Destiny Calling (8 page)

I hesitated. He seemed innocent enough with his lop-sided grin. But then again, I’d watched far too many of those television shows where neighbors of serial killers start by saying,
He was such a nice, quiet guy.

But I didn’t know Ruthie either, and I’d moved right into her lair. For all I knew, she had a whole coven living downstairs waiting to use me as a human sacrifice.

I’d survived this long in life on my instincts. I was done running.

He extended his hand. “I’m Chance.” The smile he gave me could melt butter.

I kept my car keys in my free hand, ready to use them as a weapon, if necessary. At least that’s what all those self-defense emails always recommended. Seems you’d have to get pretty close to poke with a key, and it wouldn’t do much but irritate your attacker.

I tried to remember what it said—something about going for the eyes. I wasn’t certain I could stick a key into someone’s eye, then pop it out and use it to drive my car, not with eye goo adhering to the key. But I guess it would depend on how much peril I was in.

He was still holding his hand out. I looked at his hand and then to him. No black fog, floating gray lights or desperation clinging to him, only a friendly smile.

Here goes nothing.

I clasped his hand, and waited. Nothing. I didn’t feel anything. His gaze locked on me. Staring, unblinking with green eyes that looked a lot like my own, he said, “You ought to come meet my sister. I think you’d like her.”

I pulled my hand back. My unease grew with the way he talked to me, so slowly and deliberately, as if trying to hypnotize me. He reminded me of Griffith without the patting and the sparkling fog. “Sure, maybe another time.” I edged the rest of the way to the driver’s door without turning my back. His eyes were too pretty to poke with a key.

“Wait, don’t leave.” He looked baffled and pleased at the same time, which made him just look constipated. “I didn’t know if it would work on you.”

I slid into the seat, but he grabbed the door before I could close it.

“Please, I don’t know how much I’m allowed to explain. Here let me show you something. Then you might understand.” He dropped his grocery bag and unbuckled his pants. I smacked the door into him as hard as I could, and he stumbled away from the car.

Great. A pervert.

“Sorry, buddy, I don’t think so. I’ve seen one of those before, and I don’t have any desire to understand it.”

“No, it’s not what you think.”

I sped out of the parking lot, watching him jog after my car while holding onto his pants, before stopping in defeat.

I needed answers from Ruthie and a second go at the book.

****

“Here kitty, kitty.” The calico kitten walked toe to toe on the windowsill with her tail pointed straight in the air. When the cat didn’t flee at my outstretched hand, I picked her up. Must be one of Ruthie’s, even if she wasn’t black. She flattened her ears and fixed on me with a green-eyed glare.

The kitten’s soft fur was soothing against my sore fingers. After repeatedly trying, and failing, to open the darn book, I succeeded in nothing more than scorching my fingers, even with gloves on. Hopefully Ruthie could give me insight about how to open it. Once she pulled in the driveway,
darn, no broom,
I started down to her house.

“You’re a tiny thing.” I flipped the tag over on the cat’s collar. “Tercet?”

Her unblinking eyes didn’t display any recognition to her name—not that cats ever did. “Better take you back down to your house, girl.”

I winced when the kitten’s claws dug into me. She struggled as I held her while descending the stairs. I didn’t want her to escape. The kitten provided an excuse for going to see Ruthie. I never was good at apologies.

The overgrowth and shrubbery practically concealed Ruthie’s house, designed like a rustic log cabin with three masks hanging outside the door.

Them again?
The dog, horse and snake trio were a big hit in this town. I made a mental note to ask her about their significance. Otherwise, why anyone would want the ugly as sin masks hanging around baffled me.

Pots of various herbal-looking plants and the fragrance of flowers filled the porch and overflowed into the yard. The flowers were beautiful. Anyone who could keep anything alive, let alone thriving, especially this time of year, impressed me.

Despite the thick trees, the sunlight filtered easily through them, giving Ruthie’s home a bright, charming appeal. I’d expect dwarfs to emerge, except Ruthie didn’t quite fit in that fairy tale.

The trees began to sway, dancing in rhythm. A light breeze tinkled the numerous wind chimes, and I tensed. Tercet escaped and bounded off the porch.

Damn, there goes my excuse.

