Believe It or Not Page 10

  “But you just said he’s cheating,” she said at last. “Why would I need to lie about the reading?”

  “Can you prove he’s cheating?”

  “No.”

  “Did your psychic powers really tell you that without a doubt, he’s cheating at squash?”

  Violet blinked.

  “Exactly.”

  She slumped down a little on the sofa, looking defeated. “This is so stupid. I don’t even know what professional squash is, much less how you’d cheat at it.”

  “Well, squash is a little bit like tennis, only it’s played on a four-walled court with a small, hollow rubber ball. You’ve got singles or doubles, just like tennis, and professional players like Frank and Mrs. Rivers can actually make some decent money at it. You can cheat in several ways, like bribing an umpire or failing to clear the line quickly after a drop shot or—”

  He stopped, conscious of the fact that Violet was staring at him like he had a scorpion crawling out of his nostril. “What?”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a guy. We’re born with a compass and a sports almanac in our heads. You have your data and random trivia, I’ve got that.”

  Violet shook her head, but she wasn’t frowning anymore. That was a good sign. Drew thought about covering her hand with his, but decided against it. She’d probably bite a finger off.

  On the stereo, Sarah McLachlan began singing “Train Wreck.” Drew could relate.

  After a long silence, Violet sighed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It wasn’t your job to tell me about Frank.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m just scared.”

  “I know.”

  “Moonbeam trusts me to keep her business running. It’s my job to protect it… to make sure everything goes okay.”

  “I know.”

  She looked at him. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  Drew thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know what that blue stuff is in the Magic 8 Ball. That’s always perplexed me.”

  “It’s alcohol with blue dye dissolved in it.”

  Drew grinned. “Now my life is complete.”

  Violet sighed again. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Okay. Need company?”

  He meant it as a joke—just something to make her smile—and he succeeded there. But there was something else in her eyes. A flicker of surprise, maybe intrigue. She just looked at him for a few beats, making him dizzy.

  The room felt too warm all of a sudden. How high was the damn heat turned up? He was pretty sure Violet wasn’t wearing anything under that thin little tank top. If he could just move his hands up her legs again…

  Drew stood up quickly, knowing he had to flee before he did something wildly stupid.

  “Fine, I can take a hint,” he said. “I’m going home now. Try not to annoy any professional squash players between now and tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll try,” Violet said faintly.

  “And no more Manhattans,” he added, practically running toward the door. He had to get away from her before…

  Before what?

  He didn’t care, he just had to escape. He yanked the door open and felt instant relief as the cold wall of wet air hit him in the face. He headed out into the rain, picking up speed when he thought of Violet sitting there, so warm and soft and inviting.

  He was halfway to his car before he realized he’d forgotten his shoes.

  ***

  The next morning, Violet was tidying up in the shop after two back-to-back appointments. Both had been basic tarot-card readings, which was a relief. She had learned to shuffle a tarot deck before her childhood pals were playing old maid. Laying out a Celtic Cross spread and waxing philosophic about the culmination card was something she could do in her sleep.

  She was standing on tiptoe to tuck the cards back in the cabinet behind Moonbeam’s chair when Drew came barreling through the door. He looked disheveled and a little frantic. His eyes lit up the second he saw her.

  “Thank God you’re here.”

  “Oh,” she said, and dropped the deck of cards. All seventy-eight of them went fluttering to the floor, the Lovers card landing face up on her shoe, while the King of Cups hit her square in the boob.

  Drew dropped to a crouch and began scooping up the cards. “Sorry about that. Look, do you have an appointment right now? I could really use your help with something.”

  “My help? With what?”

  Drew finished piling the cards in a neat stack and handed them back to her. Violet tried not to notice the buzz she felt when his knuckle grazed hers.

  “I’m auditioning a new entertainer to replace a guy who just busted his knee. The first applicant is going to be here any second and Sam just called in sick.”

  “You can’t do it alone?”

  “No way. Sam’s a woman, so she takes the lead on all the auditions. Otherwise—”

  “Ah, I see,” Violet grinned. “You don’t want to look like a creepy guy who likes gawking at naked men.”

  Drew frowned. Violet laughed and reached up to tuck the cards back in the cabinet. She turned back to him and shrugged. “Well, I don’t have anyone coming in for a couple hours, but really, I don’t know anything about judging strippers.”

  “Entertainers. And there’s nothing to it, I swear.”

  “Well…”

  “Come on, Violet, please? I’m really in a bind here.”

  She grinned. “You’re begging me to come watch good-looking men take off their clothes? I’ve gotta think about this.”

  He grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her toward the door. “Thanks, Violet, really, I’ll owe you one. I’ll buy you a drink or hook up another stereo. Whatever. Just get in here, fast.”

  Violet allowed him to march her down the hall and through the door, hating to admit she loved the forcefulness of his fingers clamped around her arm.

  She blinked a little as they stepped into the dimly lit bar. Though the place wasn’t open for hours, she half expected a naked man to jump out from behind the crates of liquor piled in one corner.

