“And it looks like they might have to wait a little longer to find out.”
I glanced over at Clarice and found her nodding at the front door. Through the glass I saw a fiftyish woman in a baggy coral pantsuit reaching out for the door handle. She had iron-gray hair cut in an angled bob and yellow-framed glasses so large and round I could picture Elton John wearing them circa 1979. One hand was clutching a cherry-red handbag.
She opened the door and smiled broadly when she noticed us watching her.
“Oh! I’m so glad you’re open!” she said as she walked inside. She pointed toward the front window. “I’m a returning customer, like it says on the sign.”
I nodded in an encouraging but neutral sort of way. “You don’t say.”
She nodded back. “Yes! The last time I was in was maybe…oh, two months ago.” She leaned to one side to look down the hallway behind Clarice. “Is Athena in today?”
Awk-warrrrrd, as I believe they used to say on Facebook. But at least it settled my question about her. She wasn’t another cheapskate trying to scam her way to a bargain.
“I’m afraid Athena is no longer with us,” I said. “But I’d be happy to do your free reading if you’re interested.”
Usually all it takes is the word free to seal the deal. Not this time, though.
The woman shook her head, her smile turning tentative.
“That’s not actually what I came for. I need…well…to consult, I guess. To start off, anyway. But I’m not sure if you can do what Athena did. And it’s”—her voice dropped to a whisper, and her gaze flicked from me to Clarice and back again—“a little sensitive.”
Message received.
I stepped to the hallway that led to the back of the building and stretched out an arm.
“I understand,” I said. “Step into my parlor.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, looking relieved.
She walked past me and Clarice, heading for the small reading room halfway up the hall.
“The store’s all yours,” I told Clarice.
“Can I have that in writing?”
“I mean you’re in charge,” I said, adding “smart-ass” in a whisper.
I followed the woman into the reading room, where there was a table and some chairs and a waist-high bookcase loaded with faux-mystical bric-a-brac—an oversized crystal ball, a bag of rune stones, a box of Kleenex (which wasn’t faux-mystical but did sometimes come in handy).
There were tarot cards, too, of course. My favorite deck: the Universal Tarot. I like the illustrations’ clean lines and modern style.
Some tarot decks seem like they’re trying to give you the vibe of stained glass or medieval parchment. The Universal Tarot feels more like a Marvel comic book.
Not that it mattered just then. The deck wasn’t even going to get a shuffle.
“So,” the woman said once we’d sat down and introduced ourselves with an awkward handshake, “how are you with curses?”
“Applying or removing?” I said without a blink. Biddle would have been proud.
“Removing.”
“Oh, that I can do. Is that something you and Athena discussed?”
The woman—who’d introduced herself as Liz White—nodded.
“We did more than discuss it. Athena lifted a curse for me.”
“Just out of professional curiosity,” I said, “what was the curse and how did Athena lift it?”
I knew what Liz was going to say before she said it.
An inheritance. Cursed money and/or valuables. Solution: give some or all of it to the medium…who would (supposedly) return some or all (ha!) when the curse had lost its power.
It was an old, old story. Liz told me her version. It involved a dead uncle and $10,000 in a will and a sudden run of bad luck.
Athena had taken care of the problem by holding the $10,000 and working to “dissipate the evil in it” over the course of a month. When half the cash was “clear,” Athena gave it back to Liz.
“And now you’re hoping the other half is ready,” I said.
Liz shook her head. “Oh, no no no! I’m worried that the curse wasn’t lifted after all. I thought maybe I should bring back the $5,000 Athena gave me.”
This time I blinked.
“The past two weeks have just been horrible,” Liz went on. “First Paul finds out he has type 2 diabetes, then somebody keys my Impala at Albertsons, then I get not one but two ingrown toenails, and then this morning Mr. Feathers just fell off his perch dead as a doorknob.”
I had no idea who Paul and Mr. Feathers were. I could only assume that they were, respectively, Liz’s husband and Liz’s pet bird, and not vice versa.
“If that’s not being cursed, what is it?” Liz asked.
Life, I wanted to say. But this had to be handled delicately.
“Here’s what I’m thinking, Liz,” I began.
As I spoke, Liz opened her handbag, pulled out a wad of bills big enough to choke a grizzly, and plopped it on the table.
I guess delicate wasn’t really her thing after all.
“Here’s the money,” she said. “See if you can feel anything.”
“All right.”
Liz watched me intently as I held a hand out over the money. She seemed to be expecting something—glowing eyes or speaking in tongues or a puff of sulfurous smoke—so I began to silently recite my favorite anti-curse incantation: “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran.
“No,” I said when I got to the “Do-do do-do-do do-do-do do-do do-do-do-do-do” part the second time. “I don’t feel any negative energy coming off this at all.”
Liz didn’t look relieved. “But there has to be some. Why else would our luck be so bad?” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’re just not sensing it. Maybe you’re not as good at removing curses as you think you are.”
She started to reach for the stack of bills.
I had a vision of the future without the help of my tarot cards or crystal ball.
