Death in the Cards (3 page)

“Damn it, where's my cell?” Cherry cried. Mascara, lipsticks, tissues, Tootsie Rolls, and other assorted goodies all plopped out onto the bar.

Sally was on her feet, hands on her hips. “What'd the guy look like? I'll take care of him.” She cracked her knuckles again.

You've gotta love friends like this. Or else you'd kill 'em.

I put a hand on Sally's shoulder, tried to press her back down to the barstool. “It wasn't like that. I said I was
more or less
mugged. I'm fine. For pity's sake, here's your phone, Cherry, but don't dial 911.” I plucked her cell phone out from under a pile of tissues and York Peppermint Patties.

I myself had just gotten a cell phone a month before, after Guy had fainted at Stillwater. The incident had scared me because Guy's health has always been excellent. After that, I got the cell because I wanted the Stillwater staff to be able to reach me anytime, anywhere.

Sally picked up a patty, unwrapped it, plopped it in her
mouth, and said around it, “I thought you were on another diet, Cherry?”

Cherry gave her a look. “Those are just for breath freshening,” she said, with a defensive sniff. I considered pointing out the lower fat grams of Tic-Tacs, then thought better of it. “And you gave us a scare, Josie Toadfern. Explain yourself.”

I helped Cherry sweep everything back into her purse. Sally plucked up another Peppermint Patty before Cherry could swat her hand. Sally does not diet. She has a firmly toned hourglass figure, even after birthing triplets, damn her. Cherry and I are, well, pleasantly plump.

“The psychic fair is going on this weekend—”

“We know,” said Cherry.

“—and I was delivering the Rhinegolds' laundry order when I met one of the psychics. A woman named Ginny Proffitt. And she, well, she forced a psychic reading on me!”

Sally and Cherry stared at me.

Sally crumpled up her York Peppermint Patty wrappers. I swallowed. Only Sally could make squashing two one-square-inch pieces of aluminum foil look intimidating. Well, maybe Ginny Proffitt could, too.

“That's it?” asked Sally. “Some little old lady in a gypsy skirt wants to tell you 'love is around the corner and don't forget to buy a lottery ticket' and you can't say 'no, thanks?'”

“She wasn't little. Or old. Or much of a lady, for that matter. She was pushy and her prediction was much more spooky than that.”

Cherry clutched my arm, looking suddenly alarmed. “She didn't say you were going to be in a wreck, did she? 'Cause once at the county fair me and Marcia Jean went to see the gypsy lady—”

“I said she wasn't like a gypsy lady—”

“And when Marcia Jean wouldn't tip the gypsy lady, she
hollered that Marcia would be in a wreck, and sure enough, she was. Fractured her fibia in both legs!”

“You mean tibia—” I started.

“How long was the wreck after the prediction?” Sally asked skeptically.

“Twelve years. But still—”

“I'm sorry I brought it up,” I moaned.

“C'mon, Josie, tell us what she said,” Cherry pleaded.

I paused. I couldn't tell them about my dreams about Mrs. Oglevee. Sally would never let me hear the end of it. And Cherry would give me a list of questions for Mrs. Oglevee, no doubt about her future love life and whether or not she should add a new line of styling gel to her salon.

But I had to tell them something. “I have this same dream over and over,” I said. “It's—it's about drowning in the lake. Like Great-Aunt Noreen always said we would do. And it's got all of these specific details, like the color of the swimsuit I'm wearing—”

“Bright orange bikini?” Cherry asked.

I frowned at her. “Navy one-piece.”

Cherry frowned back. “Hmmm. That doesn't sound so bad. I mean, if this is a nightmare, bright orange bikini would be more fitting—”

“For pity's sake, it's my nightmare!” Okay, it was my imaginary, white-lie nightmare. But still. “Anyway, the point is, there's no way this woman could know the details of my dream, but she looked at my palm, and the next thing I know, she's telling me all about it. Don't you think that's creepy?”

“Don't the psychic fair organizers rent the apartment next to yours?” Sally said.

“Yeah. Damon and Sienna LeFever. So what?”

“Well, so what if you hollered out some details about your dream in your sleep without knowing it and they heard it and mentioned it to this Ginny?”

