WENDY ROBERTS

was born and raised in Winnipeg, Canada, where she alternated between fending off frostbite in winter and mosquito bites in summer. Her earliest childhood memories are the musky, dusty scent of the local library bookmobile and losing herself in the adventures of Nancy Drew.

At the tender age of eight, Wendy’s writing career sprouted when she penned the poignant tale of a cup of flour’s journey to become a birthday cake. After a writing hiatus that lasted a few decades, she rediscovered her muse, her sanity and a sated harmony in putting pen to paper once again.

Wendy now resides on the west coast of Canada with her five biggest fans—her husband and their four beautiful children. This is her debut novel.

Dating Can Be Deadly
Wendy Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Deepest thanks to my mom and dad

for showing me laughter through all things.

For my husband, Brent, for saying I could,

and for my children, Sarah, Daniel, Donovan

and Devin, for making it all worthwhile.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

I charged through Seattle’s Memorial Cemetery with my arms pumping and heart pounding. My mouth wheezed in great mouthfuls of dreary afternoon drizzle while I ruined a perfectly good pair of black leather sling-backs. To top that off, the purse snatcher, who was at least double my twenty-six years and probably a heroin addict as well, had easily outrun me.

I had a choice, I could either A) continue to run with the hope that I’d eventually wear the thief down with my persistence or B) give up on ever seeing my shoulder bag, a suede Prada knockoff, ever again.

Exhaustion won. I gave up and staggered to a stop. I apologized to Samuel Harvey, 1910-1973, whose tombstone I leaned against while recovering from the impromptu workout.

“He got away?” Stumbling in my direction, with high heels sinking in the sodden grass and with ample bosom rising and falling in deep gasps, was my good friend Jenny. She propped herself up at the opposite corner of Samuel Harvey’s resting place. “Damn! I thought you had him.”

“This is what happens when you can no longer afford to go to the gym.” I panted. “A senior citizen junky makes off with your bag and leaves you whimpering in a graveyard.”

“This is what happens when your car dies and you’re forced to stand around on Baldwin Street,” corrected Jenny. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the red hair color, Claret Classic, was courtesy of this week’s sale at Neuman Drugs. Next, Jenny dug in her purse and pulled out a cigarette. She lit up then nodded her head in the direction the thief had taken. “Let’s go after him.”

“I’d rather—” stick a pen in my eye, have a pap test, visit my mother… “—not.”

“Well, we should check. Maybe he ditched your bag somewhere?”

“What’s the point?” I asked, sulkily digging up sod with the toe of one of my wrecked shoes.

“Maybe he just snatched the cash and dumped the rest.” Jenny took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long stream. “Of course I’d be able to catch him myself, if I wasn’t retaining all this water.”

I knew Jenny was retaining twenty-five years of fried food, not water, but she was my best friend so I supported her delusions of water retention, just like she supported my fantasy that being able to type seventy words a minute meant I was physically fit.

“Replacing your ID and credit card is going to be a real pain,” Jenny added.

I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Damn! My Visa!”

My credit card was the only thing preventing me from having to beg dinners off my mother until next payday. I had a sudden and nauseating vision of endless meals sitting across from Mom explaining why I haven’t married and have no prospects, why I haven’t a better job and no prospects and why I haven’t cut my hair, lowered my hemlines, taken a class….

I hurled myself down the stone pathway.

“Wait up, Tab! I’ll come with ya!” Jenny flicked her smoke into a nearby puddle and followed in my wake up a narrow walkway.

The path led us between tombstones and grave markers. When we began to climb a slight incline nearing a clump of tall blue spruce, I suddenly stopped walking and Jenny slammed right into me.

“What is it? Do you see your bag?” Jenny flicked her gaze left and right then sidestepped around me to look at me full in the face. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing you do with your eyes when you blink a lot.”

“I do not blink a lot.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenny planted thick fingers on wide hips. “Yeah, well, tell your eyelids that ’cause right now they’re doing the mambo.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers and squeezed my eyes shut.

“What is it?” she demanded impatiently.

“Nothing.” I nibbled my lower lip and glanced nervously at a nearby tree. “Let’s go.” I whirled on my heel to beat a fast retreat.

“Whoa!” Jenny clamped her fingers on my elbow. “You had one of those premonitions, right?”

I sighed, “I don’t have premonitions. It’s more like a deep feeling of foreboding.” With the occasional bleary snapshot thrown in for good measure.

Jenny nodded vigorously. “Yeah, like the time you knew something was wrong at home and you found out your dad had just had a heart attack, or that time you knew Martha was preggers even before she did.”

I pulled my elbow from her grasp and crossed my arms over my chest. “Actually, it’s more like that feeling I got when you fixed me up with your cousin Ted and his leg-humping dog, or the time you told me the shrimp in your fridge were fresh.”

“Well, maybe this time your bad feeling is telling you that your purse is over there behind that tree and the bad part is that only the cash is missing.”

The feeling in my gut wasn’t exactly saying purse, it was saying something darker. Evil. I shuddered and wished I hadn’t quit smoking last month.

Then again, I reasoned, I’d had the same feeling when I was sixteen and Mom found me out behind the garden shed with Todd Verbicki’s hands down my pants. I relented and Jenny and I made our way across the mossy grass to the spruce that had garnered my attention. We walked around it.

“Huh. Nothing,” I said, then Jenny was suddenly doing deep breathing exercises behind me.

“Aw, man,” she whispered hoarsely. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

I reluctantly turned and scanned the source of her nausea. My gaze landed on a grisly scene. At the foot of the next tree, a cat—or whatever was left of one—had been brutally eviscerated. Its corpse lay in the center of a blood-soaked pentagram that had been dug into the dirt.

“Let’s bolt,” I choked out.

“And it was just totally and completely gross!” Jenny announced, concluding her description of our escapade. The three of us—me, Jenny and her roommate—were huddled in their small apartment at the kitchen table over a plate of brownies.

“You really predicted it, Tabitha?” Lara asked, eyes wide from behind thick black-rimmed glasses.

“No.” I sighed, because now I’d have to correct all of Jenny’s exaggerations. “To start with, my car was not carjacked, it merely died over on Baldwin Street. Jen and I were waiting for a bus when the purse snatcher grabbed my bag. He was at least fifty and most likely a druggy, not a green beret set on revenge.” I rolled my eyes at Jen, who was biting into her fourth brownie. “But, yes, there was a cat that was cut up and it was humongously gross. I only had a bad feeling about what was behind the tree, I didn’t drop into a trancelike state and predict the second coming.”

Jenny harrumphed. “Nothing wrong with adding a bit of color to a story.”

Why would you need to make a horrible event sound even worse?

“Did you call the cops?” Lara asked.

Jenny and I looked at each other then back at Lara and shrugged.

“You should call someone, shouldn’t you?” She pushed. “The ASPCA? The groundskeeper for the cemetery?”

We shook our heads.

“What for?” Jenny asked. “They never catch purse snatchers and the cat’s dead—nothing will change that.”

“And it’s not like the Seattle PD is going to launch a door-to-door search for either my forty dollars or for some sicko who likes to hurt animals,” I put in.

“Yeah, but the pentagram.” Lara shook her head slowly from side to side. “That says bad shit, like satanic stuff or something.”

“Actually I think pentagrams are usually linked more to Wicca and witches, right?” Jenny asked.

Both turned and stared expectantly at me.

“What?” I demanded. “I don’t follow that stuff anymore, you know that! Anyway, mutilated animals…” I shuddered. “That sounds satanic to me.”

“If it’s the devil, then we’ll say a prayer,” Jenny commented sarcastically. “That doesn’t mean we need to get in his face.”

There was a pause while we each considered our own thoughts on the matter.

“So, where’s your car?” Lara asked, brushing brownie crumbs from her sweater.

“We towed it to Doug’s garage,” I replied.

“Your cousin, Doug?” Lara asked Jenny. “The one with no neck?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Jenny agreed.

