“She’s not coming.” I expelled a deep sighed. “She’s probably not even home. I sure as hell wouldn’t stick around town if the O’Banions were after me.”
Flo planted her hands on her hips and glared at the door. “Well, this was an anticlimactic secret mission. I can’t believe I called out sick for this.”
“Sorry to disappoint. It’s still early, though. You could make it in for most of the day.”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’m supposed to be teaching fractions. I freakinghatefractions.” She paused, brightening with a fresh idea. “Want to go get pancakes at Red’s instead?”
“Um, obviously.”
We walked slowly toward the Thunderbird, resigned to our thwarted plan but, ultimately, not too shaken up by it now that we’d pivoted to brunch. Ahead of me, Flo was chattering animatedly about the double order of hash brows she planned on eating.
I’m not sure what made me glance back at the house. There was no sudden sound, nothing at all to draw my attention. But I stopped in my tracks, looked over my shoulder, and, sure enough, when my eyes landed on the second-floor window, I saw a familiar face peering out at me. It was there and gone, quickly darting out of sight behind a thick velvet curtain. Too late, though. She’d seen me and I’d seen her.
“She’s home.”
“Huh?” Flo asked, stopping short. “Hey, wait for me!”
I was already racing back up the walk, bounding onto the porch, pushing my finger against the doorbell. My fist began to pound against the wood panel. “Zelda! Come on, I know you’re in there! I saw you through the window!” I rang again, even more persistently. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me!”
Finally, I heard the clomp of footsteps on the stairs. I released the doorbell and the shrill peal tapered into silence. The door jerked open and there she stood.
Madame Zelda herself.
Her tall frame was swathed in a loose-fitting caftan — lime green with purple peacock feathers running down the sides. She was unusually bare-faced, no penciled on brows or bold purple lipstick, no heavy blush caked on the apples of her cheeks. It was the first time I’d seen her without her sky-high turban. Her mousy blonde hair sat limply atop her head, the length pulled back in a severe knot by her nape. Her cloudy blue eyes were fixed on me with undisguised displeasure.
“Gwendolyn. What an…unexpected… surprise.”
“Aren’t you a psychic?” Flo asked, nose wrinkling skeptically. “Didn’t you know we were coming?”
Zelda’s unhappy gaze shifted to her. “And you are?”
“Florence Lambert, Gwen’s best friend. The Thelma to her Louise. The Rose to her Blanche. The Sookie to her Lorelai. The Waldorf to her Van der Woodsen.”
The psychic looked back at me. “Is she speaking English?”
“I’ve been calling you for days, Zelda,” I said, getting straight to the point. “Where have you been? What’s going on? You’ve missed all your appointments. People are pissed.”
“I needed a bit of me-time.”
“Me-time?” I blinked. “Then your sudden disappearance doesn’t have anything to do with Mickey O'Banion?”
She jolted in surprise then quickly covered it, adopting a disinterested expression. Her voice was the quintessence of casual as she asked, “How do you know Mickey?”
“For starters,” I said, growing more irritated by the second, “He cornered me the other day while I was taking out the store’s trash. He was trying to track you down and seemed seriously annoyed that you’d blown him off. He said to tell you he’s not going away until he gets back what you took. He said…” I adopted a poor imitation of Mickey’s gruff tones. “You can run but you can’t hide.”
Her sparse brows pulled inward in a scowl at this news. Stepping back, she swung the door wide open. “You’d better come inside for a moment, Gwendolyn.” Her gaze darted over my shoulder to the street beyond. “Prying eyes everywhere.”
Flo and I traded a glance before we followed the psychic’s silk-shrouded form up the creaky staircase, into a rather run-down apartment. There was no decor scheme, so far as I could tell. Nothing matched. The furniture was eclectic in the extreme, but all of it looked shabby. (And, it must be noted,smelledshabby.) Thick, woven rugs blanked the floor in a colorful canvas. Chiffon scarves were draped over every lampshade, casting the entire apartment in muted rainbow hues. Most startling of all, on a tall, excrement-encrusted perch by the window, a brilliant blue macaw parrot with yellow neck feathers stared at us with beady, intelligent eyes. It cocked its head as we came closer, taking our measure, talons tightening on the wooden rungs.
“Mercury reenters retrograde,” the parrot cawed in greeting, black tongue poking from its beak. “The moon is square Venus!”
Flo and I glanced at one another again.
“That’s Hecate. My familiar. She is an accomplished oracle.” Zelda gestured toward a threadbare fuchsia sofa as she settled into a green brocade armchair. “Do sit down.”
We sat, the springs creaking beneath us in a rusty chorus.
“Can I get you anything? Wine? Brandy?”