

  “Do you see anything for the other job?”

  “What’s with all the flowers?”

  Miriam laughed heartily and said, “You are so good! I’d be the new marketing manager of Blumerang Flowers.”

  “Wow! They’re huge! Go for it, Miriam!”

  “Thanks, Abby, I’m going to call them right now and accept the position. What do I owe you?” she asked, reaching for her checkbook.

  “This one’s on me. And congratulations on the new job!”

  I walked into the library feeling rather proud of myself. There was a time not too long ago when, if a client had approached me about tuning in on something small, I wouldn’t have complied. I used to have a stringent policy about not extending myself for fear of being taken advantage of. However, I’d learned a very powerful lesson the previous summer when one of my clients wound up dead because I’d been so rigid. Never again, I vowed, and I was proud of the fact that I was holding up to my promise.

  I rounded the corner of the front lobby and headed to the information desk where I asked a librarian for help finding newspaper articles about Jean-Paul Carlier. She led me to a row of computers and explained, “If there’s anything of note for that name you’ll find it using the library’s central index, which is on this computer here.”

  “What, no microfilm to paw through? What will I do with all the extra time I’ll save?” I deadpanned.

  The librarian laughed politely and said, “I know, isn’t modern technology fabulous? I mean, to think I spent years in school wasting so much time on those god-awful machines, getting dizzy while searching through all the data. Now we simply receive a digital copy of each day’s paper and save it to the file. It takes seconds instead of hours. Amazing stuff.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I said, taking my seat.

  “No problem. If you have any more questions, let me know.”

  As the librarian walked away I pulled the mouse toward me and clicked on the search field typing in Jean-Paul’s name and then clicking the GO button. A few seconds later, and to my immense relief, a list of articles appeared, beginning with the most recent one from the obituary column listing Jean-Paul’s death on August 19, 1990. I read the article, which posted the cause of death as heart failure and noted only two surviving relatives, James and Jean-Luke Carlier, Jean-Paul’s grandsons.

  I closed that article and went down a few to November 11, 1960. This article turned out to be a wedding announcement mentioning Jean-Paul as the proud father of Paul Carlier who was set to marry Karen Pedigood the following April. Scanning up a few articles I discovered another obituary, this one for both Paul and Karen who were killed in a car accident while visiting Karen’s family in Atlanta, and this was dated January 10, 1975. Sad that James and Jean-Luke had lost both parents so young.

  Scanning the headings of the articles a little further I came across something interesting from May 14, 1946. The article had a picture of a young Jean-Paul leaning against the side of a storefront and the headline read FRENCH WAR HERO SETS UP SHOP.

  The article was rather short and sketchy on the details, but described Jean-Paul as a recent emigrant from France who “had been a key resource in the fight for French liberation and liked Americans so much that he wanted to bring his family’s jewelry business over to America.” He’d named the shop “Essence” and by all accounts it was set to be a smashing success. The reporter covering the story was most impressed by the quality of the jewels being offered for sale. “Europe’s finest gems set in fantastic settings,” the article claimed and went on to embellish, “Just what every GI needs to capture the heart of his favorite lady.” Jean-Paul seemed to have a genius for marketing too, as his shop offered monthly payment plans for returning GIs rushing to propose to their faithful girlfriends.

  As I looked at the shadowy picture of Jean-Paul leaning against the side of the shop, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips, I got the smallest shiver up my spine. I didn’t care how swell the guy was; I instantly disliked him.

  I read a few more of the articles, which were mainly small mentions at charity functions and local events. Nothing else of interest caught my attention. I printed out all of the articles anyway, thinking there might be something I could connect the dots with later, then clicked out of my selections and vacated the chair. As I was walking out of the library, something occurred to me and I headed back in.

  A few minutes later I was flipping through one of the library’s local phone books until I found the jewelers section. I scanned the alphabetized list looking for Essence. No such shop existed yet my intuition was insisting that the shop was still in business. I grabbed the newspaper article, found the store’s address and began to search using that. I hit paydirt under the Os. “Opalescence” was listed at the same address on Brown Street in Birmingham. “Worth a visit,” I mumbled under my breath as I put the yellow pages back on the shelf and again headed toward the exit.