Then, as if thinking of my 1995 Ford Escort summoned it to respond, my cell phone rang. It was the mechanic. The conversation was short and afterward I laid my head down on the table and moaned.

“Is she having another one of her visions?” Lara asked Jenny.

“Nah.” Jenny chewed another brownie. “Just an emotional meltdown.”

“My car,” I murmured against the cool pine table. “It’s going to cost almost eight hundred bucks to fix it.”

“Wow,” Jenny sympathized. “You could probably just buy another Escort for that price, right?”

I lifted my head to glare at her.

“Okay, maybe not one as nice as yours,” she conceded. “Guess you’ll be taking the bus for a while.”

“I hate the bus,” I whined. “Where am I going to get that kind of cash?”

Half an hour later we concluded that I could save up enough to pay for the repair if I gave up a few necessities like Starbucks, Vogue magazine and food for the next six months.

“Or you could just get another job,” Lara suggested, placing a soup-bowl size mug of thick black coffee in front of me. “They’re looking for another person to help behind the concession counter at the Movie Megaplex.”

Lara was the queen of part-time. She held four part-time jobs and kept her schedules straight on a large white wipe-off board in her bedroom.

“No way! I’m already putting in my forty hours a week at McAuley and Malcolm.” And it felt more like fifty.

“Well, technically you don’t work a full forty hours,” Jenny pointed out. “You’re usually at least a half hour late, you take long lunches and you leave early. My guess is you really only work about thirty hours a week. Of course, it’s better than when you were smoking and taking all those puff breaks.”

Jenny and I worked together at the law firm of McAuley and Malcolm. Jenny had the prestigious title of legal secretary while I was only the lowly receptionist. Jenny also covered my ass whenever I was away from my desk so she knew all about my lack of attendance.

“Still, what about my social life?” I drank from the hot coffee and felt my armor crumpling. This was my social life.

“I’ll loan you fifty bucks until payday, Tab,” Jen offered generously.

“Come with me tonight and I’ll get Harold to hire you,” Lara announced, as if it were all settled. “A few nights a week and you’ll quickly have your car repairs paid for.”

After a little more coffee and lots more cajoling, Lara convinced me. I called in to report my stolen Visa and then we headed out to the movie theatre where I was introduced to Harold Wembly. He was a beanpole young man with acne-scarred skin and the manager of the Movie Megaplex.

“So you want a career as a Megaplex counter assistant?” his eyes gleamed with power.

“Um, well sure, I guess.” I turned and raised my eyebrows at Lara.

“You’re in luck.” He clapped his hands. “You can start tonight. Joan called in sick and Lara here can show you the ropes. After tonight you’ll work from Wednesday to Saturday, six-thirty ’til midnight.”

“F-four nights a week?” I stuttered. “I was thinking maybe two.”

“Bus,” Lara hissed in my ear. “Do it his way and you’ll get your car back before the November downpours start.”

I sighed. “That’ll be fine.”

Harold tossed me a yellow button-down Henley shirt that had Megaplex embroidered in green over the pocket and popcorn-butter stains on the cuffs.

It was still half an hour before the theater would open so Lara took me to the staff room and introduced me to the two other girls who’d be dishing up popcorn with us. Then she brought me down to the huge counter and familiarized me with movie munchie etiquette.

“There are three basic sizes—jumbo, enormous and colossal.” She pointed to the three-dimensional poster on the wall.

“You mean small, medium and large.”

Lara covered my mouth with her hand and slid her gaze to the left and right. “Don’t ever let Harold hear you refer to the sizes that way, or you’ll be fired on the spot.”

Oh, boy.

“The drinks are the same sizes and you need to fill the cups half with ice before pouring in the pop.” She opened a refrigerator beneath the counter. “Bottled water is kept here.”

“What if they want regular water, from a tap?”

Lara shook her head. “Strictly forbidden. There’s a firing squad outside waiting to shoot the first person who offers free water.”

I almost thought she was kidding.

A few minutes later, after I solemnly swore to never ever touch the popcorn maker, Lara pronounced me ready to serve.

“This isn’t so bad,” I said. “Other than the fact that I’m a fashion nightmare.” Looking down at the running shoes Lara had loaned me, I adjusted the black skirt I’d worn to the office that day and tugged a strand of my wispy brown hair out of my eyes.

Obviously I’d spoken too soon because less than two hours later I was run off my feet and had a river of perspiration flowing between my breasts.

“Great. You survived the first half,” Lara said, smiling and wiping at drink spills on the counter. “Other than the time you nearly dumped a tray of drinks on that asshole who grabbed your boob.”

I groaned and pressed a hand to my lower back. “How much longer?”

“Those were the early moviegoers,” Lara stated, pushing her glasses back on her nose and blowing her black hair out of her eyes. “Thursdays can get pretty busy. The next wave will start in about twenty minutes.”

“The next wave?” I replied weakly.

“We can take a break now, if you’d like.”

The second wave wasn’t a wave; it was a tidal storm.

Huge lineups formed in front of each of the four cashiers but my lineup was continuously longer than all the rest. Not only was I slower at serving than the others, but I was also working the register nearest the ticket counter. I was tired. Exhausted. My mind was in a complete daze and my contact lenses were beginning to fuse permanently to my corneas. But suddenly, things came back into focus, or rather, someone. Oh, no!

I whirled to fill an order and met up with Lara at the popcorn. “You gotta switch lines with me!” I hissed.

“No way. The new girl always gets the first register.”

“But Clay Sanderson’s in my line! He’s one of the partners at the law firm. I don’t want him to see me!”

Lara glanced over her shoulder. “Which one is he?”

I continued to scoop popcorn into an already overflowing jumbo-size container. “Golden hair, body like a Greek god, has on a brown leather jacket and there’s a blonde, a model-type, hanging off his arm,” I whispered.

Lara looked again. “He’s gorgeous! Sure, I’ll wait on him.” She undid the top button on her shirt. “But after he’s gone, we switch back.”

Lara hustled up to my line that was easily double the length of hers and I scrambled over to the next cash register trying to keep my gaze away from Clay Sanderson in case he spotted me. No chance of that, though; he only had eyes for the blonde in the stiletto heels.

A few minutes later I glanced over and couldn’t see Clay in Lara’s lineup. I figured he’d already gone, so I was preparing to switch back when I noticed Lara had a weird look on her face and was nodding sideways in my direction.

“I’ll have two medium Cokes and a large popcorn,” a deep baritone voice sounded in front of me.

I turned my head and looked straight into Clay Sanderson’s azure eyes. I guess being a partner in a law firm meant you had enough brains to switch to the snack lineup that had less of a crowd.

I swallowed thickly. “You mean two enormous drinks and a colossal popcorn?” I asked, offering up a tentative smile.

The corners of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. “Sure.”

I quickly headed to the drink dispenser. Maybe he didn’t recognize me? Sure we saw each other every day, when he walked into the office, but I did have a forgettable face. Not like his blond girlfriend.

Returning to the counter with his order, I rang up the total. I offered two dollars in change to him and he reached across and held my hand while he took the bills and stated, “Your secret is safe with me.”

When I looked at my hand I expected melted flesh where he’d touched me. Then he leaned in, and for a split second I actually thought he was going to kiss me, when instead, he whispered, “By the way, you have some popcorn, uh—” His gaze moved down to my chest then back up to my face. I could feel my cheeks becoming red.

I noticed there were a few popcorn kernels balanced precariously in my cleavage. When I looked up again he was gone.

The rest of the shift was quieter, but I was relieved when it finally ended just before midnight. Lara linked her arm in mine as we stepped out of the theatre and into the chilly night air.

“He said he’d keep it a secret, right? So what are you so worried about?”

“I dunno,” I replied glumly, as we cut across the parking lot.

“Oh. I get it.” Lara nudged me with her elbow. “This is the suit you’ve been drooling over for years, huh? Mr. Sexy Lawyer at your firm.”

