Death by Tarot Card (A Ghost & Abby Mystery Book 4)

by Jo-Ann Carson

I couldn’t help but grin. “But you did have a run in with Margaret Bentley, the town admin.”

  “Hell yeah! That battle-axe wanted me to put my pants on. I told her I could go naked on my own property, and there was nothing she could do about it.” He slapped his leg. “That hag said having an old man’s bits and pieces hanging about was bad for the town’s reputation.” He shook his head.

  “I see, and you said …”

  His eyes narrowed. “I said that with blood-suckers, ghosts and who knows what else hangin’ about, I couldn’t see why she was concerned about me.”

  “And that’s it?”

  He pursed his lips. “I may have used the bitch word a few times.” He leaned back. “Would you like a beer?”

  “Uh, no thanks. I have to get back to my kids.”

  “Too bad. I have lots of stories, you know. Some you might like.”

  I smiled and for a minute wished I liked beer. “Someone in town sent a nasty note to Alderman Harris.”

  “You came all the way out here to tell me that?”

  “I’m trying to get a lead on who would want to harass him.” Or worse.

  McGregor scratched his lower parts. I kept my eyes level, though I did happen to notice he sat with his knees far apart now, airing the boys, you might say. “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me. When I get angry I write letters in the paper where everyone can see them. I say my piece at town meetings, which is my civic duty.” He scratched his chin. “I wouldn’t send an anonymous note. Don’t see the point in that.”

  “I agree with you.” His words rang true. It wasn’t his style.

  “If a man has any integrity he says what he means and he’s not ashamed of it.”

  I nodded. The more I visited him, the more I liked him. Go figure.

  “I heard you go naked sometimes,” he said.

  Oh no. Eye of newt. I did not want to go there. “Don’t we all?” I winked and stood.

  “If you ever want company, young lady, you just have to ask.”

  “Thank you.” I threw my notepad and pen in my bag and headed for the door.

  “If you want my opinion,” he said.

  I turned back towards him. “Do I have a choice?”

  He chuckled. “The person you’re after is sneaky and mean. I’d check out Old Coyote.”

  A shifter? Did we have a coyote-shifter in town? Why was I always the last to know these things? In my shock, my eyes drifted downward. Oh, good grief.

  “You can look as long as you like, sweetheart. I know you want to.”

  “Uh, no. I’m sorry I looked.”

  He chuckled low.

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t know Old Coyote. Can you tell me about him?”

  The right side of his mouth perked up, shifting the wrinkles lining his face. “Sure you do. Old Coyote is Katey Sawchuck.”

  “The wharfinger?” The image of a three-hundred pound, quick-witted, sixty-something woman who limped along the docks in her denim overalls came to mind. She usually smelled of fish and beer

  “None other.” He folded his arms across his white-haired chest. “She’s one hell of a shot, and when the coyote population gets to be a nuisance we go hunting together. That’s why I call her ‘Old Coyote.’ She hates the name, so I don’t stop.”

  “What has that got to do with Harris?” I must have missed something.

  “It don’t. I was just explaining her name.”

  I scrunched my face. “So, what about her and Harris?”

  “Think about it. The dock project is a mess. There’s building materials piled on the shore that haven’t been touched. Nothing is getting done because the council can’t agree on what kind of coffee they want to drink at meetings let alone anything about the town. Meanwhile the docks are falling apart. She is the manager of the docks, and patience ain’t her strong suit.”

  That made sense. I headed for the door and turned for my Columbo moment. “One more question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you believe in the tarot?”

  He laughed so loud I could hear him all the way to the car.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday started pretty normal for me. We had our family breakfast complete with spilled milk, a tantrum and two pieces of burned toast. I delivered the kids to their schools and went back to the manor for a second cup of coffee. After going over my suspect list, I headed out to do another interview. I hoped to complete at least three before the kids came home.

