Detective Lieutenant Scott Truman looked on as Police Sergeant Zane Stillman took pictures of the body of the dead woman on the floor. He looked out of the small back room through the doorway to the store front window of Lady Vadoma's Fortune Emporium. "You'd think she would've seen this coming," he said.
"That would be funny, in a hard-boiled, pulp fiction, detective novel kind of way, if this was in fact Lady Vadoma," Stillman said between snaps. "But, according to the driver's license I found in her purse, this right here is one Catherine Marie Morris, 36, of Cape Elizabeth."
"And you were expecting to find Lady Vadoma on her driver's license?" Truman said as he knelt for a closer look at the dead woman's body. Single gunshot wound. Not much blood. The fatal bullet must've hit something important. Death must've been almost instantaneous. "Lady Vadoma is just her stage name, I guess you'd call it; her nomme de grift, as it were."
Stillman turned in response to raised voices outside and stepped to the doorway, taking pictures of the front of the shop; Truman looked over his shoulder to see the patrolman posted at the front door arguing with a woman dressed in what Truman thought was best described as movie cliche gypsy.
"You were saying?" Stillman said.
"Either way, she should've seen this coming," Truman said. "Go tell Richardson to let her in."
As Stillman returned with the woman, Truman heard her say, "Yes, it's my real name. I suppose you found Cathy?"
Truman introduced himself. "I'm Detective Lieutenant Scott Truman, Portland Metro Police. You know this woman, Miss…?"
Lady Vadoma threw back the hood from her white sheepskin coat, revealing a closely cut head of red hair. Truman noted the opalescent green eyes, and the prominent nose which somehow worked perfectly with the other features of her face. The face of a good witch, Truman thought. "Yes. I knew her. Cathy Morris. A client of mine," she said.
"We found evidence of a break in, the back door was jimmied open," Truman said. He looked around the room. "But there's no evidence this was a burglary gone bad. It doesn't appear that anything is missing but-"
"He took my crystal ball," Lady Vadoma said. "It should be on that table, right there. A vain attempt to steal my power, my magic."
The back room was dark and windowless. The small, round table was covered with a white satin cloth with two chairs set up facing each other. There were candles in holders on the table but indeed, no crystal ball. The octagonal stained glass light fixture above the table framed the table top with light.
Aside from the back room, Lieutenant Truman thought Lady Vadoma's Fortune Emporium wasn't very different from the other downtown shops, albeit with a more eclectic collection of merchandise than most. A glass case filled with silver jewelry; necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Shelves with Lady Vadoma-branded coffee mugs, tarot cards, and books; homeopathic cookbooks, herbal gardening, and several titles featuring faeries. A rack of knitted scarves, hats, and mittens stood next to a bin of skeins of yarn.
"Any idea what Miss Morris was doing here, um, Miss Vadoma?" Stillman asked.
"Besides getting shot by her stalker, you mean?" Lady Vadoma asked.
"You know who shot her?" Truman asked.
"Yes, of course," she said. "What part of Lady Vadoma's Fortune Emporium don't you get?"
I hate the crazy ones, Truman thought. More troubling was the almost remembered memory of... someone. He'd swear he'd never met this woman before and yet she reminded him of... Who? "Would you mind coming down to the station so we can take a full statement?" he asked.
"Is that really necessary? I can tell you everything you need to know right now. His name is James David Gordon. He goes by J.D. One can only imagine how long it took him to come up with that. Not exactly a finalist for the MacArthur prize. Cathy met him at a bar, the Wild River Pub. They hooked up. It was just a one night thing for Cathy but James became obsessed with her, stalking her online. And then in real life. A sad but not uncommon story. I told her to go to the police, but... She called me last night and asked if I could squeeze her in first thing this morning. I could tell she was upset, afraid. I asked her again to go to the police but she insisted on seeing me. I could tell it was Gordon forcing her to call me."
"You were the 911 call," Truman said.
Lady Vadoma smiled. "Very good, Detective Lieutenant Truman. "You seem to have a knack for this."
"Simple deduction," Truman said. "Nothing magical about it."
"You shouldn't doubt your instincts," she said. She looked down at Cathy Morris' body. "Personalities like Mr. Gordon always have to have someone to blame. In his twisted mind it was my fault Cathy wouldn't see him and not his poor performance in bed, his toxic masculinity, nor his rather overpowering cologne." She waved her hand in front of her nose. "Ugh. I can still smell him. He works as a mechanic at the Patriot Subaru dealership in Saco. He's at work right now. I suppose you'd describe him as armed and dangerous. That much should not require a fortune teller." She looked at Truman and smiled. "Simple deduction, isn't that what you said? But he won't put up a fight. Bullies. They're all the same," she said.
