The White Magic Five & Dime (A Tarot Mystery)

by Steve Hockensmith

  “Someone Mr. Grandi’s done some work with,” I said. “Would it be okay to leave him a note?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  A moment went by.

  “Do you have a piece of paper I could write the note on?”

  The woman jerked her head at a tray six inches from her right elbow. It was filled with forms and ballpoint pens.

  “Use one of those.”

  Her eyes stayed on her phone.

  She was the perfect receptionist for a skeevy operation like this. When she told the cops “I never noticed anything suspicious,” she’d really mean it.

  I picked up one of the forms. bail bond application & contract was printed across the top. The back was blank.

  I sat in a cheap plastic chair covered with cigarette burns and graffiti and wrote my message using a copy of Rolling Stone for backing. I didn’t notice the date on the magazine, but the fact that Hootie and the Blowfish were on the cover said a lot.

  This is what I wrote:

  Dear Mr. Clean, (I got to use it after all!)

  You can save yourself the quarters and

  call from here next time. Or better yet,

  just come on over to my place and say hi

  in person. I’ve told Detective Logan you

  might be stopping by. My friends Smith

  and Wesson are anxious to meet you, too.

  Vice versa?

  Insinuatingly yours,

  The Object of Your Disaffection

  I folded the form over once and slid it onto the desk beside the texting receptionist.

  “You’ll see that Mr. Grandi gets that?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  No. She hadn’t, actually. But I didn’t bother saying so. I didn’t extend a middle finger just to see how long it would take her to notice it either. (My guess: between four and five minutes.) I wanted the note in Anthony Grandi’s hands, not in his garbage can.

  I may not pack heat, but sometimes it’s good to let people know you can burn them.

  Fiona Apple started singing again. I ignored her. There was another batch of lemonade to make.

  I headed back to my mom’s place and changed out of my Gypsy getup.

  This was a job for Businesswoman.

  It was awfully nice of Principal Little to see me on such short notice. But when someone from the Lions Club drops by to talk about prize money, accommodations are made, even in the middle of a busy school day.

  “Have a seat, Ms…McCoy, was it?”

  “Please,” I said. “Call me Julie.”

  Principal Little settled herself behind her desk. She was a little round dumpling of a woman you could pluck up with your chopsticks and eat in one bite.

  “All right, Julie. How can I help you?”

  “Well, as I said, I’m from the Sedona chapter of the Lions Club and I just happened to be in Berdache today on business so I thought I’d drop by and share the good news and see what kind of bang for the buck we can all get out of it. I assume you’re familiar with our annual Up with Academics! essay contest?”

  “Of course,” Principal Little lied. God bless her.

  “Then you’ll be thrilled to know that both the grand prize winner and the runner-up come from your school. Berdache High has three hundred and fifty dollars coming its way!”

  “Oh,” Principal Little said. “That’s great.”

  It was now obvious to her why she’d never heard of the Up with Academics! essay contest.

  “And Matt and Clarice both have three-minute shopping sprees coming to them at the Fashion Den in Sedona,” I said. “Though I suppose we should probably think about giving them a little extra time on account of their…darn it, I can never remember what I’m supposed to say instead of handicaps. Special attributes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wait, I’ll get it. Limitations? Challenges? Whatever. They’ll need more time due to their uniquely demanding life situations. But I think that’s what makes this such a great story. To be brutally honest with you, I’m hoping we can get a little ink for the Lions Club out of it. And for your school too, of course. I think people are going to be truly touched when they hear what Matt and Clarice have been able to achieve.”

  “I’m sorry, Julie. Hold on. Which students are we talking about here?”

  I went with the boyfriend first. The one Logan told me Clarice was out with the night my mother died. The one the girl supposedly got out of bed with a call the second she was through with 911.

  “The grand prize winner was Matt Gorman,” I said. Then I watched Principal Little.

  This was the whole reason for being here. Risking a pop-in instead of pulling something over the phone.

  What kind of kid was Matt Gorman? It should show on his principal’s face, assuming she knew him. And in a town this small, she would.

  Principal Little blinked. She frowned, but not in a scornful way. She looked puzzled but not shocked.

  Interpretation: Matt Gorman was an okay kid…at least as far as his principal knew.

  “His essay was called ‘Straight As and No Eyes,’” I said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a pun. Because of his…differently abledness.”

  “Julie, I have to tell you, I’m very confused. Matt Gorman is a good student, but he doesn’t get straight As and he’s certainly not differently abled.”

  “You mean he’s not blind?”

  “Blind? No! He does track and field! He’s on the wrestling team!”

  “I know that. It was in his essay.”

  “And you thought he was blind?”

  “Are you saying blind people can’t wrestle?”