  Katey Sawchuck was already on my suspect list under the sub-heading “Dock,” but until Harold brought her name up I hadn’t considered her a serious suspect. Not that I didn’t think her capable. I’d seen enough to know that we’re all—young or old, male or female, human or supernatural—capable of doing nasty things, given the right circumstances. But I didn’t see her as the kind of woman who would send a threat by mail. She was more the yell in your face and cuss a lot type.

  As I drove down to the dock that day I recalled what I knew about her. I met her at a baby shower for Sarah Jameson, a waitress at Margaret’s éé. Despite arriving in her signature denim overalls patched at the knees, she brought a pretty pink dress for the newborn with matching shoes. The cuteness of it impressed everyone, especially the new mom.

  When we broke our gift-giving circle for refreshments I told her how much I liked the dress, and we got talking. Since then I’d chatted with her many times on the street, in the café and once at the teahouse. Truth be told, Katey was one of my favorite humans in town. She always spoke from the heart and said what she thought. Downright decent, that’s how I thought of her. And now I had to interview her about a death threat.

  Spark pawed my leg. “Get over it, Blondie. We’ll be outa there in no time and then I can have some wine.” Spark had taken up wine drinking a week ago when she watched a romance movie with a vineyard.

  I could hear music playing on the radio in the wharfinger’s office. I knocked. Katey opened it.

  “Good,” she said, giving me a hard stare. “I was going to call you.” The office smelled like a freshly opened can of sardines.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. I’ve been threatened.”

  I felt my brows rise. “Who would threaten you?”

  “I don’t know. I came back from doing my dock rounds and found this in my window.” She pushed a card at me. I flipped it. It was the Death card from a tarot pack, identical to the one Harris had been sent. I studied it. “Are you into tarot?”

  “Nah, I’m no hippy.” She rolled her right shoulder. “I don’t care what other people do with their time, but I have better things to do with mine than worry about the future. The present keeps me busy enough.”

  “Do you believe in it? The tarot?”

  She breathed noisily, as if the air struggled to find a way in and out of her body. I suspected asthma. “Forget about what I believe in. This is a message. Someone wants me dead.”

  I went to the least uncluttered chair, removed a pile of papers and sat down. “Who would want you dead?”

  Katey rubbed her neck and sat in her tattered office chair. “I must have pissed someone off. You can’t do my kind of job without making enemies.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, boat people, whether they’re stink potters or ragmen, like their privacy and their independence. They don’t like having to answer to anyone. They don’t want to pay moorage fees and they don’t want anyone checking up on their use of electricity and shit.”

  I nodded. That fit the dock people I knew. “Would they be aggravated enough to want you dead?”

  She leaned forward. “That’s the thing. I don’t think so. I’ve been called every salty name in the book, but no one has ever said they wanted to kill me.” She looked over my head for a moment. “A couple offered to throw me in the ocean, mind you.”

  I could see that. Who would want to threaten an alderman and a wharfinger? Her card added a filter to the whole investigation. “Well, as it happens this is your lu
cky day,” I said. “I’m already investigating the person who likes to send Death cards.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Other people are getting them?”

  “Yeah, so I’ll give you a portion of a group rate.” I had no idea what I was talking about, but it made sense.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty to retain me, which ensures you’ll be on the inner loop of information, and a portion of my hourly fee.”

  “How much is that?”

  “It will depend on how many people hire me. At the moment, you’re looking at fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses.”

  “Who’s the other person?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The business podcast I had listened to on the weekend told me to take charge of meetings and assert my authority. I really needed to work on my delivery. It felt as comfortable as wearing spandex. I imagined my face looked as if I was constipated.

  She squinted.

  “Tell me who threatened to throw you off the dock.”

  She rolled her shoulder again and rubbed her chin. “This week or this year?”

  I laughed. “Start with the recent ones.”

  “You want something to eat? I’ve got some fresh tuna.”

