In Deep - 7: Mrs Pettifer

I let myself back in to the house and threw my keys into the half clam-shell that sits near the telephone just for this purpose, along with the holding of any change that accumulates annoyingly in my pockets.

‘I found that car,’ Rodney’s laptop chirped tinnily, ‘it’s registered to...’

‘...the Esoteric Order of Dagon, Innsmouth Mass. I kinda figured that out Rodney.’ I fumbled in my pockets for my cigarettes.

‘Well,’ Rodney pouted, ‘if my efforts aren’t going to be appreciated, I guess I might as well tune out...’ and, suiting action to words, his screen-saver cut in.

I shrugged out of my coat and dropped it over the back of a kitchen chair. Turning to the refrigerator I opened the freezer section and hauled the vodka out of its icy nest. Two pulls from the bottle later, I was deep in thought, cogitating on the day’s events.

The stranger had crept into town disguised and had then started poking around looking for something. He’d said that he was looking for a “museum” somewhere and I’d blatantly encouraged him in that regard, not sure if we actually had a museum in Innsmouth but being prepared to fake it until I knew what the guy’s deal was. My only interest in this character was the fact that Winston Gilman was paying me my standard fee to keep an eye on him; but obviously the Pelagic Knights of Y’ha-nthlei were also trying to understand what he was up to. Ned had said that there was something that the guy was after which – ordinarily - he would not be aware of, and that the Order thought that I was the one who had let the sardines out of the tin about it. Being on the wrong side of the E.O.D. was not a place I particularly wanted to be.

I took another pull from the frosty bottle. I had the distinct impression that my big-picture view of the situation had a blind spot and that left me feeling antsy. I needed outside help, someone who could bring perspective to the fragments I had to hand. I needed...

‘Mrs Pettifer,’ I said out loud.

‘You mean the crazy, screaming bitch upstairs?’ Rodney’s screen flared into life once more.

‘Really?’ I said wincing, ‘You’re gonna be all huffy and then keep listening-in to everything I say?’

‘Probably. I’m fairly new to this.’

I banged the bottle down on the table. ‘She’s not a bitch: she’s a genuine lady. And besides, she hasn’t screamed for almost a week now.’

‘But crazy though...’

‘The jury’s still out,’ I said standing up, ‘nevertheless, I think I need her insight on this.’

I took another swig and checked my reflection in the kitchen window: it doesn’t pay to be slovenly when it comes to Mrs Pettifer.

I snaffled my keys and headed to the door.

‘And Rodney?’ I said over my shoulder, ‘don’t raid the fridge while I’m gone.’

‘Ha. Ha.’ He said. ‘Get f-’

The balance of his comment was obscured by the shutting door.

*****

I knew Mrs Pettifer was in because there was a thick pall of incense outside her door. Three days after I moved in, she confided in me about her fear of dying in a house fire started by her lighting incense - or possibly candles - and then falling asleep. From what I learned about her later, I figured this was just her way of giving me a “heads up”.

I knocked sharply on the door; the intercom next to it crackled and emitted the words:

‘-ter, O seeker of wisd-’

I duly turned the doorknob and walked on in.

The door opened onto a living room, exactly the same layout as my apartment directly below. In this home though, there was a more Bohemian and decidedly less functional aspect. Tiffany lamps maintained a low mood; gypsy scarves were arrayed in abundance; a palmistry chart decorated one wall while an astrology chart occupied another. Cushions were a theme; the more tasselled the merrier. In centre position was a small round table, topped with a fringed cloth and a crystal ball. Standing up from the far side of this was a small, elderly woman in black, with a centre part and an air that bordered upon the Emily Dickinsonian.

‘Benson?’ she quavered, ‘what the Hell are you doing here?’

‘I was just wanting to grab a few moments of your time, Mrs P.,’ I started.

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she held up her hand. ‘What’s the date today?’

‘It’s the sixth,’ I said.

‘Damn. I thought it was the seventh. Never mind...’ she sat herself down on her balloon-back chair, ‘...since Mr. Hill won’t be here until tomorrow, how can I help you, Benson?’

‘I’m in a spot of bother, Mrs. P.,’ I said, ‘and I was looking for your usual perspicacity...’

‘Now, there’s a sixty-four dollar word I like the sound of,’ she said, pulling a bourbon bottle and a shot glass out from under the table, ‘let’s talk turkey.’ She filled the glass and pushed it over towards me, then took a pull straight from the bottle.

I told Mrs. Pettifer everything that had happened that day. She tilted the bottle around on the paisley tablecloth a bit and then said:

‘Either, someone’s setting you up, or there’s been one Hell of a miscommunication. You think Winston told his grandfather about hiring you to check out this stranger?’

I shrugged. ‘I kinda thought that the Gilmans ran a tight crew. If Winston hired me, it would be with the family’s blessing.’

‘So you’d think’ she said, ‘but does the right hand ever really know what the left hand’s doing? We should look at the cards...’ she reached beneath the table and produced her tarot deck.

‘Is that really necessary?’ I asked.

‘Sure it is,’ she replied, ‘you wouldn’t think you were getting your money’s worth without them. And besides, there are nuances that they can reveal which would otherwise elude me...’

‘I’d be surprised if anything got past you, Mrs. P.’ I downed my drink.

She held out the deck to me and I patted the top of it. Then she shuffled them vigorously and began to lay them out one by one.

‘The first card is you,’ she said, ‘Ubb, Knight of Storms. You’re a seeker in dangerous times, a ship beset on all sides looking for safe harbour.’

She lay a second card across the first one. ‘You are crossed,’ she said, ‘by Nyogtha, Knave of Shadows: a hidden enemy playing a false hand.’

The next card went above the first. ‘Ten of Shadows: you are watched by a cabal of secretive agents, but their intentions – to help or to hinder – are unclear.’

‘Great,’ I muttered.

The fourth card went below the first. ‘The Uncaring Void,’ she intoned, ‘that’s good: it means that you’re playing a home game – you know the lay of the land.’

The Crumbling Cliff went to the left of the first card. ‘You’ve had a narrow escape,’ she said, ‘but not without some kind of loss or setback.’ I thought of Rodney below on my kitchen table.

‘Coming up,’ she said, placing the Two of Flames to the right of the first card, ‘is a test, or battle: an engagement of champions in a test of wills.’

‘Excellent,’ I grumbled, meaning anything but.

She quickly dealt out four cards in a line from the bottom to top to the right of the first arrangement of pasteboards. In order they were the Two of Storms, the Seven of Flames, the Ace of Stones and The Final Death. I leant forward apprehensively.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Death pretty much means what it says on the box,’ she said.

‘Seriously? You wouldn’t wanna sugar-coat it for me just a little bit?’

‘Why would I do that? You’re a straight-talking guy and you wouldn’t want me to waste your time. If it’s any consolation, it might not be your death.’

‘Hmm,’ I hmmed. ‘What about the rest of it?’

‘Well there’s a bit about self-doubt causing hesitation, decisive action coming from unexpected quarters, and something about a rock, or a stone. Could be metaphorical.’ She began sliding all the cards back into a stack.

‘So what’s your final prognosis?’ I asked.

‘Make sure your affairs are in order,’ she said, ‘and try to get the drop on the bastard that’s playing you.’ She stood up quickly.

‘Now you have to leave,’ she said, ‘I feel a screaming fit coming on...’

To Be Continued...