“Anything new? A break in Tod’s case?”
“No, nothing like that.” She took a sip that was too big to really call a sip. If the straw had been any bigger, it would’ve drowned her. “He came up, that’s all. And I mean, come on. Elephant in the room, right? If I were worth a damn as a psychic, I would’ve totally seen his murder coming.”
“Aw, hell no.” Tiff shook her head and pulled a bottle of Captain Morgan onto the counter. She pushed the bottle into Leda’s space. “That’s garbage, and you know it. None of that was your fault, and you have to quit beating yourself up about it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you should.”
“I’m trying! That’s why I’m here.” Leda took the rum and topped off her drink that was already 80 percent alcohol. “That’s why I’m usually here, anyway.”
“I thought you were usually here to practice.”
“That, too. The karaoke is actually helping, I think. When I get flashes now, they’re often a lot stronger. Or else they’re a lot clearer. It must be like a muscle—and the more you work it, the better it gets. Unless I’m fooling myself. I’ve been doing this for what, six months? Honestly, there’s no strictly empirical evidence that my psychic abilities are improving.”
Niki appeared at her side. If it hadn’t been for the too-loud dubstep, Leda would’ve heard her clomping across the club, and she wouldn’t have jumped half out of her skin. “She’s not fooling herself. She’s obviously upping her skill set. Leda, go on. Tell her about the cop.”
Leda slumped down on the bar, her chin atop her hands, and her drink looming large in front of her face. “I don’t want to tell her about the cop. You do it.”
Niki was all too happy to oblige. She laid out the tale in graphic, unlikely, exaggerated detail—but she nailed the gist.
When she was finished, Tiff’s eyes were wide. “This is great news! You’re going pro with your parlor trick!”
“Not really. I feel like I’m taking advantage of him.”
The bartender shrugged. “He knows what he’s in for. Do your best and see if it helps. Hey, look.” She tilted her head toward the door, where a party of three was coming inside. “More people for the audience.”
Leda balked. “I didn’t come here to sing.”
Tiffany waved away her protests. “Yeah, but we know you will. Go ahead and get the sound set up. You don’t want to do it while the place is packed.”
Niki looked around and asked, “Where’s Matt? He can check the sound levels for you.”
“He went to the bank for a cash drop before it closed. I’d say he’ll be back any second, but you know rush hour.” Tiffany slipped Niki another drink before she even asked for it.
“Thanks!” she said, swiping it into one hand and lurching back to her seat, spilling only a few drops on the way.
“Go on,” the bartender gently pushed Leda. “Settle in. I’ll see what these new folks want, and then I’ll turn everything on. The boss’ll show up sooner rather than later. Take a couple of items from the audience, do your psychic thing, select a meaningful song for someone… and see if it doesn’t make you feel better. If you still feel like garbage after a request or two, then call it a night.”
Leda surrendered to the inevitable and nodded glumly. “Fine. You win. You all win. Everybody wins, except for me.” She glanced at the trio who had just come inside. Two men, one woman. She recognized one of the guys as a regular and shot him a head nod. He returned it and flashed her a wave.
She didn’t know his name, but she knew he was thinking about proposing to the woman beside him. Not that he’d told her out loud, but when she’d been up on the stage—holding a plastic bobblehead from an anime she didn’t recognize—she’d closed her eyes, concentrating on the contours of the odd little toy, and felt the leftover warmth where his fingers had been squeezing it.
As clear as day in her mind’s eye, she’d seen the woman’s face, and a purple lace bra. A hiking trip. Her backpack, as she climbed some trail ahead of him. A small box in his pocket. A flutter in his heart.
But when she looked at them now, she still didn’t see a ring on her left hand. He must’ve chickened out, right? Surely if he’d proposed and she’d said no, they wouldn’t still show up together. He might still be working himself up to it. That night a few weeks ago, when she’d sat on the stool and held the microphone, the lights of the stage shining up into her face, she’d used her psychic intuition to pick a song for him: “In Your Eyes,” the old Peter Gabriel number that everyone associates with the movie Say Anything, if anyone remembers it at all.
His lips had quivered. His eyes had been damp.
God, she hoped she hadn’t talked him out of proposing on accident. Unless, of course, getting married would be a huge mistake.
That was the problem with being an inconsistent psychic who took karaoke requests like a fortune-telling jukebox. At best, you told somebody something they probably already knew. At worst, you played God and pushed somebody in a direction that turned out to be arbitrary. You never knew if you were actually helping.
Okay, you usually never knew. Once in a blue moon, someone would pull her aside after the stage went dark and tell her that she’d really been on the nose. They’d been wondering about what to do about a crappy day job, and hearing Leda sing “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by the Smiths had given them the push they’d needed to put in notice. Or they’d been worried about a health problem, fearful of a damning diagnosis. But when they’d given Leda their reading glasses to hold, she’d launched into “I Feel Good,” even though it was way out of her range and she was no James Brown.
Every now and again, it meant something.
It might’ve been her imagination, but she was increasingly convinced that yes, her instincts were steadily improving. So perhaps it was true, what Niki had so strongly implied—her “exercises” were honing her skills, and that’s why she was able to keep Grady Merritt from becoming part of an airborne fireball.
Unless she was overthinking it.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
By the time the microphone and sound system were ready to go, and enough people to call a crowd had wandered in, it was around eight. It was late September and the time hadn’t changed yet, so eight was only kind of dusky—a hint of gray and purple still highlighting the overcast skies. Leda could barely see it through the windows that faced the street, and she let it distract her from the stage lights down at her feet. She liked those lights. They made it harder to see the audience, which made it easier to pretend she was alone up there, nobody watching, nobody making her nervous.
The door opened, and a party of four strolled in. They’d take the table beside the hallway where the bathroom was—but it didn’t take a psychic to see that coming. It was the last open table.
Grady Merritt had said that people wanted a detective who noticed everything. Leda was beginning to suspect that it went the same way for psychics. The more she noticed, the more puzzle pieces she picked up—plus whatever woo-woo vibes came along for the ride.