by Ani Gonzalez
Then she looked around, as if wary of being observed, and ducked into the dining room.
Her companion then left, but not before Sean got a clear look at his face.
It was Carl, the hotel porter.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LUANNE POLISHED off her crab cakes before Rachel was done with her introduction. The woman was thanking everyone, including the hotel staff and the Cygnus constellation.
With one notable omission.
And she wasn't the only one noticing. Viola had sat down at a table in the back, staring into space, her soup untouched. She had apparently been fond of Walter. Had she realized the association had already consigned him to the memory hole? That Walter had become the elephant the association leadership had decided not to address?
A waiter brought Viola a platter of crab cakes, but she waved him away. She did not seem to be hungry.
"And without further ado," Rachel continued, "I present our president, Morgana Shaw."
The group broke into lukewarm applause, and Morgana, dressed in her usual black tunic, stood up and walked toward the podium. The audience's tepid reaction was very different from the reception Rachel had gotten, but it reflected fatigue more than dislike. Rachel's introduction had exhausted everyone.
"Thank you," Morgana said once she reached the microphone. "As Rachel has already said—at length, and then repeated—we are very grateful for your presence here." The crowd responded with timid laughter.
Luanne was once again struck by the association president's haggard and fragile appearance. Her voice was a tired whisper and she moved as if she were carrying a huge burden.
"Our association was founded in 1984 as a source of support and education for members or our profession," Morgana said. "Since then, we have faced many challenges and taken advantage of many opportunities."
Luanne stifled a groan. This was going to be one of Morgana's history lesson speeches. Those could drag on forever. Luanne considered that no fortune-teller in the room could predict how long the speech would last.
"The first challenge, of course was television, with our founding member, Sultana Samira, being a pioneer in that field."
This resulted in an outpouring of applause. Samira stood up and bowed in recognition. Luanne joined in enthusiastically.
"I guess Samira is popular with the group," Sean said.
"She was the first to use late-night TV shows to advertise," Luanne replied. "Her show was cheap and tacky by today's standards, but she broke barriers."
"Who could ever forget her genius tagline," Morgana continued. "Succeed with Sultana Samira, and her delightful Turban Talk public-access television segments."
"Or the shirtless male assistants," Samira shouted. "Don't forget them."
The crowd's laughter was tinged with embarrassment.
Morgana nodded, a slight blush tingeing her cheeks. "They were particularly memorable, and they made our conventions very interesting."
Samira gave a theatrical sigh. "I miss my boys."
"So do we," someone in the back shouted.
That broke the ice and the group broke into enthusiastic applause.
"Samira's show started a wave of innovation as our members enthusiastically embraced the medium's possibilities. From catchy jingles to sophisticated animations, our members raised the bar every year."
Someone snorted at the "sophisticated animations" line and Luanne giggled in response. Samira's graphics had been anything but sophisticated. Morgana was stretching the truth quite a bit there.
"Next came..." Morgana's voice trailed off as she checked her notes.
Luanne held her breath. Next, of course, came Wally Figueroa, DBA Walter Farsight, who had stolen Samira's shtick and used it to land a gig in a local TV morning show in Miami. From there, he made the jump to a nationally-syndicated talk show, and the rest was history.
Luanne glanced at Samira. The elderly fortune-teller was sitting perfectly still, narrowed eyes focused on Morgana.
"Next, er, came the financial advancements in our industry. Our lovely Leslie helped us master computer-based accounting, and she adapted various online platforms for our business."
Samira relaxed as the audience broke into applause. Leslie, sitting near the back of the room, responded with a shy smile, but did not stand. Viola, sitting next to her and looking distracted, clapped politely.
Morgana's face was devoid of expression as she praised the organization's treasurer. And she was really heaping up the praise. Leslie was a godsend. She had saved them from an IRS audit, and was thus gifted with the organization's trust.
And Leslie grew paler and paler with every word. She sat at her table, eyes fixed on Morgana, a tremulous smile plastered on her face.
"Looks like your theory was right," Sean murmured. "There seems to be something going on there."
Luanne nodded. "And Morgana keeps talking about trust. I think that word has come up at least a dozen times during this speech."
"That's likely not a coincidence," Sean said.
The certainty in his voice made Luanne suspect that he knew more than he was letting on. Oh, what had Leslie done? Morgana had chosen the orisha Eleggua for her obi oracle reading, and that deity ruled tricksters, thieves, and fraudsters. That seemed significant.
"She stole money, didn't she?" Luanne whispered to Sean.
Sean didn't answer, but he didn't deny it, which meant she was right. Leslie had stolen money from the association, and Morgana knew it.
Luanne felt a surge of sympathy for Leslie. Yes, stealing money from the association was a horrible crime, but Luanne had once been accused of a financial crime and she knew what being a target felt like.
And did embezzlement have anything to do with Walter's death? Not necessarily. The two situations could be completely unrelated—
"Wait, you weren't looking through the association's records today," she said. "You were in Walter's coach."
Sean's mouth tightened, but he nodded.
That meant that whatever information he'd acquired had been in Walter's possession. So Walter knew about the theft? What had he planned to do about it?