I began to protest, then relented. “I was surprised he even recognized me.”

“Why wouldn’t he? You’ve been working at that firm for what? Two years?”

“Yeah, but did you get a load of his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I see your point.”

We continued our walk. My apartment was less than a block from the movie theatre but I was accompanying Lara across the street to her bus stop.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” Lara said. “The bus will be here in less than five minutes. Go on home. You look beat.”

“I am beat. It’s just that…” My eyes were drawn to the old building behind us. It looked like it had been a store at one point, but now it was boarded up with posted signs indicating it was zoned for demolition. My heart was jackhammering painfully inside my chest.

“Oh, my God! You’re doing that thing with your eyes!” Lara grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me roughly. “What is it?” She looked around wildly.

“I’ve got a real bad feeling about that place.” I looked up the road and nodded with my chin. “There’s another bus stop a block up. I’ll walk you over there.”

She shook her head. “No way.” She pointed to the building behind us. “Besides, there’s nobody in there, it’s pitch-dark.”

“Yeah, but still…” My palms were beginning to sweat and I had more than a bad feeling now—I had an image of a woman flash in my mind. A very dead woman. “Oh jeez.” I rubbed at my eyes. “Come on!” I yanked Lara by the elbow and tried pulling her up the road.

She tugged her arm free and studied my face. “You’re really scared. Is this another cat thing? I don’t spook easily but you are making me so curious.” She headed for the main entrance to the vacant building.

My stomach was churning as I followed her. There wasn’t much to see. It was a dilapidated gray stucco building with Keep Out signs hammered to the front door and a cement lot that circled the structure. Lara walked determinedly around the perimeter of the building. At the back, where a board had fallen away, she paused before peering inside the abandoned structure.

“Nothing!” She let out a disgusted breath. “I’m telling you, Tabitha, after everything Jenny’s told me about this psychic thing you’ve got going on, I’m kinda disappointed.”

“Yeah, well, Jenny does tend to exaggerate.” I glanced around and sighed with relief that no bogeymen were lurking in the parking lot behind us either. “Guess my feeling was off.” I didn’t want to think about the image that had flashed through my mind. “Let’s go.”

“Hey, what’s that?” Lara asked before we’d taken a step.

“What?”

“Painted on that Dumpster.” She nodded to the corner of the parking lot with her chin. “Could that be…” She began walking toward it. “Oh, my God, it is! It’s a pentagram! You said there was one at the cemetery, too, right?!”

My feet froze to the pavement. A streetlight in the corner of the lot angled a dim yellow sheen bathing the Dumpster in an eerie glow. Spray-painted over the words, Pacific Refuse Inc., was a black pentagram. That real bad feeling I’d had earlier returned. Lara walked closer to the bin and was now only a couple of feet away.

“Don’t,” I said weakly.

“It’s just a Dumpster.” She looked over her shoulder at me and made clucking noises. “Unless you’re thinking there’s something in here besides trash, like maybe another mutilated cat or something.”

“It’s the or something that bothers me and I’m not hanging around to find out.” I stomped away hoping that Lara would follow, but after a dozen steps I looked over my shoulder and saw that she was not behind me. She’d done the exact opposite—she’d shimmied up the side of the Dumpster.

“You know what?” Her voice echoed loudly inside the container. She shoved herself off, landed on her feet and wiped her hands on her jacket with a look of revulsion.

“What?”

“The Dumpster’s empty but there’s a puddle of something inside there. It looks like it could be blood. Of course, it’s hard to tell in the dark.”

My throat tightened. “I’m guessing there’s a lot more blood than would come from a cat, right?”

“Yep. A lot more.”

I wanted to run. Run far. Run fast. Lara, on the other hand, did the exact opposite, again. She called the cops.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting curbside with a good view of one of Seattle’s finest shining his flashlight into the Dumpster. He pushed himself off it in much the same manner as Lara had and then his partner climbed up and did a similar look-see inside with his flashlight. Lara was pacing nonstop in front of me, her face bright with excitement.

After a few minutes, the cops strode over. One was a fiftyish Hispanic guy with a thick mustache. The other was a younger cop who was built like a refrigerator with stringy blond hair.

Refrigerator Cop spoke first, addressing Lara. “You’re right that it looks like blood but, obviously, we can’t tell just by looking at it that it’s from a human. Probably somebody just dumped some meat.”

I let out a snort from my place at the curb and Refrigerator Cop turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “Tell me again what brought you around the building to look in the Dumpster.”

“Hey, I didn’t look in there,” I protested. “I was just following her.” I indicated Lara with my chin.

“Yeah, and she wanted to check because you had a psychic vision or something,” Mustache Cop said sarcastically and he and his partner shared identical smirks.

I got to my feet and clapped my hands together. “Well, looks like you guys have everything under control, so I’m going to go home to bed.”

“We’ve got the crime lab guys on their way and they’ll check out the Dumpster to be sure,” said Mustache Cop. “And we’ve got your information, so we’ll be in touch if anything further comes up.”

The look on his face said that he didn’t believe anything further would come up. He believed the pentagram on the side of the Dumpster was teenage graffiti and that the gooey stuff in the Dumpster was not human blood. I slid my gaze to the Dumpster and fear made my nerves ping.

Lara caught her bus and I ran the rest of the way to my apartment. I spent the better part of the night not able to sleep because of an unending slide show of morbid snapshots that flashed behind my eyelids. It began with the poor mutilated kitty in the graveyard, then that picture faded and the image of a woman’s bloody torso took its place. In the final slide, I saw the inside of a dimly lit building where someone was lighting a large black candle. I could almost smell the wax at this point. That’s when I would wake up in a cold sweat. Needless to say, fighting the dreams meant that sleep eluded me until I finally helped it along at three-thirty in the morning with tequila—kept for medicinal use only.

Since my car was sick I’d set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. It was an hour earlier than usual, but it would give me plenty of time to catch a bus and get to the office promptly. However, tequila-induced sleep does what it’s supposed to do. I slammed my fist on the snooze button no less than a dozen times. When I finally did roll out of bed—groggily at that—it was after eight.

“Holy shit!” I yelped and stumbled into the shower.

My apartment was described in the ad as a cozy, metropolitan unit with a parklike view. Actually, it was a dumpy basement studio with narrow, dirty windows, one of which looked out onto the parking lot and some sparse shrubs. The pipes grumbled before spewing hot water for my five-minute shower, then I wrestled my eyelids to remain open long enough for me to impale them with contact lenses. I was hopping into pumps and running out the door a couple minutes later.

As usual, my neighbor, Mrs. Sumner, opened her door a crack and peered at me. Also, as usual, Mrs. Sumner, a stale fiftyish woman, had her hair in curlers, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and sported a ratty pink housecoat. The only time I ever saw poor Mr. Sumner, a meek whipped form of a man, was when he was sneaking out the door and tiptoeing down the hall.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Sumner.” I nodded as I passed.

“If you’re gonna be comin’ in late and leavin’ early don’t always be slammin’ your door!” she shouted after me.

“Bye, Mrs. Sumner,” I shouted back and ran as fast as I could.

The prestigious law firm of McAuley and Malcolm practiced family and criminal law at its location on the twelfth floor of the Bay Tower. It blended with similar glass office buildings downtown that hugged the shores of Elliott Bay. The good news was that there was a bus stop directly in front of the gleaming office tower. The bad news was that I fell asleep on the bus and woke up six blocks past my stop and had to jog back.

In the elevator I attempted to compose myself. I smoothed down my frazzled hair, straightened my skirt and took deep calming breaths. At the twelfth floor, the elevator doors whooshed open onto the reception area. A large mahogany desk, in the shape of a horseshoe, stood front and center. It was my duty to sit behind it and answer telephones. Since I was now an hour late, Jenny was there instead. She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“You look like shit,” she said, getting to her feet so that I could slip behind the desk.

