“Mrs. Neverman? I’m Sharon McCone, from the first floor.”
“Yes?”
“You’re the person who advertises herself as Madame Anya?”
“I am.” Proudly, she drew herself up to her full height.
“My friend, Linnea Carraway, came to you for a... a consultation.” I was beginning to feel silly, so I plunged ahead. “I was also a friend of Molly Antonio.”
“Do you wish a consultation?” she asked impatiently.
“Uh, yes, I do.” I had to get inside somehow.
“Then come in, please.”
Unhooking the chain, she slipped the gun into a table drawer and ushered me into a small, dark room crammed with heavy furniture. In spite of its dimness, it must have received good sun during the day because African violets bloomed every where: on tables and shelves, even on the floor. A big, old-fashioned buffet was banked like an altar with plants and dozens of candles shaped like birds. I stared at them, fascinated.
Mrs. Neverman turned to me. “Please sit down.”
I looked for a chair, but heard a sudden flapping sound. I jerked my head up. A great blur of black feathers dove at me.
Crying out, I covered my head with my arms. “My God, get it out of here!”
Mrs. Neverman looked startled, but held out her arm. The creature flew over and perched on her wrist. It was a crow, with a wingspread of at least two feet.
“Goodness, honey,” the fortune teller said, “don’t let Hugo frighten you!”
My heart beat fast, and my palms felt clammy, but I sat down and attempted to act calm. “Sorry — it’s a silly fear I have. He’s awfully large, isn’t he?”
She regarded the bird fondly. “Not really. He’s a fish crow. They’re native to the Gulf states, and much smaller than the standard American crow. They’re just as easily trained, though. I’ve taught Hugo to say a few words.” She took the bird to an ornate cage and deposited it within. I relaxed somewhat.
Mrs. Neverman seated herself in an armchair opposite me. In spite of her earlier attempt at proud bearing, her shoulders now hunched defensively under her maroon velvet robe. She seemed painfully aware of her ugliness, and the knowledge took a toll that showed in her every movement.
Calmly, she said, “Our friend’s death, honey — I prophesied it.”
“You mean you told her that she would be murdered?” I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice.
“No. I would never go that far.”
“What did you tell her, then?”
“I can’t say. My readings must be kept confidential. But it was all there — a terrible aura.”
The fortune teller was using Molly’s death for advertising purposes. I frowned.
“Now, what’s your problem, honey?” she asked.
“Problem?”
“You came to me. You must have a problem.”
“I... uh...”
“I see, honey. You don’t want to talk about it to a stranger. But that’s all right, that’s all right. Why don’t I give you the standard reading. Then you’ll feel more free.”
And maybe by then I could invent a problem. “All right, Mrs. Neverman.”
“You just call me Anya, honey. This is your first reading, I bet.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you just relax. Do you have something with you that has special significance? Some jewelry? A keepsake, maybe?”
I looked down at my folded hands, where my mother’s signet ring circled my left middle finger. She had given it to me when I turned twenty-one, explaining it always passed down to the oldest daughter. One of my few superstitions was the luck I believed it brought me.
Anya’s eyes followed mine. “May I see it a minute?”
Reluctantly I pulled it off and dropped it into her outstretched palm, feeling a little lost without it. Her large fingers curled, and she bent her head to examine it. In the silence that followed, a growing tension gripped me. I realized I was afraid of what she might say and, even more, that I would believe it.
“It’s a very old ring,” Anya finally said. “A family heirloom.”
“Yes.” One didn’t need ESP to guess that.
“The ring is a European type, so your heritage can’t be all Indian.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m only an eighth Indian. Everybody else in my family looks Scotch-Irish except me, I’m what they call a ‘throwback’ — and believe me, I took plenty of ribbing about it when I was growing up.”
Anya’s dark eyes watched me intently. “I see. You were a very loved child, you know. The ring was a gift from your mother.”
Again, it was a guess, since it was a woman’s ring. Anya didn’t have mystical powers, but her mind operated logically. She might have made a good detective.
“The ring,” she went on, “always passes down to the oldest daughter.”
I started. Just another guess, I reminded myself.
“You believe this ring has powers.” She looked shrewdly at me. “Luck, maybe?”
“Maybe.” I sat up straighter.
“Yes, honey, you’re not a person who likes to admit she’s superstitious. The ring really does have powers, but they’re not strong enough. Not nearly strong enough for the trouble that lies before you.”
“Trouble?” A spurt of irrational anxiety shot through me.
“Yes, trouble, honey. There’s trouble in your home.”
I relaxed. After all, Linnea had been to see her. Naturally she knew all about it.
“Your friend has many problems, the one who’s staying with you. She makes them worse with drink. Oh, I tried to warn her. I told her she must pray to be cured of this sickness and work for the strength to overcome her difficulties.”
“What did she say?”
“Your friend does not accept advice easily.”
That accounted for Linnea’s sulky behavior when I’d asked her what the fortune teller had said. “No, she doesn’t.”
“You know, your friend has made a shambles of your home. But this is only the beginning. She will get worse, honey, much worse. You will need great strength to get through it.” Anya paused and pointed dramatically at me. “In the next week you will struggle hard against the death of friendship. There is a dark-haired man who speaks falsely to you. Do you know who I mean? There is a light-haired man who you think is your friend. Watch out for him; he’s capable of betraying you. There are dangers in believing what anyone says. You must be on guard for lies and try to recognize them when they’re spoken.”
Involuntarily, I shivered. I didn’t believe a word of it, but, like a soap opera, Anya’s acting had the power to suck me in against all my better intentions.
The fortune teller extended my ring to me. “Yes, honey, this is not strong enough to protect you from these troubles. But I can help you, if you let me.”
I slipped the ring back on my finger. “How?”
“I will pray for you. Do you see those candles?” She motioned at the birds on the buffet.
“Yes.”
“They’re special candles — natural wax, only the purest ingredients. And they’re shaped like birds, so my prayers will fly up to God. Every night at midnight for an entire week, I will light one of them for you and pray. I guarantee your troubles will vanish.”
It was an interesting sales pitch. “How much do the candles cost?”
“Oh, honey.” She waved a dismissing hand. “Not much for you. Only five dollars apiece. Surely that isn’t too much to protect yourself from this evil?”
Thirty-five dollars, plus whatever this reading cost. And she wouldn’t even be out the price of the candles, since it was doubtful I would show up at midnight, demanding to watch her burn them.
I glanced at the candles again, feigning interest. “I don’t know. I don’t get paid until Friday.”
“But surely then you’ll want me to pray for you.”
Anya apparently didn’t extend credit — even with such dire evil hovering on the horizon. “Probably I will. I’ll let you know.”