Who Do, Voodoo?, page 2
Robin swung the bat at the bird. “Get. The. Hell. Out of here.”
I took her arm. “Take it easy. Let’s go back inside.”
“I’m getting your brother, Dave, over here.” My mother took out her phone.
“Call the Van Nuys police. They’re closer,” I said.
Robin looked toward the street. “They’re not going to help. They said they’d send a patrol. Do you see a patrol? No. Me either. Nothing. I’m going to find this jerk and whack some sense into him.”
The Sunday Los Angeles Times sat on the lawn, untouched.
“Did you go out at all today?” I said to Robin.
“No.”
“The card could have been on the door overnight?”
“Maybe.” She dropped the bat to her side.
“Any hang-ups today?”
“Not yet.”
“Come on. We’ve looked enough.” I slipped the bat from Robin’s fist and led her inside.
The living room fireplace blazed. The scent of vanilla drifted from the candles burning on side tables. I hung my navy pea coat and my mother’s cashmere wrap on the rack near the door and plopped down on one of the chairs in front of the fire. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs beneath me as I studied the tarot card.
The card was the same construction as the others—a laminated three-by-five. I glanced at the anagram on the front of the card: “AEGIINTTVY.” Negativity. Then I read the back again. “I’M WATCHING YOU.” The handwritten message worried me. Whoever was leaving the cards was getting bolder, more personal. The next incident could be face-to-face.
“Do you recognize this deck?” I looked up at my mother, standing over me.
She nodded. “It’s the Five of Swords. Nobody wins.”
“The deck, Mother. Do you recognize it?”
“No, dear. I don’t.” She looked over to Robin. “Where’s your computer? I’ll check my sites.”
“Over here.” Robin flipped open the laptop on the dining room table. Mom put on her reading glasses and started typing.
I showed Robin the back of the card. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“No.”
A tiny trademark and a name—S. Johnson—were printed in the margin. “Mom, Google ‘tarot cards’ and ‘tarot S. Johnson.’ ”
She scanned sites with hundreds of variations of tarot decks, but nothing she found resembled the cards on the table or linked to an S. Johnson.
Thirty minutes later, my mother shrugged and followed us into the kitchen to eat. “I think it’s a specialized deck made by a death cult,” she said. “Do you have any new neighbors? Anyone missing pets? Those cults do animal sacrifices, you know.”
I slid into the chair next to her and jammed my elbow into her ribs.
“Ouch,” she said. “I was just—”
“Robin,” I said. “Think hard. Someone knew the first two cards were meaningful to you. Only the four of us were there that night. Who else did you tell about the predictions before Josh died?”
“Everyone.” Robin set the hot casserole on the table and sat down. “Our friends, everyone at my office.”
“Could there be someone at work who carries a resentment toward you?” I ignored the salad and scooped a heap of mac and cheese onto my plate.
“Why would anyone resent me for doing my job? They all know how impossible Sam can be.”
“Someone could be jealous of the power you have as his assistant,” I said.
“That’s what I was getting to. A grudge. That’s what the Manson murders were about.” Mom covered her plate with salad, then dropped a spoonful of mac and cheese on the side.
Robin’s eyes widened. “You really think it’s a cult, Vivian? Have you heard of this before?”
“Yes, I have. Just last year, when Liz’s brother, Dave, broke up a cult that was sacrificing—”
“Slow down, Mom. You’re forgetting about the hang-up. This is probably someone who knows Robin.” I looked across the table. “Did you talk to the neighbors?”
The food on Robin’s plate sat untouched. “I asked around yesterday afternoon after I called the police. The next-door neighbors didn’t see anyone unusual come near my house. Neither did Leonard, the man across the street. According to him, the only people coming and going are John, the mailman; FedEx drivers; and people delivering packages from my office.”
“Leonard has to sleep sometime,” I said. “I assume the last card was left late last night.”
“Exactly.” My mother pointed a carrot stick at me. “Cults do their rituals after midnight.”