  “No no no! But Matt Gorman isn’t blind.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Oh my. I’m almost afraid to ask if Clarice Stewart really is quadriplegic.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Is she even a cheerleader?”

  “What?”

  “The title of her essay was ‘Give Me a Q, Give Me a U, Give Me an A, Give Me a—’”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “First quadriplegic cheerleader in Arizona.”

  “I get it.”

  “We all wondered why we’d never seen her on the news.”

  Principal Little buried her face in her hands.

  “I am so sorry,” she said into her palms.

  “We got…punked, is it?”

  Somehow Principal Little found the strength to face me again.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Have Matt and Clarice done anything like this before?”

  “Nothing like this. But there have been incidents. They’re sort of…partners in crime.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “Clarice has come this close to expulsion more than once. But we’ve tried to be understanding.” Principal Little gave me a significant look. “Difficult home life.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame.”

  “It is. I’d be surprised if Clarice was behind this, though. She and Matt won’t ever be valedictorian, but they’re smart. Too smart to put their own names on fake essays for a contest.”

  “Do they have enemies? People who would want to get them into trouble like this?”

  “Not that I know of. But I’ll be looking into it, I assure you.”

  “I appreciate that. Though…well, I’m sorry, but you know this means your school won’t be getting the three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Principal Little offered me a tight smile.

  “Yes. I realize that. Now why don’t I show you out?”

  I insisted that Principal Little stay put. No need to waste any more of her valuable time.

 
And no need for Clarice to spot us together and put me in an awkward spot. Which is exactly what would have happened.

  She was sitting under a tree in front of the school when I saw her. A goth lite girl sat beside her—short, electric-blue hair and heavy eyeliner but no piercings or tats. They were huddled up talking so intensely they probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d tap-danced past them waving sparklers. All the same, I veered away, putting my back to them before they might notice me.

  I didn’t see any sign of Clarice’s “partner in crime.” But I’d be meeting him soon.

  I was going to make sure of that.

  I got another call from LOGAN BPD as I drove away. This time I picked up.

  “Talk fast. I’m driving.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be on the phone.”

  “Arrest me.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  I heard the beep-squawk of a police radio.

  “Hey,” I said. “You’re driving.”

  “Guilty as charged. But I’m going to let myself off with a warning.”

  “Hypocrite.”

  “It comes with the badge.”

  “I know.”

  “This is actually good timing.”

  “What is?”

  “Us both being in our cars.”

  “You want to drag race?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “It’s not the Grand Canyon, is it? I’ve seen it.”

  “It has to do with your mother.”

  “Where do I go?”

  I swung by my mom’s place before meeting Logan. I wanted to slip back into the Stevie Nicks costume he’d seen me in that morning.

  Consistency should be your number-one priority. Always, Biddle used to say. People notice something’s changed, they start asking questions. And if they’re asking questions, that means they’re thinking, and if they’re thinking, then we’re screwed.

  Then about five minutes would go by, and Biddle would say something like “Why would you wear boots like that? You don’t want to be noticed. Blending in should be your number-one priority. Always.”

  “But you said consistency was—” I’d start to say.

  And he’d just smile.

  It wasn’t the Grand Canyon, but it was a canyon, and it was grand. Logan walked me up to a spot called Devil’s Ridge where we could look out over it. From up there, the world was just three colors: red (rock), green (brush), and blue (sky). If it hadn’t been for the plants, I’d have thought I was on Mars.

  The town was behind us. The road, too. Nothing moved. We were alone.

  Logan was standing close beside me. A gust of warm desert wind ruffled his dark curls. His hair was a little thick and longish for a cop, so it actually looked okay ruffled. In fact, I was tempted to reach up and ruffle it more myself. Or maybe I just wanted to give the guy a noogie. He seemed very noogie-able somehow.

  I refocused on the view.

  It was a good thing I’m not afraid of heights, because the ridge jutted out like a granite diving board to nowhere. Do a swan dive from there and you’d end up spread over the rocks below like jellied Spam.

  An eagle screamed as it swooped past us into the valley.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Majestic.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awe-inspiring.”

  “Totally.”

  “Perplexing.”

  “Uhhh…perplexing?”

  “As in, what does a beautiful, majestic, awe-inspiring view have to do with my mother?”

  “There is a connection. Do you know where we are?”

  “Devil’s Ridge.”

  “Yeah, but what is Devil’s Ridge?”

  “A ridge. What the devil has to do with it, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you feel anything here? Sense something special?”

  “Now that you mention it…yes…yes, I do feel something. It feels like…mild irritation. Or maybe it’s just heartburn.”

  “It’s too bad you don’t pick up anything more, Alanis. Because Devil’s Ridge is our claim to fame.” Logan held his arms out wide. “This is Berdache’s vortex.”

  “You’ve only got the one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sedona’s got, like, four.”