"So," Stillman said, quickly exchanging a glance with Truman, "You're saying we'll take him without a struggle, then?"
"Well, he will run and you will shoot him in the ass but aside from that unintentionally and briefly hilarious moment, there won't be much of a struggle after that," she said.
"We, uh, really appreciate all the help we can get on this, Miss Vadoma. If you wouldn't mind coming down to the station. It's important that we document everything, get all the facts down on paper," Truman said. "To ensure a just outcome. For Miss Morris, here."
"We can give you a ride to the station and back, if you need one," Stillman said.
Lady Vadoma sighed. "I suppose it's only logical that you'd suspect me." She paused. "Well, I appreciate the fact that you didn't deny it, Lieutenant Truman."
"You would know if I was lying, wouldn't you?" Truman said.
"Well, I won't be able to open for business today, anyway," she said and looked out to the front of her shop where the patrolman remained on guard. "Crime scene. Yes?"
"That's correct," Truman said.
"Well then," she said, "let's go."
*****
They sat down in Truman's office and he asked Lady Vadoma if she'd like coffee, water, or something from the vending machines.
"So, you're not going to 'sweat me in the box' as they say on those TV police shows?" Lady Vadoma asked. She wore a long, wool, knitted scarf with red, orange, yellow and deep blue colors that had Truman thinking of sunrise over the ocean before a storm. Sailor take warning, he thought. She was wearing a loose, white linen blouse, a dark purple vest trimmed with a double helix in gold thread, cinched in front with leather laces, and a flowing dress that matched the purple of her vest, with a pattern of white trinity knots near the hem. What was it he'd thought at the scene of the crime? Movie cliche gypsy? Up close, Truman couldn't help but sense something real, something authentic about Lady Vadoma.
Truman smiled. "Surely, you knew that wasn't going to happen." He took a legal pad from a desk drawer and selected a pen from the dozen or so in the Red Sox mug on his desk. When he looked up he noted the decidedly unamused look on Lady Vadoma's face.
"I'm not often wrong about people. I hope you're not the exception to the rule." She put out her hand for the paper and pen.
Truman handed her the notepad and pen. He wasn't sure why but Lady Vadoma's "exception" comment bothered him. What did she mean by that? Why did he feel like he needed to explain himself? "I apologize," he said. "I'm not nearly as funny as I think I am, or so I've been told."
"Whoever told you that was right," she said. She rolled the pen between her fingers and thumb. "I'm sorry, too. I know it isn't personal. You've got the same low opinion of priests in the church as you do of me. We're all charlatans, preying on the weak-minded. You're a cynic, Lieutenant Truman. It's probably what makes you a good cop." With that, she began writing.
Truman needed to clear his suddenly cluttered head. "While you're doing that, do you mind if I get a cup of coffee?"
Without looking up from the page she said, "I'm not your doctor."
In the break room, Truman's phone rang. It was Sergeant Stillman. He'd left Stillman and Richardson at the shop with orders to pick up James Gordon at the Subaru dealership in Saco after the ME came to pick up Cathy Morris' body. "Zane, what have you got?"
"You're not going to believe it," Stillman said.
"Try me," Truman said.
"We've got James David Gordon in custody but he's going to have to make a stop at the emergency room on the way."
"What happened?" Truman asked.
"Yeah. Well, it was just like Lady Vadoma said. He ran. And yes. I shot him in the ass," Stillman said.
"Okay," Truman said.
"I, uh, I tried not to let it happen, Lieutenant, but, I mean… I don't know," Stillman said.
"What are you talking about, Zane?" Truman asked.
"Shooting him in the ass," Stillman said. "How did she know?"
"Lucky guess," Truman said, only half believing himself. "That's all it was. Come on, Zane. She knew this guy and knew he'd be stupid enough to make a run for it. We're just lucky she didn't guess you killed him."
"What do you mean?" Stillman asked.
"I mean that shooting him in the ass was all you could think about. She planted that thought in your head. So that's where you shot him. It was like a post-hypnotic suggestion. A self-fulfilling prophecy," Truman explained.