I stacked my fork with macaroni and ignored her. “Robin, what else did the police say?”
“They told me to keep the doors locked. There’s nothing they can do until someone commits a crime.”
“So, I guess ‘I’m watching you’ wouldn’t be enough for them. I hate that,” I said. “It’s obvious harassment. Can you get your alarm company to install a camera on the front porch?”
“Spirits don’t appear on camera,” my mother said.
The phone rang.
“Oh, that must be Orchid.” Robin picked up the wall phone with a cheery “Hello,” then slammed it into the cradle. “Another hang-up.”
We cleared the table in silence. Robin brought out dessert.
When I finished the last sip of coffee and the last bite of my buttercream-frosted cupcake, my jeans were one breath away from uncomfortable. We listed the names and addresses of everyone Robin knew in the neighborhood, followed by the names of her coworkers at Collins Talent. We ended with Sam Collins.
“No way,” Robin said. “Sam doesn’t know anything about the occult. The only deck he handles is a poker deck.”
We went over every step of Robin’s week. Name by name, no one stood out to her. Everyone in Robin’s world couldn’t be above suspicion. Could they?
“Maybe you should stay with Liz until they give up and move on to another victim,” said my helpful mother, starting to clear the dishes. “Whoever is trying to frighten you would have to give up if you’re not here.”
“I am not going to be run out of my home.” Robin marched to the sink, bumping a glass from the counter, which shattered into pieces on the floor. She crumpled into tears. “This house is part of my family. Orchid grew up here. Josh planted every tree in the yard. I’m not leaving. And I know I can’t hide from an omen—it’ll follow me.”
“Robin.” I moved her away from the broken glass and sat her down at the table. “I’ll move in here with you for a while.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Orchid’s driving down from school tonight and staying through Tuesday.”
My mother swept the pieces of glass onto a dustpan. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea after this last message. The three of you alone?”
“There’s an alarm system in place, and we’ll get them to come in the morning and install a camera,” I said.
“The message the Five of Swords carries is nothing to play around with. It means loss.”
I glared at my mother. “Stop. We’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry, Vivian,” Robin said. “This time I won’t ignore the signs. I learned my lesson about omens with Josh.”
Mom held up a finger. “I have an idea. Nick Garfield will know where this tarot deck came from.”
“Who’s Nick Garfield?” Robin said.
“My son Dave’s friend since college. Liz knows him. He helped Dave solve a cult case for the LAPD last year. Nick will know if these cards are tied to a sect.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Nick Garfield would burst into laughter if I called him out of the blue to find a tarot deck. Really, Mom, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that someone who studies the occult for a living would be an ideal person to help you now. We need to talk to him.”
We?
Robin started stacking plates in the dishwasher. “Tell me more about this Nick person, Vivian.”
“He’s a religious philosophy professor at NoHo Community College in North Hollywood. He teaches and writes about alternative beliefs. Every summer he travels around the world, studying exotic religions. He’s written four books on the occult.”
“How do you know so much about him?” I said.
“If you came to my barbeques more often, you would, too.” Her smile dared me to argue.
“Do you really think Nick could help me somehow?” Robin dried her hands on a dishrag and switched off the light above the table.
“Of course he can, dear. Liz—call your brother and get Nick’s number. You live near NoHo. Take the cards over there to show him.”
“Nick will think I’m out of my mind,” I said, following them into the living room. “I’d rather get the camera set up on the porch as soon as possible. That way we can catch whoever’s leaving the cards.”
An engine started outside. Robin raced to the front door, reaching for the bat. I opened the door. A sedan backed out of the neighbor’s drive, and the couple inside waved as the car pulled onto the street. No tarot card on the door, nothing on the landing.
Robin trembled as I led her back to the sofa.
“When Orchid gets here, I’ll drop off my mother and come back. I’m staying over,” I said. “I’ll sleep on the couch. If someone shows up again tonight, one of us will hear it.”
