Page 19 of Your Every Wish

“How did you know about the key?” I brush past Misty and head straight to her living room.

“You know how I knew.” She looks down her nose at me. “People here talk. By now, I’m sure Harry or Rondi, or even Liam has told you about my special skill set.”

“Harry said you’re a witch.” I doubt I’m breaking any confidences here. He made it sound like it was public knowledge. “I don’t believe in the occult. So just tell me how you knew. Did Willy tell you? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“I’ve already told you that I never met your father.”

I size her up to see if she’s telling the truth. If she’s lying, she’s a good actress. Or a damned good poker player.

“Then how did you know about the key?”

“So, you found it, huh? Was it in the manila envelope, like I said?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was in a smaller, white envelope that was inside the manila envelope.” I stick out my chin as if to say you were wrong , even though she was only wrong by a small technicality.

“Ah,” she says, then goes off to the kitchen to return with two wine goblets and a bottle of Chablis and pours us each a glass.

“Emma thinks it’s for a suitcase. Do you know where the suitcase is?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea, dear. How would I?” She tries to suppress a grin that reminds me of Rondi’s stupid cat Snow White.

“Because you knew about the key.”

“Lucky guess, I suppose.” She unsuccessfully tries to hide a smirk.

“What’s with the coy act, Misty? Just tell me where the suitcase is.”

“A little desperate, are you?” Sweet Susie Homemaker with the welcome signs moonlights as a dragon.

“Is this because I don’t believe you’re a witch?”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

I want to say Cut the shit, Misty , but the last thing I want to do is alienate her. My gut tells me she either knows where the money is or, at the very least, she knows how to find it.

She disappears again and this time returns with a plate of cheese and crackers, even though we ate only an hour ago.

“That key couldn’t have been a lucky guess.” I pin her with a look. “So that only leaves one explanation.”

“And what would that be, dear?”

“Someone told you about the key.”

“No one told me about the key, Kennedy. Before you and your sister left this afternoon, it came to me. I saw it. It’s as simple as that.”

“What do you mean you ‘saw it’? Like in a vision?” As if she expects me to believe this nonsense.

“Something like that, yes. But if you don’t believe, you don’t believe.”

“What about a vision of the suitcase? Is there a chance you can find where it is?”

She shoots me a dirty look. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“How does it work, then?” I’m willing to humor her if it means finding Willy’s money.

“I see things sometimes and I can also make things happen.”

“Like what?”

She glances at my untouched glass. “You don’t like the wine? I can get you red if you prefer.”

“No, this is great.” I take a big gulp to prove it. “Like what?” I ask again.

“It’s difficult to explain and it doesn’t always work. But from the moment I met you girls it came on strong. I could see things.”

“Like what? Give me an example.”

“What’s the point if you’re set on believing I’m a charlatan?”

“I never said that.”

“In your own way you did. Don’t worry, it doesn’t offend me. I get it all the time. Half the people here think it’s a hat trick. The other half probably assume I’m crazy.”

“Honestly, you seem like one of the sanest people here. You and Liam—and Harry, kind of. That guy . . . what’s his name again?

Never mind, it doesn’t matter. But the one with the cowboy hat who lives on the other side of the rock wall.

He’s crazier than a loon. Rondi.” I make the nutso sign by twirling my finger around my temple.

“And the guy with the bird sanctuary in his yard . . . cuckoo for sure.”

Misty laughs. “None of them is as crazy as you think. Just a little different.”

“If you say so. So, what did you see when you first met us?”

“A girl who’s running from the law and a girl who’s running toward a man who doesn’t deserve her.”

I give her credit. She’s good. I return to my original theory.

She saw Dex drop Emma off and made an astute observation about what a dumbass he is (and not because he won’t lend me the money to pay off Mr. Sterling).

I can hear them on the phone at night, at least Emma’s half of the conversation, and she’s always apologizing.

“Sorry I called you when you’re tired, Dex.

” “Sorry I’m making you feel pressured. It’s just that I had hoped we could see each other this weekend.

” “Sorry I’m breathing too loud, Dex. ” “Sorry, I’m just a mere mortal and not a god like you, Dex. ” Ugh, it’s enough to make me vomit.

As far as Misty knowing that I’m running from the law, that detective may be calling people in the park to track me down. For all I know there’s a wanted poster on the internet.

Or perhaps she does have some psychic powers.

Doesn’t everyone to some extent? The guy who cancels his flight because he has a bad feeling in his gut and the plane crashes.

The mom who has a sixth sense that her child is in trouble.

The person who intuits the phone is going to ring before it actually rings.

It doesn’t mean Misty’s a witch.

“Are you sure you don’t have any idea where the suitcase is?”

“Why do you want to find it so badly?” she says, dodging the question altogether.

“Because it was my father’s.” Two can play this game.

She hitches her brows as if she doesn’t believe me, as if she knows the real reason.

This is obviously going nowhere. And as good as Misty’s hospitality is, I’m exhausted going round in circles with her. I’m exhausted in general.

I drain the rest of my wine, which frankly is too sweet and should be reserved for hot summer days.

“I’ll get out of your hair now.” I take my wineglass to the kitchen and wash it out in the sink.

I pack up to go and am out the door when Misty says, “Come back any time. And, Kennedy, it’s not a suitcase.”

* * *

Emma’s mother, Diana, and Diana’s boyfriend, Sam, have a cute house.

It’s compact but homey with white slipcover furniture that reminds me of a Florida beach house I once stayed in with Lorelie.

