Fool Me Once: A Tarot Mystery

by Steve Hockensmith

  I suppressed the urge to barf as I walked to the front desk.

  A tattooed twentysomething in a faded Eminem T-shirt sat crouched behind the desk. He was jabbing at his cell phone while muttering things like “now” and “that’s it” and simply “ha!”

  I stood there a moment, unnoticed. Then I cleared my throat.

  “Yeah, okay, hold on,” he said without looking up. “I’ve just got to get past this…no! Nooooooooooooo!”

  He collapsed forward onto the desk.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “One more row,” he whimpered. “One more row, and I would’ve gotten past level 40. Can you believe that? Level. 40. No one gets past level 40 without paying for it. And I blew it in the last row.”

  “I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

  The motel clerk raised his head and squinted at me.

  “You don’t play Mint Squasher, do you?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Well, if you did, you’d understand.”

  He looked me up and down.

  “He’s not here, by the way,” he said.

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Whoever you’re looking for.”

  “How do you know I’m not here to rent a room?”

  The clerk chuckled. “Good one,” he said, then went back to his game.

  That’s what I got for showing up still dressed like an upstanding citizen.

  “So…this level 40,” I said. “How much does it cost to buy your way through it?”

  “I think I could do it with a Sugar Boss powerup and a Place-Saver add-on for insurance. It’d be, like, four b—”

  He caught himself just in time. Before he got the “-ucks” out, he realized he was being offered a bribe.

  “Forty bucks,” he said.

  I took out two twenties and put them on the counter. I kept my hand on them, though.

  “George Fletcher,” I said.

  The clerk paused his game and looked up again.

  “You know what? I was wrong,” he said. “He is here.”

  He reached out for the bills.

  I kept my hand on them.

  “He’s got a delivery. An envelope sent to this address from the city prosecutor’s office,” I said. “You should tell him to come get it.”

  The clerk sighed, picked up the motel’s phone, and punched in some numbers.

  “Fletcher? Got something for you. Letter from the city prosecutor. How should I know how they found you? A snitch? Me? Gee, thanks, Fletcher. And I thought we were friends.”

  The clerk hung up, then reached for the money again.

  “One more thing,” I said, still not moving my hand. “Describe him.”

  The clerk shrugged.

  “He’s a guy. Pretty regular. Maybe a bit better than regular.”

  I could tell that was the best I was going to get out of him, and I didn’t have much time.

  I lifted my hand.

  “Give my regards to level 41,” I said.

  The money disappeared.

  Before I could walk away, the clerk was already muttering to himself again.

  “That’s it. Over there. Almost got it. Ha!”

  Outside, twenty numbered doors faced the parking lot. I walked to the nearest car and pretended to fumble with the nonexistent keys to someone else’s ancient Buick.

  Behind me, a door opened and closed. Then I heard quick footsteps headed in my direction. When they were just a few feet away, I turned and stepped in front of the wiry, dark-haired man who was hurrying toward the office.

  I couldn’t see his face. He was glancing back over his shoulder, more worried about someone he didn’t see than the nicely dressed, harmless-looking woman he could.

  His mistake.

  “George Washington Fletcher?”

  My mistake. Specifically, saying it when I was within arm’s reach.

  In one smooth movement, the man grabbed me by the shoulders, pushed me to the side, tripped me over an outstretched ankle, and spun around to run in the opposite direction.

  It was a thing of beauty. The guy was the Michael Jackson of assault and battery.

  And I was about to hit the pavement. Hard.

  Look out below! Here comes a barrage of baguette bombs! They may bring a message, a warning, or simply imminent impalement. So you might as well get your butter and your bread knife ready because whatever’s coming down, it’s coming down on you.

  Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing

  I managed to stop my fall with my hands, not my face. For which my face was grateful.

  My hands—not so much.

  Or my knee.

  Or my pride.

  “Shit! That hurt!” I wanted to howl. But there wasn’t time for stating the obvious.