Well, whatever he'd planned, he wasn't going to carry it out now.
Could Leslie have committed murder to protect her secret? Luanne couldn't quite buy it. Leslie was such a, well, she was such a doormat. It was hard to picture her sneaking up to Walter and pushing him off a cliff.
But people were capable of terrible feats when cornered.
Morgana mercifully moved on to congratulate another association member who had come up with the StarChart computer program. A thin woman with gray hair and a gold-colored zodiac blouse stood up to take a bow. Luanne joined what quickly became a standing ovation.
The StarChart program really was a marvel. Maybe it would help figure out if Leslie had killed Walter. She didn't know Walter's or Leslie's birthdates, but surely there was a way to—
A bloodcurdling scream made her jump.
Sean leapt out of his chair. Luanne looked up, her heart thumping against her chest. Morgana still stood behind the podium, her face completely white. Rachel stood behind her, looking similarly shocked.
"Someone call an ambulance!"
At first, Luanne couldn't identify the voice, but then she saw Samira standing next to Leslie's table, her face grim.
Leslie had collapsed against her chair, her face red and her limbs hanging limply down the sides.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"SUICIDE CHOWDER," Mary-Louise said as they watched the paramedics drive away. "That's a first one for me."
They were standing by the hotel's side door. They day was sunny and bright, but the group's mood was somber.
"Are you sure it was intentional?" Sean asked.
Not that he didn't trust the Mystic Bay sheriff, but something about Leslie's misadventure made him suspicious.
Mary-Louise nodded. "We'll check the bloodwork and the chowder itself, but that's our current theory. She knew she was allergic, she was given a pl
ain potato soup, but she reached for her table companion's chowder and ate the whole thing."
Sean remembered Leslie's sightless gaze during the speeches. Her nervous movements. The way her eyes had been riveted on Morgana's face as she stirred the soup.
Had she taken the soup, or had it been given to her?
"It would have been on her mind," Mary-Louise continued. "Apparently, she'd been calling the hotel, asking them to change the menu because some catastrophe or other was imminent."
Yes, he remembered Morgana mentioning that. Leslie had gone to see if they could change the crab to chicken.
"Viola sat next to her at the table," Sean noted. "Was it her chowder?"
"Unclear at this point."
But it seemed likely. Most attendees had finished the soup appetizer and were being served the crab cake entree, but a late arrival like Viola would have likely gotten a fresh soup.
Maybe their fragile-looking Ophelia wasn't so innocent after all.
Mary-Louise sighed. "Good thing Samira had an epinephrine injection handy."
"Yes, very lucky."
But luck may have had little to do with it. Samira had been suspiciously well-prepared. The old fortune-teller would probably say she'd seen it happen on her crystal ball or star chart or, something like that, but it still made one wonder.
"Well, we have to talk to the group," Mary-Louise said. "But, first, let's go back to the room so you can tell me what you saw."
They headed back to the conference room where the association had hosted its lunch. The yellow chairs and gingham tablecloths were incongruously cheerful, as the association members had left and the room was now occupied by stone-faced police officers, most belonging to neighboring counties. Mary-Louise had sent for reinforcements.
A few association members milled outside the back doors. One of them was Luanne, and he thought he saw Morgana standing behind her.
He couldn't blame them for being concerned. Leslie would probably recover, but this was the second mishap to strike the convention. Those ominous readings the fortune-tellers had gotten had been one-hundred percent correct.
"The association secretary did the introductions," he said. "They were very long."
He should ask Luanne if that was normal. The long introduction would have been a perfect way to distract the group.
"That's when the soup was served?" Mary-Louise asked.
"The waiters came from behind us and placed the soup on the table. It was clearly labeled as crab soup on the menu on Leslie's table."
He'd checked as soon as the paramedics took Leslie away. She had a menu next to her seat, stating "crab and corn chowder appetizer."
"And you said Leslie had tried to get the shellfish dishes changed?" Mary-Louise asked.
"Yes." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She would know what was being served better than anyone."
"And she was sitting at the table before the soup was served?"
"She was there when I entered the room."
"Anything unusual at all?"
Sean closed his eyes and tried to recall. "She looked nervous and shy, but that's her normal demeanor. She always looks like that. She has an anxious personality."
Mary-Louise nodded. "That would explain why Morgana's speech would get to her."
Sean nodded. "She was sitting pretty far back, but the rest of the senior members were sitting in front. She sat alone at first."
"When did that change?"
"Right before Morgana started speaking. I think that's when Viola sat down next to Leslie."
Walter's assistant had leapt back when Leslie collapsed. She'd stood there, immobile, as Samira had injected the epinephrine into the unconscious woman.
That could be due to shock, but the end result was that Viola had done nothing to assist Leslie.
"Any particular reason?"
"I don't think so. Viola was outside the room, chatting with the hotel porter. She came in right before Morgana started speaking and that was the table closest to the door."
Mary-Louise raised a brow. "So Leslie was chatting with the guy who saw Leslie and Walter fighting?"
Sean nodded. Carl had rushed into the room when he'd heard the commotion, and he'd been next to Viola in a matter of seconds.
