television. But she heard the ping that indicated she had e-mail. Surprised, she returned to her desk. The response read,
Sources tell me unnatural
.
“Huh,” she said out loud. “But that’s a big complication.” Should she alert Manfred? On the whole, she thought not.
She was sorry two hours later when news crews rolled into Midnight.
Sorry she hadn’t left town.
6
M anfred was deep into work mode, which meant he was visiting all his websites, taking phone calls, and churning out advice and predictions to all his followers. Not that Manfred habitually thought of them as followers—he called them clients. He never thought of himself as a confidence man, since he was the real deal. But his talent did not always manifest at the time he needed it to, so sometimes, naturally, he had to fill in.
That was the way he looked at it.
When the first knock came at the door, he raised his head, annoyed. Who could it be? Most of the people of Midnight knew his schedule, and they wouldn’t come visiting during his work hours. A bit irritated, he went to the door and opened it. The
click
of a picture being taken, which reminded him of a cricket’s chirp, sounded several times.
“Mr. Bernardo, is it true that Rachel Goldthorpe was in your room at Vespers when she died?”
Don’t ever look furtive,
his grandmother had always told him.
Manfred managed to control his pulse and his face, though inside he was scared as hell. “Yes, absolutely true,” he said. “She was a longtime client of mine. I was shocked and saddened by her death.”
What was this all about?
“A client? For what service?” The newswoman, a junior one you’d send out if the story wasn’t that important, looked righteous as she demanded an answer.
“I’m a psychic, as you know,” Manfred said, rolling a lot of patience into his voice. And he added nothing else.
“And did Mrs. Goldthorpe discuss her jewelry with you?”
“Discuss? No,” Manfred said. “She said she’d hidden it. That was all she said.”
“Did you know that Lewis Goldthorpe is alleging that you stole his mother’s jewelry?”
“I have no idea why he would say something like that,” Manfred said.
Aside from the fact that he’s a mentally ill son of a bitch.
He could see a couple of people getting out of cars in front of the pawnshop. And heading his way. “This is a complete surprise to me. If you’ll excuse me, I must call my lawyer.” With that, he shut the door smartly and locked it for good measure. And made for his cell phone. While he punched in a number, he closed all the curtains, providing a cheerful miscellany of colors. (He hadn’t realized that curtains were supposed to match.) Manfred hated the resultant gloom, but he also didn’t know how far newspeople would go to get a picture.
His landline rang. He picked it up and put it down to break the connection. Then he left it off the hook. Just at that moment, a cheerful voice answered the cell call. “Clearfork, Smith, and Barnwell! To whom may I direct your call?”
“Jess Barnwell, please,” Manfred said, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice.
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Manfred Bernardo.”
“Just one moment.”
It really was just one moment before she was back on the line. “Mr. Bernardo, Mr. Barnwell is in a meeting right now, but he’ll call you back the moment he’s out.”
Sounded like Jess had already heard some version of the news. “I’m relieved,” Manfred said sincerely. “I’ll be waiting. Please tell him there are news crews here.”
“I will.” The voice sounded sympathetic.
The knocking at the door was repeated. Manfred sat down at his computer console, but he had a hard time concentrating on his clients.
Finally the cell phone rang. Manfred snatched it up. “Jess?” he said.
“No, it’s Arthur Smith. I’m outside. Can I come in?”
The sheriff of Davy County, whose area included Midnight. Manfred had met Arthur Smith months before, and
Sources tell me unnatural
.
“Huh,” she said out loud. “But that’s a big complication.” Should she alert Manfred? On the whole, she thought not.
She was sorry two hours later when news crews rolled into Midnight.
Sorry she hadn’t left town.
6
M anfred was deep into work mode, which meant he was visiting all his websites, taking phone calls, and churning out advice and predictions to all his followers. Not that Manfred habitually thought of them as followers—he called them clients. He never thought of himself as a confidence man, since he was the real deal. But his talent did not always manifest at the time he needed it to, so sometimes, naturally, he had to fill in.
That was the way he looked at it.
When the first knock came at the door, he raised his head, annoyed. Who could it be? Most of the people of Midnight knew his schedule, and they wouldn’t come visiting during his work hours. A bit irritated, he went to the door and opened it. The
click
of a picture being taken, which reminded him of a cricket’s chirp, sounded several times.
“Mr. Bernardo, is it true that Rachel Goldthorpe was in your room at Vespers when she died?”
Don’t ever look furtive,
his grandmother had always told him.
Manfred managed to control his pulse and his face, though inside he was scared as hell. “Yes, absolutely true,” he said. “She was a longtime client of mine. I was shocked and saddened by her death.”
What was this all about?
“A client? For what service?” The newswoman, a junior one you’d send out if the story wasn’t that important, looked righteous as she demanded an answer.
“I’m a psychic, as you know,” Manfred said, rolling a lot of patience into his voice. And he added nothing else.
“And did Mrs. Goldthorpe discuss her jewelry with you?”
“Discuss? No,” Manfred said. “She said she’d hidden it. That was all she said.”
“Did you know that Lewis Goldthorpe is alleging that you stole his mother’s jewelry?”
“I have no idea why he would say something like that,” Manfred said.
Aside from the fact that he’s a mentally ill son of a bitch.
He could see a couple of people getting out of cars in front of the pawnshop. And heading his way. “This is a complete surprise to me. If you’ll excuse me, I must call my lawyer.” With that, he shut the door smartly and locked it for good measure. And made for his cell phone. While he punched in a number, he closed all the curtains, providing a cheerful miscellany of colors. (He hadn’t realized that curtains were supposed to match.) Manfred hated the resultant gloom, but he also didn’t know how far newspeople would go to get a picture.
His landline rang. He picked it up and put it down to break the connection. Then he left it off the hook. Just at that moment, a cheerful voice answered the cell call. “Clearfork, Smith, and Barnwell! To whom may I direct your call?”
“Jess Barnwell, please,” Manfred said, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice.
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Manfred Bernardo.”
“Just one moment.”
It really was just one moment before she was back on the line. “Mr. Bernardo, Mr. Barnwell is in a meeting right now, but he’ll call you back the moment he’s out.”
Sounded like Jess had already heard some version of the news. “I’m relieved,” Manfred said sincerely. “I’ll be waiting. Please tell him there are news crews here.”
“I will.” The voice sounded sympathetic.
The knocking at the door was repeated. Manfred sat down at his computer console, but he had a hard time concentrating on his clients.
Finally the cell phone rang. Manfred snatched it up. “Jess?” he said.
“No, it’s Arthur Smith. I’m outside. Can I come in?”
The sheriff of Davy County, whose area included Midnight. Manfred had met Arthur Smith months before, and
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