Witch Water Part 16

"Aye," she said with a strange emphasis.

Fanshawe crossed the cobbles to the redbrick row house whose neon OPEN sign blinked on and off in the window. The bricks could've used a sandblasting, and the trim didn't look like it had been painted in decades. Browned flowers stood crisp in the planters just outside the first-floor windows. Kind of a dump... But he paused before he knocked on the scuffed Federal Period door. First, the address, No. 13, struck a bad chord. Fanshawe rarely believed in omens, good or bad, but after last night?

Maybe I better start.

The next bad chord came from the doorknocker. Mounted on the door's center stile was an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. It seemed morose, even foreboding.

Fanshawe actually considered turning back. He glanced over his shoulder-You gotta be s.h.i.+tting me!-and saw Mrs. Anstruther watching him, waving.

But what was he afraid of?

Nothing, he thought and rapped on the creepy knocker.

He expected someone marmish-like Mrs. Anstruther-or a foreigner, but instead the door was opened by a tall, gaunt woman-late-thirties, probably-with jet-black hair cut so severely across her bangs and neck it looked like a helmet. She seemed dull-eyed and blanched. A baggy kaleidoscopic T-s.h.i.+rt that read CHISWICK RECORDS hung limp on her shoulders, covering small unbra'd b.r.e.a.s.t.s; she also wore a black-denim skirt hemmed by safety pins, and clunky black boots. Fanshawe found the woman gawky, awkward, nerdish, yet interesting in some way. Thick black gla.s.ses made her a hybrid of a librarian and an over-the-hill punk rocker.

"Are you here for a reading?" she asked in a reedy voice.

"Yes." He had the idea she was rattled by him being there. "But if it's inconvenient, I can make an appointment and come back later."

She yipped a laugh. "In a recession? Are you kidding? I'm just shocked to have a customer this early. Come on in."

Fanshawe entered an old-style parlor crammed with old portraits, old furniture, and smoke-stained wallpaper. He liked the cliche. A b.u.mper sticker over a transom read CHIROMANCY IS s.e.xY. Fanshawe guessed this was another name for fortune telling. "So I guess you're Let.i.tia Rhodes?"

"Yes, and-" She turned quickly to glance at him. Her eyes looked absurdly large behind the thick gla.s.ses. "And you are...well, your first name either starts with an S or an F, but I'm leaning toward the F."

He remembered the word PSYCHIC in the window. A con, he suspected. She could easily have found out my name. "Better to lean the other way."

Her shoulders drooped. "Aw, well. Can't get 'em all." Her long white hand bid a scroll-couch of some loud red velvety fabric. "Have a seat...S."

"It's Stew, Ms. Rhodes."

"Just call me Lett."

Lett... He sat down, waiting for her to close her eyes, touch her forehead, and suddenly divine his last name, but she didn't.

"Sorry it's so warm"-and she rushed to a wall unit and turned it on. "The d.a.m.n power company-they raise the rates for no reason."

"They've been known to do that."

She sat down across from him and pulled out an antique wooden box the size of a toaster oven. She smiled at him, but Fanshawe got the vibe that she was unsettled. By me? One way or another, though, the smile was manufactured. "What kind of reading are you interested in?"

"Well, the palm-reading sounds all right-"

"I can do charts, too," she added quickly. "Costs more but-" but the rest fell away.

"Let's try with the simplest first," Fanshawe said.

Another stiff smile. "That would be palmistry, which is probably the oldest form of fortune telling, and the most widespread. It's twenty...dollars per palm"-she fidgeted through a pause-"but there's a summer discount! Fifteen?"

Fanshawe needed to break some ice. She's not very good at making herself credible. "I'll pay the twenty...if it's good."

"Well, I can't promise you a favorable reading, but I can promise an accurate one." She didn't even look at him when she continued, "More accurate than any reading you've ever had."

"I appreciate confidence," he said, "and I'm sure you're right. I've never had a reading before."

She peered at him, obviously doubting him. "No? Never? Never in your life?"

