Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Read online

  "Because she came to see me yesterday. She said he was a terrorist, plotting something, but I told her she was the one in danger, told her to leave him. I should have called you then," Mariana said.

  David laughed gently. "You can call me anytime. But I couldn't have done anything to protect Jean Cullen, you know that."

  "You could have had somebody drive by her house last night," Mariana argued.

  "But I wouldn't have. You know that, too. We wouldn't have done anything unless she asked for help."

  Mariana did know that.

  "What happens now?" she asked.

  "We investigate it as a burglary that became a murder, just what it appears to be. And don't worry. We'll consider the possibility that Eric Cullen set it up himself, that he hired somebody to do it. Do you have any idea why he might have wanted to get rid of his wife?"

  "No. Damn. I don't. She didn't think he was angry at her—she kept calling him a terrorist. I'll tune in later and let you know what I come up with," Mariana said.

  "How about over dinner?" David asked.

  This was why she hadn't wanted to call him.

  "I'll think about it," she said.

  "My divorce is final in November. Are you going to make me wait until then?"

  "It's not that."

  "Then what?"

  "We live in such different worlds. I don't think it makes sense to start something that can't go anywhere."

  "Would you say that to one of your clients?"

  "No, I wouldn't." She would look at the energy flow be­tween the two people, and if it was positive, as she knew it was in this case, she would tell a client not to jump ahead, not to try to guess the end of the relationship at the begin­ning, because too much can happen in between. People have free will. Take it a step at a time, see what it feels like. "All right. Dinner. But not tonight. I didn't sleep last night, and I'm tired. And I still have to work this afternoon."

  "Okay. Tomorrow. I'll pick you up at seven."

  Mariana hung up the phone, grabbed the bag that held her cards, said goodbye to the cats, and headed down the stairs to her car. She didn't like being late.

  Not that it would have mattered this day. Deirdre was alone when Mariana reached the store, and the only two ap­pointments for readings were scheduled late in the after­noon.

  "So what did David say?" Deirdre asked before Mariana even had a chance to put her bag in the reading room and get a cup of tea.

  "He said the husband has an alibi," Mariana replied.

  "Of course," Deirdre said. "I asked for a dream of Jeannie last night. She realizes now that she was wrong, that she was in danger from her husband. It's some kind of trade, but I don't think she knows the details, even with her enhanced perspective. He's going to do something for someone else, and that's the person who murdered her."

  "A dream of Jeannie," Mariana said, smiling in spite of herself.

  "But she has dark brown hair," Deirdre said.

  "And she spoke to you?"

  "Not exactly. Her regret and her husband's anger were feelings that she transmitted. And then I saw an image of something changing hands, and a handshake, and then blood. The blood woke me up. I could be wrong on the in­terpretation, but I don't think so," Deirdre replied.

  "How long have you been able to control your dreams—get what you ask for?" Mariana asked.

  "I can't always do it. But I've been working on it for about fifteen years now, and sometimes it works." Deirdre twisted her face into mock annoyance. "It's like everything else connected with the psychic world, though. I can't al­ways get all the information I want. Jeannie didn't tell me anything you could use to convince David that her husband is a murderer."

  "Or a terrorist." Mariana lowered her voice. Two women had just entered the shop, heading for the incense display, and she didn't want to discuss the murder with them. "What could this favor be? Do you suppose he really is planning to blow something up?"

  "That's as good a favor for murder as any, isn't it?" Deirdre had lowered her voice, too.

  Mariana sighed. She felt like a conspirator, the way the two of them had their voices lowered and their heads to­gether. "All right. How do we get more information? Do I read for you, or do you read for me? Or do you want to channel Baba-ji?"

  "Well, it gets harder now, because we're both involved to some degree, which makes it harder to get out of the way and let the energy through, as you know." Deirdre said. "And I don't think Baba-ji would be interested in helping out on this one. He'd want to know how this project helps our spiritual growth."

  "I should think bringing a murderer to justice is a good reason to go forward," Mariana said.

  "I know you would, but Baba-ji would tell you that the Lords of Karma will take care of Eric Cullen, and that they don't need your help," Deirdre said calmly.

  "And so..." Mariana prompted.

  "And so I think we both ought to ask for dreams of Jeannie. She might get through to you more easily than to me, since you made a psychic connection with her shortly before she died. Let's try that first." The two women cus­tomers were standing in front of the cash register, and Deirdre moved away to ring up the purchase.

  Mariana wanted something more definitive, but she knew she wasn't going to get it. She needed to prepare for her first client. Jeannie Cullen's murderer would have to wait.

  The afternoon dragged for Mariana, with only two read­ings. Deirdre was busy, though, with a steady stream of cus­tomers, so they didn't get a chance to resume the conversation until Mariana was ready to leave.

  "I'll do it," Mariana said, as Deirdre counted out her share of the money for the readings. "I'll try asking for a dream. But I want to do something else, too. I want to drive by Eric Cullen's shop and see if I can pick anything up from the energy there."

  "You think you'll catch him making a bomb?" Deirdre handed Mariana the money and closed the cash register.

  "No. I just want to see what the place feels like. Mind if I borrow the telephone directory? I need an address."

