Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,58
opened the door, and I got a whoosh of air in the face that smelled like the inside of old suitcases. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” came a voice from behind a rack of crinolines. The woman who’d been outside smoking the other day stuck her head over the rack and peered at me expectantly.
“Hi. I was just wondering if you knew about the shop next door—Le Corbeau or whatever it’s called. When will they be open?” The woman stepped from behind the rack and rolled her eyes. “Them? Oh, you never know. When they’re supposed to be open and when they’re actually open are two very different things. They asked me to keep an eye on the place while they’re gone. They left yesterday—for a couple of weeks, they said. Maybe more.”
Two weeks? I didn’t want to wait that long. But what choice did I have? “Do they have a phone? I could call before I come next time.”
“Nope. Nothing listed, at least.”
I sighed. This trip had been a massive waste of time. Or . . . had it? “So who are the owners?” I asked, determined to learn something. Anything.
The woman put her hands on her hips authoritatively, in a pose that practically screamed Gossip Queen. “It’s a man and his elderly mother.
They’re kind of . . .” She circled her index finger around her temple in the universal gesture for “crazy.”
“Are they . . . guérisseurs?” I asked hesitantly.
She straightened and raised her eyebrows as comprehension dawned. “So that’s why you’re so eager to find them! What . . . you’ve got migraines? Or warts?”
“Excuse me?”
“Migraines and warts—that’s what the old lady specializes in.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart beating wildly. There was a guérisseur managing the relics shop—I was on the right track! My thoughts raced ahead, and it took a concentrated effort to pull them back to the conversation. “Um, migraines . . . I have migraines.”
“Well, then you come back. She’ll fix you up. I had my aunt go to her. Used to have migraines so bad they had to take her to the hospital three or four times a year. But ever since she saw the old lady, she hasn’t had a one.”
“And the son? Is he a guérisseur too?”
“Well, you know how it works. He’s probably next in line for the gift. When she gets tired of using it, she’ll pass it on to him.” I thought about what Mamie had told me. “I heard that guérisseurs are becoming rare because the younger generation doesn’t want to take on the gift.”
“Oh, he’ll take it, all right. I guarantee you. Like I said, they’re both kind of . . .” And she made the crazy sign again. “While he’s waiting for her to
‘retire,’ he takes care of the store . . . and his mother. A good son. Unlike mine”—she shook her head in desperation—“who is a total loser. Keeps having run-ins with the police.”
“Ah, thanks for the information,” I said, quickly extricating myself from what threatened to be a long and painful conversation. I waved as I left, and she waved back, calling, “Come back in two weeks. Two and a half, maybe, just to be safe.” The next Saturday, just after noon, I was lying in Vincent’s room when I got a call from Ambrose. “Guess who I ran into, Katie-Lou? Or who ran into me, rather, and has appropriated my café table until I agree to comply with her wishes.” I smiled. “Pass Georgia the phone.”
My sister’s voice, complete with fake Southern accent, came across the line. “Hi, little sister. My lunch date bailed, but fortunately I ran into this hunk o’ burnin’ love, and he has gall antly offered to escort me around town today. I hadn’t planned on doing anything really, but I figure it would be a waste not to show him off.”
I could hear Ambrose’s voice from behind her. “I told you I was busy today. No offense, but I have other things to do than take you to an afternoon-long artist-studio tour.”
“Oh shush,” I heard my sister chide. “You know you want to. With all the cute hip art chicks we’ll meet, you’ll be thanking me in a few hours.” I laughed. “Where are you?”
“At the Café Sainte-Lucie. Oh, and Ambrose said you would all come along to Sebastien’s gig tonight.” Damn. I had totally forgotten to tell Vincent about the concert.
“I did not!” I heard Ambrose’s retort. “I only said I would ask Vincent. . . .”
“Tell Vincent