How can an old lady just vanish in her own hometown? And why? Police ask a reclusive psychic and her reformed young assistant to unearth clues through visions and investigation. They must ask themselves what in the woman's past needed silencing...
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DeeDee stared at her bloated feet. Brown oxfords? She inched her right forward, scraping the sole on cement. Where am I? Her brain shrieked for answers. Her body tremored with excruciating spasms. Her left toe caught on a crack. Hang on. It was all she could do to lift it a fraction. Now forward, she thought through the agony of each muscle and joint. With trepidation, DeeDee raised her hands. These are not my hands. Stubby. Nails brittle and discoloured. Knuckles thick and raw. Wisps of reddish hair flew across her face. The wind threatened her balance. She stuck her arms out like a tightrope walker.
Startled, DeeDee felt a wave of fear rise like a fever from her solar plexus and burst through her chest, throat and head. Please, please hold on. The heat scorched like acid leaving her ribs, shoulders and neck a burned-out wreckage. Her head felt caught in a vice. The series of white and blue flashes left a scent like singed wiring in her nostrils. She coughed and gagged. I can't breathe. And the light flared out. It was blank and empty. Nothing.
DeeDee opened her eyes. Clarence's face hovered before her. He looks as though he's seen a ghost. He patted her hand – a compulsive motion.
"Y-you moaned," he stammered.
"Oh love. I was with Nora..."
"Where?"
"I...don't...know..." whimpered DeeDee, trying to swallow the tears lodged in her throat.
An hour and a half later, DeeDee sat perched on the café chair, one of Nora's albums on the glass table in the sunroom. She felt espaliered – exposed to the elements. The heat of the afternoon hung thick and oppressive to be relieved only by Clarence with a tray of glasses, shortbreads and a tinkling pitcher of iced tea.
"A blend of white and mint, my love. Should soothe your nerves." He edged across the threshold and stooped to unburden himself.
"Uh-huh." Her mind was elsewhere. In Nora's electric dreams to be precise.
"Mac's on her way," added Clarence, hoisting the pitcher and filling their glasses. They each raised a piece of stemware and toasted with a clink. "La chaim. To Jacob...and Nora."
DeeDee's eyes welled up. She sniffed and fanned her face with open hands. Clarence rushed the small plate of cookies across the table to divert.
"What she must have gone through...at such a tender age...and to carry such a legacy..." DeeDee could only manage phrases through her fog of sadness. Clarence's glass tilted causing a crest of liquid to lap at the corner of his mouth, slopping down his powder-blue shirt front. "Oh heavens," he admonished himself while reaching for a delicate serviette and daubing. He jerked to his feet and shuffled towards the kitchen.
DeeDee sighed, speculating on the daily pattern of life in the Blitz household. How did Nora do it? And Jacob must be cut from the same cloth as my Clarence.
In the distance, a lawnmower sputtered to life, its oscillating roar echoing between houses. It was joined by a second machine at a higher pitch. The sounds dipped and danced around each other.