“And you’ll call Nick.” My mother smiled.
“I really don’t think he can do much,” I said. “Nick’s just a professor. The cards might interest him, but then what?”
“But Liz, he might recognize something that could help me figure out who’s leaving the cards.” Robin peered through the shutters. “I’ll go with you.”
“Good.” Mom stood over us, arms crossed, feet set. “Do it all—stay with Robin, set up the camera in the morning, but for heaven’s sake—call your brother and find Nick now.”
I knew she wouldn’t budge until I agreed with her. And I wasn’t about to spend the night with my mother camped out in a sleeping bag on the floor next to me. Calling Nick wasn’t a horrible idea. He might add a grain of sanity to this puzzle.
I got my cell phone and auto-dialed Dave. I told him about the harassment, gave him hell about the Van Nuys patrol, and then made him promise to call his friend at the Van Nuys precinct to up their awareness of Robin’s house. Once I had Dave on the defensive, I told him Mom’s idea and asked for Nick’s number.
“Come over tomorrow night and bring the cards. Nick will be here watching the Rams game with me,” Dave said. “Make sure you double-lock Robin’s doors and windows tonight. And Liz? When you and Robin are over here, don’t talk during the game. Commercial breaks only.”
“I know the rules. I’ll tell her. Don’t worry.” I hung up. At least Dave would be there to assure Nick that this was Mom’s idea, not mine. Nonetheless, we had the start of a plan.
“When the camera is installed, it’ll capture the jerk on film,” I said to Robin. “And if the police won’t do anything about it, we’ll post it on YouTube.”
Chapter Two
Dave called at noon on Monday to relay that Nick’s car was in the shop. “I told Nick you could pick him up at the college. You and Robin can talk to him on the ride over,” he said.
Robin called ten minutes later. Sam needed her to stay late at the agency for a client meeting. “I’ll meet you at your brother’s place later. Do you mind? I’ll messenger the tarot cards over to you so Nick can study them before I get there.”
At five that afternoon, I walked into Nick Garfield’s classroom at NoHo Community College alone. A cool autumn breeze wafted through the open windows across the large room. The lights of the North Hollywood Arts District twinkled in the settling dusk, while inside fluorescent bulbs bounced a bluish glare off the empty desks.
Nick faced the blackboard, eraser in hand. On the panel in front of him, “Religion forms on the fringe of society” was printed out in chalk. He turned as my pumps clicked across the linoleum floor. Our eyes met. I felt the familiar bond of affection reserved for old friends.
He flashed a broad smile and walked over to hug me. “It’s good to see you, Liz. You look stunning.”
“Thanks.” I felt my cheeks flush as I grinned back. “It’s been a while.”
“Three years, I think. Dave invited me to a barbeque at your parents’ home the summer I moved to L.A. You had just set up your practice.”
Nick’s memory was better than mine. If we had talked back then, it couldn’t have been for long—I was still married, and even though Jarret knew Nick and Dave from back in college, Jarret yawned through any conversation that didn’t center on him.
“Let me finish up, and we’ll get out of here,” Nick said.
I slid into an empty desk in the front row. Tugging at my hem, I wondered what possessed me this morning when I donned a tight skirt and T-shirt instead of my usual gabardine slacks and wool sweater. I set my purse on the next chair and watched Nick erase the blackboard.
Age suited him. He was tan and fit, and the flecks of gray budding at his temples added a distinguished touch. Nick still carried himself with the same self-confident air he had back at the University of Illinois when I was a freshman and he and Dave were juniors.
“You didn’t have to do this. I would have called a cab,” Nick said, pulling me out of my thoughts and into his interesting brown eyes.
“No one takes a cab in L.A. except to the airport. I don’t mind. I thought it would be fun for us to catch up. Plus, I have an agenda.” I smiled up at him.
“Everyone has an agenda.” He folded his arms on the podium in front of the blackboard and grinned. “What’s yours?”
