to that ID, her name was Susan Rutherford and she lived in Boston. In the wallet were more things from those days. When you expected that a crook might be going through your purse, pictures were very important in firming up your faux self. She chose a few from a whole box of photos sheâd picked up at flea markets; a kid in a high school football uniform, a generic middle-aged couple, and someoneâs granny. She also had a boyâs class ring sheâd gotten at the same place, wrapped with angora to make it fit; she wore that on her right hand.
She shielded herself to a fare-thee-well. No way she was going to walk into that snake den without every protection she could muster. She even had her atheme tucked into the top of her boot. She hoped she wouldnât need it, because it would be bloody awkward to get at if she did, with the boots being under the bell-bottoms of her jeans. Still, it wouldnât show that way, at least.
Simple turtleneck sweater, black of course. Nondescript gabardine jacket. And gloves, the all-important gloves. If she managed to get any evidence, she didnât want her own fingerprints on it, and it was cold enough that thin gloves wouldnât raise any eyebrows and they stretched over the class ring, showing the shape underneath. One thing she totally refused to do, not even to complete the disguise of being a high school senior. No way in hell was she going to totter around on a pair of three-inch platform shoes.
So Susan got on the bus, and read her used romance book all the way to her stop while thinking very hard about being Susan.
If Tamaraâs house had been creepy before, she had to force herself up the steps now. And that made her wonderâ¦what had changed? Was it just that the woman was sucking so much misery off Chris Fitzhugh that she was getting more powerful by the day? Or was there something else going on?
The door was answered by someone who could only be Tamara herself. She ushered Di into a nondescript entry-way, maybe five by five, painted beige, with a little benchtoo narrow for anyone to sit on against one wall. If there was a Richter scale for âsomething weird,â Tamara pegged it at ten.
Physically, she wasnât tall, but she gave the impression of being tall. She had shoulder-length black hair cut in a Mary Tyler Moore flip, square, Slavic features, and deep-set dark eyes. She wore a purple turtleneck tunic over a black, calf-length Gypsy-hippie skirt with a print of tiny purple flowers, and black moccasin boots. She had a fringed purple sash around her waist, a tangle of amulet necklaces and love beads around her neck, big gold hoop earrings, and a dozen Indian bangle bracelets on each wrist.
She was a fraud. The fact she had asked for the egg proved it.
It wasnât just thatâThere was no doubt about it, Di could already sense the emotional whirl pool there, the woman was a psychic vampire. And it wasnât just that she was no more a Gypsy than Di was. Nor that there was a whiffâjust a hintâof real magic about her, and it was not nice.
There was something else that was completely off about her. And Di, normally able to put her finger on the cause of any weirdness, could not pinpoint this.
Tamara looked at her for several minutes in absolute silence. Then without a word, she crooked her finger at Di and led her into the âconsultation room,â which in any other house would be the living room.
As Di had expected, it was dim and lit by candles; the curtains were drawn across the windows and the air wassmoky and thick with patchouli incense. The only way in which it really differed from the far too many rooms of the same sort that Di had been in over the course of her life, was that this room had been decorated in purple, rather than the usual red.
Di noticed the strategic placement of mirrors behind her, near the ceiling. In the dim light, and with all that dark purple, it was very difficult to spot them
She shielded herself to a fare-thee-well. No way she was going to walk into that snake den without every protection she could muster. She even had her atheme tucked into the top of her boot. She hoped she wouldnât need it, because it would be bloody awkward to get at if she did, with the boots being under the bell-bottoms of her jeans. Still, it wouldnât show that way, at least.
Simple turtleneck sweater, black of course. Nondescript gabardine jacket. And gloves, the all-important gloves. If she managed to get any evidence, she didnât want her own fingerprints on it, and it was cold enough that thin gloves wouldnât raise any eyebrows and they stretched over the class ring, showing the shape underneath. One thing she totally refused to do, not even to complete the disguise of being a high school senior. No way in hell was she going to totter around on a pair of three-inch platform shoes.
So Susan got on the bus, and read her used romance book all the way to her stop while thinking very hard about being Susan.
If Tamaraâs house had been creepy before, she had to force herself up the steps now. And that made her wonderâ¦what had changed? Was it just that the woman was sucking so much misery off Chris Fitzhugh that she was getting more powerful by the day? Or was there something else going on?
The door was answered by someone who could only be Tamara herself. She ushered Di into a nondescript entry-way, maybe five by five, painted beige, with a little benchtoo narrow for anyone to sit on against one wall. If there was a Richter scale for âsomething weird,â Tamara pegged it at ten.
Physically, she wasnât tall, but she gave the impression of being tall. She had shoulder-length black hair cut in a Mary Tyler Moore flip, square, Slavic features, and deep-set dark eyes. She wore a purple turtleneck tunic over a black, calf-length Gypsy-hippie skirt with a print of tiny purple flowers, and black moccasin boots. She had a fringed purple sash around her waist, a tangle of amulet necklaces and love beads around her neck, big gold hoop earrings, and a dozen Indian bangle bracelets on each wrist.
She was a fraud. The fact she had asked for the egg proved it.
It wasnât just thatâThere was no doubt about it, Di could already sense the emotional whirl pool there, the woman was a psychic vampire. And it wasnât just that she was no more a Gypsy than Di was. Nor that there was a whiffâjust a hintâof real magic about her, and it was not nice.
There was something else that was completely off about her. And Di, normally able to put her finger on the cause of any weirdness, could not pinpoint this.
Tamara looked at her for several minutes in absolute silence. Then without a word, she crooked her finger at Di and led her into the âconsultation room,â which in any other house would be the living room.
As Di had expected, it was dim and lit by candles; the curtains were drawn across the windows and the air wassmoky and thick with patchouli incense. The only way in which it really differed from the far too many rooms of the same sort that Di had been in over the course of her life, was that this room had been decorated in purple, rather than the usual red.
Di noticed the strategic placement of mirrors behind her, near the ceiling. In the dim light, and with all that dark purple, it was very difficult to spot them
Similar Books