Liz takes the money. She bounces around to other occult shops looking for someone who’ll “lift the curse.” Some fake mystic scumbag—maybe even one of the Grandis—eventually says yes. Liz never sees her money again.
I slapped my hand over the cash.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a little more time? Let me try a few more spells, consult my curse books, see what the spirits say.”
Liz’s face brightened. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful! I confess, when I saw that sign in the window—‘under new management’—I thought I was a goner! So how long do you think this will take?”
“Come back this time tomorrow. I should have an answer for you by then.”
Liz beamed at me. “Oh, thank you! You don’t know how much this means to me! You’re a lifesaver!”
“Hey…that’s what I’m here for.”
I walked Liz to the door, suffered through a bear hug, and said goodbye. When the woman was gone, I turned to find Clarice smiling at me smugly from behind the counter—and the laptop.
“Google was only going to get you so far on Officer LoTempio,” she said. “Fortunately, when it came to researching marks, Mom left most of the computery stuff to me.”
She spun the laptop around so I could see the screen. Two files were open on it. I stepped closer and started to read them.
One was a credit report—complete with current address.
The other was a complaint filed with the Yavapai County Superior Court six months before. Someone had tried suing the Arizona Department of Public Safety and one of its employees—Officer Michael LoTempio—for $100,000.
Clarice thumbnailed the suit so I wouldn’t have to wade through all the legalese.
“Looks like Mike’s got a temper,” she said. “Riggs wasn’t the first citizen to get into it with him during a traffic stop.”
“Which helps explain how Riggs was able to land that big shot Dischler as an attorney. A prior complaint is blood in the water. That’ll draw the shark
s. He’d still need money for a retainer, though. Guys like Dischler don’t work for high hopes and promises…”
My words trailed off as I tried to think it through. The money was still a mystery, but at least we’d made progress on LoTempio. The kind of progress that gave us a strong new suspect.
Hey, I thought, catching myself. What’s with this “we” and “us” stuff?
Clarice cleared her throat and gave me a significant look.
“Thank you, Clarice. Nice work,” I said. “And no—I still don’t want you helping me.”
She pouted and gave me an “awww.”
“This isn’t a game, Clarice. It’s—”
The phone rang. The caller ID said unavailable.
Usually I’d assume it was a scammer. But pay phones often don’t have IDs either.
I picked up the phone and said simply, “Yes?”
“Alanis! Thank god you’re there!”
It was Marsha.
I didn’t let myself feel relieved—not until I knew more.
“Are you all right, Marsha? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“No, I’m not all right, Alanis. How could I be after what’s happened? Bill’s dead!”
“I know.”
“He wasn’t the best husband, I know. But…I loved him. And now he’s gone. I can’t believe it!”
“Just take a deep breath and try to calm down, Marsha. We need to talk things through. The police are looking for you.”
“I know. I’ve been talking to a detective—Burby. He’s asked so many questions, I can’t think straight anymore. I just picture Bill. Dead. Murdered!”
She started to cry.
“Where are you?”
The crying grew more intense, almost hysterical.
“Where are you, Marsha?”
Her response came out between strangled sobs.
“I’m…at the…police station.”
I went very still, and my next words were very quiet.
“Don’t say another word, Marsha. I’m going to find Eugene, and we’ll be right there to get you.”
“Don’t say another word? But—”
“Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”
Marsha finally stopped crying.
She didn’t stop panicking.
“Why would you say that? Do you think that…that the police…think that I…? But that’s crazy!”
“I know it is. So you have nothing to worry about. Just sit tight and stay quiet. I’ll see you soon.”
I started to hang up.
Before I could disconnect, I heard Marsha.
“But I didn’t do anything,” she said.
I hung up and dialed Eugene, Marsha’s words still ringing in my ears.
But I didn’t do anything.
Poor Marsha.
She had no idea that made no difference at all.
Now you’ve done it. Those giant Twizzlers looked pretty tempting, so you picked up a few—then a few more. Then you offered to carry one for Aunt Gladys and for Uncle Joe and your neighbor Ann. Before you knew it, you were loaded with a whole heap of heavy. And once you’ve picked all that up, it’s not easy finding someone willing to share the load. So you’d better rent a U-Haul…or steel yourself for a long, exhausting road ahead.
Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing
The Berdache Police Department is headquartered in a two-story building that was probably pretty spiffy around the time I was conceived. Now it just looks like a big beige sun-baked box. Parked out front were three cruisers and one me.
“I’ll wait here,” I told Eugene as I plopped down on a bench near the sidewalk. “I think I’ll do more harm than good if I go in.”
Eugene shot me a puzzled look. He still didn’t know the whole truth about my mother, how I’d been raised, and my less-than-cordial relationship with law enforcement. But he was too preoccupied to ask any questions.
I was picking up the tab for him to be there, but I wasn’t his client. She was inside with the police, who might or might not decide to let her leave with him.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But you might end up waiting a long time.”
“I won’t mind. I can entertain myself.” I looked up at the clouds drifting by overhead. I pointed at one. “Hey—that one looks like a bunny,” I said. “See?”