  “So how does this work, exactly?” Violet asked as he deposited her in a chair directly in front of a round stage in one corner. “Do I have to throw dollar bills at him or anything?”

  “Please don’t throw money. And no drinking, either. Or shouting obscenities.”

  Violet raised an eyebrow. “So what do I do?”

  “Here are their applications. The first guy will be here any minute; his application is on top. We have them do two songs, and they can pick the music. We’re judging technique, charisma, overall appearance—”

  “Wow, I feel like a guy. Can I get a cigar?”

  “No. No cigars. And no touching.”

  “Do I need to take notes or something?”

  “Here’s a notepad. Pens are right there.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, sending shockwaves of warmth down her arm. Violet hoped she wasn’t having a stroke.

  “Thanks, Violet. I really owe you one.”

  “No sweat.”

  A bell chimed at the front door, and Drew raced off to answer it. Violet studied the application, not entirely sure what she was supposed to be looking for. An advanced degree in stripper science?

  Moments later, Drew came trudging back to the center of the room, followed by a man who looked like he probably bench-pressed Volkswagens. He had dark hair, a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his bicep, and a small scar on the edge of his chin.

  “Violet, meet Jerry,” Drew announced. “Jerry, meet Violet.”

  Violet stood, not that it did her much good. Her eyes fell somewhere in the middle of his sternum. She looked up at him, admiring the view. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

  He gripped it in one meaty paw and pumped it so hard Violet staggered. “It’s so good to meet you, really. So good. This is a big goal of mine. I’ve been practicing hard ever since I got out of prison.”


  “Oh, wow,” Violet said, taking a small step back and retracting her hand. “That’s really… ambitious.”

  “Sure is,” he agreed. “When Mr. Watson here called me, I got so excited I shit myself. No joke, I had to go home and change my undershorts, and then—”

  “Okay, Jerry,” Drew interrupted. “Let’s just move on to the audition, shall we?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Watson,” Jerry said with a nod.

  “We’ve already cued up the music you requested, so whenever you’re ready.”

  Jerry nodded again and bent down to untie his work boots. Violet studied his application again, finding it more intriguing than watching Jerry unroll his tube socks. Jerry Jester, age 24, a graduate of Sandy High School. Relevant experience: three bachelorette parties and one ballet lesson at age five.

  Violet looked up, pretty sure she wasn’t going to form any useful opinions about Jerry from reading his application.

  With his socks and shoes removed, Jerry took a deep breath and paused before marching up the steps like a man on a mission. He stood there at the center of the stage for a moment, hands clasped in front of him as though in prayer. He was wearing a police uniform with several buttons missing and a smear of something pink on one sleeve.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Jerry, just give me a nod,” Drew said.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Jerry said. He stood there for a few more seconds, looking very spiritual. Or constipated. It was tough to tell. Finally, he gave a solemn nod.

  Drew pressed a button on a remote control in his hand. Instantly, the pulse of Rod Stewart’s “Da’ Ya’ Think I’m Sexy” filled the room. Jerry began to undulate, performing some sort of pelvic thrust Violet figured might be sexy under a black light, with a crowd of intoxicated observers clustered around the bar.

  Jerry reached up and tipped his police cap at Violet. It slid down over one eye. Violet pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to giggle.

  The dance continued from there, with Jerry unbuttoning and unvelcroing to the beat of the music. Twice, Violet stole a look at Drew. He had an expression of trained seriousness, and was jotting notes at a feverish pace in a spiral notebook. Violet craned her neck, trying to see what he was writing. He had the messiest handwriting she’d ever seen.

  Violet looked back at her own notepad, where she’d written three words: Buy breakfast sausage.

  By the time Rod was done singing, Jerry was shirtless and had started to fumble with the button on his pants. He turned his back to them, shaking his ass so hard Violet worried he might fall over. Slowly, Jerry began to lower his pants. Violet bit her lip and looked at Drew.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” she whispered.

  “Throw him a wolf whistle or something,” Drew whispered back. “It’s good for his self-esteem.”

  Violet turned back to the stage and looked at Jerry. He shimmied his pants down over his thighs, gyrating furiously as Justin Timberlake began belting out the lyrics to “SexyBack.”

  “Oh, my,” Violet said.

  “He could use some new boxer briefs,” Drew remarked. “The fabric is frayed on the edge there.”

  She looked at him. “I can’t believe you’re really this secure in your masculinity.”

  Drew shrugged. “It’s just business.”

  Jerry tossed his pants on the table in front of Violet. She looked at them for a moment, not sure what etiquette called for. Should she fold them?

  She glanced over at Drew again. Whistle, he mouthed at her. Violet stuck her fingers between her lips and made her best attempt. Instead, she spit on the bar.

  Drew rolled his eyes at her. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Can I whoop instead?”

  “By all means.”

  Jerry was thrusting and bobbing on stage, looking more like an ill chicken than a sex object. He was smiling though, having a good time. Violet let out a spirited whoop, causing Jerry to stumble as he whirled around the metal pole at the center of the stage.

  Violet leaned back toward Drew. “Do you provide training for the guys you hire?” she whispered.

