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
