least three thousand.”"
The woman didn’'t blink. “"I’'ve always wanted one. I know that’'s a fair price for vintage, even if it costs more, unless it has a cigarette hole in it or something. I’'ve wanted one for years to mount in Plexiglas on the wall in my living room, which I’'ll do with this one, after the ball. Do you want a deposit so you can hold it for me?”" She took out her checkbook. “"Will five hundred dollars do?”"
Who knew that I’'d find vintage collectors with money to burn right here in Mystic?
Normally, I wouldn’'t take a check from a stranger if I couldn’'t immediately verify it with her bank, but if I was keeping it for her, I’'d have time to do that. She handed me the check, and before I knew what she was doing, she tried on the kimono, right there in the parking lot. I squeaked and ran behind her to grab the fabric and keep it from trailing in the leafy lot. Virginia talked non-stop the whole time, as if a parking lot sale were normal for something this pricey.
In a dizzying blink, I saw a young man in a white tux walking into a country club. “"I certainly hope this is worth the expense,”" he said to his companion, a young man similarly dressed.
“"Think of it as an investment, old boy,”" his friend said with an English accent.
“"She’'s worth a bloody fortune, and she’'s gorgeous besides. You’'ll have everything you ever wanted, and it’'ll hardly be a sacrifice to put your shoes under her bed.”" She , it turned out, was wearing the kimono with a Japanese wig, and she was having a conversation with Marie Antoinette and Cleopatra.
A moneyed costume ball, no doubt about it.
When I dizzied my way back to the present, I was carrying Virginia Statler’'s “"train”" as she walked around my parking lot, still talking about the Circle of Spirit and her friendship with Fiona. No, she hadn’'t seen me zone. I’'d evidently been sleepwalking while keeping up with her. Good thing she was one of those women who didn’'t need a second person to take part in her conversation.
In the vision, I’'d seen a man who appeared to be looking to marry for money. Why else would his presence there be considered an investment? But I knew better than to jump to conclusions. Whatever happened to the “"investor”" and the woman in the kimono, I might never know.
One thing I’'d learned from Aunt Fiona, who understood these things as only a witch and an empath could, was that I usually got these visions from particular vintage clothing items when the universe wanted them known. “"Usually”" being a relative term, because the one time I’'d read vintage clothing in the past, the items involved a murder. On this particular day—--after one murder took place and one was discovered—--my
question to the universe would be: which murder do my recent visions involve? Sampson’'s or the bones? Or were they leading me elsewhere?
I couldn’'t see Isobel or the kimono having anything to do with Sampson’'s death. Unless Sampson had been the money grubber investor at the expensive costume party, and the woman in the kimono killed him and set the fire? Random thought. Wild conjecture. Someone besides Vinney setting the fire? Gut wise, I didn’'t think so. Virginia took off the kimono, folded it, and tried to hand it to me. “"Can you just set it back in the box?”" I asked, afraid to touch it again for fear I’'d “"see”" something more.
“"Too bad about the playhouse and poor Tunney,”" Virginia said, closing her Chanel purse, “"but he certainly had motive.”"
“"He did?”" I asked. “"What kind of motive?”"
“"I don’'t subscribe to gossip,”" she said as she left. “"Have a good day.”" Nineteen Everything in your closet should have an expiration date on it the way milk and bread and magazines do.
-ANDY WARHOL
Well, damn, Aunt Fiona’'s chatty friend subscribed to just enough gossip to whet the appetite. I only hoped that Virginia Statler
The woman didn’'t blink. “"I’'ve always wanted one. I know that’'s a fair price for vintage, even if it costs more, unless it has a cigarette hole in it or something. I’'ve wanted one for years to mount in Plexiglas on the wall in my living room, which I’'ll do with this one, after the ball. Do you want a deposit so you can hold it for me?”" She took out her checkbook. “"Will five hundred dollars do?”"
Who knew that I’'d find vintage collectors with money to burn right here in Mystic?
Normally, I wouldn’'t take a check from a stranger if I couldn’'t immediately verify it with her bank, but if I was keeping it for her, I’'d have time to do that. She handed me the check, and before I knew what she was doing, she tried on the kimono, right there in the parking lot. I squeaked and ran behind her to grab the fabric and keep it from trailing in the leafy lot. Virginia talked non-stop the whole time, as if a parking lot sale were normal for something this pricey.
In a dizzying blink, I saw a young man in a white tux walking into a country club. “"I certainly hope this is worth the expense,”" he said to his companion, a young man similarly dressed.
“"Think of it as an investment, old boy,”" his friend said with an English accent.
“"She’'s worth a bloody fortune, and she’'s gorgeous besides. You’'ll have everything you ever wanted, and it’'ll hardly be a sacrifice to put your shoes under her bed.”" She , it turned out, was wearing the kimono with a Japanese wig, and she was having a conversation with Marie Antoinette and Cleopatra.
A moneyed costume ball, no doubt about it.
When I dizzied my way back to the present, I was carrying Virginia Statler’'s “"train”" as she walked around my parking lot, still talking about the Circle of Spirit and her friendship with Fiona. No, she hadn’'t seen me zone. I’'d evidently been sleepwalking while keeping up with her. Good thing she was one of those women who didn’'t need a second person to take part in her conversation.
In the vision, I’'d seen a man who appeared to be looking to marry for money. Why else would his presence there be considered an investment? But I knew better than to jump to conclusions. Whatever happened to the “"investor”" and the woman in the kimono, I might never know.
One thing I’'d learned from Aunt Fiona, who understood these things as only a witch and an empath could, was that I usually got these visions from particular vintage clothing items when the universe wanted them known. “"Usually”" being a relative term, because the one time I’'d read vintage clothing in the past, the items involved a murder. On this particular day—--after one murder took place and one was discovered—--my
question to the universe would be: which murder do my recent visions involve? Sampson’'s or the bones? Or were they leading me elsewhere?
I couldn’'t see Isobel or the kimono having anything to do with Sampson’'s death. Unless Sampson had been the money grubber investor at the expensive costume party, and the woman in the kimono killed him and set the fire? Random thought. Wild conjecture. Someone besides Vinney setting the fire? Gut wise, I didn’'t think so. Virginia took off the kimono, folded it, and tried to hand it to me. “"Can you just set it back in the box?”" I asked, afraid to touch it again for fear I’'d “"see”" something more.
“"Too bad about the playhouse and poor Tunney,”" Virginia said, closing her Chanel purse, “"but he certainly had motive.”"
“"He did?”" I asked. “"What kind of motive?”"
“"I don’'t subscribe to gossip,”" she said as she left. “"Have a good day.”" Nineteen Everything in your closet should have an expiration date on it the way milk and bread and magazines do.
-ANDY WARHOL
Well, damn, Aunt Fiona’'s chatty friend subscribed to just enough gossip to whet the appetite. I only hoped that Virginia Statler
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