  Yeah, I smelled that. “No thanks. I’ve eaten. How about we get through this fast and you can get on with your snack.”

  She looked at the spot above my head again. “Let’s see …” Her stories came fast and hard for the next hour. I recorded the conversation on my phone into an app that would transcribe her words into a Word file. If technology could only catch killers, I’d be set. I needed a killer app.

  My phone rang. It never rings unless it’s an emergency. My roller deck of possible family casualties flipped through my mind. Had Jonathan broken another bone? Had the baby escaped? Had Jinx gone witchy?

  “Excuse me,” I said and stepped outside to take the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Harris is dead.” Eric’s voice sounded flat.

  I’m not sure what surprised me most, the death of Harris, or Eric the Viking phoning me. I looked at my cell and collected my thoughts. “How dead?”

  “As dead as it gets. Hung from a rafter. Not breathing … Zane’s on his way.”

  “Wait. How did you know to call me? Harris is my client, but how did you know?”

  “I didn’t. He had your phone number written on a piece of paper clasped in his hand. I called it and you answered.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Vikings! “Yes, it matters. Are you safe?” What was Eric hiding? He kept turning up where I didn’t expect him.

  “I’m fine. Harris isn’t. I was patrolling the area and smelled death, so I checked it out.”

  “Smelled death?”

  “He’s hanging from the rafters. It’s murder or suicide and it’s not pretty.”

  “Where are you?”

  “City Hall.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 9

  Arriving at a death scene after the cops, bites. Yellow tape barred me from entering the building. Yellow tape, that is, and a brand-new constable who looked at me as if I were all kinds of trouble.

  Maybe thirty, he stood tall and official in his crisp uniform. His nose had been broken too many times and had several bumps. Bushy brows arched over his slate-gray eyes that took their time looking me over.

  “No one crosses,” he said, shifting his eyes to stare into space. “No one.”

  I gave him my blonde smile. “I’m …”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Jenkins, but on my watch private investigators do not cross police lines, even if they are pretty.”

  He thinks I’m pretty? I straightened my back, showing off my girls. “I’m a friend of Zane’s”

  “Don’t matter.” He looked away slowly.

  I licked my lips and pulled a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I knew the victim.”

  “Don’t care.” His eyes darted back to my chest and then away again.

  I sneered at him. “I have vital information that could help the investigation.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Talk to Zane at the police station later, Ma’am. Right now we have work to do on the crime scene. Standard procedure.” He pronounced “standard” slowly, enunciating each syllable as if I were an idiot.

  Ma’am? Standard procedure? My cheeks burned.

  “But, I want to see it,” I said.

  “And I want a cold beer.”

  I glared at him.

  “Sometimes life sucks, Ms. Jenkins.”

  I stomped my foot and walked a few feet away. There had to be a way to get in there. Preferably a legal way.

  I sent a text to Zane, pleading my necessity to see Harris. Zane and I had serious history, so I figured he would respond.

  While I waited for an answer I worried about my family. Jill would pick up the kids. Hopefully I’d be home for dinner. And home before Jinx could cause to much trouble. checked on my family. What would life deal me next?

  The familiar “incoming message ding” dinged. Zane: “Tell Augustus to let you in. He’ll do it if you call him that.”

  Augustus? In this century? Who names a kid that?

  I walked back to the new cop. He crossed his arms. “This is getting old, Ms. Jenkins. Can’t you go investigate somewhere else?” A smile tugged at the right side of his stern mouth.

  “Well, Augustus, I’ve …”

  At the sound of his name, he lifted the yellow ribbon and waved me in. I’d figure that mystery out another time.

  Eric sat in one of Harris’s visitor chairs while a cop took photos of the scene and Zane watched with the death-scowl he saved for murder scenes. I had seen it too many times.

  Harris, my client, hung from a beam. I swallowed. A wooden chair lay on the ground beneath him. Suicide? I took a deep breath. Nah. He didn’t seem the type. The chair could have been used as a way to get him into position.

