“Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Loralee reached over and got a cup for each of us. “Is the light all right?”
“Fine.”
An envelope lay on the tea tray. She picked it up and handed it to me. “For your first day’s work.”
I shook my head. “I don’t charge for coming out here.”
She smiled. “If we can work, then take it.”
“Sure.” I put the envelope back on the tray, aware that if she told me to put it in my pocket, I would. “What can I do for you?”
“Try the coffee.” I did. I could tell it was rare: grown on the cinder cone of an active volcano, on an island guarded by King Kong.
“Mm.”
“It’s a special blend our roasters create just for us. From our plantations in Costa Rica, New Guinea, Mindanao, Kona Coast…I could go on.”
“It’s good.”
“You know my late husband, Aaron Carlisle, owned the Vita Green Company.”
“No. Of course I’ve heard of the company.” A successful marketing firm for alternative herbal health products. The corporate structure was built on the reverse pyramid scheme, whereby individual agents bought products outright and sold them either to sub-agents or to customers; the greater the initial investment, the higher the percentage on the final sale. I’m no entrepreneur, so it seemed to me that the business was dependent on selling percentages, and that selling the actual product was a very secondary afterthought. Still, somebody must be buying the stuff, because selling the privilege of selling it was obviously lucrative.
“We grew coffee as a sideline,” she observed. “I still own that part. Have a coffee cake. They’re made from pure organic grains, honey, and energizing herbs.”
“Thank you.” It wasn’t a doughnut, but it was tasty in its own way.
“Clarissa bakes them here, but the same recipe is used in our Vita Green breads and rolls.”
I nodded. “Do you run the company now?”
She laughed, crinkled the eyes and raised the cheekbones. “Oh, my God, no! I say ‘our Vita Green’ out of habit. My skills don’t go that way at all. I sold the business after Aaron’s death.”
“Who to?”
“A conglomerate from the Bay Area. As far as the sidelines I held onto, I hire people to operate them on a percentage.”
“You trust them?”
“Wasn’t it you who said an honest person should be able to find trustworthy people?”
“Gotcha! So you steer clear of business?”
She rolled her eyes. “All that jes goes right out of mah pretty little haid.”
“But the arts stay inside?”
“They seem to. I’m a promoter, mainly. A couple of theater and dance companies I sponsor—they let me perform with them, in some very minor roles, of course.”
“You’ve been at it all your life. I’m sure they wouldn’t let you if you weren’t good enough.”
“Thank you. You always were a real sweetheart. I told you I had a tremendous crush on you back when we were fourteen. Now I can see you’re not really my type. Still, you’re awfully sweet.”
“Well, then, we can probably work together,” I stammered, hoping the thud from the machinery in my brain, coming to a sudden halt, wasn’t too disturbing. But, I’m paid to have a thick hide.
Her eyes flashed brightly, innocently, in the candlelight. “Oh, I didn’t mean….”
“Forget about it,” I tried to laugh. “What do you need a peeper for?”
“You can’t tell?”
“No.”
She shook her head in sudden realization. “Why did I expect you to? My intuitions are fine-tuned, but we need facts, right? I’m trained to interpret the world through many dimensions. Great for keeping the artistic perceptions coming on strong. But in this case,” she giggled, “I need clues.”
“A common shortage.”
“You’re funny, Marvin. Do you believe we can’t receive our gifts until we know our limitations?”
“Makes sense.”
“Well, my talents are not great for surviving in the real world.”
I looked around.
She laughed. “Don’t think I had anything to do with this. I was extremely lucky in marriage. Materially that is. My first husband, Charles Morehouse, was descended from the Alabama Morehouses, who came from the Carolina Morehouses. They always made money from slaves, and they always sent their sons into the military. They lost their plantations in the Civil War, but there was a branch of the family out in California, and they were doing well. So they all came out here, and learned to exploit Mexicans as well as they had the blacks.
“Chuck’s dad, Ferris Morehouse, was in the Air Force with my dad. From World War II they remained friends. My dad settled in Sacramento when he retired from the service. Chuck and I had always known each other, we started dating, got married, had two kids, and Chuck got killed. His family took away the kids. It caused, shall we say, a rift between the two families. They paid me off handsomely, though, out of guilt I guess. I drifted into the artistic scene: Frisco, L.A., Greenwich Village, Paris, Rome, all over. Through artists and hangers-on I got to know Aaron Carlisle, who had made a pile selling pot. But he saw the writing on the wall and he was investing in other kinds of herbs when we met. We were married in 1980. He expanded his business and I patronized the arts.
“Then, four months ago, he died.” She frowned, baffled. “Fifty-four years old, didn’t smoke, rarely drank, lived a healthy, happy, active lifestyle. And he dropped dead.”
I nodded.
“I know anybody can have a heart attack. And the autopsy report came back saying that’s all it was. But the more I think about it, the more….It all just seemed too routine. You know? It’s intuition, and the psychic vibrations.” Her beautiful neck and shoulders twitched.
“As you said, psychic vibrations are fine, but I can only deal in three-dimensional facts.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’ve been wondering, since we met, if you could find some facts that would either back up my feelings, or convince me to toss them. I’ll be honest with you, Marvin. I’ve learned to trust those inner voices. Still, the facts go against it. So what I need to find out—are there some facts I’m not party to?”
I scratched my chin.
“I know what you’re thinking. In my grief I just can’t accept Aaron’s death.”
“Well—“ She was perceptive, all right.
She sighed, gave me a patient—not condescending--smile. “Of course I’ve been grieving. But grief has nothing to do with my uneasiness about all this. I want you to see if you can uncover some facts. We all have a role to play. I don’t believe in coincidence or accidents. And it was not a coincidence that we met the other day in Capitol Park.”
“Maybe. I guess I could make some inquiries. I don’t know. What you’re getting at is not in my usual line.”
“But who else might?”
“Probably no one,” I admitted.
“I’m not asking you to uncover some massive conspiracy. I know life isn’t like