I felt a surge of hope, and then frowned again. “I don't holler out in my dreams.”

“You sure about that? Lots of people do and don't realize it.”

Cherry gave me a sly look. “Yeah, Sally's right. You should check with Owen.”

I didn't say anything. She and Sally'd been trying for weeks to get me to say if Owen and I sometimes spent the night together. I figured it was none of their business.

Sally chuckled, and put down two dollars to cover her coffee and a tip. She stood up. “C'mon, let's go see what we can learn about this Ginny Proffitt.”

“What? No—we'll be late for the tour!”

The LeFevers had organized a tour for the fair's psychics to Serpent Mound, the largest serpent effigy in the United States, created by the Fort Ancient Indian culture sometime between
A.D
. 1000 and 1500. The mound—which is about three feet high and coils for about 1,300 feet atop a plateau overlooking the valleys around it—has been a Ohio Historical Society park for about a century and is a National Historic Landmark. Which means lots of nearby school groups visit it.

But because it is believed to have been created for religious or spiritual purposes, it's also long been a draw for followers of New Age beliefs, which included many (although not all) of the psychics coming to the psychic fair.

I'd been invited along on the LeFevers' tour of the Serpent Mound because I'd staunchly defended the LeFevers against the ranting rage of Pastor Dru Purcell, leader of the Paradise Church of Almighty Revelations that my Aunt Clara had attended long ago, then abruptly quit. Dru had crashed several Chamber of Commerce meetings demanding we rise up against the force of the devil, as he called it, moving into our town in the form of the LeFevers and their new business, Rising Star Bookshop and Psychic Readings. I'd spoken up for freedom of religion, business, and expression—all of which are intertwined—and said we should welcome and support the LeFevers.

I made the same statements at a city council meeting at which Pastor Purcell had called the LeFevers “dangerous weirdos” and demanded Paradise be rezoned free of businesses “based on or catering to psychic phenomena, Wicca, or other alternate New Age beliefs.” Several chamber members wavered toward Pastor Purcell's point of view, until I pointed out that we in Paradise benefited from visitors to Serpent Mound, which besides being a historical monument was a draw for many New Age visitors because of the mound's spiritual nature. So, in effect, our entire town's economy catered to what Pastor Purcell decried as spiritually dangerous. Why, I'd said, besides selling gas to Serpent Mound visitors who passed through town, Elroy's Gas Station and Body Shop even offered a fine selection of Serpent Mound postcards and souvenirs. (At that, Elroy went a little pale and looked nervous.)

In the end, my argument prevailed and the LeFevers opened Rising Star and happily planned for what they hoped would be the first of many psychic fairs in Paradise. And as a thank-you, the LeFevers invited me to join their tour of Serpent Mound and to bring some friends. Winnie Porter was working the bookmobile and my boyfriend Owen Collins was teaching at the Masonville Community College, so I'd asked Cherry and Sally, who'd happily agreed, thinking a tour of Serpent Mound with a bunch of psychics (instead of teachers and fellow students) would be a “hoot.”

“The tour doesn't start for another half hour,” Cherry was saying, drawing me back to the present conversation. She clutched her short skirt's hem so she could slide off her stool
with some modesty. She pulled two dollars from her Marilyn Monroe bag and put them on the bar.

“Look, I overreacted, let's just let it go—” I said, but my friends had already headed away from the bar into the dining room. I looked at the bar. My cup of coffee was still half full.

But I tossed down two bucks, too, and went after Sally and Cherry, hoping to catch up before they could offend Paradise's guests—the visiting psychics—by calling them gypsy women. That would most definitely not be a “hoot.”

3

The dining room had been rearranged for the psychic fair. The square tables were lined up in rows and cleared of their usual trappings—sweetener packets, paper napkin dispensers, salt and pepper shakers labeled
S
and
P.
The tables were covered with white, spotless tablecloths, which gave me a wee swelling of pride.

