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