But he worked in the hotel, and was supposed to help out. There was nothing suspicious in that, right?
"We should look into Carl," Mary-Louise said. "Also, we finally got the results from Walter's autopsy. He had bruises around his hips and back, as if he had been pushed against the rail and tipped over."
Sean drew in a breath. "Not an accident, then."
Mary-Louise shook her head. "It wasn't self-inflicted, either, not unless he ran himself over with his coach before he jumped."
Sean raised a brow. "The bruises were that big? It must have been quite a fight."
Mary-Louise's face hardened. "I figure Leslie will tell us about it when she wakes up."
Sean nodded, but he still had his doubts. The Mystic Bay sheriff sounded very sure of herself, and her case seemed relatively clear-cut. Leslie was stealing money. Walter found her out. They fought in the parking lot and, likely thinking of Walter's dramatic pronunciation at the rest stop, Leslie pushed him over the rail.
Then, consumed with guilt as Morgana thanked her for her services to the association, Leslie stole Viola's crab chowder and opted for self-inflicted asphyxiation as an ending.
"Makes sense. Explains everything," Sean muttered under his breath. "But I think we're missing something."
He just couldn't figure out what.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"AT LEAST now we know who did it," someone whispered behind Luanne.
"Do we?" someone else asked.
The question hung in the air. Luanne desperately wanted to know who was speaking, but didn't dare turn around. At least Morgana and Rachel hadn't heard. They both sat in front of her, glancing anxiously at the conference room door.
And neither one looked relieved.
"I should have known she would try something," Morgana said, her voice choked with sobs.
"Nonsense," Luanne replied, putting her arm around the association president's shoulders.
Morgana had no way of knowing, as she was unfamiliar with the Obi oracle. Only Kat and Luanne knew that Morgana's final shell pattern could mean a death, but they'd both thought it referred to Walter's. Neither had considered there could be another tragedy.
"She's going to be fine," Rachel said, as she fiddled with a leather pouch.
Several police officers passed them by and entered the conference room. Mary-Louise, it seemed, had asked for reinforcements. The day before, there were half-a-dozen officers milling around. Today, there were at least twenty.
And one of them was Sean, who was probably livid at having another death right under his nose.
No, wait, not a death. Thanks to Samira's quick thinking, Leslie had been alive when she'd been carried out of the room, and, according to the police, she would stay that way.
But the association would seek additional reassurance. Not that they didn't trust the police, but the fortune-tellers had their own methods. Leslie, for example, was now taking smooth round stones from her leather bag and laying them down in a straight line.
Morgana gave her a sidelong glance. "Oh, runes are unreliable. They can say anything."
Rachel drew herself up. "You could be a little more open-minded, Morgana."
Luanne raised a brow. Morgana's reaction was surprising. She had, after all, been throwing cowrie shells around like a pro this morning. There wasn't much of a difference between seashells and stones, was there?
Morgana sniffed. "I bet you still have the resin ones from the seventies too."
Luanne stifled a smile. Morgana was an oracle snob. Some members were like that, and only the most obscure Tarot decks or complicated star charts would satisfy them.
Rachel stiffened, her fingers tightening around her suede bag. The runes made no noise, which made Luanne
smile more broadly. They were, as Morgana had guessed, made of resin.
Luanne, herself, was not an oracle snob. Resin or stone, it was all the same. It all depended on the talent of the reader, and Rachel was one of the best.
The association's secretary took a deep breath and turned over the first stone, her face breaking into a smile as she caught sight of the engraved symbol. It was a familiar trident shape—the rune for protection, for life.
Luanne's muscles relaxed. Leslie would be okay.
Morgana noticed. "So you're sure? Both of you?"
"Sure of what?" a gravelly voice asked.
Luanne turned to see Sultana Samira staring at them. The old fortune-teller seemed unfazed by her recent adventure. Her turban was perfectly positioned, and her caftan was neat as a pin.
Luanne felt like a frump next to her. She'd worn her best tunic for the lunch, but it was now wrinkled and she was pretty sure there was a crab chowder stain down the front. She wasn't sure how that had gotten there. Maybe when Sean ran toward Leslie, tipping their table in the process? Maybe when someone screamed, making a waiter drop his tray?
She couldn't remember. In any case, she'd stood several feet away from Leslie and had ended up with an eau de crab chowder bath, while Samira, who had leapt to the treasurer's rescue, looked fresh as a daisy. Her only concession to age was a glossy wood cane with a silver topper that she now used to get about.
"We're sure Leslie will be okay," Morgana answered. "Rachel just—"
"Oh, please," Samira snorted. "Of course Leslie will be fine. I made sure of that. Now what about that boat tour?"
"What?" Luanne asked.
"The Chessie boat tour," Samira said. "We were supposed to have it later this afternoon. Is it still on?"
Morgana frowned. "I guess. I mean, we paid for it."
"There was also a town walk," Rachel said. "But I doubt anyone is feeling up to it."
"Nonsense," Samira said, banging her cane on the floor. "Of course we are. We carry on as normal."
"We do?" Luanne asked, feeling anything but normal.
Rachel frowned. "I don't think it's the right—"