  I could hear Fletcher’s pounding footfalls as he did a hundred-yard dash out of the parking lot.

  “I’m not a cop!” I yelled.

  The footfalls slowed.

  “Not a bail bondsman! Not an insurance investigator! Not a process server!”

  The footfalls stopped.

  I sat up and looked myself over. There was a nice new tear over the left knee of my gray slacks, and the skin underneath was scraped raw.

  A skinned knee. I hadn’t had a wound like that since my youthful nights scaling fences for Barbra and Biddle. Otherwise, I was just a little bruised and a lot chagrined.

  George Washington Fletcher stepped around the Buick next to me and looked me up and down.

  “You know what?” he said. “I believe you.”

  Because, presumably, a cop, bail bondsman, insurance investigator, or process server wouldn’t be so easy to lay out on the pavement.

  It wasn’t a compliment. But it wasn’t meant as an insult, either.

  Fletcher smiled and offered me his hand. “Sorry about the shove. Usually when I sweep a lady off her feet, it’s not so literal.”

  I let him help me up.

  “Thanks,” I said, dusting off my clothes and stealing a better look at him. He wore a faded flannel shirt and tattered jeans. His hair was dark and tousled.

  And he was better than “regular.” Way better, in fact. If this guy was your average jailbird, I’d been hanging out at the wrong jails. He had a handsome face, a strong jaw, and hazel eyes that sparkled with good humor—and shrewdness.

  “So…I know what you aren’t,” he said. “That still leaves me wondering what you are.”

  “I’m Alanis McLachlan. Private citizen.”

  “And what do Alanis McLachlans, private citizens, do?”

  “At the moment, they ask questions about Bill Riggs.”

  Fletcher gave me a blank stare. It was pretty convincing—though I got the feeling the guy could be a fine actor when he needed to be.

  “Never heard of him,” he said.

  “You should have. Apparently you beat him up in jail.”

  He frowned.

  Then recognition dawned.

  “Right. Riggs.” The frown turned into a smirk. “Total asshole.”

  “I completely agree. But his wife is a friend of mine.”

  Fletcher’s smirk grew even smirkier.

  “So you’re here to beat me up?”

  Fletcher found the thought so amusing he laughed, the cocky SOB.

  Time for a little sobriety.

  “Riggs is dead,” I said. “Murdered. Two nights ago.”

  Fletcher tensed, his smile fading as he went back two nights in his mind. When he realized he had the best alibi anyone could ask for, he relaxed again—but not entirely.

  “I was in jail two nights ago,” he said. “You’re following the wrong lead, Nancy Drew.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Sherlock,” I said. “And I know you didn’t kill Riggs. I was just hoping you could tell me if there was anyone else who might have wanted to—someone else Riggs rubbed the wrong way in jail, maybe.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “He rubbed everybody the wrong way. He was sandpaper, tha
t guy. But I don’t know of anyone who’d want to murder him over it.”

  “So he wasn’t worth killing, just punching?”

  “That sums it up pretty well.”

  I gave Fletcher a skeptical look.

  He squinted back at me, obviously wondering whether this was a conversation worth continuing.

  He smiled ever so slightly.

  For some reason, he’d decided yes.

  “Look,” he said, “Riggs was a pain. Kept whining that he’d been framed, someone had it in for him, it was a conspiracy. The usual. I didn’t believe him, and I said so—but not to be a dick and not even to him. He got all up in my grill about it, though. It was pretty obvious he wanted to fight with someone. He didn’t seem like a very Zen person, you know what I mean? He was pissed, and he needed a whipping boy. So he picked me.”

  Fletcher’s smile widened.

  Bad call, it said.

  “Did anyone else get into it with him?” I asked.

  Fletcher shook his head.

  “He didn’t have so much fight in him after he and I were done. After that, he mostly kept to himself. He was only in another day or so anyway. Then he finally managed to scrape together bail, and he was out.”

  “If Riggs could barely make bail, how is it he could afford such a hotshot lawyer?”

