Dating Can Be Deadly

I made a face. “I’m not sure. We’re not allowed pets here.”

As if on cue there was a sharp rap at my door and a voice boomed, “Tabitha, I got a package for you!”

“Ah, shit!” I scooped up kitty and handed him to Clay. “Hide! It’s my landlord!”

“Do you always get deliveries at one in the morning?” Clay whispered. “And where exactly am I supposed to hide?”

I pushed him into the bathroom then answered the knock just as Mel the Mole Man was raising his fist to bang again. The tenants lovingly referred to Mel as the Mole Man because no one had ever seen him in the light of day and he tended to shrink against bright light.

I smiled sweetly through the crack of the door at my landlord’s rotund form and his small squinty eyes that were behind huge thick lenses.

“Hi, Mel.”

“Here.” He pushed the door open farther and thrust a box into my hands. “Somebody dropped this off a few hours ago. I heard you come in so I figured I might as well give it to you now.”

“Thanks,” I started to shut the door but he stopped it with a beefy hand.

“Since we’re both up, maybe you’d like to come over, I got popcorn made and I was just about to watch a Star Trek marathon.”

“Um, as appealing as that sounds—” I flicked him a brief smile “—I gotta say no. Thanks for the package.”

I slammed the door and locked it.

Clay appeared immediately with kitty still in his arms. He opened his mouth to speak but I held a finger to my lips to shush him. A couple seconds later I heard a door across the hall open and then shut.

“Sorry about that, my landlord would’ve had a fit if he saw the cat.”

I tossed the package to the counter, opened a cupboard and pulled down a tin of tuna. After opening the can I dumped the contents into a bowl and put it on the floor. Kitty skidded over so quickly he almost knocked the whole bowl over. I burst out laughing and then looked over at Clay who was staring at me but was not sharing in my mirth.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He indicated the package I’d left on the counter.

“Oh.” I picked it up and traced the brown paper wrapping where my name had been scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. I tore away the wrapping then unfolded the flaps of the box. A small gift card was nestled on top of layers of white tissue.

The card read, “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Tabitha, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Let’s continue our discussion sometime….” It was signed, “Lucien.”

I dropped the card carelessly to the counter where Clay eyed it with a wry expression, “Your boyfriend’s fond of quoting Shakespeare’s Hamlet, hmm? I thought you said his name was Todd.”

I pushed the tissue aside and stared down into the box. All blood drained from my face.

Clay asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” I hastily tried to recover the gift beneath the tissue.

“If it’s nothing why are you looking like death warmed over and why are your hands shaking?” I caught his swift frown as Clay elbowed his way in front of me, dug into the box to reveal the gift. “What is this thing?”

“It’s a scrying mirror.” I dragged my fingers uneasily through my hair.

“A mirror.” He turned the object over in his hands.

It was beautiful really—circular, about ten inches in diameter with an expensive pewter beaded frame. Just touching it had sparked a deep feeling of revulsion similar to inhaling the aroma of blue cheese.

“What kind of a mirror is black?” Clay asked.

I ignored his question.

“Sorry, I’m being rude, I should at least offer you a drink.” I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “Beer? Wine?”

I looked over my shoulder and he was eyeing me curiously. “A beer will be fine.”

I tossed him a can and popped the tab on one for myself. The situation was beginning to feel strange. I hadn’t expected Clay to come into my apartment and now that he had, I had no idea what to do with him. Of course, I knew what I’d like to do to him.

“Who is Lucien?” he asked, interrupting an emerging fantasy involving Clay and me on my linoleum.

“Um, a friend of a friend. He runs a New Age store called the Scrying Room—” I nodded toward the box “—hence the gift of a scrying mirror.”

I crossed the floor and fiddled with my small stereo until I found a station playing soft jazz. I returned to my seat and drank deeply from my beer.

“You don’t seem pleased by the gift.”

I shrugged. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Hmm—” his eyes challenged mine “—and I’m betting his thoughts are beyond friendship.”

Before I could reply he asked, “So what does this scrying mirror thing do?”

“Nothing. It does nothing.”

“It’s just an ornament, then?”

“No. Um, scrying mirrors are used to help induce visions.”

He paused with his beer halfway to his lips and smiled. “Visions? And this Lucien,” he said the name mockingly, “he believes that crap?”

I rankled at his tone. “You know, many people have their minds open to the metaphysical.”

“If you’re too open-minded, your brains will fall out.”

I laughed.

“And since you just said yourself that it does nothing—” he gulped some beer “—perhaps neither one of us has an open mind on the subject.”

“Okay, so I’m not as open to the whole scrying thing as some people.”

“Like Lucien.”

“Exactly, but I do believe in a sixth sense that’s more developed in some people than in others.”

“Like you.”