  A few minutes later I was back in the car cruising the main drag of downtown Birmingham, a place that can darken my mood no matter how bright the day. Birmingham is the town I grew up in and couldn’t wait to move out
of. I have no love for the place, with its snooty residents looking down their noses at anything that isn’t name-brand and real estate priced somewhere up in the stratosphere. I tend to glower my way through its downtown whenever an errand requires me to take a tour.

  Today was no different as a fat man in a gigantic SUV of the Hummer variety pulled out of his parking space right in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes, then he had the nerve to dial his cell phone before putting the car into a forward gear. I ground my teeth as I followed him and consoled myself by thinking the Hummer was clearly an attempt to compensate for something . . . like a teeny weenie.

  Luckily, he turned left down Maple and I continued down Old Woodward Avenue, then rounded onto Brown and began looking in earnest at the shop signs, finally locating Opalescence midway down on the left. It took me another block to find a parking space, and after doing a mediocre job of parallel parking I trotted down the street clutching at my coat as a cold wind sent it flapping.

  I paused for a moment when I reached the shop and took in the opulent signage made of brushed metal. There were no windows, just a flat paneled wood exterior, and large glass front door with a huge and very ornate door pull. The effect was enticing and if I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit I liked it. I pulled at the giant glass door and it opened more easily than I would have thought. I stepped through the doorway and was immediately dazzled.

  In front of me was an enormous rock the size of a small boulder resting on a pedestal poised to chest level, that dominated the room. Embedded within the stone were thousands of small opal clusters. I walked forward and stood mesmerized for a moment as I looked at all the beautiful gems, glittering their rainbow colors and making my senses hum.

  Like many psychics I’m pretty sensitive to crystals and gemstones. The opals gave me a feeling of bubbling energy, like a slow hum beginning in my solar plexus and subtly radiating out along my limbs and fingertips.

  “May I help you?” someone asked off to my right.

  “Oh! Hello,” I said, a little startled as I looked up at a tall man with thick dark brown hair, beard and mustache, tortoiseshell glasses and a ready smile. “I was just enjoying this beautiful display. These clusters are amazing.”

  “Yes, it’s very special. I had that rock shipped in from India where this particular brand of opal is mined and it took a crew of ten just to get it on the pedestal.”

  “I’ll bet. It looks like it weighs a ton.”

  “Just under, actually. And that looks like it’s one of ours,” he said, pointing to my neck.

  Reflexively I reached up to twirl my birthday present that I’d been wearing since the night Dutch had given it to me and I chuckled. “Yes, this was a gift from my boyfriend and I love it so much that I had to come here and check the place out.” Inside my head I was only slightly surprised at the coincidence—stuff like this happens to me all the time.

  “Wonderful. My name is James,” the salesman said, extending his hand out to me.

  “I’m Abby, pleased to meet you.”

  “Is there something in particular that I could help you with today?”

  Uh-oh. I hadn’t really thought this whole thing through. What should I say? Should I pose as a buyer? Or should I tell this man that I needed answers to questions about the shop’s former owner? After a beat, I decided to play it noncommittal.

  “I’m looking for a gift for my sister’s birthday. She’s fond of pearls. Do you have any suggestions?”

  The man smiled kindly while his eyes gave an apology. “I’m sorry, but I only deal in opals. I could, however, show you some nice items for your sister. Did you have a price range in mind?”

  Weird. Mentally I scratched my head that a jeweler would limit himself to just one gemstone. That seemed risky to me. “Why do you only deal in opals? I mean, wouldn’t you want to offer a wider range of gemstones for the general public?” I asked.

  James smiled confidently and replied, “Have you seen my selection?”

  “Uh, no,” I admitted.

  “Come with me,” he said and led me over to a display case off to my right. I approached the counter and peered down at row upon row of some of the most beautiful jewelry I’d ever seen. Opals in every size and color of the rainbow were beautifully assembled in gold, silver and platinum. There were bracelets of unique design and shape, rings for men and women that ranged from simple classic designs to very contemporary ornate creations. Pendants, similar to the one around my neck, sparkled in brilliant blues, greens, purples, reds and oranges, and opal-inlaid earrings twinkled under the lights of the display case like stars.

  “Wow . . .” I whispered in awe. “I see what you mean. Your stuff is breathtaking.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Are you still sold on pearls for your sister?”