  Logan let his arms drop back to his sides. “That’s why Sedona gets four times as many tourists.”

  “So this is where all the mystical energy’s supposed to be swirling around?”

  “That’s right.”

  I licked a finger and stuck it up in the air.

  “Nope,” I said after a moment. “Nothing.”

  “It’s the same for me. But then again, I’m not trying to pass myself off as a psychic.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “So you’re not going to reopen your mother’s shop?”

  “Oh, I am. But tarot readers aren’t necessarily psychic. They’re merely adept at using a specific set of symbols, shuffled by the random hand of chance, to assess an individual’s past, present, and prospects.”

  Infinite Roads to Knowing, page 3.

  “That’s a good explanation,” Logan said. “I just thought they were bullshit artists.”

  I shrugged. “Six to one…”

  “Look, Alanis, I’m going to be blunt.”

  “You weren’t already?”

  “I like you, but Berdache doesn’t need another phony. And…well…”

  “Just look at what happened to the last one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That autopsy report has you spooked.”

  “It threw me, anyway. If the ME’s right about how your mother was killed—from behind, with something like a sleeper hold—that changes how this feels. It starts to look like it wasn’t a simple B&E gone wrong after all.”

  I’ve never been a fan of the prefab snarkism “gee, ya think?” So I managed not to say it.

  “I think you might be onto something,” I said instead. “You know who likes sleeper holds? Bounty hunters. And from the hints you dropped about Anthony Grandi, I get the feeling he doesn’t always farm out his skip tracing to freelancers.”

  “What do you know about Anthony Grandi?”

  “Not enough. You want to tell me more?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. You know what else a sleeper hold could mean? A pro from out of town. No murder weapon, no fingerprints—it seems pretty tidy for an amateur.”

  “Even amateurs get lucky.”

  “True. But how many of them know how to kill someone with the inside of their arm?”

  “That could have been unintentional. A struggle that got out of hand.”

  “Maybe. It’s hard to imagine someone unintentionally putting my mother in a headlock, though. By the way, did you know that Matt Gorman is on the Berdache High wrestling team?”

  “Alanis, would you please stop…what was that?”

  “Did you know that Matt Gorman is a wrestler?”

  “No. No, I didn’t, actually.”

  “Who knows what kinds of holds he’s picked up, right?”

  “Yeah, I get it. And I appreciate the information. Really. But you don’t have to lead me around by the nose. This isn’t Mayberry, and I’m not Barney Fife.”

  “Wow. How old are you?”

  Logan gaped at me a moment before answering.

  “Thirty-six.”

  “I didn’t think thirty-six-year-olds knew who Barney Fife was anymore.”

  “My granddad liked that show. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “So how is it you know who Barney Fife is?”

  “I spent a lot of time in Mayberry as a kid.” I spread my arms wide, just as Logan had a couple minu
tes before. “So here we are in a wellspring of spiritual energy, the grandeur of creation stretched out before us, a murder to solve…and we’re talking about The Andy Griffith Show.”

  “I have a murder to solve. You have a mother to bury.”

  “I’d rather solve a murder.”

  Logan put on an I’m-not-joking-around-here face. It was almost even a you-have-no-idea-how-much-you’re-pissing-me-off face. It wasn’t very pretty.

  “Hey, I’m just messing with you,” I said. “Like I’d ever interfere with a police investigation. I like to stay as far away from those as possible.”

  Now Logan was wearing a you’re-full-of-crap-and-I-know-it face. It was only slightly more becoming.

  “Don’t you even care that you might be putting yourself in danger just by staying here?”

  “Nah.”

  Logan stepped closer to me, and we were already close to begin with. If he wanted to get any closer, he’d only have about two inches to work with. I was surprised he wasn’t standing on my toes.

  “Alanis,” he said.

  I had to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. They were filled with exasperation but also tenderness and something like wistfulness. Jam-packed, those eyes. They could really multitask.

  It occurred to me that I might be about to receive the most poorly timed, surprising, and inappropriate kiss of my life. Which is saying a lot, considering my life and the kisses in it. There haven’t been many and they almost never felt right.

  I braced myself.

  Actually, “braced myself” isn’t quite right. Being kissed by a big, good-looking guy like Detective Josh Logan wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. I could take it. I’m tough.

  I prepared myself.

  “Hey, Kevin!” someone called out. “Don’t forget the peace pipe!”

  I turned to find a gaggle of middle-aged white guys in T-shirts and shorts trudging up the trail from the parking lot. Most of them were carrying tribal drums adorned with feathers and beads.

  I felt a sudden urge to throw myself off the cliff.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to go before anyone gets in touch with his inner wild man.”

  “Me, too,” Logan sighed. A moment before, we’d been close enough to mambo, but now he was scooting back from me. “I still have more to say, though.”