I rapped on the door, jumping when a large black cat sprung from the wooden rocking chair, tearing off in a blur of fur. Fitting, I thought, and then frowned at my haste to stereotype. A foul odor overwhelmed the scent of flowers. I was perplexed at the source, but relieved the stench wasn’t cinnamon.

When the door opened, I came face to face with a large, white handlebar mustache. There was a face attached to it, but I had trouble taking my eyes off the mustache. The rest of his features paled in comparison. It seemed as if he wanted to make the most of his facial hair. What was left on his head was thin, and the comb-over barely concealed the pale skin on his scalp, littered with brown age spots.

I recovered my manners. “Is Mrs…ahh, Ruthie here?” I’d never gotten Ruthie’s last name and wasn’t sure if she was married or not. I’d pictured her a spinster living in a dark, spider-web infested shack with a big ole black cauldron in the middle of the kitchen.

“You must be Hope.” Mr. Mustache enveloped me in a hug. My arms flailed uselessly at my sides, and the air rushed out of my body during the unexpected attack. My face crammed into his soft, white pocket t-shirt smelling of garlic and onions.

“I’m George, Ruthie’s husband.” He released me, and I stumbled back, greedily inhaling air into my deprived lungs.

“Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting on you long enough.” He tottered in front of me, his weight shifting side to side on bowed knees in an awkward crab-like walk.

I followed behind, taking in the organized clutter of their home. George chattered nonstop. I wondered how either of them got a word in with each other, or else perhaps this provided him an opportunity to talk without Ruthie’s non-stop prattle.

George led me into the living room. I tensed as hundreds of eyes fell upon me. Granted they were mostly glass, porcelain, or painted, but eyes nonetheless. Dolls filled the shelves, corners, and occupied much of the furniture.

George must’ve sensed my unease. “Don’t mind the girls.” After glancing toward the kitchen, he leaned in toward me. “You see, Ruthie and I couldn’t have children.” He shrugged. “The girls here.” He gestured around the room. “They gave Ruthie something to dress up and take care of, seeing that Stinker wouldn’t let her put clothes on her. Now that I think of it, that’s when Stinker got her new name.”

“Stinker?”

He pulled on his mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe she developed that as a defense mechanism against those horrid sweaters Ruthie knits for her.” George shuddered. “Can’t blame her.”

He took in the question in my expression. “Oh, Stinker’s our cat. You probably met her on the porch. That’s where she’s usually lurking if she’s not in here. The woods make her nervous, so she doesn’t venture too far. Don’t ask how she got the name. It’ll be obvious soon enough.” He glanced back to ensure Ruthie was still in the kitchen. “Don’t tell Ruthie what I said about the sweaters.”

I realized I’d identified the source of the odor on the porch when I’d frightened who must have been Stinker.

I sat on the faded, worn couch. The cushion sank in so low I pondered whether I’d be able to get back out as the fabric sealed around my waist. Apparently, Ruthie and George believed in getting their money’s worth out of furniture. The two dolls occupying the corner of the cushion tilted precariously toward me, and I cringed away from their glassy stare and porcelain grasp.

Ruthie’s voice became louder as she made her way to the living room.

“George. I said, did you offer Hope iced tea?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she raised her voice a few octaves. “George. How come you ain’t never listening when I’m talking to you?”

George held on to the armrests as he lowered himself into the recliner covered in a multi-colored afghan. As he leaned forward, the afghan abandoned its perch on the back of the chair and slid partially into the depths of the cushion.

Tapping on the hearing aid occupying his left ear, he whispered, “That’s ’cause I turn this thing off when I’m tired of listening.” His round cheeks and ginormous mustache rose up as he unsuccessfully attempted to contain his mirth. The sound escaping was comparable to the giggle of a small child. He covered his mouth with a large paw-like hand as his giggling subsided.

I smiled. If I hadn’t liked George instantly, his giggle would’ve clinched it.

“What’s that you say, George?” Obviously, Ruthie didn’t have any problems with hearing loss.

“Nothing, sweetie.” He smirked.

Ruthie burst into the room, balancing a silver tray baring an assortment of baked goods and a delicate silver teapot. She set it onto the coffee table and nodded to the small china plates. Being a slave to sweets, I didn’t need to be told twice.