  Mariana found the address, only because Eric Cullen had been considerate enough to list himself as owner of Top of the Line Body Shop in the Yellow Pages ad. The shop was on Thompson, in midtown Ventura, one of a number of auto repair shops in a cluster not too far from where she lived.

  "Don't go in," Deirdre said.

  "I'll just drive by," Mariana replied. "Although the Mus­tang could use a paint job."

  "Call me when you get home."

  Mariana shook her head, not wanting to be fussed over, and left the store.

  She took the short drive to Thompson and slowed down when she reached the block, looking for a sign so that she could tell which of the small repair shops was the right one.

  Top of the Line Body Shop had an address on Thompson, but was actually set back from the street, al­most all the way to Front Street, the last street before the railroad tracks, the freeway, Harbor Boulevard, and the beach. Mariana decided to drive around the block to get a better look.

  But there was really nothing to see. A narrow asphalt parking area with more cars than parking spaces and a ga­rage with three racks, all of them in use. A small office. That was it.

  There were five men working on the cars, all wearing dirty gray uniforms. Mariana wondered which one was Eric Cullen. She decided he had to be the big man with blond, curly hair. He seemed to be in charge.

  Deirdre was right, of course. Mariana wasn't likely to catch him working on a bomb. Especially at six in the eve­ning, with the sun still up. The thing to do was to drive by later, see if he really worked until ten.

  Mariana drove home, fed the cats, fed herself, and found that she couldn't settle into her regular evening routine, tired as she was. She wanted to know what Eric Cullen was doing.

  She forced herself to wait until nine o'clock before she left the house. She wrapped herself in a shawl, not because she needed protection from the elements, but because it brought her comfort.

  The evening air was a c
omfortable sixty-five degrees, practically a year-round norm in Ventura. For about ten months of the year, the temperature rose to a high of sev­enty during the day and dropped to a low of fifty at night. Not much summer, but not much winter, either. Mariana couldn't complain about the cold. Still, the shawl felt good.

  The short trip down Thompson didn't quite confirm Eric Cullen's alibi, but it confirmed that he might have had one. The lights were out at the four other shops that were part of the same cluster. Not at Top of the Line. Three men were still working on what appeared to be a dark blue Jaguar, and one of the men was the big blond.

  Mariana couldn't think of a good reason to talk to them, so she slowly drove home again.

  Deirdre was right. The only thing she could do was ask for a dream of Jeannie.

  The dream came toward morning, and Mariana strug­gled to hold on to the images when she woke up.

  She had been standing in a meadow, and Jeannie had waved to her from the other side of the stream—a trans­formed Jeannie, smiling, glad to see her. Then she and Jeannie were flying, hand in hand, through the night sky. The ocean was below them. Then they were over a building of some kind—Mariana couldn't quite make it out—and Jeannie wanted to take her inside, but then they were both afraid. Jeannie vanished, and Mariana woke up.

  That was all.

  A dream of Jeannie. Borne like an angel on the summer air. Except that in the song Jeannie was borne like a vapor, not an angel. Nothing was quite right.

  The building. Was there a way of finding the building?

  Was it even in Ventura? It didn't look like a house, more like an office building, but the image had been hazy.

  Mariana hurried to get ready to go to Enchantment, eager to compare dreams with Deirdre.

  But Deirdre was busy with customers, and Mariana had two clients waiting, and it was the middle of the afternoon before Mariana could tell Deirdre about her trip to the body shop, and before they had a chance to compare dreams.

  "Well, Jeannie certainly wants to communicate with you," Deirdre said, when Mariana had told her dream. "And your dream was more helpful than mine. All I got was the image of Jeannie lying dead on the floor while two men with gloves on messed up the living room. Neither one was a big blond."

  "If you saw them, though, maybe you could pick them out of a book," Mariana said. "Mug shots."

  "No. All I could tell was that they were both more brownish than blondish. They had baseball caps on, and fa­cial hair, and jackets pulled up high. I don't think Jeannie knew them."

  Mariana sighed. "David told me when we first met that psychic information was always interesting, usually right, and never helped him solve a case. I'd really like to prove him wrong."

  "We have a start," Deirdre said. "We know we have to find a building near the beach."

  "We?" Mariana had expected Deirdre to try to talk her out of looking for the building.

  "Well, you. I have to be home to take care of the kids to­night."

  "And I'm having dinner with David."

  "Then after dinner you can take a nice, romantic drive along the beach and look for that building."

  "I'll think about it. I'm not sure David would agree."

  They were interrupted by Mariana's third client, who turned out to be her last for the afternoon. Because it was slow, Mariana checked out a little early. And because it was Saturday, she wouldn't be seeing Deirdre for the next four days.

  "Call me tomorrow," Deirdre said, as Mariana prepared to leave. "Don't make me wait until Thursday to find out about your date. Or about the building, either."

  "I'll call if there's anything to tell. And call me if you get another dream."

  Mariana stepped out into a late afternoon that was a little sunnier than the preceding days. She still felt a chill.

  By the time she had gone home, fed the cats, and put on a little fresh makeup, the chill had settled into her bones. She wished she hadn't made the date with David.