The cloths had come out of the Rhinegolds' storage room, after having been entombed there for nearly a decade, and I'd been hired the previous week to wash and de-stain them just for this event. Rust spots from our town's water had emerged on the tablecloths, not an uncommon problem with old linens. But lemon juice and sunlight had taken care of the rust spots, and a careful washing on the delicate cycle had made the cloths almost as good as new.

The chairs were placed on either side of the rows, I reckoned for psychics on one side and . . . well, what would you call people getting their futures read? Psych-ees? . . . on the other. The room was mostly empty, except for two women
unpacking boxes behind one of the tables, and Damon LeFever, huddled over in one of the booths.

These booths, plus a few tables, had been left available for diners. Usually, the Red Horse just serves drinks and snacks in its combined bar and dining room. Luke and Greta Rhinegold, the Red Horse owners, were in their seventies and Greta had given up cooking full menus about five years before, due to her arthritis. But for this event, the Red Horse would offer hot dogs, hamburgers, and chips.

A corner of the dining room was blocked off with movable panels to create a private area, whether for the psychics or some other purpose, I wasn't quite sure.

The only other people in the dining room were two women who looked like a mother and daughter. They were arguing in low voices, but we could hear them because the room was nearly empty.

“Geez, ma, how many times do I have to tell you? All those brochures would have made the table too crowded,” the younger woman was saying. The strength of her voice was a surprise, coming from behind a sheath of long blond hair that hung down her back and in her face. She was very thin and dressed in jeans and a pale blue T-shirt that didn't quite meet her jeans' waistband. She wore thick-soled shoes with chunky high heels.

“But, Skylar, what if we run out like we did last time? I just don't think fifty flyers is enough.” The older woman was a little heavier, a little shorter, and had short, cropped blond hair. But she, too, wore jeans and a blue T-shirt and high-heeled chunky shoes. I shuddered at that. I've always thought that dressing alike on purpose was a little creepy. I wondered whose choice it was and guessed the mom's.

Sally frowned at me. “Shouldn't they know exactly how many brochures they'll need, I mean, if they're psychic and all?”

“Lord, what I could do with that child's hair with braids, if I just had a chance,” Cherry moaned, wiggling her fingers.

“Hush, you two,” I said in a harsh whisper. “Why don't we just let this whole thing drop, okay? We don't want to be late for the tour. C'mon, it's a gorgeous day, we'll wait outside . . .”

“For pity's sake, Josie, we have a whole half hour before the tour leaves,” said Cherry. She started toward the two women who were still arguing over whether they had enough brochures. “Yoo hoo! Oh, psychic ladies!”

I moaned.

The women stopped talking, and stared at the three of us. At least, the older woman did. The younger woman's features were still hidden behind her hair, so it was hard to tell.

“We're hoping to find a woman named Ginny Proffitt. Do you know where she is?”

They kept staring.

“Maybe they prefer you communicate with them mentally. You know, think what you want to say to them, and they'll pick it up on their brain waves,” Sally said.

“Good idea,” Cherry said. She closed her eyes, scrunched up her face in such intense concentration that I knew she was going to have mascara smudges from her upper lashes below her eyes. Then she started moaning, in a long, flat “O-o-o-om.”

Now the two women were really studying us. The younger one had even tucked her hair behind her ears, so her eyes were clear to stare at us. She had a sweet, innocent face.

I'd had enough. I walked over to the women. “Hi. I'm Josie Toadfern. Sorry about my friends. I reckon they've never met psychics before.” I paused. The women's expression hadn't changed, except now their staring was focused on me. And I couldn't tell what they were thinking. The irony of the fact that I wished I had the power to know wasn't lost on
me, and it made me smile, and relax a little. “I reckon I haven't, either.”

The younger woman sighed. “That's okay. We get jokes all the time about our calling.” Hmmm. I'd never thought of being a psychic as a calling. More like something that would be thrust on you, whether you wanted it or not. Kind of like flat feet.

“People think psychics automatically just know things—like what people are thinking, or precise details about the future—” she glanced over my shoulder at Sally and Cherry. I'd heard them shuffling toward us, but the shuffling stopped with the woman's glance—“as if we can just look such things up, as if being a psychic means having access to some otherworldly encyclopedia. It's more like the ability to get an impression, through intuition, like . . .”