When artist, Nicole Jeffords, learns that a reputable psychic who often works with the police has had a vision that the remains of a fifty-year-old male may be buried under an artist's studio in Austin, she becomes convinced that the studio in quest...
Blackmail? Victor may possibly have slept with and blackmailed a client? Whoa there, what was that about? But when I thought about it, I remembered how clients (including myself) would routinely unleash secrets while lying on his table. And Betsy was certainly a girl with secrets. I remembered another girl, tall beautiful Rachel who'd wept in Victor's arms in the parking lot. And a third girl, Pamela Jane, whom I've actually thought about often over the years because what happened between her and Victor was so remarkable.
Every Christmas I used to give a party that seemed to increase in size and volume with each subsequent year. It was primarily for the woo woo dance community, which meant a warm chummy party that became a magnet for people from all over Austin because: a) dance people are friendly and you never have to worry about being stuck by yourself in a corner and b) my house is large and interesting. I invited Victor to the party the year I met him, and he appeared in his usual pale suit and wing tips. Tons of people were there that year, among them Pamela Jane, whom I knew from a writers' group I'd once belonged to. She was a shy, pretty girl in her late thirties with bright blond hair and a raspy voice that always annoyed me. That night she was on her own, wearing a close-fitting white two-piece affair that resembled a wedding outfit, and tall heels that showed her slender legs to advantage. If she'd taken off her shoes, things might have turned out differently. I guess she had a few drinks. She wasn't a guest I worried about, so I didn't watch her the whole time but I did have my eyes on her when she started dancing – she raised her arms up in the air, gave an uncharacteristic shriek of joy, and let it loose in those tall heels of hers.
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Well, next came a louder shriek as she tripped on something and went down, grazing her head on the side of a table laden with towering platters of fruit, cheese, cookies on the way. How to describe the scene that ensued? It was crowded and people were dancing up and down my hall. For a few seconds no one seemed to realize anything had gone wrong, and then there were sharp cries of alarm at the sight of Pamela Jane curled on the floor, hair fanned out Botticelli style, blood gushing from her temple.
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Time seemed to freeze. I thought, Oh my god, is she dead? Someone yelled: "Call 911!" I ran for towels. A small crowd gathered around Pamela Jane. Victor had kept a low profile during the party (I'd forgotten he was even there) but suddenly he appeared, kind of like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, quietly telling everyone to back off, make room. He spoke with such authority that people edged back a few steps as he kneeled down at Pamela Jane's side. Blood had pooled all around her head, so it looked pretty gory. With the utmost of gentleness, Victor touched Pamela Jane's hair and placed his fingers on her face. Her eyes fluttered open. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked in a voice like velvet.
"Pamela Jane," she whispered.
"Pamela Jane," he repeated softly as his fingers moved down to the pulse at her throat.