"A self-fulfilling prophecy, huh? Should I mention that in the after-action report?" Stillman asked. "Wait! Never mind. Ambulance is here. I'll give you a call when we get to Maine Med. Oh, and tell Lady Vadoma we didn't find her crystal ball here in his work locker. He's got a trailer in the Ocean Tides trailer park. We'll probably find it there."
"And the gun?" Truman asked.
"Oh, right! The gun," Stillman said. "Yeah, I'm guessing we'll find that back at his trailer, too."
Truman paused. "Excellent police work, Sergeant Stillman," he said and ended the call.
Lieutenant Truman returned to his office. Lady Vadoma had finished writing down her take on the tragic story of Cathy Morris and James Gordon. "All set?" he asked.
"Yes," Lady Vadoma said.
Truman sat down, took a sip of coffee, and started to look over what Lady Vadoma had written.
"So, you think James Gordon brought Cathy Morris to your shop to hurt you, not her," Truman said. Truman quoted from the page, "My inability to stop Mr. Gordon from breaking my jaw - to metaphorically silence me - would prove to Cathy that I was a fake and I was wrong about him and they would then be able to live happily ever after."
Truman looked up from the page. "But you weren't at the shop-"
"I don't open till 11:00am on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yoga class," Lady Vadoma said.
"Lucky for you, I guess," Truman said.
"You don't actually believe in luck, do you, Lieutenant Truman?" Lady Vadoma asked.
Truman looked up at Lady Vadoma. She was smiling a smile that clearly stated that she already knew the answer. "No," he said.
"Nor do I," Lady Vadoma said. "Luck is mere coincidence wrapped in wishful thinking. And I know neither one of us believes in coincidence."
"You know," Truman said.
"I know," Lady Vadoma said.
"Do you ever get tired of being right?" Truman asked with a smile. "I suppose it's an occupational hazard for psychics."
"Yes, it is," Lady Vadoma said. "And it's exhausting. Though not for the reasons you imagine, Lieutenant. Besides, I knew Mr. Gordon had broken in and would be there waiting for me."
"Right. The 911 call," Truman said. He continued reading. "So... it was Cathy's gun?" Truman said. "A classic, 'there was a struggle and the gun just went off' scenario?"
"I told her not to buy a gun but... just because I can see the future doesn't mean I can stop it," she said. "It's a cliche but it's true; it's as much a curse as it is a gift. No matter how much people say they do, they really don't want to know the truth. When I do tell them the truth, well, that's when they get angry, accuse me of being a fake, ask for their money back... So, I've become... judicious, shall we say, in the use of my gifts but in this case, well, Cathy was afraid, terrified, really, and it was a matter of life or death, wasn't it?"
Truman looked at her, studying her face, "Yes," he said. "It was."
"I remind you of someone," she said.
She's good, Truman thought. The way she picks up on body language, facial expressions. Maybe she should've been a cop. "No," he said, and looked back at the notepad. "I don't think so."
She laughed. "You know what they say. You can't lie to kids, dogs, or psychics. They always know."
Truman leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that before."
She smiled back. "It doesn't mean it isn't true," she said.
"Kids, dogs-" Truman said.
"And psychics," Lady Vadoma said.
Truman hadn't thought about The Girl on the Bus for years. Maybe it was Lady Vadoma's cropped red hair. Other than that detail he wasn't even sure if he remembered exactly what The Girl on the Bus looked like, all these years later.
"Who are you?" Truman asked.
"You know very well who I am, Lieutenant Truman. Vadoma Carthage, 43, no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. Proprietor of Lady Vadoma's Fortune Emporium. Irish by nationality. Gypsy by blood. Mystic by nature," she said and paused. "The real question is, who is this mysterious woman that I remind you of."
Truman sighed. "The Girl on the Bus," he said. "I was on my way back to college, sophomore year, taking the bus from Potsdam to Albany after Thanksgiving with my parents. I grew up in upstate New York, a small town near the Canadian border. There were only a half dozen people on the bus but one of them was a pretty girl with a pixie haircut. Freckles. I think. She was knitting, of all things."
"Like the Fates weaving the future," Lady Vadoma said. She put her right hand on the scarf. "Or maybe just a scarf."
Truman continued. "Every so often I'd catch her looking at me. And then she'd look away like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. And then she'd return to her knitting even more furiously than before. I thought about changing seats, asking if it was okay to take the seat next to her but… I didn't. I'd just turned 18, I'd never seriously kissed a girl, I really had no idea what to do. We had a stop over in Syracuse and I spent the half hour waiting in the station trying to work up the courage to walk over to where she was sitting, to introduce myself... but they called the bus to Albany before I could." Truman shrugged. "Apparently, it wasn't meant to be."
