The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 7 - No Atheists in Foxholes; No Priests in Pandemics

"Fuck off."

~ Zandra, 23 years ago, in response to an interview request from The New York Times

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Emile the Empath is the closest thing to a rival Zandra ever had in Stevens Point. For better or worse, Zandra retained a monopoly on metaphysical services in central Wisconsin throughout her career. Even disgraced, her name is synonymous with "psychic."

Except for Emile the Empath.

"She's in a retirement home now. It's one of the expensive ones that's like living in a condo, but they call it an assisted living facility. All the money was donated. Can you believe that? People love her," Zandra says in the white SUV as Sunglasses drives.

There's a fine line between donating and stealing. Just ask the TV preachers.

"Jealous?" Sunglasses says.

"I'll be lucky if I retire before I'm dead," Zandra says.

"Not many people retire after they're dead."

"I'll ask them next time we talk. There might be even a few in there," Zandra says as the white SUV pulls into the parking lot of the assisted living facility. The features bring to mind a lodge in the Rocky Mountains for the rich and famous.

"That's mean," Sunglasses says.

"And true. Three people died here in the past two weeks. One of them is still waiting for the staff to check the bathroom," Zandra says with zero evidence other than the confidence in her voice. "Maybe I should go inside and let them know about that."

"Is that person Emile?" Sunglasses says. He adjusts his trademark sunglasses. Zandra notices the indents the frames make on either side of his nose. The indents look different, almost as if he switched sunglasses, although Zandra can't be sure of that.

"It's hard to say. It'd be good if I went in and checked on her. You, however, should stay here. You're not getting tired of staying behind, are you? I'll be sure to leave the window open a crack so you don't overheat," Zandra says.

"I'd prefer to come with you. I still need to observe you at work, and only one of us has this," Sunglasses says. He pats the revolver in the pocket holster concealed in his jean shorts.

"This place bans guns. They don't ban knives, though," Zandra says. She taps the blade of the lawnmower knife up her sleeve.

Two parking lot cigarettes later, Zandra makes her case to the worker at the check-in station inside the assisted living facility. It doesn't go well.

"Why wouldn't a psychic impression be enough reason for me to go check on Emile?" Zandra says to the worker. "You take her money, don't you? She got that by being somewhat of a psychic herself. You're telling me you've never heard of Emile the Empath?"

When that doesn't work, Zandra leans into her own celebrity.

"Don't you know who I am?" Zandra says to a blank stare.

Fortunately, someone else does: Emile. Dressed like a baroness in an old black-and-white movie, she uses an electric scooter to steer to Zandra.

"I knew you were coming," Emile says in a vaguely eastern European accent.

"So did I," Zandra says.

Emile wrinkles her nose and says, "Follow me." Her scooter heads to a set of elevators with a whir. Zandra follows, dragging the pain in her left ankle along with her.