  Fletcher’s brows drew together. “What hotshot lawyer?”

  “Charles Dischler. I’m told he’s a big deal around here—and that he doesn’t come cheap.”

  “True and true. I had no idea he was Riggs’s lawyer.” Fletcher rubbed his chin. “Which is weird. It seems like the kind of thing that big-mouth bastard would’ve bragged about. You know—‘Whoever did this to me is gonna pay. Charles Dischler’s gonna see to that.’ Or ‘Touch me again, Fletcher, and my boy Charles Dischler will sue you for every cent you’ll ever have.’ But he never mentioned it.”

  “You’re right. That does sound like the kind of crap Riggs would say. But if he didn’t hire Dischler till after he put up bail, where’d the money come from so fast? He should’ve been broke.”

  “Are you asking me or just thinking out loud?” Fletcher said.

  “The latter.”

  “Good. Because if it was the former, you’d be SOL. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  I looked into Fletcher’s eyes. For a down-and-out jailbird trouble-maker, he seemed pretty sincere.

  “All right, then,” I said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks.”

  I turned to go—and instantly found Fletcher blocking me.

  “Hold on there,” he said. “I didn’t have a chance to ask any questions.”

  “Who says you get to?”

  “Common decency and fair play.”

  “Never heard of ’em.”

  Fletcher’s smile returned even wider than before, and his eyes gleamed. It almost looked like his first question was going to be “Will you marry me?” and the second, “How soon?”

  “Please,” he said. “I just have two questions. That’s a lot less than you asked me. And you tricked me into coming out here right in the middle of the best Judge Judy I’ve seen in weeks. I might never find out who’s going to pay for all those dead goldfish.”

  I sighed, though it was a bit of a put-on. I actually liked his big smile and the gleam in his eye.

  “Fine. Two questions.”

  “Good. Question one: Why are you sticking your nose into this Riggs business? That’s what cops are for, and it sounds like you know the guy was a tool anyway.”

  “I told you. His wife is a friend.”

  Fletcher shook his head and spun his hands slowly in the air.

  Not good enough. Give me more, he was saying silently—maybe so he wouldn’t have to use up his second question.

  “Riggs was a tool,” I went on. “The kind who knocks his wife around, and that’s got the cops following the path of least resistance. Enough?”

  Fletcher nodded slowly, his expression sobering.

  “I get the picture. Okay. Question two.”

  Fletcher’s smile returned. I got the feeling it was never gone for long.

  “Who are you, Alanis McLachlan?”

  “I’m me,” I said. “Well…most of the time.”

  Fletcher shook his head and spun his hands again. More.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “I own one of the fortunetelling places in town. The White Magic Five and Dime. I just inherited it from my mother. Marsha—that’s Riggs’s wife—was one of my mother’s customers. Now she’s my friend, so I’m trying to help her. That’s who I am. Good enough?”

  As I spoke, Fletcher’s smile faded and his expression sobered. When I was through, he surprised me by reaching out and gently taking my hands in his.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” he said. “What happened to Athena was such a shock.”

  Shit, I thought. It figures.

  Athena Passalis was also known as Barbra Harper. Who was also known as Mom.

  He’d known my mother.

  Slowly but firmly I pulled my hands from his.

  “It wasn’t a shock to everyone,” I said. “Thanks again for your time, Fletcher. I’ve really gotta go now.”

  “Please—call me GW,” Fletcher said softly, his eyes filled with pity. “All my friends do.”

  “Yeah, well…bye.”

  I turned and started to walk away. After a few steps, I glanced back.

  Fletcher was still watching me solemnly.

  “Goodbye, Alanis,” he said.

  I kept walking. After a few more steps, I turned to look back again.

  Fletcher hadn’t moved. He still stood there by the old Buick, staring after me with big sad puppy eyes.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  On I walked. As I was about to head around the corner of the tart Moor Log, putting the parking lot out of sight behind me, I glanced back one last time.

