The Prophet

Chapter Fifteen

As I exited the Institute, I heard my name called from across the street. It was the cautious hail of someone who thought she knew me but had some doubt. That still happened on occasion. I was sometimes recognized as The Graveyard Queen from an online ghost video that had gone viral months ago. Now that the clip had run its course, my notoriety was fading. More common were the puzzled glances from fellow taphophiles who recognized but couldn’t place me.

Clementine Perilloux had pulled up in front of the house next door and was just getting out of her car. She waved gaily when she had my attention and motioned for me to join her on the sidewalk. I walked down the drive and crossed the street to speak with her.

“Fancy meeting you here!” she exclaimed, lifting a hand to swipe back her windblown hair. She was dressed in jeans and an olive sweater that did lovely things to her eyes and picked up the auburn highlights in her curls. “Although you did say you visit this place from time to time.” Her gaze roamed over the graceful columns and generous piazzas of the Institute. “I’ve always loved this house. It looks as though it’s straight from the pages of Gone with the Wind, doesn’t it? What’s it like on the inside?”

“It’s pretty well-preserved for the most part. Lots of books and antiques.” I followed her gaze. Yes, the house was beautiful, but now my worry for Dr. Shaw’s health had cast a pall over the Institute. In the space of only minutes, the charming, absentminded professor I’d become so fond of had morphed into a fragile, doddering old man whose symptoms—I would swear—had been exacerbated by whatever herb he’d stirred into his tea.

And what of Layla? She was neither fresh-faced nor fervent, neither Goth nor Southern like so many of her predecessors. She was polished and sophisticated, and I found her territorial behavior as intriguing as it was unsettling.

“Of course, I’ve only seen the ground floor,” I told Clementine. “The upper stories are Dr. Shaw’s private quarters.”

“What’s he like?”

“Dr. Shaw?” I heard the usual description slip through my lips. Elegant. Refined. Professorial. But now I couldn’t help wondering about the look on his face when I’d first mentioned gray dust. That malevolent shadow, no matter how fleeting, chilled me even now in memory.

“What goes on in there?” Clementine’s little shiver mirrored my own disquiet. “Séances? Experiments? Secret rituals?” She widened her eyes in exaggeration. “Sacrifices?”

I smiled dryly. “Hardly. At least not to my knowledge. Dr. Shaw’s work is primarily focused on research. He leaves the fieldwork up to his team unless a particularly juicy case crosses his desk.”

“And just what constitutes a juicy case?” Clementine asked with another shudder. “Or do I even want to know?”

“I’m not personally familiar with his criteria. If you’re interested, you should go over and talk to him sometime. I’m sure he’d love to hear about your family’s history of palmists.”

“Maybe I will.” She slanted a doubtful glance at the Institute. “Anyway, speaking of palmists, I’ve just come to drop off a goody basket for Isabel from Grandmother. If you’re not in too much of a hurry, why don’t you come in with me? I’m dying for you to meet her.”

A dozen excuses flashed through my head, but I really did want to meet Isabel Perilloux. I’d been curious about Madam Know-it-all before I’d ever seen her with Devlin—before I even knew Devlin—having long been an admirer of the irony and wit that had come up with such a moniker.

But…what if Devlin was with her right now? The very idea made me cringe. Such a scenario had the makings of a terribly awkward moment, one that I wanted to avoid at all costs. Our last meeting had taken a lot out of me. I needed time to regroup before I dealt with Devlin and his ghosts again.

Quickly, I scanned the street. I didn’t see his car, but I did spot the blue Buick pulled to the curb a few houses down. The driver stood leaning against the front fender, feet crossed, arms folded as if waiting for someone. His head was turned so that I still couldn’t see his features. But there was something about him that niggled. I knew him. I couldn’t place him, but somehow, somewhere our paths had crossed. I was certain of it.

Was he the same man I’d seen on King Street that morning? Had he followed me here?

I rubbed the back of my neck where a warning had started to tingle.

“What’s wrong?” Clementine asked.

“That man leaning against the blue car…have you seen him around here before?”

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she stared down the street. “Nope, never. Why? Do you know him?”

“He seems a little familiar, but I can’t place him.”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He looks harmless enough. Of course,” she said cheerfully, “that’s what they said about Ted Bundy. Or was it Jeffrey Dahmer?”

At least she hadn’t mentioned a killer that hit more closely to home.

As my gaze moved away from the Buick, I glanced across the street at the Institute. Layla stood at the front window looking out at me. She didn’t melt back into the shadows when I caught her staring but instead boldly held my gaze until I finally turned back to Clementine.

“So, anyway,” she was saying. “Do you have time to come meet my sister?”

“She wouldn’t mind me just dropping in like this?”

“Of course not. Why would she mind? She’s used to drop-ins, and she’s forever badgering me about making new friends. Come on. It’ll be an experience.”

An experience? I was a little afraid of that.

Reluctantly, I followed her up the walkway, glancing back once at the Institute and once at the man in the dark glasses. Why couldn’t I remember where I’d seen him?

Telling myself to relax about the whole matter, I tried to tune out those nagging anxieties as Clementine chattered away. I used the diversion to scope out her sister’s place, a white cottage with green shutters and a wraparound veranda. As we climbed the porch steps, I noticed the calico from Dr. Shaw’s garden stretched out in a cane rocker, watching us curiously.

“Hello, Ursula,” Clementine greeted as she reached down to rub the feline’s head.

“Beautiful cat,” I murmured.

“And she well knows it. You’re quite the princess, aren’t you, my lovely?”

Ursula yawned.

“Is she polydactyl?” I hadn’t noticed the six toes earlier. “She reminds me of a storybook illustration. There’s so much character in that face.”

Clementine laughed. “You almost expect her to speak, don’t you? Although I can only imagine what she’d have to say. She’s so above it all. Actually, she and Isabel do carry on conversations, it’s just that no one else can understand them.”

Clementine straightened and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she took out her own key. “Isabel said she might be running late.” She held the screen door for both Ursula and me. The cat pranced in first, and I followed meekly behind her.

“I’ll go make some tea,” Clementine said as she hung up her scarf and bag in the tiny foyer. Then she gestured toward the parlor on the left. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

I glanced curiously through the archway. It was a small space, but stylishly decorated in chartreuse and cream with touches of black and lots of pillows. A row of windows looked out on the veranda, and I walked over to take a peek through the blinds to see if I could still spot the Buick. Then I told myself I was being ridiculous. Just let it go.

Across the foyer, another arch led into what must have once been the dining room but now appeared to be the space where Madam Know-it-all conducted her readings. I couldn’t resist a closer inspection. The decor was so much more dramatic than the parlor, with red fringed scarves, beaded curtains and scented candles strategically placed for ambient lighting. Slowly, I walked around the room, admiring a collection of vintage postcards that had been framed and mounted on the wall. A small table and four chairs were placed in the center of the room. On the table were a deck of tarot cards, a deck of Zener cards used to test clairvoyance and a crystal ball.

A more sophisticated eye might cringe at the odd little kickshaws displayed about the room, but I appreciated the whimsy.

A shadow fell over me, and I caught the whiff of some delectable perfume, a scent that was lush and hypnotic. Haunting, I would even say.

An unpleasant sensation whispered along my nerve endings as I turned. There she was, leaning against the door frame watching me. Devlin’s lovely brunette.

For whatever reason, Robert Fremont chose that moment to come creeping into my head. All I remember is the scent of her perfume. The smell was still on my clothes when I died.