“I also feel like shit.”

“First morning taking the bus didn’t go well?”

“I’ve discovered a fascinating fact about morning transit commuters,” I announced, depositing my purse into the bottom desk drawer. “Most people who take the bus do not bathe and those that do, choose to do so in loathsome perfumes.”

A call came in and I put on my office voice and sang, “Good morning, McAuley and Malcolm. How may I direct your call?” I managed to transfer the call without cutting the person off.

“I thought maybe you looked like shit because of the whole pentagram and bloody Dumpster thing,” Jenny put in.

“Oh, that. I guess Lara told you.”

Jenny grinned. “She woke me out of a dead sleep to tell me every detail.” She leaned in. “Do you really think somebody was killed and tossed in that Dumpster?”

Before I could reply, the elevator doors opened and Clay Sanderson stepped out along with senior partner Ted McAuley. They appeared to be engrossed in a serious discussion as they passed through the reception area with barely a nod in my direction, but suddenly Clay stopped.

“Do you smell that?” he asked.

Old Ted McAuley sniffed loudly. “Huh? What? I don’t smell anything.”

Clay shrugged. “Odd. For a second I was sure I smelled popcorn.” He glanced over at me, behind Ted’s back, and winked before they continued on their way.

“Oh, my God,” Jenny breathed. “He actually winked at you!”

“Yeah. Every time he points his baby blues in my direction I almost have an orgasm.”

Jenny laughed. “Lara told me he saw you working the theater last night but he agreed to keep it a secret.”

“I guess I’m pretty lucky. If word got around the firm that I was dishing up popcorn at night I’d be a laughingstock and I’d never be considered worthy of anything above receptionist.”

The day trudged on as it usually did. I answered calls, transferred most, lost some and muscled the word processor into producing a couple of interoffice memos. Jenny and I went to the deli next door for lunch where she interrogated me further on Lara’s Dumpster diving and I filled her in on the details of my nightmares.

The day picked up speed after lunch and the staff made their usual dash for the elevator at five.

Jenny paused while she slipped her arms inside her coat. “How come you didn’t sneak out with the FedEx guy?”

I shook my head. “Can’t today. I don’t have enough time to go home before I need to be at the Megaplex. I might as well hang around here for a half hour. Maybe I’ll get caught up on my typing.”

Jenny blinked at me and frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

I assured her I was, even though bobbing aimlessly inside my head were bleary images of a bloodstained Dumpster and a woman’s mutilated remains. If I had my way those images would be forcibly tucked away into the furthest reaches of my gray matter.

“Okay,” she said, eyeing me skeptically. “But if you need to talk just call me on my cell. I’m having dinner with Jed.”

“Jed? Is he the guy from last week, the one from the meat packing plant?”

“No that was Ed. Jed’s the guy from that doughnut shop in North Queen Anne.”

“I thought that was Fred.”

She shook her head. “Fred was the guy I faked orgasms with. The one who was into scented candles.”

“Oh.” Between the butcher, the baker and the candle-sex-faker it was getting harder and harder to distinguish Jenny’s dates from one another.

After Jenny left, the partners began filing out of their offices. Clay Sanderson was the last to appear. He pushed the call button for the elevator then sauntered casually back to my desk and stood smiling rakishly.

Feeling as though I should say something, I blurted, “Thanks for last night.” I nibbled my lower lip. “I mean, thanks for not saying anything about seeing me last night, working at the Megaplex.”

His eyes sparked and he leaned a hip against my desk then reached over and playfully tugged at a strand of my hair. “Lucky for you I have a weakness for a woman who smells of melted butter.”

Oh, boy.

Clay picked up his briefcase and strode back toward the elevator, which was taking an eternity to arrive. Suddenly, the doors did open and out stepped a stocky middle-aged man with skin the color of espresso. He wore a rumpled overcoat, a worn tweed suit and a dour expression.

The sight of him triggered another premonition, and fear tripped up my spine like a lover’s knowing touch.

Chapter Two

“T abitha Emery?” the man asked, his feet eating up the floor between the elevator and my desk.

“Yes?” I gulped.

Reaching into a pocket he pulled out his identification. “Detective Jackson.” He tilted his head. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

“No.” I tried to control the flutter of my eyelids that came with a premonition, stress or after eating bad clams. My fluttering eyes noted that Clay Sanderson’s hand was holding the elevator door open, but he had yet to step inside.

“I’d like to talk to you about last night,” Detective Jackson announced.

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy right now.”

He frowned at his Timex. “You only work until five and it’s presently five-o-three. I think you can spare me a few minutes.”

Clay gave up on the elevator and let it leave without him. He walked directly toward me.

“Is there something that I can help you with, officer?”

Detective Jackson flicked a gaze in Clay’s direction. “And you are…?”

“Miss Emery’s attorney, if she needs one.”

My eyelids popped wide open. Aw geez! I did not need Clay Sanderson wading right into the cesspool section of my life.

“It’s okay!” I announced to Clay with a smile before turning to the detective. “I’ll answer your questions, but I don’t have lots of time because I have to get to my other job.”

Clay put his briefcase down and his eyes leveled with mine. “Tabitha, if you’re having a discussion with the police, don’t you think it would be helpful to have an attorney present?”

“I don’t need a lawyer. This is nothing.”

The detective merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call murder nothing.”

“Murder?” Clay and I chorused.

Clay’s voice was hard and clipped. “My office. Now.”

Clay Sanderson’s office had a large rectangular desk in golden oak and I’d often visualized him tossing files to the floor and taking me next to his inbox. There was also a large window that had a stunning view of Elliot Bay. A row of pigeons sat glaring at me from the ledge like feathered jurors. In the corner of the office there was a small round glass table circled by four chairs where Clay headed and parked his rather fine ass. The detective, who definitely did not have a fine ass, followed and sat across from Clay, and I took the chair between the two.

“What’s this about? From the beginning,” Clay barked.

“Well, after we finished work at the movie theater,” I began.

“I want to hear it from him,” Clay snapped.

I rolled my eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes,” he added.

Sheesh!

“Well, sir—” Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair and pulled a small notebook from his pocket “—shortly after midnight Miss Emery called in a situation and—”

“I did not call it in, Lara did,” I corrected and received an icy glare from Clay.

“Fine. I just won’t say anything,” I sulked.

“That would be best,” Clay said, sounding too professional for my liking. It was getting so that I was having a hard time maintaining visuals of sex in his office.

“What situation was called in?” Clay asked.

“There’s an old boarded-up building at the corner of 156th Avenue and Eighth Street,” Jackson began.

“Across from the Movie Megaplex,” Clay added.

“That’s right. Last night Miss Emery and—” he glanced down at his notes then up again “—her friend, Lara Caruth, had a sudden desire to go Dumpster diving and—”

“We did not Dumpster dive!” I shouted.

The detective smothered a chuckle and cleared his throat. “Apparently the ladies felt a sudden calling—” he sneered “—to investigate the Dumpster behind the building. Then they called in the fact that there appeared to be blood inside said Dumpster.”

“Blood?” Clay questioned. “I thought you said this was about murder. Was there a body found?”

“No, sir, there was not. That is what brings me here to discuss the matter with Miss Emery.” The detective swiveled his chair to focus granite black eyes on mine. “Somebody spray-painted a pentagram on the Dumpster and the crime lab confirmed today that it was human blood found. There was enough blood to suggest that whoever lost it, did not walk away.”

“That poor woman,” I murmured.

Detective Jackson quickly stated, “I never mentioned that the blood was from a woman.”

It was Clay’s turn for an eye roll. “I’d say she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that one right.”

Jackson lowered his voice. “All right then, perhaps you’d like to clarify what you and your friend were doing in the rear parking lot of an abandoned building after midnight, peering into a Dumpster?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Clay stated firmly.

“It’s no big deal.” I shrugged. “Lara’s bus stops right in front of the building.”