"And yet, 25 years later, you still wonder what might have been," Lady Vadoma said. "Don't lie!" she added with a smile.
Truman smiled back. "Yes. Occasionally. Not often and not for a long time but yes. The road not taken, I suppose." He shrugged. "We all have miles to go before we sleep."
"A fan of Robert Frost," she said. "A bit old school, I should think. I mean... He actually rhymes."
"They all rhyme if you listen carefully," Truman said.
"Just another victim of a liberal arts education, Lieutenant?" Lady Vadoma said.
Truman looked down at the notepad. Case closed, he thought. Cathy Morris was just another story that ended before it even had a chance to get started. "Well, as I believe you already know, Sergeant Stillman has shot James Gordon in the ass and he is now in custody for the murder of Cathy Morris. So. Thank you."
"You're… welcome?" Lady Vadoma said.
"I don't think I've ever closed a case this quickly. I, uh, appreciate you, I mean, everything you've done to assist the Portland Police Department today," Truman said as he stood up, suddenly feeling like his 18-year old self, once again not sure of himself or what to do next. "We promised you a lift back to your shop. Or maybe you just want to go home? I mean, you know, wherever you want to go."
Lady Vadoma stood and said, "Well, you do know where I live now, don't you, Lieutenant Truman."
"I didn't mean to imply-" Truman began but was cut off by her laugh.
"Actually," she said. "I'd like to get some lunch. There's a pizza place near my shop that's quite good. Lazzari's. You know it? Of course you do. It's Portland-famous. Would you care to join me?"
Truman smiled. "I think you already know my answer."
Lady Vadoma smiled in return. "I already know what you're going to order."
Truman picked up the phone on his desk. "Yeah, Lieutenant Truman. I'm going out to lunch. Lazzari's. Uh huh. No, I will not bring you back a slice. Right." He hung up the phone. "Shall we?" he said, opening the door to his office.
*****
They sat at a table for two in the front window at Lazzari's.
"I'd have to check but I believe pepperoni and green peppers is a very popular combination. I think the odds were in your favor," Truman said.
"You're not seriously talking about luck again, are you Lieutenant Truman?" Lady Vadoma said.
"You can call me Scott," Truman said.
"All right. Scott," she said.
"And I believe I was talking about probability, not luck," Truman said, trying desperately to make small talk. "I love that scarf you're wearing," he said.
"Oh, thank you," she said. "Made it myself. Years and years ago. An early effort." She looked at the scarf and ran it between her thumb and fingers, pausing to look at a spot of orange in the blue. "I know all the mistakes I made even if others can't tell. Very much like life itself, don't you think?"
"But you still wear it to this day," Scott asked.
She looked at him. "It reminds me of someone," she said.
Truman hoped that someone was dead. Or living in a remote South American jungle. Either way, he thought, tough to compete with a memory. "So, tell me about yourself, you know, what were the events that led up to your life of no criminal record, not even a parking ticket?" Scott asked.
She smiled. "Well, I was born in Elmira, New York but we moved up to Canton when I was in grade school, my mom and I. My parents divorced when I was very young. Four-years old. My mom got a job teaching at St. Lawrence University. She remarried. Her grad assistant. I know how that sounds gross but… It was good for her. I've always had this ability. Affliction, if you believe my mom. She was a scientist, taught Physics. When I was eight-years old I told her the neighbor boy - Stevie Winchester - who'd drowned in his family's backyard pool, wasn't the result of a tragic accident but in fact he'd told me that he'd been killed by a monster. My mom told me I'd get thrown in the loony bin if I didn't keep the little voices in my head to myself. It's actually more like pictures than voices, for what it's worth. Anyway, a year later, they found out his mother had killed him. Stevie told me it was a monster because he couldn't…" She shrugged. "My mom and I never spoke of it again but we grew apart after that. She started to encourage me to visit my dad. I used to take the bus down to Elmira to visit him whenever I knew he was feeling lonely. Depressed. We all have monsters in our lives, but I guess a policeman would know that as well as I do."
"The bus," Scott said.
"Yes," Lady Vadoma said.
"From Canton to Elmira," Scott said
"Through Potsdam. With a connection in Syracuse," she said.
Truman paused, lost in her eyes. For the first time in his life, he felt like he knew exactly what to say.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Scott Truman. Mind if I join you?"
Lady Vadoma smiled. "It's about time."
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