Her whale, a wealthy plastic surgeon from Fort Lauderdale, let us have the run of the place after he won half a million dollars at craps.

This cottage may not be as fancy, and the entire space could fit into the Florida house’s living room, but it’s charming just the same. It’s filled with family pictures of Diana and Emma in all stages of life, and a lot of Sam, too.

From the front arched window, I can see a peekaboo view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

From the stainless-steel appliances and the shiny quartz countertops, the galley kitchen appears to be recently remodeled.

While small, it exudes a certain kind of elegance.

The home has only one bathroom, but Diana appears to have made the best of it, papering the walls in a bold, cheerful pattern.

Sam gives me a tour of his garden, which is off the hook.

He’s managed to turn a good-sized yard into an urban paradise.

A riot of colorful flowers lines a trail of walking stones.

Sam ticks off the names of the different varieties of lavender and leonotis.

In a sunny corner of the lot are rows of carrots, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts in wooden raised beds.

He leads Emma and me to a flagstone patio with wrought iron table and chairs. “I thought we could talk out here.”

I’m relieved to be outside of earshot of Diana.

While she’s been perfectly cordial, I can sense that she doesn’t like me.

Why would she? I’m the child of the woman who broke up her marriage, though I suspect a man like Willy Keil strayed long before Madge rocked his world.

My mother had only been a short-lived infatuation, anyway.

By the time she was six months pregnant with me, he’d moved on to someone else.

Still, Diana probably can’t help but blame her. I don’t need her to hear that in addition to Madge being a homewrecker, she’s a thief. Thank goodness Sam is bound by attorney-client privilege and can’t tell her.

“Hey, Em, how ’bout you take a walk, kiddo,” Sam says.

Emma catches my eye and silently asks if I’ll be okay on my own.

I bob my head. In only an hour, Sam has won my trust. He’s warm with kind brown eyes and a demeanor that says he’s seen a lot in his days.

I gauge he’s somewhere in his sixties. Unlike Max, he still has a head full of hair and is fit from either working in his garden or exercise.

Also unlike Max, he can carry on a conversation without making himself the star attraction.

“Before we start, I want you to understand that I’m not licensed to practice in Nevada,” Sam says when we’re alone. “If a case is brought against you, you’ll have to retain someone who is licensed there.”

“But for now are you my attorney?”

He nods. “As a favor to Emma, I’m going to help you through this the best I can.

But Kennedy, this is serious business. Grand larceny is a felony.

I believe the best way to move forward is for us to contact that detective who’s been trying to reach you and let him know where you are and why, including that you’re in the process of settling your late father’s estate.

We don’t want the police to draw the conclusion that you’re running because they’ll use that as a sign of guilt if this ever goes to trial. Do you have a clean record?”

I flinch. “Yes . . . Oh my God, I don’t even have so much as a traffic ticket. I could never work as a casino host if I had a criminal record.”

“Good. That will help you. Do you have the money?” He holds up his hand. “This is a yes or no question.”

“ No. ”

“Can you get it?”

“I’m working on it.”

“It would help if you had a time frame.”

“By the end of this month.” It’s an ambitious promise, one that I might not be able to keep. But I’ll move heaven and earth trying.

“Is there a possibility you could get it any sooner?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Do you know if the victim in the case has a lawyer?”

“I don’t. He’s wealthy, so he probably does.”

“How would you feel if I contacted the victim to see if you and he can work this out without involving the police?”

“Isn’t it too late since they’re already involved?” I ask.

“Not necessarily. Would you be willing to pay back the victim with interest?”

“Something to sweeten the pot?” Because I can see where Sam is going with this. “How much interest?”

“That would be something we’d have to work out with him.

We’d also have to give him a reason to trust you.

Given the situation, no easy feat. More than likely, he won’t go for it.

But it’s at least worth a try. Emma’s only given me the barest of details, but it sounds like you’ve had a long-standing relationship with this man? ”

“For three years he’s been my client.”

“Tell me what all that entails.”

I look at him to see if he’s asking what I think he’s asking but don’t see anything untoward in his expression. He simply wants me to describe our business relationship, which was just that. Business.

“A couple of times a year Mr. Sterling comes to Caesars to gamble. It’s my job to see to the details, including his accommodations, meals, spa appointments, shopping excursions, special outings, hard-to-get reservations at top-tier restaurants, any shows he and his wife want to see, those sort of things.

In addition, I make sure he has access to all our high-roller tables and tournaments.

And often, as on this occasion, I’m responsible for seeing to his winnings. ”

“As in depositing them to his bank account?” When I nod, he says, “Is there a possibility this was a banking error?”

I start to say no, then quickly change my mind. “Possibly.” I shrug.

“Good. We can work with that. But, Kennedy, make no mistake about it, if he’s willing to work with us, you’ll have to pay the money back and then some. You understand?”

“Yes.” I just want this to go away. “Just so you know, I didn’t do this. I’m not my father. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. This is all a terrible mistake—”

He puts his hand up to stop me from finishing. “My job is to get you out of this, not to pass judgment.”

“Okay, but I still need you to understand that I’m innocent. I didn’t do this.”

“That’s fine. Do you have contact numbers for Mr. Sterling and that detective?”

I swallow hard, crushed that this nice man doesn’t believe me. His experience representing hardened criminals has probably made him leery of anyone with a sob story. And I’m Willy Keil’s daughter, after all. You know, “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I scroll through my phone and give him the numbers. He shakes my hand and promises to be in touch. And that’s it. My fate is in his hands.