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I walk through a very pleasant lounge and easily find the kitchen. I should probably be heading upstairs to the victim’s bedroom but part of me doesn’t want to go there yet. She was alive just a week ago. All of her things will be there, all of her hopes and dreams left scattered about as if they still mean something. Like my mother’s were. I am not ready to face another set of shattered hopes and dreams.
I grab a clean mug from the rack beside the sink and fill an electric kettle with water. I find a little glass-fronted case full of a selection of different teas. I pick a fruity one. A few weeks ago I would have never dared do this, but that was before I was nearly murdered. If I want a tea, I’m going to have one. Plus, I’m a psychic. The whole point of me is to walk around absorbing the ambiance in the hope it will spark a vision. And that includes drinking their tea.
I try to shake away the sudden rush of resentful anger that has come from nowhere. Perhaps it is the memories that come with tea. My adoptive aunt, Mrs Colton, had let me drink it whenever I met with a client. It was the only time she’d let me have some. She’d said it was the perfect psychic prop. She’d bring out a big tea-set made of fancy old-fashioned china and have me make a show of pouring it into dainty cups. Sometimes she’d made me pretend to read tea leaves to make my psychic-ness more convincing. People want a show, she’d said. They needed the props. Despite all of that, I had always enjoyed drinking tea.
Dearly departed Mrs Colton, says the little voice snidely. You’re well shot of her.
She’s damn right I am. I bite my lip, feeling guilty about agreeing. Mrs Colton may have been my prisoner and extorted my psychic visions for her own gain, but she hadn’t deserved to be murdered in cold blood.
She plotted with Dr Carrington to get you locked up in a psychiatric ward, says the little voice. Don’t forget that. You’re lucky the devious pervert didn’t get you killed.
I move to near the kitchen window and, closing my eyes, tilt my face up towards the sunshine. The Coltons are dead, my biological mother is dead, and I was nearly killed too. Just two weeks ago. And now it seems like death follows me everywhere I go. But the sunlight is pleasantly warm and red on the backs of my eyelids. The world continues turning, as must I.
I can still hear the distant sounds of the press conference taking place outside. They’ve got to the part where the press are asking questions, shouting over each other to be heard.
The kettle finishes boiling and clicks off. I pour my tea and take it into the lounge. Feeling drawn towards the gleaming grand piano, I go to it and peruse the framed photographs perched on top. Almost every single one has Jennifer Fenway in it. Glowing golden girl Jennifer winning a gymnastics award, Jennifer in a bikini on a sail boat, Jennifer in a red ball gown with her uncle and his famous friends at the Academy Awards last year. He is hugging her. She is holding the award. She is not smiling. Not pouting either. Just looking at the camera, every inch the unimpressed teenager.
I pick it up. My hand brushes the glossy surface of the piano and a vision floods into my mind. Jennifer’s pale naked arms splayed wide over the back of the piano as she clutches it. She is bent
over it and someone is behind her. She is laughing. Her half-clothed body is bouncing with every one of his determined thrusts. Feeling repulsed, knowing I have just seen something never meant for my eyes, I put the picture down carefully.
Jennifer is staring solemnly out of it, as if she is sorry. Gorgeous glorious Jennifer whose image dominates this piano-top where there is not a single picture of her sister. If I’d had a smart phone I would have got it out to google whether Eliza had even been invited to the Academy Awards. Probably not. Whereas little sister Jennifer had got to walk the red carpet.
Jennifer had clearly been her uncle’s favorite. She seemed to have been Mustafa Salehi’s favorite too. I bet some unpleasant reporter has asked Eliza that question already, whether she’s glad she’ll be the favorite now that her little sister is out of the way.
I peruse the bookshelf beside the piano, and finally find a picture with Eliza in it. The photo is pushed behind several other frames. In it both girls are younger, Eliza probably around sixteen and Jennifer around thirteen, still gangly, but already the most beautiful thing in the photo. It seems to have been taken three years ago when the girls first came to live with their uncle, shortly after their succubus mother had been admitted into hospital for a drug addiction. The girls had lived with their beloved paternal uncle, James Fenway, ever since.
“What are you doing?”
The voice startles me so much that I drop the photograph. I manage to snatch it out of midair just quick enough to stop the glass from smashing. Hot tea sloshes all over my hands and on to the pale cream rug. Cursing, I quickly place the mug on the shelf, and blow cold air onto my stinging hands.
Looking irritated, Eliza Fenway goes into the kitchen and emerges with a cloth. She uses it to mop up the spilled tea.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Who are you?” she demands. “A reporter?” She looks angry and scared all at the same time.
I shake my head. “I’m Diana Bellona. I’m with the Agency.” I show her my badge.
She looks at it, and now she looks agitated. She glances towards the door as if she hopes her uncle will arrive to rescue her from me.
“I’m here to help find who did this,” I tell her.
“It wasn’t Mo!” she bursts out. Then, as if she wishes she hadn’t said this, she hurries into the kitchen, leaving me behind.
I follow her. “Why do you think it wasn’t Mo?” I ask.
“It just wasn’t,” she snaps. “Mo would never have cheated on me.”
“Jennifer’s friend seemed to have thought so,” I say.
“Jenny,” she says reflexively. “She was Jenny. She didn’t like Jennifer.”
She is standing over the sink rinsing out the cloth as if she wishes I would just go away. Her shoulders are hunched, defensive.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond for a moment but then she nods resentfully. I switch on the kettle. The still hot water boils quickly. I pour her a cup and take it to her. As I hand it over, I touch her wrist with my other hand, squeezing it gently. Her grief and self-blame wash over me like a suffocating wave.