Then it dawned on him. "Oh, yeah. Coney Island, when I was a kid." Am I supposed to think that she sensed that? He crossed his legs, hoping he didn't look too disheveled after spending the night on the hill, but at the same moment, she quickly got up, came over to him, and brushed off his shoulder.

"You've got some gra.s.s there," then she offered another crumpled smile and sat back down. "Did you sleep in the woods?" she added with a giggle. Fanshawe frowned. Actually-yes. From the box, she withdrew a fancy square of ornately fringed linen that had a sandalwood scent, and spread it on the low table between them. Fanshawe squinted; sewn into the fabric were letters and designs like he'd seen on the Gazing Ball's stand, and in the portrait of Wraxall and Evanore.

"So other than Coney Island, you've never had your fortune told in any way?" she asked, still puttering a the table.

"Nope"-he tried to make a joke that turned out not to be very funny. "Just at my stock broker's."

Let.i.tia grumbled, and muttered, "f.u.c.k..."

Fanshawe peered at her.

"Sorry," she said. "The reason I'm sucking wind is because of this d.a.m.n recession. Every time I think about all those stock brokers and CEO's and bank presidents and mortgage lenders who caused this because of their own greed-I wish I could put an exsanguination hex on them."

Fanshawe laughed a bit too loudly. "A what hex?"

"Oh, I'm just b.i.t.c.hing. It's a medieval curse that makes corrupt people bleed from all their orifices. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They're all like that jacka.s.s Madoff-could care less about who they destroy as long as they fill their coffers."

Fanshawe, still chuckling to himself, at least felt sure he was not one of the "Madoff's" she referred to. I never ponzi'd or short-sold. I never cheated investors, did I? No, no way. I earned my money the old fas.h.i.+oned way: I gambled on long shots and got REALLY lucky.

Lett sprinkled something like dull glitter over the linen. "Seramef dust," she said. "It jacks up the psychic ambience, kind of like using higher octane in your car." When she looked up, she started, then gawkily went "Oooo! You have a very p.r.o.nounced aura. But don't ask me what color it is. I never tell."

Fanshawe sighed. "Come on."

"Nope. Sorry." She shrugged. "It's low cla.s.s."

Aura, huh? "All right, Lett, then tell me this"-Fanshawe had to know. "Does Mrs. Anstruther get a cut of your fee if she sends someone over?"

Lett's face tensed in a displeasure. "That old biddy! I told her she was hard-selling people too much!" Then her lips pursed. "Yeah, I pay her five bucks for each customer."

"I knew it!"

Lett made a single, silent clap. "She's a kick in the tail, I'll tell ya, but I guess I shouldn't complain; she does bring in some business." Still, the woman seemed fl.u.s.tered. She exhaled hard. "All right! We're ready! You said both hands, right?"

"I didn't say, but let's do both."

Very quickly, she grabbed his left hand. "It's best to start to your dominant hand."

Fanshawe was left-handed..., But she could've determined that by watching me, he knew.

"Left-dominant people are more subjective, and they respond more deeply to intellectual stimulus and ethereal provocation."

Fanshawe winced at the latter term.

"They're also more sensitive to spirituality and para-naturalism."

Fanshawe could only stare in response.

"And...they're more attuned to non-physical realms."

"Jeez, I thought you'd look at my lifeline and tell me how long I'm going to live," he said, expecting the usual cliches.

"That's a misconception." Now she seemed to be inspecting the undersides of his knuckles. "The lifeline has nothing to do with how long a person lives. Palmistry isn't about one's death, it's about one's life."

Fanshawe opened his mouth to speak, but then she seemed to notice something important on his hand. "Now this I don't see very often, you're part Aqua Hand and part Fire Hand; it means you're energetic but s.h.i.+ft from one interest to another. Oh, and now I see why you're not concerned about the summer discount." She smiled down but not at him. "You're very wealthy."

Someone at the hotel could've told her that, he knew. And also, "You can see that by the watch."