Might as well get his amusement at my request over with. I reached into my purse, pulled out the three tarot cards, and laid them across the laminated desktop. “These.”
Nick laughed out loud as he glanced at the layout in front of me. “You committed to driving me all the way to Dave’s apartment so I would read tarot cards for you? Isn’t that your mother’s specialty?”
“I don’t want you to read them.” I tried to shake off indignation. I expected him to be amused, but he didn’t have to make it personal. How arrogant of him to assume I was asking for a tarot reading. “Someone used these cards to harass my friend Robin. We thought you might know where a deck like this would be sold. We’ve searched online and couldn’t find it.”
Laid out side by side, the beige skeletons on the tarot cards came to life. The bleeding heart with daggers over the caption: “AACEEHHRT.” The second sobbed bloody tears above “OORRSW.” The last was the card we found last night: howling with blood spurting through the finger bones. I showed him the note scrawled on the back.
“They were tacked to her front door over the past few days,” I said. “We can’t figure out who left them or why. The Van Nuys police couldn’t tell her anything. And Dave said the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division downtown doesn’t chase mystic pranksters in the San Fernando Valley.”
“So, you came to me.”
“I hear you’re the expert on the occult now,” I said.
“I am.”
I shifted in the hard desk chair. “So, do you recognize the deck?” Just let him look at the cards and give me an easy, dime-store explanation.
“They’re not widespread commercial. That helps to narrow down the shops. A bit sophomoric, but the drawing is clever enough. Voodoo-type images, but neither Haitian nor New Orleans style.” He put on brown-rimmed glasses and tapped his index finger on each card. “That’s the Three of Swords, that’s the Five of Cups, and that’s the Five of Swords. Why is the Three of Swords taped together? Was it left on her door in halves? That could mean something.”
“I ripped it in half when we found it. Robin dug it out of the trash and taped it together for you to see,” I said. “I was certain the first card was a prank.”
A blast of air swept across the room and blew the cards off the desk, slamming the door shut. I started and threw my hand to my chest.
Nick touched my shoulder. “Damn cross draft. Happens all the time. Sorry about that. I should have closed the door when you came in.” He moved his hand, then stood back. “And what did you think when she found the other two?”
“That some ass is trying to scare her.” I said, recovering my breath and swallowing. I leaned out of the chair to pick up the cards and nearly knocked heads with Nick when he bent to do the same. We mumbled apologies to each other.
He gathered the cards, then stood, studying the threat on the back of the last one. “I agree. This note alone is intimidating, but coupled with the captions, the whole message is unnerving. A literal hell of a deck.”
“You don’t have to bother analyzing them,” I said. “We just want to know where they were purchased. If the deck is from a specialty shop, maybe someone there would have a record of who bought copies.”
Nick furrowed his brow. “You don’t want to know how these cards read together?”
“Not unless it’ll help us find who left them, and I doubt that it would.”
“I wonder why the artist used anagrams. What a lazy way to appear mysterious.”
No kidding. “I’m more interested in the possible threat to Robin,” I said.
“The choice of these anagrams still guides the tarot interpretation. I don’t see a lot of decks that print interpretation on the minor arcana. The first card reads heartache, the second sorrow, and the last one negativity. There’s a strong autohypnosis factor to mysticism. And if your friend . . . What’s her name?”
“Robin.”
“If Robin is open to believing, then these would have an effect on her whether or not she could decipher them on her own. The willing mind is the most important factor in interpretation. Just the threat of images like this can snake into someone’s head and turn a sane person into an irrational wreck,” Nick said.
So far, Nick was a master of the obvious.
“It’s worse than that. The first two cards turned up in a tarot reading my mother did for Robin’s husband the day before he died. That’s why I want to track down the deck—to stop whoever is doing this from causing Robin any more heartache.” I slid the cards into my purse. “Do you have an idea where cards like these would be sold?”