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing behind the building.”

I offered the detective a pissed-off glare. “I didn’t want to go behind the building. I had a real bad feeling about it, but Lara insisted because…” Again I shrugged. “Well, just because she was curious and thought it might be like the mutilated cat and—”

“Cat?” both men chimed in unison. Uh-oh.

“Um.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Yesterday after work I had my purse snatched and the guy ran through a cemetery. I had a bad feeling at the cemetery.”

“Most people have bad feelings in a cemetery.” Jackson snorted.

“This bad feeling led me to a mutilated cat lying inside a pentagram.”

Clay sucked in air through his perfect white teeth.

Detective Jackson’s gaze narrowed. “And it didn’t occur to you to mention this little tidbit of information to the officers on the scene last night?” He flipped open his notebook and demanded details. I offered him what few there were.

“I’ve been twenty years on the force, Miss Emery, and I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences.” Jackson snapped his notebook shut and buried it inside his coat. “Now would be a good time for you to tell me anything else you may be withholding.”

Clay stood abruptly. “This interview is over. Miss Emery has been more than cooperative.”

Detective Jackson left but not before uttering, “I’ll be back,” like an Arnold Schwartzenegger wanna-be.

After the detective left I realized I’d better hit the road, too, if I was going to make it to the Movie Megaplex by six.

“I appreciate that you stayed on my account, Mr. Sanderson but—” I began.

“Call me Clay and tell me about this bad feeling stuff you were mentioning.”

“There’s not much to tell. I’m not some weirdo psychic carrying a crystal ball. I just get a feeling for things sometimes, that’s all.” I shuddered and didn’t mention that this time bad dreams and foggy apparitions of a woman in a pool of blood were also included.

“Do you want to tell me about this so-called premonition?”

I shook my head. “Nothing really to tell, it was just a bad feeling I had.”

He smiled. “My grandmother used to claim to have second sight.”

“Did she make predictions?”

Chuckling, he said, “Well, her second sight was usually assisted by her love for vodka.”

Clay held the door to his office open and I walked through. When he followed behind me I couldn’t help but clench my butt muscles, just in case he happened to be watching that part of my anatomy. It was a habit.

At the reception area I pressed the call button for the elevator.

“I’m sorry you had to waste your time like this.”

“I never consider spending time with a beautiful woman—or a new client—to be a waste of time.”

“Um, I’m an employee, not a client. Just because I answered some questions from Detective Jackson doesn’t mean I’ll be needing to lawyer up.” As for the beautiful part, well I’d just savor that while I cuddled with my pillow tonight.

“Look, Tabitha, I don’t want you to take this lightly. This is a murder investigation and so far it sounds as though the only leads they’ve had were provided by you.”

I didn’t reply and we rode the elevator in silence except for the Muzak version of an Olivia Newton John song playing overhead.

I survived another shift at the Movie Megaplex even though Friday was even busier than Thursday. Afterward I discovered that my bra had increased a full cup size thanks to the amount of popcorn that had found its way down my shirt.

“You coming to Jimbo’s?” Lara asked while slipping from her yellow Movie Megaplex shirt into a sheer black blouse. Jimbo’s was our usual watering hole on Friday nights. I was usually there sitting with Jenny and a few others trashing old boyfriends and halfway drunk by the time Lara showed up after her shift at the theater.

“I don’t think so. I’m trounced,” I said, inwardly admitting to a new respect for Lara who’d never missed our Friday skunking even with a brassiere filled with popcorn.

I told Lara about my visit from Detective Jackson and Clay Sanderson’s unexpected rising to my defense.

“The man of your wet dreams finally spoke to you for longer than it takes to ask for his phone messages? All the more reason for you to come out and celebrate,” Lara argued. “No.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Lara remarked pushing her glasses up her nose. “Jenny told me that Cathy is bringing her roommate.”

“Oh, my God, not that insufferable nerd, Jeff! He’s a disgrace to gay men everywhere, as dull as my aunt Ruth and less hairy.” I straightened the drab black skirt and white blouse that I’d worn nine to five at McAuley and Malcolm. “Why on earth did you think I’d change my mind knowing that Jeff would be there?”

“Because, you dolt,” Lara breathed while peering into the small mirror in the employee lounge and layering new mascara over old, “Jeff still works at that New Age shop, the Crying Room.”

“The Scrying Room,” I corrected and let out a bubble of laughter. “Don’t you know the difference between scrying and crying?”

“No, I don’t. But you do.” Lara turned and raised her eyebrows at me. “That’s why I’m sure you’ll come tonight. After Jeff’s had a couple martinis you can pump him for information.”

“Oh, really? What kind of information would I be pumping from Jeff? How to bore Seattle’s entire homosexual population into becoming straight?”

“No.”

By the hand, Lara tugged me out the rear entrance of the theater and into an icy West Coast shower. “Everything you’ve always wanted to know about pentagrams but were afraid to ask.”

Lara and I split a fifteen-dollar cab ride to Jimbo’s. Even though the clock was halfway to 1:00 a.m. when we entered, I felt rejuvenated by the dim lighting, noxious aroma of stale smoke and beer and the vibration of heavy base from the sound system. Our comrades, Jenny, Cathy and Jeff were engrossed in a conversation of earth-shattering magnitude, namely, whether or not tongue piercing really could provide an advantage during oral sex.

Lara and I tugged two more chairs over to the scarred pine table that was the one preferred by our group due to its equal proximity to the self-serve bar and the toilets. I noticed that Jenny had swept up her red hair and wore jeans and a V-neck black sweater. The sweater hid her tummy roll while the low cut of her top enhanced what she considered to be her two best features. Cathy, at the other end of the table, waved bloodred fingernails and mouthed hello. She wore black as well but had no fat to hide and her hair had been the same blond, spiked Rod Stewart style since we were in high school. Jeff, who sat on my right, wore brown corduroy pants, a brown cable sweater and nearly succeeded in camouflaging himself into the brown chair he was sitting in. His hair, what little he had, was fine and pale against an equally pallid complexion. He offered us a nearly imperceptible nod as a greeting.

“What’s tonight’s poison?” Lara asked, pushing glasses up her nose and bottom into the chair on my left.

We were informed that tonight they were debating the merits of butterscotch schnapps. It was our group’s mission to set a booze theme to coincide with our weekly imbibing.

“I’m drinking a Buttery Nipple,” Jenny announced holding up a nearly empty shot glass. “It’s made with butterscotch schnapps and Baileys.”

“And Cathy is consuming a Poopy Puppy,” Jeff said, failing to even crack a grin at the ridiculous drink name. “Ingredients are a blend of amaretto, Kahlúa, Baileys and the butterscotch schnapps with a splash of Coke.”

Cathy licked her red lipsticked mouth. “It’s really quite yummy in a sickening sweet kinda way.”

“I see you’re being your usual stick-in-the-mud self and just drinking a martini,” I commented to Jeff.

He peered at me with a serious expression. “If one has to consume alcohol, this is the purest choice.” He downed what was left in his glass.

Lara was already on her feet, anxious to make her way to the self-serve bar. I handed her a five and told her to surprise me. The one thing our bunch had in common was the fact that we could hold our liquor. There wasn’t a puker amongst us, save the time last summer when we tried to combine crème de menthe night with tequila night.

When Lara returned she had a Poopy Puppy for herself and a Buttery Nipple for me. I downed the Nipple in one smooth move while Lara brought the gathering up to speed on my horrific twenty-four hours ending with my office visit from Detective Jackson. Jenny congratulated me on attracting the attention of Clay, but reprimanded me for not taking advantage of our shared elevator ride and trying to seduce Clay using a thank-you kiss as an excuse.

“Discussing murder does not exactly put me in a romantic mood,” I replied dryly.

“Who’s talking romance?” Jenny laughed. “I was talking hot jungle sex in an elevator.”