“Since George here didn’t ask you—” She smacked George’s hand, which was making a beeline for the tray. “Guests first.” She gave him a narrowed look, and he returned one of his own. “Would you rather have iced tea?”

“Hot tea is fine.” Picking up the cup, I wondered if it would be as good as the coffee this morning. It was. The first cookie melted on my tongue as if liquid sugar. It was official. I was in heaven. “Ruthie,” I mumbled, very unladylike, around a mouthful of cookie. “These cookies are delicious. Where did you buy them?”

“Buy?” Ruthie glowered. “I made them this morning. Of course they’re delicious—I told you about my gift.”

“You made these today?” There were various kinds of cookies on the tray. “All of these? How in the world would you have had the time?” I accomplished minimal today, and apparently most days, compared to Ruthie. “You told me your gift was knowing things. What’s that have to do with cookies?”

“I know how to make them delicious, of course.” Ruthie popped a nut roll into her mouth. “If I’m making one kind, I figure why not make six? Especially, when I got the likes of him gobbling them up like no tomorrow.” She playfully elbowed George’s large belly. He tried to look innocent, but his mustache betrayed him, displaying crumbs of multiple kinds of cookies tenaciously clinging to it.

“You could have a bakery. You’d make a mint.” I snagged a couple more cookies for my plate when George began ogling them for another round.

“Oh, I may, I may.” Ruthie straightened the coasters on the coffee table and brushed at the dust no one but she could see. “I’d planned to, say about twenty-one or so years ago. Had a few names I was thinking of and all, either
You Know You Want a Cookie,
or something like
Delicious & Delectable.
” She looked at me pointedly.

I shrugged, continuing to eat, not sure why it had anything to do with me.

“’Cause my gift would help me do grand in selling baked goodness, of course. Oh,
Baked Goodness
, that could’ve been the name, as well.” She nodded. “But more pressing needs came into play.” She smacked both of her hands down on her thighs, causing a minor quake of flesh, and then she clutched the fabric apparently in an effort to restrain her hand’s restless spirit.

“Besides, it’s not every day we have company. Especially your company.” Ruthie bestowed one of her dazzling smiles upon me.

George nodded his agreement as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. “That’s right, we been waiting on you a long time.” Cookie crumbs sprayed out, although most were captured in the mustache for later snacking.

“I don’t understand.” I sighed, putting down my teacup. “Why were you waiting for me?” I reached into my pocket to run my fingers over the magazine photo. “Is it because you know where I can find my mother?”

Ruthie stiffened and glanced to George, then shook her head. “Find her? Ahh, no.”

“None of this makes any sense.” I slumped back on the couch. One of the dolls tumbled over on to my lap, and her glass, heavily lashed eyes looked up at me. I gingerly replaced the doll back in her corner of the couch, resisting the urge to hurl the creepy thing. I didn’t want to offend Ruthie and George with my revulsion of their plastic children.

“It will. It will all make sense in time, child.” Ruthie patted my leg, looking at me with sympathy, and then turned to George. “It would’ve helped if Tessa told her a little over the years. She should’ve explained about the power to persuade to get her prepared, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” George nodded, appearing reluctant to stop chewing and have to converse. Probably the only time he was quiet. I had the impression George agreed with most of what Ruthie said.

I set my plate on the table to eliminate the sugary distraction. “Please stop talking about me like I’m not here. What do you mean the power to persuade? How do you know Tessa?”

“I’ve always known her. How couldn’t I?”

“Now, now Ruthie, you can’t say always.” George chastised, waving a meaty finger. “You gotta consider those thirteen minutes.” George nodded at what he seemed to think was an obvious observation.

“Oh, fiddlesticks, George. Okay, okay, except for those
thirteen minutes. You have to be so technical about everything. Like I could ever forget the thirteen minutes with the constant reminders from you and Tessa.” Ruthie poked his side again, and he giggled, gleaming a self-satisfied smile.

Cringing at their doughy display of affection, I bit back a curse of frustration while trying to follow along on their crazy train of conversation. It would be easier to solve a riddle than get a straight answer out of either of them.

Ruthie placed a doll with long, dark hair on her lap and stroked the doll’s head.