Look Both Ways by Carol J. Perry Page B

the readings she does on her show sometimes, and it surely seems as though there’s something to it. Did she read your cards again?”
    â€œShe did. She saw an offer of something creative—I’m guessing that’s the property manager position—and she told me to be careful around blond, blue-eyed men.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason for that?”
    I shrugged. “Kind of vague. He could be a bad guy. I told her I’m careful around all men.”
    â€œGood answer! Say, speaking of bad guys, did you read today’s Salem News? ”
    â€œNot yet. Why?”
    She leaned forward. “That Tommy Trent is out of jail. You remember. Helena’s husband? I guess his sentence was reduced for good behavior. Anyway, he’s out after only six years. I’m surprised Pete didn’t tell you about it.”
    â€œNo reason he would, I guess. Other than the fact that I have a bureau that came out of the Trent’s house, he’d have no reason to think I’d be interested.” I helped myself to a piece of cake.
    â€œTrue enough. The paper says the reporter asked Pete what he thought about Tommy getting out of jail, on account of him being the detective on the case back then, and he just said, ‘No comment.’”
    â€œSounds like Pete, all right,” I said. “Want to watch River, as long as we’re up?”
    â€œMight as well,” she said.
    A few minutes later we were comfortably seated on the couch, teacups and cake plates arranged on the coffee table and the television set tuned to WICH-TV. The late news was just winding up, and my old coworker Scott Palmer wore a serious expression. “Convicted killer Tommy Trent was released from prison over the weekend,” he intoned. “When asked by this reporter what his plans for the future were, he said, ‘No comment.’”
    â€œSeems to be a lot of that ‘No comment’ going around,” I said, watching as the image of Tommy Trent emerging from behind prison gates and getting into a waiting automobile flashed on the screen. He faced away from the camera, and a baseball cap shaded his features. “He looks thinner than he did in that newspaper photo.”
    â€œProbably prison fare is quite different from what he was used to,” Aunt Ibby said, reaching for a piece of cake. “And I think I’ve read that men in jail do a lot of exercising. Muscle building and that sort of thing.”
    â€œI’ve heard that. Look. Here’s River.” Our friend appeared on-screen while her theme music, Danse Macabre, played in the background. Her dark red sheath, shot with silver threads, glistened under the studio lights, and a spray of silver stars woven into her long black braid accented her exotic good looks.
    â€œGood evening, friends of the night,” River said, smiling. “Our film tonight will thrill and delight you, I know. Prepare to be scared. But first, let’s see what the strange and beautiful tarot cards will offer us with their miracles of psychological insight, wise counsel, and accurate divination.”
    She leaned back in her rattan fan-backed chair, bowed her head, and placed the deck of cards in front of her on the round table. A telephone number appeared at the top of the screen, and a moment later River spoke to her first caller, asked for his birth date, and chose a card to represent him. An overhead camera focused on the King of Cups, which she’d placed in the center of the table. While she delivered a rapid-fire explanation of the horoscope method of reading tarot cards, River arranged twelve cards in a circle around the first one.
    â€œThe cards are quite beautiful, aren’t they?” My aunt leaned closer to the screen. “Like lovely little paintings.”
    River’s reading seemed to please the caller, and her running explanation of what she was doing and what each card meant kept the