  Just before seven, she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  "I'm early," he said as she opened the door.

  "It's all right. I'm ready."

  They walked down the stairs in silence, not speaking until they were both settled into his car.

  "I thought we might go to that cafe on Thompson," David said, starting the engine.

  "That's fine. We could drive by Eric Cullen's shop on the way, see if he's working late," Mariana replied.

  David frowned. His gray moustache twitched before he answered. "If there's something you have to tell me about Jean Cullen's murder, let's get it over with before we have dinner."

  "I'm not sure I have anything that will help, but Deirdre and I have both been dreaming of Jeannie."

  "Okay, tell me." David turned off the engine. He leaned back in the seat and looked at her, waiting.

  Mariana couldn't quite see his eyes. She wished she could see his eyes.

  "Jeannie says it was two men, brownish complexion, fa­cial hair, wearing jackets and baseball caps. She didn't know them. She thinks there was some kind of trade, that they murdered her because her husband is going to do something for someone else. There is a building involved, and I think it's near the beach. Maybe he's going to blow it up." She got it all out in one breath.

  "All this from a dream," David said.

  She still couldn't see his expression.

  "From three dreams, actually—two of Deirdre's and one of mine."

  "Anything else?"

  "No." Mariana hesitated, then plunged on. "Except I was wondering if you had come up with any motives, either a motive for the burglary—something important stolen from the house—or a motive for murder."

  "Nothing we could take to court. Cullen lost his wife at a convenient time. He's in debt, and the insurance money will get him out. And we heard he has a girl friend. On top of that, nothing of value was stolen from the house." David reached over and put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm telling you this because I'm treating you as part of the investiga­tion on this case. I want to know anything either one of you picks up. Okay?"

  "Does that mean we can take a drive along the beach and look for the building?"

  "After dinner. But only if you promise to talk about something else from now until then."

  Mariana promised. So over dinner and wine at the small cafe on Thompson they had one of those conversations that people have when they are avoiding talking about anything important, complete with awkward silences.

  She was glad when it was over.

  And he kept his promise.

  "Which way?" he asked, when he had steered the car to Harbor Boulevard. He hadn't driven past Eric Cullen's shop on the way to dinner, but he did then. The lights were out, and he didn't slow down.

  "I don't know. Let's try right. I think it's toward Santa Barbara, not Oxnard."

  "In that case, I should have stayed on Thompson. Do you want me to pick up the freeway?"

  "Yes."

  It would have been a pleasant drive under other circum­stances, with a full moon and a clear sky and the gentle waves breaking against the sand. But this wasn't going to work, and Mariana knew it almost at once.

  "You might as well take me home," she said, even before they reached the Seacliff exit.

  "Okay."

  She could feel his disappointment. Until then, she hadn't realized that he wanted her to be right. There was something comforting about him wanting her to be right.

  "I'm not going to ask you in," she said when he stopped the car in front of her door. Even though they weren't in the black-and-white, David accepted it as his prerogative as a police detective to park in a no-parking zone.

  "I know." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Good­night."

  Mariana was halfway up the stairs, and David had al­ready driven away, when it hit her. Nothing about this was quite right. They should have turned left on Harbor Boule­vard.

  She wasn't certain what to do, whether to go in and try to call him back, or to look for the building
herself. But then a wave of urgency hit her. She had to look for the building. Now.

  She walked back down to the carport, got in her car, and headed back to Harbor Boulevard, this time turning left.

  When she saw the building, she recognized it at once, and wondered why she hadn't known it in the dream. It was a small, exclusive hotel, with an equally small and exclusive restaurant, a low rectangular building, dimly lit, right on the beach. And a dark blue classic Jaguar was parked in front of the restaurant.

  The wave of urgency hit her again. It was quickly re­placed by fear, the same fear that she had felt in the dream.

  Mariana pulled over to the curb and jumped out of her car. She started running toward the restaurant, shouting as she ran.

  "There's a bomb in the Jaguar! A bomb!"

  She saw a door open, and a face appear.

  "A bomb!" she cried again. "In the car! Run!"

  People began streaming out of the restaurant, customers and staff, running away from the building.

  But when the explosion came, it wasn't from the car. The entire restaurant turned into a fireball before her eyes.

  Mariana stood, too stunned to say anything when a secu­rity guard appeared beside her and twisted her arm up be­hind her back.

  "Let's sit down, right where we are, and wait for the po­lice," he said.

  Mariana nodded. That was exactly what she wanted to do.

  The firefighters were the first to arrive, followed closely by three police cars. She sat locked in the back of a black-and-white until David arrived to take her home for the second time that evening.

  Mariana didn't call Deirdre on Sunday. She spent much of the day recovering from the fear and the shock of the night before, a recovery made only a little easier by the sense that the spirit of Jeannie Cullen was hovering over her bed, wanting her to be all right.

  Deirdre had been watching television news, though, and she left two messages that Mariana ignored. Deirdre knew she was all right. The details would have to wait until she felt like sharing them.

  Only after David had called on Monday to fill in the missing pieces did Mariana pick up the phone and call En­chantment.