  A lump formed in my throat. I had talked to Harris only a few hours ago. He had been so alive, and now he was so dead. His body hung lifeless, his face white, his eyes vacant, his body limp, his spirit … gone. My gut wrenched. I turned away, fisting my hands tight so that my nails dug into my palms.

  I sat beside Eric. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re waiting for the doctor to come.”

  Zane, who stood beside Harris, turned my way and strode over. “So, tell me what you know.”

  “Someone sent Harris a tarot card in the mail, the Death card to be exact. He had no idea who sent it to him, but it scared him. A lot. So he asked me to investigate.”

  “The Death card?” He scribbled in his notepad. “What have you found out?”

  “With Harris’s help I made a suspect list of nine. Three were suspected in the poop incident, three were unhappy about town council issues and three were involved with him on a personal level. I’ll email you my notes.”

  “Have you talked with any of the suspects yet?”

  I tilted my head. “I talked with Harold McGregor because he’s been upset about the internal politics at City Hall. I thought he might be involved in the poop event, that being his kind of humor. But I don’t think it’s him. Then I talked with Katey Sawchuck at the docks. It turns out she’s also been given a Death card. I was talking with her when Eric called about Harris.”

  “What do you know about the Death card?” asked Eric.

  I’d almost forgot he was there. “It doesn’t necessarily refer to a physical death. It means something significant is coming to an end.”

  “Yup, I’d say something came to an end,” said Zane, looking up from his notes. “I need to look closer at the scene. You can watch from here, but don’t come any closer.”

  “But?”

  “Not one inch.”

  “I may see something you don’t.” Actually, it was more likely my witch senses would smell or feel something more, but I didn’t want to say that.

  “Let me
do my job first.”

  I sat in a client chair beside Eric and watched as more photos were taken, the body was lowered to the ground, and the doctor examined him.

  Eric watched and said nothing.

  I kicked his foot and whispered, “Why are you here?”

  “Like I said. I could smell death. I found the body and called it in. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  “Is this about the black creepy hands chasing me?”

  “No. That’s your problem.”

  Wonderful. Second on my list of things that really annoyed me about Vikings was their habit of saying as little as possible. Men of action and all that crap. Emotional mutes.

  As I watched Zane at work, I wondered what he knew about the piles of poop that had been left at City Hall. I bet he knew more than the gossipers in town. I needed to have a good talk with him, but he’d be tied up with paperwork for hours.

  Time passed, more forms were filled and more pictures taken. From my perch in the chair I tried to get a sense of the scene. I couldn’t smell any residue from supernaturals, but there was a faint tinge of leftover magic. Traces of magic linger a long time, so it might not be involved with this death. And it could be harmless magic. I figured the murderer was human. That made more sense. Why would a magical entity hang someone when they had easier and faster methods of death at their disposal? Unless it was a message. The Death cards seemed to be a message. Eye of newt. Did we have a poetic serial killer? I wanted to laugh at my own joke but I couldn’t.

  Zane pulled the Death card out of Harris’s jacket pocket. He held it up for me to see. “Is this the one he showed you?”

  I nodded. The investigation continued. One of the cops dusted for fingerprints. I waited.

  I left at five. It was my turn to cook, and even spaghetti with bottled sauce takes time. As I left, Eric grabbed my hand and held it for a long moment. I tried to breathe normally.

  “Be careful,” he said and let me go.

  Chapter 10

  Spaghetti was my favorite family meal. In fifteen minutes I could brown the ground beef, boil the noodles and heat the bottled sauce. With a bag salad on the side, it covered all the food groups and the kids loved it. Filling, nutritious, a crowd pleaser and fast. What could be better than spaghetti? As I drove home, thinking this made me feel as if I had control of my life. I didn’t need to listen to another podcast about becoming a private detective to know that having your client murdered was not a good thing. Noodles would set things right.