  I snickered and smiled back at this clever salesman. Next to this stuff pearls seemed so blah. “I’ll bet you convert a lot of people this way, huh?”

  James chuckled. “Oodles. Now, does your sister have pierced ears? Because this set over here,” he said, pointing to a pair to my left, “are a particularly nice arrangement.”

  I nodded as I surveyed the menagerie, while thinking about how I should play this all out. What I needed was information, and I needed it without tipping my hand as to my real purpose. It wasn’t that I got any kind of malicious feeling from James, whom I was pretty sure was the grandson of Jean-Paul. His energy suggested that he was sincere and harmless. Still, I wanted to proceed cautiously until I knew more. I’d have to gain James’s trust and ease my way into pumping him for information. I decided to play into the ruse I’d created. At the very least I’d come away with a spectacular gift for my sister. “Those are amazing,” I said leaning in over the counter to get a better look. “How much?”

  “One seventy-five,” he said without looking at the tag.

  “Hmmm, that sounds reasonable. What else do you have?”

  James proceeded to pull out individual sets of earrings, each just as gorgeous as the previous, and I continued to play it interested, but noncommittal, while in my head I looked for ways to segue into the house on Fern. In the end James provided the perfect opportunity when he suggested, “And if none of these are tickling your fancy we could always help you design an original piece for your sister.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes, if you’d like to step back into my office, I could show you some examples of what some of my other clients have produced for their loved ones, and take you through some common molds that people like to use as a starting point.”

  “Lead the way,” I said as my intuition buzzed a thumbs-up in my head.

  We proceeded to the back of the store where a short corridor led to a large and comfortable office. James offered me a seat in one of two plush leather chairs he had positioned in front of a gorgeous glass desk. James took his seat and I glanced around the office, which was painted a light mocha and adorned with a few tasteful paintings. On one massive oak credenza set against the wall I noticed frame upon frame of personal photos. Ahhh, opportunity at last! Jumping up from my seat I took note of the photos. “Wow! Look at all of these pictures! Is this your family?” I asked, picking up one of the frames and studying the images of a man and a woman seated on the beach, each holding a smiling young boy in their arms.

  “Yes, that’s my mother, father and my brother, Luke, and I,” James said with a hint of sadness in his voice.

  Belatedly, I noticed that the man and woman both smiled out from the photo in a rather flat and plastic way—my way of knowing that these two people had passed away.

  “It was taken when I was seven, the year before my parents were killed,” he added.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, setting the photo down. “It must have been difficult losing your parents so young. Who ended up raising you?” A bold question for me to ask, but I was hoping James wouldn’t notice.

  “My grandfather took us in and raised us. He put my brother
and I through college, taught us the jewelry business and left us this store when he passed away.”

  “Sounds like a good man,” I said as I set down the frame.

  “Yes,” James said with a sigh, “yes, he was.” Liar, liar . . . pants on fire . . .

  I cocked my head slightly, hearing my inner lie detector go off, and I gazed off for a moment trying to put his comment and my lie detector into context.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking at me curiously.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, quickly shaking my head, “I just thought I heard the front door open. Is there anyone up front to cover for you while you’re back here with me?”

  James got up quickly from behind the desk and walked to the office doorway peering out at the store. “Nope, no one’s there. My other two employees should be returning from lunch any minute, so I think we’ll be fine until they get back.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking one last look at the photos on the credenza. One other picture caught my eye and I couldn’t help but smile when I saw it. Feeling playful I picked up the frame and waved it at James. “Spelling bee champ, huh?” The photo was of a young James, his smiling mouth full of braces as he hugged his smaller brother with one arm and held up a large trophy in the other. A banner behind the boys spelled out OAKLAND COUNTY SPELLING CHAMPION.

  James turned bright red and came over to where I was holding the photo. Taking it from me, he smiled sheepishly. “This was taken when I was thirteen. I thought I was king of the world that day, and my brother really helped me out by quizzing me and making sure I was prepared for the competition.”

  My intuition buzzed and Theresa’s warning came back to me. “Are you two twins?” I asked, looking at the photo. James was clearly the taller of the two, but perhaps they were fraternal.

  James chuckled and set the photo down again. “No, he’s two years my junior, although we became as close as twins after my parents died.”