“Blessed be.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I stood outside of Readings by Madam Sandra, two hundred dollars poorer but rich in freshly steeped curiosity. LikeThe City’s article had lamented, the neon sign in the window was off and the interior was dark. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass—one reading table, two chairs, a multitude of shelves lining the walls, probably packed with the same assorted bits and bobs necessary to these midtown hustlers. I wasn’t able to make out much more than that, although I did notice whoever the CSU detective had been on the scene left behind an evidence identification marker—number fourteen.
I took a step back, the sidewalk cellar door creaking loudly under my weight. I studied the windows of the second floor that overlooked Tenth Avenue. The article had also specified that Sandra lived above her psychic shop. I glanced to the right at the unassuming tenant door and moved toward it. I tried the handle, but it was locked.
Sweat followed the curve of my spine like it was a waterslide, soaking my shirt where it was tucked into trousers. I took a minute to roll my sleeves back another layer until they were just past my elbows. Everyone around me looked about as miserable as I felt: sweat-dampened clothing, melting makeup, fanning themselves with whatever impromptu item they had on-hand. I took my sunglasses off briefly, wiped my face on my sleeve, then put them back on and headed to the Wash & Fold next door.
If it was a sauna outside, inside the Wash & Fold was like being face-first up Satan’s anus. The door had been tied open with what looked like a shoelace, probably in a desperate attempt to catch a passing breeze and stir some of the heat from the dozen dryers, but no dice. The air was as dead as a doornail. A young guy—dark hair, lanky and tall like Max, but maybe a few years older—stood behind the counter, filling out some kind of receipt. I took a shot in the dark and guessed he was the owner’s son who “hooks up with Harmony now and then.”
He glanced at me and asked, “Picking up?”
“No. I’m actually looking for Marie Yang and thought you might be able to help me.”
He lowered his pen and raised his head to stare at me straight-on. “Sorry, you got the wrong place. Marie doesn’t work here.”
I jutted my thumb to the right, saying, “I know. She worked for Sandra Habel.”
Hookup looked like he didn’t trust me as far as he could throw me.
So I made up a little white lie to move things along. “I’m an antique dealer,” I explained. “In the East Village. I’ve been looking into an artifact for Ms. Habel, but now that she’s… well, I don’t know what to do with it and thought Ms. Yang could advise me.”
Hookup’s expression softened a touch. “Antique dealer?”
I dug a business card out from my wallet and slid it across the countertop. “Snow’s Antique Emporium. Sebastian Snow.”
“Jazz,” he offered, pointing to himself before adding, “I didn’t think Sandra was into old junk.”
My eye twitched, but I managed a cordial “No?”
Jazz shrugged and pushed the card back after briefly studying the contact details. “Her shop is—was—full of all that woo-woo stuff. I think she gets it from Etsy or Amazon.”
“This was an old piece of woo-woo junk.”
“Cool.”
“So do you know how I can get in touch with Marie?”
“I guess I can give her a call. I have her number. No offense, but I don’t know you from Jack. I’m not about to give a lady’s details to a total stranger.”
“That’s fair.”
Jazz eyed me a minute longer, came to some internal conclusion that I very likely wasn’t a threat—what gave it away?—and tapped a few buttons on his phone’s screen before putting it to his ear. After a moment, he shook his head and lowered the cell. “She’s not answering.”
“Can you try one more time? It’s kind of important.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Are you serious? My undying gratitude.”
Jazz rolled his eyes, tapped the screen a second time, and put the phone back to his ear. He shook his head again. “Voicemail.”
“Damn it.”
“I can let her know you stopped by if she calls back,” he offered.
I nudged my business card still on the countertop. “Thanks. Keep this, then, will you?” I turned for the open door but stopped to ask, “Were you open when whatever happened…happened?”