  And there it was. His irrepressible, perhaps irresistible, smile. It was small, but it was back.

  “I hope I’ll see you again sometime,” Fletcher said.

  The smile seemed to add that it was more than a hope.

  GW Fletcher was going to see that it happened.

  That’s quite an impressive collection of giant pretzel sticks you’ve pulled together, isn’t it? But you didn’t get it without paying a price. You’re a little bruised, a little battered, and someone stole your pants. So now you’re paranoid. Where are your enemies going to come from next time? From your left, you’re thinking…or maybe your right. Well, don’t think those pretzels are going to protect you. The most devastating attack usually comes from behind.

  Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing

  I drove back to home base. My HQ. My Batcave. The White Magic Five and Dime.

  I’d had dozens of home bases over the years, but they were really just oversized closets. Rooms where I could dump my stuff. And me.

  I still wasn’t sure if the five and dime was going to feel different—if it could put the home in home base. But I was willing to give it a chance.

  I went to the front window and reached for the neon open sign. Before turning it on, I took a moment to stare out at the street. There wasn’t much to see.

  A few tourists strolled up and down the main drag, Furnier Avenue, while others cruised through in dust-covered cars on their way to someplace more interesting. Beyond the buildings, tall rocky mountains glowed a burnt red as the late afternoon sun sank in the sky.

  I was looking at a scorched, bone-dry desert podunk.

  Why did I want to stay again?

  “Well, are you going to open the place or not?” someone said behind me.

  I turned to find a dark, tall, gawky figure moving up the hall from the back of the house.

  Clarice.

  I turned on the sign.

  “Good,” Clarice said. “We can’t live on the money Athena left us forever.”

  “You’re right. Good thing we’ve got so many customers banging down the door.�
��

  If you listened very, very carefully, you might have heard the sound of a tumbleweed rolling past outside.

  “So what happened to you?” Clarice asked.

  “What makes you think something happened?”

  Clarice nodded at my scuffed knee. “Did you fall off your bike?”

  “Oh. That. Yes, actually. I wiped out trying to pop a wheelie.”

  “Fine,” Clarice said with a shrug. “Don’t tell me.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Why? Because you’re trying to be a responsible big sister and keep me out of trouble?”

  “Bingo again.”

  Clarice had reached the end of the hall now. She leaned against the wall, cocked her head to one side, and gave me her best you are sooooooo lame teenage eye roll.

  Her best was quite good, too. It made me feel like I’d just told her to turn off that rock-and-roll racket and come watch Lawrence Welk with the rest of the family.

  “It’s not like you have to worry about being a bad influence,” she said. “I grew up with Athena for a mom. I’ve been around bad influences my entire life, and I haven’t killed anybody yet.”

  I walked past her to the store’s display counter and opened the laptop we kept there for Web surfing and solitaire when business was slow.

  It got a lot of use, that laptop.

  I opened a browser, went to Google, and typed in michael lotempio arizona highway patrol.

  Riggs’s neighbors had been a dead end. GW Fletcher had been a dead end. Now it was time to see if the cop Riggs had tangled with was yet another road to nowhere.

  “So,” I said, “how was school today?”

  Clarice went up on her tiptoes to peer over me at the computer screen.

  “Great,” she said. “I learned how to use the Internet to find important stuff that can help get friends out of trouble. Got an A+ on it and everything. Want me to show you?”

  I turned the laptop so she couldn’t see the screen. It was full of search results—a directory page for the Arizona Department of Public Safety, a newspaper article about Traffic Safety Day at a local preschool, etc., all of them mentioning Officer Michael LoTempio.

  So step one was a complete success: I had confirmed the man’s existence.

  Step two—figuring out if that mattered in the slightest—wasn’t going to be so easy.

  “Some other time, maybe,” I told Clarice as I scrolled down the page. “I need to catch up on Facebook. I haven’t posted anything in, like, hours. No one even knows what I had for lunch.”