Eugene just grunted, spun on his heel, and headed inside.
After ten minutes, I started pacing. After another ten minutes, I started jonesing for a cigarette. Not that I smoke. It just seemed apropos for pacing in front of a police station.
After another ten minutes, the building’s front door opened.
I turned toward it with a smile on my face.
I got a sneer in return.
It wasn’t Eugene and Marsha stepping outside. It was a crooked bail bondsman named Anthony Grandi.
I knew he was crooked from stories I’d heard from Eugene. Oh, and the fact that Grandi and his sister had almost killed me once. That’s enough for “crooked” in my book.
The Grandi family had been my mother’s biggest competitors for local suckers, and they didn’t like me showing up just when she was finally out of their way. There was a truce between us—or at least no Grandis had tried to kill me lately—but I didn’t expect that to last forever.
Anthony Grandi was a burly, bald-headed man who favored black T-shirts and leather jackets and scowls, one of which he kept pointing my way.
I met his gaze and kept on smiling.
As Grandi stalked past me, he growled out an insult under his breath.
“Sorry—you’ll have to speak up,” I said. “Did you say ‘glow truck yourself’?
Grandi didn’t look back.
“Well, anyway…have a good one, Mr. Luthor!” I called after him.
It was a bad day. I had to take my pleasure where I could.
There was more waiting. More pacing. More longing for a pack of Kools. Then—
“Alanis!”
I turned, and there she was.
Marsha. Finally.
She was coming out of the police station with Eugene. On Eugene, really. She was leaning into his doughy body at a 70-degree angle.
The woman was a mess. Puffy eyes, frizzy hair, wrinkled clothes.
I hurried to her side.
“It’s all right now, Marsha,” I said to her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
There were sharp footsteps on the sidewalk behind me and Marsha stiffened, her eyes wide.
I glanced back.
A Berdache cop was walking our way. He gave us a not particularly curious look, then passed us and went inside.
Marsha whimpered and slumped even more against Eugene.
“Why don’t we go to my office?” Eugene said. “It’s nice and quiet there.”
He threw me a look that added and private.
Eugene’s office is indeed quiet and private. Whether it was nice would depend on your definition. If you find dark faux-wood paneling and plastic ferns and small, stuffy rooms with all the zest and color of a funeral home nice, then sure. It was very nice. Otherwise…
“Just when I was finally going to leave Bill…maybe…someone killed him. And the police act like it was me,” Marsha moaned, wiping tears from her cheeks. She swiveled in her chair to face me. “Could this be a punishment? For making the wrong decision?”
“No,” I said firmly.
The tears kept coming.
Eugene leaned across his desk to offer Marsha a white handkerchief he’d drawn from his pocket, which says a lot about the kind of guy Eugene is. He carries hankies and wears short-sleeved white work shirts and probably relaxes after a hard day’s work by firing up the turntable and listening to Pat Boone 45s.
Marsha took his handkerchief and buried her face in it. I waited till her sniffles stopped to speak again.
“Where did you go after you left the White Magic Five and Dime yesterday?”
Marsha lifted her head and peeped over at me warily. “Promise you won�
�t laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Because you’re not the person I thought you were. You must think I’m so dumb.”
I reached out and put a hand over hers. “I don’t think that, Marsha. I swear I don’t.”
Her expression didn’t change. She still looked timid—scared—of me. Because I’d hurt her.
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I am the person you think I am, Marsha,” I said. “There’s just more to that person than you know. You’ll know it all eventually. That’s a promise. For now, though, the important thing is I’m here to help. And I can’t help if I don’t know everything. So, please…tell me where you went.”
Marsha looked down at the floor and bit her lower lip. Then she looked up into my eyes again.
“I went walkabout,” she said.
It took all my self-control to stifle a huh?
“I see,” I lied instead.
I looked at Eugene. He was staring back at me with a cold intensity I’d never seen in him before.
And then the word—walkabout—came back to me from the distant past.
All those afternoons I’d been left to entertain myself in malls and motel rooms as a kid. All those hours I’d filled with fake friends and fake family from TV shows and movies while my only real family and my only real friend—Mom and Biddle—were off somewhere doing grownup things like lying and cheating and stealing.
That’s how I knew what walkabout was. From one of those fake friends who’d once made my life bearable.
“You went into the desert,” I said to Marsha. “You wandered in search of yourself.”
Marsha’s eyes went wide, and then she smiled. Just a little bit. I’d gotten it right and at just the right moment to win her back.
Thank you, Crocodile Dundee.
“Athena told me once that if a truly sensitive person went walkabout in the desert here, like the Aborigines do in the outback, the vortexes would reveal themselves,” Marsha said. “They would share their energy. Share their wisdom.”
Her tentative smile faded.
“But they didn’t, of course. I was so confused and frightened…and I found nothing out there. Nothing,” she said. “Because Athena was a fraud, wasn’t she?”
I sighed. And I nodded.
Fool Me Once: A Tarot Mystery Page 9