“Speaking of jungle sex, how was your date?” I asked.

Jenny shrugged. “A dud.” But didn’t elaborate and for the millionth time I admired her for her tenacity in pursuing the opposite sex.

“Anyway,” Lara piped up, “I was figuring Jeff could probably help Tabitha out.”

Everyone turned their attention to Jeff who squirmed in his seat.

“Wh-wh-what can I do?” In addition to Jeff’s many charms, he tended to stutter when he was uncomfortable.

“You’re the one who has the spiritual or Wiccan connection. For starters, you can fill us in on this pentagram stuff.”

“Sure, Jeff,” Cathy encouraged. “You looove that junk, it’s right up your alley.”

Jeff blinked and cleared his throat before beginning his dissertation. “Well, Medieval Christians attributed the pentagram to the five wounds of Christ. To the Gnostics, the pentagram was the Blazing Star and it wasn’t until the 1960s that it became a Wiccan symbol.”

We all stared at him openmouthed.

“W-w-well, it’s kinda my job,” he said, embarrassed. When he recovered he twisted toward me. “You should come down to the shop and I can show you around. You can look at some books on the subject or I can show you our variety of pentagrams. I’m working tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks, I’m busy. I still have to work at the movie theater.”

Jeff cleared his throat and headed for the self-serve bar.

“That’s not until six-thirty,” Lara pointed out. “It might be fun to check out the Scrying Room. I’ve always been kind of curious about that place.”

“Thanks, but I have other plans for my day.” Like sleeping until noon and scrounging through all of my pockets for quarters to see if I had enough cash to do laundry.

“I’ll go with you,” Jenny offered.

“I have no need to expand my knowledge of pentagrams. Just because I’ve seen two lately does not exactly mean I have to become an expert on the subject.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d certainly be curious,” Cathy piped up. “I’d even offer to join you but I promised to baby-sit my sister’s brats.”

When I didn’t give in, Jenny added, “If you don’t go with me,” she taunted in a singsong voice, “I won’t tell you some really juicy office gossip.”

I felt myself waver. “I want to hear the tittle-tattle first before I promise to go to the Scrying Room.”

“No way.”

“What if I’ve already heard it?”

“You haven’t and, trust me, it’s good.”

I caved. “Fine. I’ll go with you to the Scrying Room. Now spill.”

“Well, you know Martha’s pregnant.”

Cathy burst out, “Of course Tab knows! She knew it before Martha knew. She had one of her spells and—”

“I do not have spells!”

“Whatever,” Cathy countered.

“Don’t leave us hanging here!” Lara exclaimed.

Jenny put up her hands to stop us. “This isn’t about Martha being pregnant. This is about her maternity leave and who is going to be filling her space during that time.”

“Who?”

Jenny leaned back. “I don’t know for certain, of course, but I do know that Muriel’s husband is being transferred to San Francisco and it sounds like they’ll be packing up. So that means Muriel won’t be available to fill in for Martha’s maternity leave.”

“Omigod!” I was getting excited. Ever since I was hired on permanently after a brief temp job, I’d been hoping to be promoted from receptionist but Muriel was next in line. Although only a mere filing clerk, Muriel was still a smidgen above my position in the McAuley and Malcolm food chain. “Is this a sure thing?”

Jenny nodded. “I heard her tell The Bitch today.”

The Bitch, aka Sonya Suderman, was office manager and in charge of all the nonlawyer staff.

I could almost taste victory. Last year I’d taken some extra computer classes and a course on legal terminology to bring me up to speed. It wasn’t like it was a dream come true to be a legal secretary, but it was a nightmare come alive to remain a receptionist. I’d actually had my eye on Marie Laraby’s secretarial position since she was old as dirt and there was a pool going as to whether or not she would retire or simply slip into a doughnut coma behind her desk. Marie worked for George Ferguson who was equally ancient, had trouble with intestinal gas and was head of the wrongful dismissal department.

“And you know the best part,” Jenny said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You wouldn’t have to work for Flatulent Ferguson.”

I suddenly felt melancholy. “If my dad hadn’t died I would’ve gotten my degree by now. I’d certainly have more than a secretarial position to look forward to.”

“Tabitha, I hate to break it to you, but going for a degree in Women’s Studies was not going to help you. You should’ve been studying men all along.” She laughed.

“Aw, man.” I hung my head with a sudden realization. “Martha works for Clay. If I get the job I’ll be Clay Sanderson’s secretary.”

“That’s great!” Lara exclaimed. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s great,” Cathy reasoned. “Tab’s been soppy and doe-eyed over that suit for years.”

“How could I possibly work for him?” I moaned. “I can’t work with a man who ties me up in knots.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Jeff commented, returning with his martini in time to hear my last comment.

Soppy and doe-eyed was exactly the way Jeff was staring at the Scrying Room’s owner, Lucien Roskell, when Jen and I arrived just after ten the next morning. Only problem was, the way Lucien scraped his gaze hotly across my breasts when I walked in, told me that Jeff’s boss didn’t have an ounce of gay in him.

When a few possible customers came into the store Jeff and Lucien left Jen and I to look around or, as Lucien put it, “meander their metaphysical retail establishment.” I was quite content to meander since I had no idea what the hell I was doing there in the first place. Jenny, on the other hand, was having a hard time taking her eyes off the proprietor.

“Did you get a load of that guy?” she whispered in my ear.

“Yeah, I did. He’s good-looking.” I picked up a crystal dangling from a long silver chain and held it up for examination. “Do you wear this thing or hang it as a decoration?”

“Good-looking?” Jenny slapped my back so hard I stumbled forward and nearly dropped the crystal. “The guy isn’t good-looking he’s friggin’ gorgeous!” Jenny insisted. “Under that black turtleneck you can see washboard abs!”

“Well, sure, but he’s got a bum-chin.”

Jenny rolled her eyes, “You mean a cleft chin? If I could stick my tongue in that cleft I’d die a happy woman.”

I glanced across the shop to where Lucien was showing a collection of tarot cards to a balding middle-aged man. Lucien looked up and his carbon eyes gripped mine and held. I felt my toes curl.

I tore my gaze away. “I don’t know, there’s something weird or strange about the guy.”

“It’s probably the fact that he’s six feet tall with broad shoulders, a smooth olive complexion, thick dark hair and those bottomless eyes,” Jenny sighed. “We’ve heard of male perfection, we’re just not used to seeing it away from a GQ cover.”

“Sorry to leave you,” Jeff offered when he returned. “Our pentagram stuff is over here.”

Jeff brought us to another section of the L-shaped store that was floor-to-ceiling glass shelves.

“This is our Wicca section.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Look, I gotta go fill an order in the back room so take a look around. There are a number of good books in our witches library that you might find interesting and, if you want, I’ll give you my twenty-percent employee discount.” He turned and scuttled in the opposite direction.

Jenny and I stared at the massive quantity of items surrounding us.

“Wow,” Jenny said. Wow just about covered it.

“No eye of toad or hair of newt,” I observed, but there certainly were shelves containing everything else you would expect your modern witch to have. There were spell candles, witch balls, incense sticks, intricately carved wands and, of course, crystal balls in your choice of green, blue and black. One shelf held a weighty selection of scrying mirrors that gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“Well, I’m definitely getting this,” Jenny announced holding up a book titled Red Hot Love Spells. “Maybe I can find a spell to put on Tim tonight.”

“Is Tim the one who’s Lara’s cousin?”

“No, that was Todd.”

“So he’s your neighbor’s nephew?”

“No, that’s Terry. Tim is my cousin’s neighbor’s stepson.”

I just shook my head clear and changed the subject.

“To own this kind of a store this Roskell guy is either very strange—” I fingered a brass chalice and gasped at the price tag “—or very smart.”

“I see you’re interested in The Craft,” a deep voice sounded behind us. “‘All the wild witches, the most noble ladies, for all their broomsticks and their tears, their angry tears, are gone.’”