  “Jamie does. You met him the other day.”

  “Right, Jamie. He’d be good at that.”

  “He is.”

  “He’d look good naked,” she said, just trying to get a rise out of him.

  “He’s my ex-brother-in-law. You can ogle him, but don’t get any ideas.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Drew kept his focus on the stage, but she thought she saw something twitch at the corner of his eye. “No cartwheels, Jerry,” he called. “Save that for another time.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Violet looked down at her notepad. Schedule bikini wax, she scrawled.

  “Jamie’s coming in to see me the day after tomorrow for a reading,” Violet whispered.

  This time, she got an actual wince from Drew. He was quiet for a moment, but she could tell he was processing something. He didn’t look at her, but she knew she had his attention.

  “Go easy on him, Violet,” Drew murmured. “Jamie’s a good guy. Don’t—”

  “Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your job?”

  “My mother’s job. Whatever. I’m not telling you how to run your business.”

  “Fine. Just… just be careful. Jamie’s not like a lot of guys.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s not a jerk. He’s pretty sensitive, actually. Gets his feelings hurt easily, falls prey to scams, that sort of thing.”

  “You’re calling me a scam.”

  Drew didn’t respond at first, and his eyes were still fixed on the stage. When he looked at her, his expression was serious. “Just be careful with him. That’s what I’m saying.”

  Violet gritted her teeth, not sure how to respond to him. Did he really think she was that irresponsible? That unethical?

  Hell, wasn’t she?

  She was on the verge of concocting a smart-ass retort when Jerry’s boxer briefs hit her in the eye.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Violet closed out the spreadsheet on her laptop and stood up, bumping her head on a wild branch from Moonbeam’s lucky bamboo plant. Struggling to regain her dignity, she extended her hand to the serious-looking blonde across the desk.

  “Ms. Zimmerman, it’s been a pleasure working with you,” she said. “I’ll have the rest of those figures for you by the end of business tomorrow.”

  The woman returned the handshake, smoothing her Armani jacket with her other hand. “Yes, of course. You came highly recommended to us as an accountant. Of course, once we heard you were also psychic, that sealed the deal for us. Tell me, Violet, do you have much experience with the stock market?”

  Violet cringed inwardly. “Actually, Ms. Zimmerman, I’m very conscientious about not mixing my accounting business with the psychic one. Too much potential for ethical dilemmas, you understand?”

  “Of course, of course. Still, you would alert a client if you had any premonitions about… oh, say, an embezzlement conviction on the horizon? Hypothetically speaking.”

  “Ms. Zimmerman—”

  “Technically, investment fraud isn’t such a huge deal. If there were just a way to find out what the FBI knows already, we could—”

  “You know, my psychic skills really don’t extend into the criminal realm.”

  Her client frowned. “But I know your mother contracts with the police department, and the readout on your iPhone there says Detective Smeade has called twice in the last thirty minutes. Surely, you could—”

  “You have a lovely evening, Ms. Zimmerman,” Violet interrupted. “Try not to embezzle money, okay?”

  Violet’s cell phone was ringing before the door had swung shut behind her client. Violet snatched up the phone with one hand as she powered down her computer with the other. “Hey, Mom, how are you feeling?”

  “Oh, sweetie. You sound tired. Late night las
t night?”

  “Something like that,” Violet said, her mind veering toward the feel of Drew’s hands on her calves.

  “So your date with Dr. Abbott went well?”

  Dr. Abbott. Right.

  “It wasn’t a date. And was there a particular reason you sent us to Portland City Grill?”

  There was a long pause, and Violet wondered if she’d misjudged. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  “What are you talking about, honey?” Moonbeam asked sweetly.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Drew goes to Portland City Grill several times a week. With any variety of bimbos, from what I understand.”

  “Oh, my. Are you getting friendly with Drew?”

  Violet rolled her eyes, feeling like a teenager. “You knew Drew would be there, so you sent me with Dr. Abbott. Why?”

  “Violet, honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence that I show up with a wealthy, single surgeon on my arm at the restaurant where a guy you dislike is having dinner with a floozy?”

  “Violet. You already know, dear—there are no coincidences in the life of a psychic.”

  Violet sighed, and changed the subject. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better since you brought me my Zen garden. So what’s new at the shop, honey?”

  “Detective Smeade called again. He wanted to give me a heads-up that they’re running out of leads on a burglary case they’ve been working on.”

  “Really? Is he going to need you?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. He just wanted to give me some advance warning.”

  “It’s nice when he does that. Gives you time to prepare.”

  Violet waited, wondering if her mother would offer more explanation. Was she admitting she was a fake? Admitting Violet was a fake? Or just giving her genuine guidance? Violet had no idea.

  “Anyway, I did a little online research, just to familiarize myself with the case,” Violet said. “Hopefully he won’t need me, but—”

  “If he does, you’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Violet was quiet for a moment, not sure how to broach the next subject without sending Moonbeam’s pulse rate through the roof. “Moonbeam?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You know that reading I did with Mrs. Rivers a few days ago?”