Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

people.” She stopped and stared at me a moment, obviously trying to decide whether she should continue. Finally she said, “I really wanted to push the edges of the envelope.”
    “Just what are you doing in there?”
    “Oh, different things. Last night was my first meeting, you know. But I think they’ve been doing a lot of group readings; and Moonblood wants to try predicting the lottery numbers, but I was in a group once that worked on horseracing, and we didn’t have any luck at all. The future is far and away the hardest part— hardly anybody ever gets it right, which is probably what makes most people think we’re a bunch of charlatans. Because that’s what everybody wants to know about, and so the temptation is to try to tell them. But we’re usually wrong.” She stopped again, getting to the hard stuff. “And then, there’s some stuff we do that’s a little harder to describe.”
    “Like what?” I couldn’t help myself.
    “You really want to know?”
    “Umm. Maybe later.” Maybe this was enough for now.
    She had been animated when she was telling about her secret life, as she called it, but the fear took over again.
    “It’s the same as not having an alibi, you know what I mean? Martinez and Curry are going to interview those people and decide they’re a bunch of weirdos that no jury would believe.”
    “Tanesha seems all right.”
    “Tanesha’s so terrified someone’s going to find out about her you’d think she was a Commie in the McCarthy era. You think she’s going to get up on the witness stand and say she was with me, trying to contact the ghost of Christmas past? More likely she’d say she’s never seen me before in her life. Ivan’s okay— in fact he’s really got the most interesting story of all— except that he got fired once for trying to do psychic healing on a patient. Just doing it wouldn’t have been so bad, but the patient hadn’t asked for it. He sees trouble spots on people’s bodies, and he just wants to go for them.”
    “I don’t see why that would come up in court.”
    She shook her head vigorously. “Ivan blurts stuff. He’s very young, I guess, I don’t know. No way I’d let him testify for me. You just couldn’t trust him. And then there’s Rosalie, who pretty much speaks her own language; and Moonblood’s name alone would make half the jury laugh and the other half throw up. Besides, Rebecca, here’s the thing— we were all in deep trance last night. If that came out, which it’s bound to, nobody’d believe a word any of us said.”
    I thought about the way Martinez and Curry would think; all they wanted was to make a case. She was right— the alibi she had was like none at all. And, assuming she got off, if being accused of murder didn’t wreck her career, becoming a known psychic— read flake— most assuredly would.
    I was defeated. “Okay. The odds are against us. Let’s talk strategy.”
    “Well, I’ve been thinking about it. If they’re so sure I did it, they’re busy checking out my alibi, trying to find a motive, all that stuff, right? But of course you and I know they’re barking up the wrong tree. The real question is who did kill McKendrick.”
    “You’re psychic. You tell me.”
    She gave me a pained look. “It doesn’t work that way.”
    Well, why the hell didn’t it? I made up my mind to ask, eventually, but for now I couldn’t afford to get distracted.
    “Ladies,” said a voice from my past, “if I may make so bold, who killed McKendrick is only the first question.”
    Our heads swiveled to behold Mr. Rob Burns, my ex-boyfriend, who was standing at the end of our booth, where he’d apparently been eavesdropping on us.
    He put up a placating hand. “I only heard the tail end. Really. I just got here.”
    “To what do we owe the honor?” I asked as coldly as I could.
    “I just came from your office, where, incidentally, I observed Inspectors Curry and Martinez. I convinced Alan I could help, so he sent me over.”
    A million questions pushed to the forefront of my brain, but I hit him with the most immediate. “How do you know they didn’t follow you?”
    “You think Kruzick and I are amateurs?” He sat down across from me, nudging Chris toward the other end of the booth, suffering not a second’s conscience. Rob is a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. Chutzpah is a requirement for the job.
    The next question popped out: “How’d you find out what’s happening?”
    “I work for