We turned to look into Lucien’s smiling face.

“I don’t know what that means—” Jenny giggled “—but it sure sounds nice. Was that Shakespeare?”

“Yeats,” Lucien replied. He flashed a wide smile at Jenny then focused his obsidian eyes on mine. “Jeff tells me you’re interested in pentagrams.”

I didn’t answer. It felt as if his cavernous gaze was extracting my ability to speak. I controlled my urge to fidget and my other urge to run.

Jenny stepped closer so that she was shoulder to shoulder with me. “Yes, Tabitha has had a rather interesting few days, pentagram speaking.”

“Really?” His eyebrows rose in amusement, his gaze still securely locked on mine. “It sounds like an interesting story, perhaps one that should be told over dinner? Tonight?”

“Um, sorry. Actually, I’m working tonight.”

“Oh? Jeff told me you work in a law office, is there an emergency legal matter to attend to?” The corners of his mouth twitched.

“I have a second job at a movie theater.”

“But she’s not busy now,” Jenny piped in and I would’ve pinched her if she hadn’t sidestepped out of pinching distance. “You could always go for coffee.”

“Splendid idea.” Lucien grinned. “I’ll just let Jeff know that he’ll be running the store.”

He turned on his heel and then I did pinch Jenny.

“Ow!”

“What the hell did you do that for?” I snapped. “I don’t want to go out with him!”

“You’re the one who is always saying that coffee with a man is the perfect predate test,” Jenny reasoned thumbing through the pages of her love spell book. “What’s so awful? So you spend a few minutes together. Big deal. You can determine whether or not there’s a spark and whether or not he’s capable of stringing a few words together, then if he passes the predate test you’re safe to attempt dinner.”

I hated having my own lecture tossed back in my face.

“Well, you’re coming with us.”

“No way! The man doesn’t even look at me when I’m standing right next to you.”

“I don’t care. I need a buffer because he’s just so—” I groped for the word “—intense.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you can handle him on your own for a few minutes. I’ll be right across the street at that discount shoe place. When you’re done having coffee with Mr. Intense you can meet me there.”

Before I could protest further Mr. Intense was at my side and shrugging into a black leather jacket and within minutes we were at a coffee shop next door cozily sipping steaming lattes.

“So tell me about your pentagram escapades,” Lucien urged.

“Jenny likes to be a little dramatic,” I replied, and after taking a deep drink of my coffee I relayed to him all about the purse snatcher, the following cat yukiness and then the incident at the Dumpster. I omitted Detective Jackson’s subsequent visit.

Lucien leaned in, listened patiently and made tsk-tsking sounds at all the appropriate places. Once I’d completed my story he leaned back and considered me with his scrutinizing gaze.

“Having the sight must be both a blessing and a curse for you.”

I jumped enough to slosh a little coffee on my fingers. “I do not have ‘the sight.’” I drew quotes in the air with my fingers then wiped the coffee from them with a napkin. “I assure you that I cannot foretell the future or read minds.” I took a long pull from my coffee cup. “Occasionally I do have intuition,” I begrudgingly admitted, then I laughed nervously. “Women’s intuition. Ha ha. We all have it.”

But he wasn’t buying it. “But you did know something was wrong even before you saw the dead cat or the Dumpster. I’m willing to bet that you’ve also had premonitions about what actually did happen at that Dumpster.”

“You’d lose that bet.”

He shrugged. “But you do believe a woman was killed and put in the Dumpster and you also believe the pentagram in the cemetery and the one on the Dumpster were made by the same person.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to say it.”

“Oh, so now you’re the clairvoyant?”

He sipped his coffee and grinned. “I think some people have a sixth sense but most ignore it.”

I considered that to be true as well and told him so.

We sat in silence for a moment then suddenly he reached inside his turtleneck and pulled out a long silver chain. Dangling from the chain was a silver disc, an amulet, with a pentagram carved into its center. Intricate letters and figures I couldn’t quite make out were engraved around and inside of it.

“That’s a different kind of pentagram,” I commented. “Do all those symbols on it have a meaning?”

He nodded. “It’s called the Pentagram of Solomon. It protects from danger.” Grinning he said, “You know, many people get a kick out of playing around with witchcraft or the occult. A few satanic or Wicca doodads around the house can make great conversation pieces.” He rolled the amulet between his fingers and it glinted in the florescent lighting of the coffee shop, then he tucked it back inside his shirt. “I’d say the majority of my customers are just curious and some may even dabble occasionally but that doesn’t make them satanic cultists or evil murderers.”

“Of course not, just like going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.”

He tossed back his head and laughed throatily. “Exactly.”

“Still—” I downed the rest of my coffee “—you must get some so-called true believers in your store.”

“Sure, in Washington state alone there are over a dozen Wicca covens practicing on a regular basis.” As if he were tossing them away with a wave of his hand he continued, “They’re harmless. It’s those who don’t belong to the groups, those who follow their own path, who are probably more likely to be dangerous.”

Suddenly, he leaned on our small table until his face was scant inches away from mine. “Have you tried to focus your visions? I have a terrific assortment of scrying mirrors.”

I leaned back. “I don’t believe in them.”

He frowned and drew his brows together. “I’m sure it doesn’t work for all but many seers trust in scrying. How can you not believe in scrying when your own ability should be enough to convince you of its possibilities? Perhaps you should learn more about the subject before saying you don’t believe.”

I sighed. “Scrying is the art of clairvoyance achieved by concentrating on an object,” I recited. “The word scrying comes from the English word descry, which means ‘to make out dimly’ or ‘to reveal.’”

He clapped his hands politely. “Obviously you’ve already done your homework on the subject. Yet you still claim not to be a believer. Why is that?”

“A couple years ago I got curious. I spent some time at the library and with a psychic. The so-called psychic cured me and proved to me that most of what’s out there is a lot of horse hockey.”

I didn’t reveal to him the fact that my sudden interest was triggered by a premonition of my father’s demise followed by his actual death in precisely the manner I envisioned.

“Most—but not all—of the stuff is bunk, I’ll give you that, but how do you explain the fact that some people have very accurate visions while scrying?”

“It’s simple, if you’ve ever sat staring at a blank wall until you began to see images, or if you’ve ever lain in bed staring up at the ceiling until you saw blurry patterns in the stucco, then you’re doing the exact same thing as staring into a scrying mirror until a so-called vision manifests itself.”

He didn’t respond except to finish his coffee. When he spoke again he abruptly changed the subject. We spent the remaining few minutes discussing the weather and then whether or not the Seahawks had a hope in hell of beating the Chicago Bears tomorrow.

When we parted company in front of the coffee shop I had to admit I was a tiny bit disappointed that he didn’t ask me out. Not that I was sure I’d even accept, still, it was always nice to have a gorgeous guy ask.

Jenny had used our few minutes apart to add to her shoe collection. She lived valiantly by the credo that if the shoe fits buy it in every color. She picked up a prized pair of red stilettos for her date that night. Jenny was a full-figured gal and with stiletto heels she looked like a pear on stilts. Then again I was probably just jealous because, unlike me, Jenny rarely was desperate and dateless on a Saturday night. True, the guys she dated were usually blind dates that never asked for seconds—hell some even went to the bathroom halfway through the evening and didn’t return. Still, Jenny was an optimist and figured Seattle had a lot of men and she was determined to date all the single ungay ones or die trying. You have to admire someone with that kind of tenacity.

Jenny and I grabbed a burger for lunch then parted company. I did laundry at home and then shuffled off to work. That night at the Movie Megaplex I was friendless ’cause Lara had scored a night off. The first wave wasn’t too bad—there were lots of groups of singles. Then the second wave hit and there were lots of couples all smoochy and cuddly after a romantic dinner. I tried to dish out the popcorn, drinks and candy without making eye contact. If I saw that glazed lust-on-its-way-to-love look on one more face I’d start slamming my head into the counter. Then, just when it couldn’t get any worse, a warm male voice forced me to look up.

