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morning. And yet, I wasn’t quite ready to move
in and I wasn’t sure why. The most painless route was to do the
deed while Richard and Brenda were on their honeymoon.
    Painless. What did bloody hands have to do
with Walt’s death? Okay, he’d bled to death. But I was pretty sure
the image of the hands had nothing to do with his death. I’d had
flashes of clairvoyance and they were different than seeing things
from the past. The shoe was the past. The bloody hands were
something yet to come. So who was Veronica and why was she in
danger? Perhaps the next victim?
    The phone rang, making me jump. Once,
twice. I never pick up until at least the fourth ring, just to
thwart telemarketers, who usually hang up after three. Besides,
only Richard, Brenda, and the employment form I filled out for Tom
at the bar had my new telephone number. I had only one sort-of
friend in Buffalo, Sam Nielsen, now a reporter for the Buffalo News —and I hadn’t even given
him the two-week-old number.
    I picked up the phone. “Hello?
    “Where do you get off involving Richard in
another one of your dumb psychic schemes? Haven’t you done enough
to the poor man?”
    I should’ve just hung up, but the voice was
vaguely familiar. “Excuse me?”
    “I said—”
    “I heard what you said. Who is this?”
    “Maggie. Maggie Brennan.”
    Ah, the lovely Ms. B. Only now I was on the
fiery end of her Irish temper. Brenda must’ve given her the
number.
    “Did Brenda ask you to say something?”
    “Well . . . no. She wouldn’t. But
I thought—”
    “Yeah, well you thought wrong. Just butt out
of my family business, will you?”
    “No, I won’t. Brenda and Richard are my
friends. And in case it escaped your attention, you nearly got
Richard killed at Easter.”
    “Hey, I was the target. Richard pushed me
out of the way.”
    “Yeah, well it’s still your fault.”
    A lump rose in my throat. I didn’t
need her to tell me
that.
    “If that’s all you called for—I think it’s
time we ended this conversation.”
    Silence.
    I counted to ten. “Was there something else
you wanted to say?”
    “I guess not.” Did I detect reluctance in
her voice?
    When we first met, we’d connected almost
immediately. That is, until we found a body in her ex-lover’s
condo. That had definitely put a damper on what seemed like the
beginning of a meaningful relationship.
    I decided to take a chance. “You want to go
out with me sometime?”
    More silence.
    I counted to ten again.
    “Maybe,” Maggie answered at last, and again
her tone was soft. “What did you have in mind?”
    I remembered the Holiday Valley brochure in
Walt’s shoebox. “Just a ride in the country. A day trip.”
    “A magical mystery tour?” Aha!
Intrigued.
    “Something like that.”
    Again silence.
    This was like a replay from my high school
days. My sweaty hand tightened around the receiver as I counted to
ten one more time.
    “Okay. When?”
    I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d
been holding. “Saturday.”
     
    * * *
     
    I never drove
to the bakery up on Main Street. I’d walked there in snow, rain,
and on starless nights to find Sophie Levin standing behind the
plate glass door in her faded cotton house dress, maroon cardigan
sweater, and silver hair tucked into a wispy bun at the base of her
neck, ready to usher me into her backroom inner sanctum. That night
was no different.
    “In, in already,” the elderly woman said,
locking the door behind me. I followed her to the small card table
she had set up beside a pallet of collapsed bakery boxes. She
pointed to my usual seat, a metal folding chair, and settled her
bulk on the one adjacent. The coffee was hot and my favorite
macaroons, still warm from the oven, sat piled on a chipped white
plate.
    I set the plastic grocery bag with the
shoeboxes on the table.
    “Show and tell?” she asked, her brown eyes
riveted on it.
    I took the boxes out, shoved one of them
closer to her. “I’ll show and you tell me what