Part 4 (1/2)
”So, what are you getting at?” Sarah asked him.
”Private readings,” Eric said.
”A fortune-telling business? You can't be serious!”
”I think it could be a profitable venture,” Eric said. ”Not only would we get the kids who didn't get a chance at it Sat.u.r.day, I think we'd get a lot of repeats. The ones who did get their fortunes told have had time to think about it now and wish they had asked you more questions. They want another shot at it.”
”I can just imagine how that would go over with Mr. Prue!”
”This wouldn't have anything to do with the school,” Eric told her. ”We'd do it out of school hours at some other place. And we'd swear all our clients to secrecy. Mr. Prue will never get wind that we're doing it.”
”You keep saying *we,' ” said Sarah. ”What part would you play?”
”I'd take care of the business end of things, do the promotion, take in the money, sort of act as your manager. That way you could keep yourself aloof from the nitty-gritty. The mysterious Madam Zoltanne shouldn't have to deal with the grunge work.”
”And Kyra?” Sarah asked. ”Is she going to be out in front hiding in a bush with the radio? Because if that's what the plan is, forget it. It was bad enough having to work with her at the carnival.”
”Nothing like that,” Eric a.s.sured her. ”We won't need to use the radio. We'll have appointments set up in advance so that I can get all the information from Kyra ahead of time. And since she'll know who's going to be there, she'll be able to do in-depth research and dig up some really hot stuff.”
”Won't people catch on to how we're doing it?”
”Maybe so, maybe not,” Eric said. ”That doesn't really matter. n.o.body takes this seriously. They'll just be there for the fun of it. They'll be paying for entertainment, like going to the movies.”
By now they had pulled up in front of the house on Windsor Street. Eric set the gears.h.i.+ft in park but left the engine idling. He turned sideways to look at Sarah, and she was struck all over again by the charismatic warmth of his personality and the mischievous twinkle in the depths of his hazel eyes.
”What do you say?” he asked. ”Would you like to be partners?”
”I can't believe that you're actually suggesting this!”
”If you don't need the money ...”
”It's not that I couldn't use the money. It's just that the concept's so crazy!” And then, to her own astonishment, she heard herself say, ”I'll think about it.”
”Don't take too long, or we'll lose the opportunity,” Eric said. ”We need to strike while the iron is hot. People are all revved up from the carnival right now, but the excitement is going to die down if we don't keep it building. You can't go back to just being *that new girl from California.' We've got to capitalize on the mystique you established.”
”I told you, I'll think about it,” Sarah said. She opened the door and got out. ”Thanks for the ride. I'll be out in a minute with your radio.”
She hurried across the yard and into the house. As usual she heard sounds of activity from the kitchen, and this time the house was permeated by the smell of spaghetti sauce.
Without stopping to speak to her mother, she went on down the hall to her room. The tote bag containing the costume and radio was still on Kyra's bed, where she had set it when she got home Sat.u.r.day night. She extracted the walkie-talkie and the gaudy, sparkly costume. She didn't know what to think about Eric's proposal. The income from Charlie's paper route would only be temporary, and it would be nice to pile up a backlog of cash. She was tempted also by the thought of an a.s.sociation with Eric that would lead to their spending enough time together to have a chance to really get to know each other. At the same time, the idea of a fortune-telling business was so unorthodox that it was almost impossible to imagine.
She glanced across at the paperweight on her desk. The gla.s.s seemed cloudier than it had been when she had left for school that morning, as if it had lost its clarity during the course of the day.
With the radio still in her hands, she crossed to the desk and stared down into the murkiness of the globe. She knew, of course, that it had to be her imagination, but the shadows seemed to be s.h.i.+fting, as if there were actually motion in the depths of the ball. When she leaned in closer, she saw what appeared to be the figure of a woman bent into a contorted position as if in terrible pain.
That's ridiculous, Sarah told herself firmly. It's all my imagination. If I keep this craziness up, I'm going to be a nutcase.
s.n.a.t.c.hing the Gypsy costume out of the tote bag, she tossed it over her arm and set off down the hall with it and the radio. She was halfway out the front door when she heard a crash from the direction of the kitchen.
And then a long, shrill scream.
CHAPTER.
SIX.
HER FIRST IMPRESSION UPON racing into the kitchen was that the room was awash with blood. Thick and clotted, it spattered the white walls and cabinets, dripped down the side of the stove, and plastered the arms of her mother, who stood, bent double in agony, as the syrupy crimson liquid pooled at her feet.
An instant later Sarah took in the aluminum pot, which was on its side on the linoleum floor, and realized she was wrong. The ”gore” that transformed the kitchen into what appeared to be a butcher shop was in reality spaghetti sauce, and Rosemary's arms were not draining themselves of her life liquids, they were sizzling in a molten substance that had adhered to her skin like rubber cement.
”Oh, G.o.d!” Sarah gasped. ”Oh, Mommy!” The childhood name flew out of her mouth as if she had spoken it only yesterday, instead of half a dozen years earlier when, following the example of her friends, she had started calling her mother by her first name.
”What's going on? Who screamed?” Eric seemed to appear out of nowhere and, as he took in the scene, crossed the kitchen in three long strides to grab Rosemary and spin her around so that she was facing the sink. As she moaned in pain, he turned on the tap and thrust her arms under the rush of cold water.
”Get ice,” he ordered Sarah as he adjusted the spigot so that the water gushed out full blast.
”Shouldn't it be b.u.t.ter?” Sarah stammered, groping numbly for the refrigerator-door handle. ”I think I read somewhere that if you put b.u.t.ter on burns-”
”I said ice!” Eric barked. ”And get it fast! Her flesh is still cooking!”
Without further argument Sarah grabbed for the handle of the freezer, jerked it open, and yanked out the ice trays.
”Hurry!” Eric commanded. ”First ice and then some dish towels to wrap it in!”
Moving as if set on automatic pilot, Sarah followed his instructions, smas.h.i.+ng the trays against the counter to loosen the cubes and s.n.a.t.c.hing the dish towels from their rack to the left of the sink. Quickly and efficiently Eric fas.h.i.+oned ice packs and applied them to Rosemary's arms.
Choking back sobs of relief, Rosemary collapsed against the counter.
”That's so much better!” she gasped. ”It's like getting a shot of painkiller! I've never had anything hurt so much in my life!”
In all the turmoil the sound of Ted's car in the driveway had gone unnoticed. Sarah was startled to find him suddenly in the midst of them, white-faced with horror as he took in the scene of chaos.
”What happened?” he demanded. ”Who's been injured?”
”That's not blood,” Eric told him. ”It's tomato sauce. Mrs. Zoltanne's been scalded.”
”It's my own stupid fault,” said Rosemary, fighting back tears. ”I was taking the sauce off the stove, and I didn't use pot holders. I lost my grip, and the pot slid out of my hands.”
”How bad-?”
”To me they look like second-degree burns,” said Eric. ”I think you'd better get her to Urgent Care.”
”I'm going with you,” Sarah said as Ted placed a protective arm around Rosemary and began to steer her across the kitchen toward the entrance hall.
”There's no need for that,” Ted said. ”There's nothing you can do. You'll be much more useful if you stay here and clean up this mess.”
”But Rosemary's hurt!” Sarah protested. ”I want to be with her!”