She glanced at the five-figure timepiece. "Oh, yeah. Didn't notice, but left-dominants are always skeptical." A pause as she squinted closer into his palm. "Not only are you successful in your business, you-well...wow. You're probably a genius in your field."

Fanshawe shrugged. "Let's get to the good stuff."

She giggled. "Okay. Let's see... Mmm, yes, great heart line, and an interesting fluctuation of your Girdle of Venus. It means you're pa.s.sionate and unselfish-"

Fanshawe took exception. "You could say that about anyone and they'd find a way to agree with you-"

"It also shows me in detail that you love your wife but you're either divorced or separated. It's a severe injury to you...that she..." Her lips closed quickly.

"That she what?"

"You already know, so why would you want me to repeat it?"

"I'm paying you," he pointed out. "So tell me."

Her eyes glanced down. "Your wife hates you. She's disgusted by you for some reason."

The words dulled his vision; he could've been staring a mile off. But how could he not be impressed? There was no way she could she have known that. After a few moments, he said, "You're right."

"But here's the good news!" she chirped too quickly. Her voice lowered. "There is someone else on your romantic horizon. She has more in common with you than you think, and she's nuts about you."

Abbie, the name unfolded in his mind. "I hope you're right," he muttered. I need someone to be nuts about me...

"And"-her black eyebrows shot up-"she's here? Here in town or nearby?"

For all Fanshawe knew, Let.i.tia might be friends with Abbie, who could easily have mentioned their date. He made a rolling gesture with his right index finger. "Just...keep telling my fortune, okay?"

Finally, a genuine smile appeared on her face. But just for a moment; she isolated one finger. "Truncated finger pad tridents, and..." She blinked. "You have a weakness-"

"So does everybody."

"-a weakness that's considered anti-social? Hmm. You want to be a good person but your weakness keeps you thinking you're not."

Fanshawe's face seemed to turn to granite.

"It's a weakness that nearly ruined you-not occupationally but, well..."

"Personally," he said.

Lett clearly sensed the dark note. "But, there's more good news!"

Fanshawe's shoulders slumped. "Please..."

"You will soon reduce this weakness to nothing."

He considered this. Probably EVERYONE could say they've nearly been ruined by a weakness or fault. This is all gray area. "You're not being specific," he said as if in defense. "If you can't be specific, it's all suggestion versus interpretation."

She fidgeted in her seat. "I'm not sure specifically, but... Want my hunch?"

"Sure."

"Something visual, something about seeing," and that was all she said.

Fanshawe's lower lip trembled.

"Something-"

"That's, that's fine," he cut her off. He faked a laugh, trying to joke.

She perked up again; in fact she seemed relieved to. "But you will succeed in defeating this weakness, and the conduit to this success will, in part, be your new romantic partner."

"In part? What other *parts' might help me?"

Instantly, she answered, "A revelatory interest-"

"Revelatory?"

"Yes. Lately you've become interested to the point of obsession with something totally foreign to you, something you wouldn't ordinarily be interested in at all."

The words popped into his head without any conscious prompt: Wraxall and Evanore. The occult. Witch-water... "Why do I get this idea that you're genuinely psychic?"

"Because I am sometimes. And sometimes I'm all wrong. Just...not today." Her attentions returned to his palm. When his eyes flicked to hers she was looking right at him over her gla.s.ses, smiling.

"And you have a fascinating partial joining of your heartline and headline. The angles suggest a future change of the direction of your life, and it's a drastic change." Her expression squeezed up as if she were suddenly perplexed. "It has to do with what I said a minute ago, a sensitivity to para-naturalism and non-physical realms, meta-physics, even. Are you..." but again she didn't finish, holding something back.

Fanshawe sighed, exasperated, and snapped, "Am I what?"

"Are you, well... Are you a student of the occult?"

He wasn't sure how to take this, and he wasn't sure what he even expected, but in a sense he was such a student. His sudden interest in Wraxall, and more especially the things he'd found in the hidden chamber of the attic, suggested that. He didn't believe in such things, did he?

But did he believe in what he'd seen last night through the looking-gla.s.s?