The Collector. Cameron Cruise

with surprise the heavy iron bars over the windows of Aunt Mimi’s house. She frowned. Those are new.

      The courtyard smelled of jasmine. The lush tropical growth covered the fence, practically hiding the white stucco house from the street. White ginger as high as Má was tall bloomed across the entry like a fragrant screen. Trish wondered if the plants were an attempt to shield clients from nosy neighbors.

      She held her mother’s arm as they climbed the two short steps to the front entrance, pretending with a nod of her head to listen to her mother’s stream of advice on how to act and what to say. Má used Trisha’s Vietnamese name, Tuyen, which meant “angel.” All Vietnamese names meant something.

      Tommy had started calling her that lately, after he’d overheard her parents use it. Trisha was her middle name, her Anglo name. Tommy said it made him feel special to call her Tuyen, and he did make it sound romantic with his American accent. But then Tommy could make just about anything sound sexy.

      She smiled. Sometimes he just called her Angel.

      She helped her mother sit down on the wooden bench set against the wall of the brick entry. She rang the doorbell and was a little surprised to find a thumb-size camera lens staring out at her from beside the door. She didn’t remember Aunt Mimi having some mega security system—not that it didn’t make sense. Mimi lived alone and she had tons of expensive stuff to protect inside.

      Trisha sat down next to Má on the wood bench in the entry, hoping they wouldn’t have to wait long. The place was all decked out for visitors. A lion, believed to be an incarnation of the Hindu god Vishnu, as well as a symbol of the power of the king, drib-bled water from a toothy grin. Baskets and planters overflowed with florescent pink impatiens and fuchsias. It was a pleasant place for Mimi’s desperate clientele to wait. Trisha figured Mimi was really part seer, part therapist. People were willing to pay for advice on just about anything.

      Trish reminded herself she had come for Má’s sake. Some of Trisha’s earliest memories were of her mother lighting the joss sticks that smelled of sandalwood, and setting out a bowl of sweet rice alongside fried melon seeds and sugarcoated strips of coconut dyed pink, yellow and green. The meal was meant for the departed spirits of her ancestors. Somehow, in her mother’s mind, ancestor worship didn’t conflict with Catholicism.

      Like many Vietnamese, her mother’s life revolved around thay boi, oracles hired to divine wedding dates, burial schedules, store openings and just about anything else. Every autumn Má bought moon cakes; every New Year she tended to Bà’s grave in preparation for Tet.

      Trisha frowned. Hadn’t she challenged her parents’ beliefs enough with her decision to marry Tommy in the first place? She didn’t want them to think that she was giving up who she was just because she was marrying a Caucasian.

      Only, when her mother launched into what was sure to be another long-winded lecture, Trisha glanced at her watch. Gawd. How long is this going to take? She excused herself and stood to knock on the door.

      To her surprise, when she banged the door knocker, the door drifted open, unlocked.

      Which was pretty weird. Why the camera and the bars over the windows if Mimi was going to leave a door open? Trisha looked back at her mother, who rose slowly to her feet. Suddenly, Má pushed Trisha aside and rushed through the door, calling out Mimi’s Vietnamese name.

      Má’s barging in didn’t surprise Trisha one bit. Her mother and Mimi were pretty tight. Mimi came to the house for tea all the time. Usually, she gave Má pretty good advice. There was only this one time she had Má in tears. Má never said what Mimi had told her, but two weeks later, Bà, Trisha’s grandmother, passed away. Weird.

      Since she could remember, Trisha had studiously avoided the woman she called “Auntie.” Mimi used Tarot cards, and some of her readings could be eerily accurate. Like the thing with Bà, and the time Mimi warned the family to beware of the “friendly snake.” A couple of weeks later, they found out her father’s business partner was embezzling a bunch of money. There were a ton of stories like that about Mimi. Really, it gave Trisha the willies to think that someone could see her future.

      She felt a cold, hard ball in her stomach as she stepped inside the foyer, her high-heeled mules making a staccato sound on the marble tile. The house seemed strangely quiet.

      It bothered her, this growing fear. She wanted to shut out her mother’s voice inside her head. What if Tommy isn’t the right one, Tuyen? Or more likely, what if Mimi told the family he wasn’t? Could Trisha really elope as she’d threatened?

      She frowned, finding herself face-to-face with the most gawd-awful painting. The enormous oil took up half the wall in the living room and showed a squat, grinning demon sitting happily on a heavenly throne. Mimi had told her the story behind the image. It came from a Buddhist text, about a demon who fed off the anger of others. A heavy red mist oozed from his scaled body, forming a bloodred aura.

      Aunt Mimi collected all sorts of demon paraphernalia. She’d told Trisha her little demons protected her. Walking past the canvas, Trish glanced nervously away from the bug-eyed figure in the painting, thinking, Right…

      Aunt Mimi had a really posh setup. Furniture made of exotic tropical hardwoods stood on beautiful Oriental silk rugs. A huge mirror hung over the fireplace, with an intricately carved Chinese frame depicting a phoenix. At the other end of the room stood a beautiful lacquered screen inlaid with mother-of-pearl and seashells. Four mythical creatures had been painted onto the individual panels: a dragon, a turtle, a unicorn and a phoenix. The four often came together to form a superpower of prosperity, luck, love and strength.

      Trisha followed her mother into the den, admiring the juxtaposition of modern, white leather sofas bracketing the traditional rosewood table. A black vase at the center held several wicked-looking leather shadow puppets from Bali. The figures were believed to have great spiritual power. They were “brought to life” during special ceremonies performed by a puppet master. Supposedly, the puppets portrayed good and evil, but this collection steered heavily toward the dark side. But then Trisha figured that, if you already knew the future, you could probably sleep pretty well in a house full of demons.

      Her mother walked past an altar cabinet holding an impressive stone Buddha. There was a small china plate piled with oranges as an offering. Incense burned alongside, giving off a hint of sandalwood. An enormous plasma screen dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room.

      But along with the incense, Trisha smelled something else—something not so pleasant. She wrinkled her nose, following Má into the kitchen.

      Really, it was freaky quiet. Trish lived in an apartment off campus, with four other girls. Someone was always up making noise at just about any hour of the day or night. For a minute she thought maybe Mimi wasn’t home, and she could skip the whole ordeal.

      Only, that was another thing that didn’t make sense. They had an appointment, and Mimi was nothing if not professional. And the door swinging open like that—no way Mimi would have left her house unlocked if she was out.

      Inside the kitchen, Trisha watched her mother open the door to the garage to show that—yes, indeed—Mimi’s white Beemer was still in residence. Again, Trisha smelled something strange mingled in with the sandalwood. It reminded her of Brillo pads. Or the heavy iron skillet they kept on the stove back at the apartment. She looked around to see if maybe Mimi had left something out, some meat that might have gone bad. But the kitchen looked pristine.

      Her mother closed the door, for the first time appearing alarmed.

      “Maybe we should wait outside?” Trish ventured, hoping that they could just forget the whole thing and leave.

      No such luck. Her mother called out again for Mimi in Vietnamese. Trisha could tell her mom thought something was wrong. And maybe it was. She knew Mimi kept a fortune in jewels here at the house.

      Leaving the kitchen, Trisha remembered another reason why the quiet house struck her as odd. Mimi had a bird. A small parrot called a conure. She kept it in her office. Every time Trisha had come to visit, that screeching bird had driven her half-crazy. It