“All right, that makes sense, so the trick would be knowing the person was a conman in the first place.” Sam studied the towering redwoods—how didshe know they were redwoods?—lining the road. The fog hadn’t lifted so much as the sunlight had reached over the mountain. Again, she wondered what month itwas.
“And that’s the whole basis for fortune-telling,” Mariah said in satisfaction, “Knowing your clientele. Cass’s drive is right up here, on your right. The cemetery is only a few hundred yards furtheron.”
They hadn’t drivenfar from town. She could easily walk it, if needed—avoiding anything that might require a license. The driveway was distinctively marked by a bright red barn of a mailbox sitting on a rusted hand-held plow post. That didn’t look veryscary.
“Crazy Daisy built that mailbox,” Mariah said as they turned up the rutted, once-graveled drive. “She said Cass’s black monstrosity spookedher.”
Oh well, live and learn. “Crazy Daisy?” Sam asked politely, searching for some sign of a house amid the trees and overgrown bushes. With excitement, she recognized bay laurel saplings among the redwoods. How did she know thesethings?
“Daisy is too weird to pry anything sensible out of her. Artistic as heck, though. Creates cool sculptures of twigs and wood and stone, and recyclesjunk into usable stuff like the mailbox back there. She’d probably be homeless elsewhere, but here, we pay for her talent, if only in food and shelter. It’s easier for people who aren’t capable of living in normal society to find a place with us. We need allkinds.”
A silhouette of a building appeared through the mist, and Sam didn’t reply. Cassandra’s house was tall, much taller than she’dimagined when she hoped she was coming home. As they approached, she made out a huge Victorian with turrets and wide porches, and if she was seeing correctly, gargoyles on the gutters. “Wow,” shemurmured.
“Cass calls it a B&B and rents rooms when any of us have guests, but she doesn’t advertise. I don’t know how she lives out here all alone in this spooky place. She travels a lot, so sheleaves me the keys. I’ll put you in the guest house. It’s more modern and comes with a small kitchen andeverything.”
“A bed would be good right now,” Sam admitted, feeling the stress catching up with her, grateful that Mariah accepted that the invisible Cass wanted her here. “Will Emma be all right in the guest house or does she prefer her ownhome?”
“Emma is a slug who will dowhatever she likes. She’s familiar with the territory and comes and goes at her leisure. Don’t worry about her. As long as there’s food and water available, she’sgood.”
As if in agreement, Emma finally spoke a loud meow. Maybe she knew she washome.
Mariah pointed at a side drive to the back of the house. “Cass had a studio built over a thegarage.”
Sam took the side driveand pulled up to a two-story white-washed stucco building—a far cry from the painted lady beyond the manzanita and service berry hedge. A pot of orange-red geraniums spilled color at the foot of a tiled entry way—a bright spot of light against the gray fog. “This is lovely. Are you sure Cassandra won’tmind?”
“Not if she sent you up here with Emma. I’ll carry the cat if you want to takeyoursuitcases.”
Terra cotta tile lined the stairs up to a small balcony overlooking the mountain ridge to the east. Inside the heavy timber front door was an open-floor-plan studio with more tile, artwork, and windows with a panoramic view of a mountain of trees and scrub tumbling down—presumably toward the sea. Sam gaped at the vasthorizon.
“The bed’s behind the Mexican blanketover there. It’s all simple but functional.” Mariah set down the cat, who sniffed the baseboard, intent on tracking down intruders. “I’ll bring up the cat stuff if you want to take a look around and settlein.”
She needed to investigate her suitcases and boxes. Whatever fugue state had held her all night must be dissipating with dawn. Maybe she had a laptop. As weary as she was, she waseven more scared now that she knew she had no family or friends to tell her who she was. Maybe pure terror was blowing out the cobwebs in herbrain.
Mariah brought up the cat food and dishes and glanced at the ghostcatchers in the corners. “It looks clear in here. Cass doesn’t like having the nets in her house, but she agreed they might be good for guests. I’ve never found a ghost herethough. I think Cass put a spell on the foundation when they were buildingit.”
Sam was so weary, that she almost expressed gratitude for the thoughtfulness of spelling away ghosts. She rubbed her brow, found a small mole-sized bump, and realized that other than a glimpse in a dim rear-view mirror, she didn’t even know what she looked like. “Thanks for everything, I really appreciate it.How do I reach you if I havequestions?”
“You’ll just have to leave a message with Dinah. I’m in and out of there all day, helping when it’s busy. There are some basic groceries in the kitchen. You can pick up more at Pasquale’s once he opens. Everything is there on the town square. Get some sleep and come on back to town.” Mariah slipped out, closing the door behindher.
Sam wasalone again. And life was most definitely not normalyet.
She stopped in the bathroom to get rid of the coffee and looked in the mirror over a vanity made from an antique Mexican wash stand. Apparently she was a tall thin woman, younger than she felt, with fly-away ash-blond hair, a mole above her left eyebrow, an average nose and mouth, and blue eyes. Her crinkled cloud of hair probablyneeded a ton of product to controlit.
She saw no bruises, bleeding, or knots that might indicate she’d been hit over thehead.
Emma curled around her ankles, purring reassuringly. Sam scratched behind the cat’s ears and returned to the bedroom and her suitcases. They were battered old hard-sided ones that looked older than she did and could have been picked up in a thrift store.Whoever Samantha Moon was, she wasn’trich.
Inside the first one was a case of toiletries, underwear, pajamas, and a collection of old t-shirts, tank tops, shorts, and jeans. She apparently dressed like an impoverished collegestudent.
Inside the second case was a newer—although not new—navy blazer, no-iron white blouse, and a long gray skirt, all wrapped in plastic to prevent wrinkles.If she was to make a guess, she’d call them job-interview clothes. Underneath was a layer of khakis, leggings, and long-sleeve shirts for cooler weather, plus one broomstick, tie-dye skirt in shades of olive green. She might as well be a time-travelinghippy.
There was no computer or any other piece oftechnology.
“Well, Emma, we’re up a creek now, aren’t we?” she asked the cat,who had jumped on the bed to examine her meagerwardrobe.
“Hmmmm,” Emma purred, before nesting on the plastic-coveredclothes.
It would be good to believe the cat had told her she was home. She loved the studio already, but then, she was probablycrazy.
Sam removed the suitcases, cat and all, to the floor. A little orange fur wouldn’t hurt that motley assortment of apparel.Digging out a ragged gray sweat suit, she changed out of her jeans and sweater and slid between thesheets.
Maybe she would wake up and all would be rightagain.
