Page 68 of Speak of the Devil

No, it wasn’t. She couldn’t say the same thing about his given name, not when she’d known several Calebs in high school and college.

“My parents met in line at the firstBeetlejuicemovie,” she said. “They were huge fans. So after they got married and I was coming along, they decided they were going to call me Lydia after the goth girl in the movie. Except when I appeared, I had bright red hair, so they thought Delia would be a better fit.”

Caleb nodded, so either he was familiar with the film and didn’t see the need to ask any other questions, or he’d decided she’d already given him more than enough information.

Apparently the former, because then he said, “Does your father have red hair?”

“No,” she replied. “Just regular brown. But there are redheads on both sides of the family, so my hair wasn’t as huge a surprise as it might otherwise have been.”

And she’d always liked her red hair, liked how it made her stand out in a crowd. True, she’d used Overtone on it to brighten the natural copper to something more approaching Woody Woodpecker red when she was singing with Final Girl, but she’d never wanted to dye it blue or purple or any of the other rainbow shades Pru had gone through over the years.

Definitely not black, either. She’d talked to her hairstylist about it once, and had been warned that putting black dye on her hair pretty much guaranteed that it would take years — and a lot of lost length — to get her tresses back to their natural color.

“I think that’s the place up on the right,” Caleb said, then grimaced. “I can’t believe we’re going to see someone who calls herself Marvelous Marva.”

“Hey, Pru said she was one of the best,” Delia returned, although she was forced to admit that she’d experienced much the same misgivings as Caleb when she’d first read her friend’s text.

He sent her a side-eyed look but didn’t say anything, probably because he was thinking the same thing she was.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers…especially when they were in a hurry.

At least the small, one-story house Marvelous Marva used for her office looked well kept, with the only indication of her profession a small sign out front that said “Readings.”

Delia guided her SUV around the corner and turned off the engine, thinking it would be rude to pull into the driveway since it wasn’t specifically marked as client parking. “Here we go,” she said. “You ready for this?”

“I guess I have to be,” Caleb replied as he unfastened his seatbelt.

She did the same, and soon enough, they were standing at the front door. He reached over to press the doorbell, and the sound of a soft flute echoed somewhere inside the house.

Well, she had to admit that was much nicer than those annoying Westminster chimes.

The door opened a moment later, revealing a woman Delia guessed was probably around her mother’s age…even if Linda Dunne would never have been caught dead dressed like that unless she was going to a Halloween party or something. Most of the woman’s salt-and-pepper hair was concealed with a colorful silk scarf in shades of red and purple and green, and she wore a flowing red silk kimono embroidered with fanciful dragons, with an equally flowing black silk skirt and blouse underneath.

“Come in, come in,” she said, stepping out of the way so they could enter the house. Almost at once, the scent of patchouli incense hit Delia’s nostrils, and she had to work hard not to cough.

Next to her, Caleb was wrinkling his nose as well, so it didn’t seem as if he was too happy with the olfactory assault, either.

“This way,” Marva told them, and led them through the living room — which had been set up as a library, with bookcases placed against all the walls, their shelves so stacked with books and crystals and figurines that you could barely see what kind of wood they were made of — and into the dining room.

Or really, the reading room, since there was a round table in the center of the space with a silk cloth covering it and several Chinese screens that could be positioned to offer more privacy.

Since it was only the three of them right now, Marva ignored the screens and pointed at the two antique chairs that faced the table.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she said.

At least she sounded ordinary and friendly enough, and wasn’t trying to put on some kind of fake Eastern European accent or something to make herself sound more mystical. Delia took that as a plus — and did her best to ignore the dubious look Caleb sent her just before he sat down on one of the chairs.

Well, he could think what he wanted. They were here to get some information, and she really didn’t care how the conduit for that knowledge looked or dressed as long as they got the intel they needed.

Delia sat down as well — the chair was just as hard as it looked, a carved piece with a flat cushion that felt as though it needed some serious reupholstering — and did her best to arrange a pleasant expression on her face while Marva took the seat on the other side of the table.

“Do I have your permission to take your hands for a moment?” she asked. “It always helps me to have that contact with my querents, although I understand some people may be uncomfortable with the practice.”

“It’s fine,” Delia replied, even as she glanced over at Caleb. He still didn’t look entirely thrilled, but he went ahead and laid a hand on the tabletop.

“Do what you need to,” he said.

Marva nodded, then reached over to wrap her fingers around both their hands. Although she wore gold dangly earrings and a gold necklace set with what looked like a big cabochon of either carnelian or some kind of agate, her fingers and wrists were completely bare of jewelry.

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