“A diet cola, bottled water and a jumbo popcorn.” Clay Sanderson beamed down at me. He had that same challenging spark in his eyes and the same glittery blonde hanging off his arm.

I swallowed and dared to meet his gaze. “Uh, if you order the enormous popcorn you’ll get a free box of Rosebuds.”

“You’re the boss,” he joked.

Why me? If he insisted on taking his date to the movies so often why did he have to come to this theatre and my lineup? I filled his order then returned and took his cash, trying to be as quick as possible.

Clay offered me a wink before traipsing in the direction of the theaters. I noticed his girlfriend was wearing high heels similar to the ones Jenny had bought. Only Clay’s girlfriend did not look like a pear on stilts—she had the legs of a dancer. All of a sudden I was depressed.

I took a ten-minute break and ate my way through a supersize Oh Henry! and a box of Junior Mints then returned to do clean up. After the second wave of shows started things got pretty slow behind the concession stand so we began to close the station down. The two pimple-faced teenagers working with me talked excitedly about their plans to attend a party later. It was downright embarrassing that I had nothing to do. I decided that my chocolate binge would need the assistance of a few beers to make me feel better. Yeah, a few beers and maybe a pack of Virginia Slims. When I quit smoking last month I’d not counted on being pummeled by all these new obstacles in my life. Bad dreams. Detective interrogations. A chance I may get a promotion and work with Clay. I needed nicotine to calm my frazzled nerves.

The second wave of moviegoers were spilling into the parking lot as I returned to the staff room to change out of my yellow uniform shirt. I slipped into my Seahawks jersey and shrugged into my Gore-Tex jacket. It was raining when I stepped outside, which matched my mood perfectly. Actually, it wasn’t official rain. Seattleites had many names for the various forms of wet drops that fell and this was a mizzle—a mist increasing to a drizzle. Regardless, it was wet, it was cold and I had to walk home in it.

Most of the second-wavers were darting to their cars and I envied them. I wanted my car. I needed my car. When you had a car you had freedom. I cut diagonally between the parked vehicles but paused midway across as I found myself looking at the abandoned building where Lara and I had discovered the bloody Dumpster. I stopped and stared at it. I was not going near there. Nope. I wasn’t. Really.

“You’re not going over there,” Clay’s voice commanded from behind me.

I turned sharply with surprise. “Of course I’m not!” I said defensively.

He opened the passenger door to a sporty yellow Miata soft-top and the modelesque blonde slipped into the passenger seat, eyeing me dismissively.

“Because you sure looked like you were thinking of going over there and if that is what you’re thinking, I have to advise you against it.”

I felt a dribble of rain dangling from the tip of my nose and swiped it away with my hand. “I was not thinking of going there. I was just wondering if the cops had checked inside the building.”

Clay narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. When he narrowed his eyes they crinkled in the corners, making him look a little older than his midthirties. I wasn’t used to having his undivided attention. I didn’t sigh, even though I wanted to.

“I’m sure that the police have thoroughly checked the entire area and I am just as sure they would not want you checking to see if they checked.”

“Clay, I’m cooold,” whined Modelesque Girl.

“I’ll be just a second, Candy,” Clay replied, and pushed her door shut.

Her name was Candy. Perfect. How could I ever compete with a combination of thinness, blondness and someone whose name was a sweet confection?

“So you’re going straight home then, right?” he asked.

Suddenly I was annoyed. Just because I moonlighted at a movie theater did not mean I didn’t have a life! Okay, well it did mean that but he didn’t need to know it!

“It so happens that I have a date,” I lied.

The corners of his lips twitched. “It’s almost midnight. You should’ve had your date pick you up.”

I jammed my hands into my pockets. “Todd’s meeting me at my place. I live only a couple blocks away and I like to walk.”

Todd was the name of my first boyfriend. I don’t know why his name sprung to my lips but I figured having a name for my fake boyfriend lent some credibility to my lie.

Candy tapped her window impatiently with a long manicured nail.

“Cool it,” Clay said to the window.

Yeah, cool it, Candy, Clay and I are having a conversation here, I thought.

“Okay.” He chucked a finger under my chin. “Just be careful, huh?”

The underneath part of my chin tingled where he touched it. I turned and strode purposely across the parking lot. After a few steps I could hear his car roar to life and that’s when I let out the breath I’d been holding. The chuck under my chin was not exactly the lip-crushing kiss of my fantasies but it had definitely thrown me off guard.

When I reached the edge of the lot I hesitated. I should turn right onto 156th Avenue and continue my walk. I could stop at the corner store and pick up that pack of Virginia Slims. The ciggies combined with the six-pack of Rainier beer that was waiting in my fridge would take me well on my way to having my own little pity party inside of half an hour. Or I could do all of those things after I checked out the building across the street.

It’s not like I have a death wish. I’m just a curious kind of person and my inquisitiveness was now centered on that dilapidated building. All I wanted was a peek inside. I wasn’t going to go near the Dumpster. No way. I just wanted to know if the inside of this building was what I’d seen in my dream.

I crossed the street. Instead of that eerie feeling I’d felt the other day about the building, there was only a general uneasiness, but it wasn’t thundering inside me. It was just sort of…there, hovering in the background…like when you eat hot wings and you know the heartburn’ll follow, but I could handle that. I mean if the place was really dangerous I’d have that deep sense of foreboding snaking through my veins, right?

Trusting my instincts in this weird kind of way, I scurried toward the building and dipped into the shadows. The front door was padlocked and boarded; the windows along the front and side were also secured with plywood. I inched around to the back, to where one of the boards had fallen away. Standing on tiptoe, I pressed my face close to the window. It was black as ink inside. Damn.

Just then, the clouds opened and it started raining hard. There was a slight overhang covering the back entrance and I scooted out of the wet. Of course the door was also crisscrossed in canary-yellow crime-scene tape, but all I wanted was to wait until the rain tapered back to a sprinkle then I’d head home. It was a shame I hadn’t gotten a better look. Too bad I didn’t have a flashlight. Wait a second! I didn’t have a flashlight but I still carried a Bic lighter. I rummaged through my purse. Lucky for me I hadn’t changed purses since I’d quit smoking. I dug around the bottom of my bag until my fingers clamped onto the smooth familiar feel of the Bic. I lifted it out triumphantly and stumbled backward hitting the door with my shoulder. The tape tore away and the door sprang wide open. Holy shit!

I recovered from my stumble and stared into the dark cavernous building. Swallowing my fear, I fumbled with the lighter until I was able to flick it ablaze. I stuck my arm straight out and the tall flame illuminated the way as I walked inside.

The flame flickered as I walked farther and farther. The back door opened into a hall and after a few steps to my left it turned into one big room. It had the appearance of an old convenience store. On the far wall, shelves were still mounted from floor to almost the ceiling. The lighter was heating up so I let it go out. Using the wall to guide me, I inched along. Suddenly, my foot plunged into a hole. I flicked my Bic and saw that my foot was lodged into a heating vent with a missing cover grate. I had to tug my foot out, leaving my shoe behind, balance on one foot and then do some wriggling to get my shoe free from the crevice. After that, my eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light coming through the opened back door.

The room smelled of dampness, rotting wood and something else. The something else was candle wax. I felt my heart rate pick up when the scent rushed a flash from my dreams. I remembered a room like this and a hand reaching to light a thick black candle.

I switched on the lighter again and something caught my eye. On the wall to my right was a drawing in black marker. Not the large scrawling curse words or tagging of graffiti, but two symbols each about a foot high. The first was a crude drawing that looked kind of like an angel but instead of a halo it had a horizontal crescent shape on top of its head. The second was a circle with a cross inside of it. My fingers reached out to touch the drawings.

“What the hell are you doing?” A voice boomed from the doorway.

I let out a squeak, dropped my lighter and nearly passed out.

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