Cards on the Table - lanyon Josh - Страница 8

He continued to clasp my hand, his expression all at once guarded. He was quite a bit older than the latest of the photos in his hall gallery. Late seventies, I thought, although he looked very fit. I noticed that he had one blue eye and one brown. What was that called? Heterochromia? It seemed a nice touch for a professional oracle. «My…calling card?» Mayfield repeated cautiously. «Sure,» I said. «Didn't you leave a tarot card on my front door?»

Chapter Five

After an astonished moment, Mayfield threw back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh, hearty and unrestrained. I found my lip twitching in response. «There's that famous Sagittarian intuition!»

«I don't know about that,» I said. «You're the only person involved in the Aldrich case that I know of who reads tarot cards.»

I'd been thinking about that during the long wakeful hours of the night, and it had occurred to me that whoever left the tarot card on my door had not been the same person who sent a thug to threaten me. Different psychological signature entirely. It had also occurred to me that if someone wanted to scare me off, they'd have used the Death card or the Devil card or one of the more obviously sinister-looking cards. The fact that those cards hadn't been used made me think that the message of the card was genuine, and that rather than being threatened, I was being…encouraged. Or at least tantalized.

«Very good!» he exclaimed, and he really seemed pleased about it. «Now, my dear, sit down and tell me when exactly you were born, what time and where, and I'll do your chart. Gratis.»

I couldn't quite get a handle on Mayfield. He'd canceled our meeting three times and then he'd practically left an engraved invitation on my front door – after he'd already agreed again to an interview. Now that I was here, he seemed all set to distract me with astrology readings and avuncular flirtation.

I said, «That's very kind of you, but I don't want to take up your time, and I do have a few questions –«

«Oh, nonsense. We won't really be able to talk until we know each other. Trust each other.» Great.

I said, «The truth is, I have no idea what time I was born. It was sometime during the night.» «You know the day I suppose?» «December nineteenth.»

«The cusp.» He was frowning. «People are so careless about these matters. Where exactly were you born?» «Up north. Mendocino.»

«What city?» He sounded a little sharp, like he thought I was holding out on him. «Mendocino. The city within the county.»

Mollified, he said, «And I suppose you can find out the exact hour of your birth?»

Was he expecting me to phone my parents on the spot? That would make an interesting call. No, I'm not ready to kiss and make up, but can you get my astrologer some info? Probably confirm their worst suspicions. Some of their worst suspicions. «I can try,» I said. «Later.»

He thought this over for a moment or two and then gestured abruptly to the chair in front of his desk. He retreated behind the desk like a soldier returning to his own foxhole following the Christmas cease-fire. «Is it all right if I tape this interview?» He gestured vaguely with his hand.

I turned on the tape recorder, and he said, «First of all, Will Burack did not kill Evie. If that's what you think, you're quite mistaken.» I said, «How do you know Burack didn't kill her?»

Elbows on the desk, he steepled his hands together. «Burack was a Taurus. An earthy sign but not without its attractions – and appreciative of all things beautiful.»

«Like Eva?» I said, hoping we could skip the horoscope and get straight to business.

«Like Eva,» Mayfield agreed. «Eva, on the other hand, was Leo. Fire, fixed and positive, ruled by the sun. Leo is of the day, a masculine sign. Taurus is a feminine sign and of the night.» He looked at me expectantly. I said, «I didn't realize. So they were opposites?» His eyes seemed to pop. «Opposites? It's a 4-10 sun sign pattern. Square.» «Ah,» I said. What I was thinking was what the hell?

«There would be conflicts, naturally, personality clashes, but violence, no. Never.» «What about Tony Fumagalli? What sign was he?» «His sun sign was Scorpio.» From Mayfield's expression I got the impression this was a bad thing. «The scorpion?» I hazarded.

«Jealous, possessive, passion that borders on mania. I'm speaking of Fumagalli in particular, you understand, not all Scorpios. It was also a 4-10 sun sign pattern.» He sighed. «Eva was always attracted to the same sort of man.» «Do you think Fumagalli murdered her?»

He stared at me as though he didn't understand the question. Then, finally, he said, «No.»

Right. Because of that 4-10 sun pattern thing. I asked, «Did you suspect anyone in particular?» He gave an odd smile. «It is, as the Bard said, 'written in our stars.'»

And if anyone could analyze the handwriting, it was Mayfield. I said, «Could you tell me who you suspect?»

He gave me a chiding look. «No, my dear, I could not. It would hardly do my career good to go around accusing my friends and clients of murder. I have, you see, an unfair advantage.» He looked up at the painted ceiling, his expression soulful.

I decided to let that go. Was I going to hear anything of what Mayfield thought and felt or was everything going to come via starlight? Or was he using the stars as a vehicle for what he personally believed? Was I going to have to do my own astrological research to verify what I was hearing from Mayfield? «What was Eva like?» I asked. «You knew her better than anyone, didn't you?»

His stern face softened. «She was very young. We all were. We just didn't know it, you see? The young never recognize how truly inexperienced they are. How unprepared they are. Eva was not a great actress. She was not an intellectual giant. But she was funny. Very charming. And so incredibly lovely. It was a pleasure to simply look at her, listen to her. I laughed with Eva like I laughed with no one before or since.» He added dryly, «No doubt the champagne cocktails had something to do with it.»

As he spoke, I felt the all too familiar aura sweep over me: my stomach tightened, and with it, that panicky, scared feeling flooded through me. I couldn't catch my breath. No time to speak, no time to think, and what was there to think except…please, no. Not now. Please…

I came to, terrified. A black bulk leaned over me – I couldn't think where I was, what had happened, but the sensation of danger was overwhelming. I whimpered, unable to move.

«It's all right, my dear. You're all right now. There's nothing to be afraid of.» I listened to that low croon. Realized it had been going on for some time. How long? I widened my eyes, tried to see his face. Did I know him? He was chafing my hands. Warm hands, soft palms and soft fingers. Gentle.

It slowly dawned on me that I'd had a seizure. I swallowed. Pulled my hands away. Tried to sit up.

«No, no, my dear. Just rest.» He pressed me back. He'd put a cushion under my head. I was lying on a carpet. Indigo and brown. There was a name for that kind of carpet but I couldn't remember it. Expensive carpet but not comfortable. I turned my head. There was a pair of red Turkish slippers underneath the desk. That seemed funny, but I felt too weak to laugh. I shifted my gaze. He was kneeling beside me. What was his name? May-something. Mayhew? Mayfield. Roman Mayfield. He wore the expression I had come to dread: that horrible mix of pity and alarm. I couldn't deal with it.

He stroked my hair back, quite gently. «Have you ever had a seizure before, my dear?» I affirmed. Closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. «You're…epileptic, is that it?» I nodded, not bothering to lift my weighted lids. «That's all right then.»

It is? Not really. He was taking it pretty well, though, considering. Poor old guy. I was glad he wasn't too frightened. I knew exactly what he'd seen. I'd had it described to me in detail a couple of times, and it frightened most people. It frightened me. I'd go stiff as a