I groaned. “My apartment. I hope I still have one.”
Cheryl leaned over to give me a hug. “You won’t have anything to worry about now.”
Gale smiled. “She’s right. Your landlady won’t be bothering you anymore. Have you seen the paper?” She held up the front section of the Chronicle. The headlines blared across the front page: REVEREND CHARGED WITH ABUSE. PROPHET’S PARADISE SHUT DOWN. Underneath, the banner was a still shot of the Reverend Roy from his TV show and a photo of the barbed wire gates of the Ardillas compound.
“Don warned me this was coming.”
Gale rattled the newspaper open. “And you’re famous, my dear. Listen to this: ‘San Francisco astrologer Julia Bonatti was instrumental in rescuing an elderly victim. Ms. Bonatti was imprisoned at the compound and shot at before she managed to escape. Once free, she enlisted the aid of Sheriff Leo McEnerny, who, with the intervention of the California Highway Patrol, shut down the Reverend’s slave labor compound.’ It goes on,” Gale trilled.
“I don’t want to be famous … not at all. Not like this.”
“Ah, well, we can’t always pick and choose.” Gale’s smile was brilliant. She leaned over and hugged me. I heard a catch in her voice. “I’m glad you’re still here. I don’t want to lose you. And the next time you go off like that, I will find you and I will kill you—myself.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes as she turned away.
“I’m glad I’m still here too. And I’m so grateful I have friends like you two and Don. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I was getting all sentimental and teary-eyed myself. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I still felt hot and dehydrated, but at least the body tremors had completely stopped.
Cheryl left to work on our dinner and Gale waited while I showered and dressed. The nurse came in with a wheelchair and I signed a pile of forms for the hospital. Gale followed us down the corridor. When we reached the front entrance, she left me in the nurse’s care while she went to the parking garage to retrieve her car. When she pulled up to the carriage area, I left the wheelchair behind and, lugging a plastic bag labeled Patient’s Belongings, climbed into her Mercedes.
Much later that day, after dinner, the three of us settled in on Gale’s sofa with a bottle of wine. A floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree covered with tiny lights took up the corner of the room. Gale dimmed the lamps and poured each of us a glass of wine. The sky was crystal clear and the city sparkled below us. The new moon was here—a time for beginnings. I filled Cheryl and Gale in on the details of everything that had transpired, including the séance where Evandra was convinced Lily had sent her a warning message.
The Chronicle had also run a story about Dorothy’s death and the attempted arson at the Gamble house. There was no hint that Dorothy was the guilty party or that she had been killed in self-defense. Under the caption was a stock photo of the Telegraph Hill house and a shot of a coroner’s van next to a fire truck. That was all. The bigger story—of Reverend Roy and the Army of the Prophet—had forced this story to a back page. Either the police were being very tightlipped about the connection between Eunice’s rescue and Dorothy’s death or the media hadn’t connected the events. I was relieved to see that my name wasn’t mentioned this time.
“I’m curious, Julia,” Cheryl asked. “You said that when you were lying on the grass outside the conservatory, you felt completely at peace. But you were trying to get help. Your life was at risk.”
“I was in very bad shape, you’re right. I was hallucinating. But I saw … I felt something brush lightly against my cheek. I could have sworn I smelled gardenias, but maybe I just imagined that.”
“You can be sure gardenias aren’t growing in San Francisco, especially in the winter,” Gale offered. “And if you don’t mind me reminding you, you were suffering from alkaloid poisoning.”
I nodded. “True. But the most memorable thing was that I was filled with that sense of ease, the most deliciously safe feeling I’ve ever had in my life. As if everything would turn out all right.”
Cheryl lifted a wine glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Lily.”
Gale and I lifted our glasses in unison. “To Lily.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Connie di Marco (Los Angeles, CA) is the bestselling author of the Soup Lover’s Mysteries (Penguin), which she published under the name Connie Archer. She has always been fascinated by astrology and is excited to combine her love of the stars with her love of writing mysteries. Visit her at conniedimarco.com, on Facebook at Connie di Marco (Author), or on Twitter: @askzodia.
Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
About the Author