Tally turned her blond head to gaze at Marla with wide blue eyes. “You don’t think Wilda is a true medium? Or is it that you don’t believe the soul lives on after death?”
“It’s not a matter of what I believe. Why would Wilda say Carolyn wants me to find her murderer?”
“Perhaps she did get a message from beyond.”
Glancing at the rearview mirror, Marla grimaced. An edge of storm clouds marched from the west. She pressed the accelerator, hoping to beat the torrential tropical downpour. “Wilda claimed messages come through in symbols, not words. Telepathy is the means of transmission. So how do you think Wilda received this message, as an image of Carolyn’s dead body? And where did I come into the picture? Give me a break.”
Tally’s eyebrows arched. She’d darkened them with pencil, her natural color being so light as to be almost invisible. “Carolyn knew you solved crimes. It’s possible she truly does want your help. Her soul will be doomed to wander until justice is served.”
“Ha. Then what about those crimes that never get solved? Police files are full of cold cases.”
Sadness altered her friend’s expression. “Let’s hope the victims find peace.”
“Wilda said people who die suddenly can’t understand what happened to them. They may linger in the same spot for months, and a medium can pick up their negative energies. She advised me to protect myself. Maybe this was her oblique way of warning me against someone who is very much alive.”
“Could be.”
Marla took the turnoff for State Road Seven heading south. Overhead, the sky darkened as the encroaching clouds blotted out the sun. “As if her message from Carolyn wasn’t enough incentive, Wilda hinted that someone close to me should see a doctor. Doesn’t that sound like a threat?”
“Do you consider Wilda capable of harming someone?” Tally’s raised tone indicated it had never crossed her mind to include the psychic as a suspect.
“Why else would she imply one of my relatives is ill? Couldn’t she just as well be talking about a consequence if I don’t comply?” Focusing her attention forward, Marla ignored the passing stream of used-car dealerships, gas stations, and adult video stores. This wasn’t the most scenic part of town. Like any avenue that had once been a central hub, it had gone downhill after communities expanded westward.
“Why do you question everything she says?” Tally countered. “It’s just as likely Wilda truly communicates with Spirit.”
“I’m grounded in reality. And I think Wilda’s words serve an ulterior purpose.” Uncomfortable with their conversation, Marla brushed a strand of hair off her face. While she conceded that psychic powers were possible, logic dictated that Wilda must have a vested interest in her cooperation. Although the reason for that eluded her, she was determined to track down the truth. She didn’t like it when people pressured her into acting on their behalf.
Shifting in her seat, Tally gave her a sly glance. “There’s one way for you to tell if Wilda is a fake. Go to Cassadaga.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a spiritualist camp in Central Florida. Residents are certified healers and mediums. They offer all kinds of classes, readings, and healing sessions. The people in my drumming circle have talked about hiring a bus for a weekend. I’m sure they’d let you join us.”
Oh, joy. Just what I’d like to do on my day off, ride on a bus with a bunch of New Age enthusiasts beating drums in the background. Nonetheless, it was a good idea to check Wilda’s prediction against another medium’s reading, sort of like getting a second opinion from a doctor.
“It sounds like a worthwhile trip, but I’d rather go alone. Maybe you’d like to come with me. With fewer people, we’d have a better chance at getting appointments with the mediums we wanted. Less competition,” Marla added as an incentive. She could imagine Dalton’s reaction if she invited him. Just the thought of his cynical expression made her smile.
Her attention was diverted by the sign announcing the Indian reservation, and she scanned the area for the bingo hall. She had never been inside the place; not being a gambler, she’d always passed by without a second glance.
The sand-colored building with burgundy awnings wasn’t as garish as the Miccosukee gaming resorts in the area. Those were gambling palaces, complete with restaurants, entertainment, and a variety of ways to lose your money. Marla never had enough disposable income to risk on games of chance—plus, she’d rather spend her excess on clothes.
Across the street, signs offering live turtles, genuine western wear, a produce market, and a native village tempted tourists. “Look at all the pawnshops,” she said. “That must be for people who lose at the gaming tables. I wonder how many different tribes run these places.”
“Haven’t you read your Florida history?” Tally teased.
With a broad grin, she pulled a guidebook from her handbag. “Always be prepared, that’s my motto.” She flipped open the pages. “Ponce de Leon arrived on our shores in 1513. The Spanish explorer named the land Florida, which means ‘full of flowers’ in Spanish. At that time, about ten thousand Indians lived here. They belonged to four tribes: the Calusa and Tequesta in the south, and the Timucua and Apalachee in the northern territories.”
“So the Seminoles weren’t here initially,” Marla said as she searched for a parking space.
“That’s right. Warfare and diseases brought by the whites killed many of the Native Americans. That left the territory open for other settlers. In the early 1700s, a band of Oconee Indians migrated south from Georgia. Sim-in-oli means ‘wild,’ so that’s where their name originated. Other groups joined them. They all spoke a language called Hitchiti until another band arrived who spoke Muskogee.”
“Were those the Miccosukee?” They seemed more prevalent; Marla had noticed their land on Alligator Alley heading west toward Naples and on the Tamiami Trail in Miami.
Tally shook her head, tendrils of blond hair escaping from her twist. “The early Seminoles clashed with whites over escaped black slaves, hunting grounds, farmland, and other issues. Sometime after the War of 1812, General Andrew Jackson attacked the Seminoles, destroying their villages. Those remaining were herded into reservations, but not all complied. The government tried to get rid of them, and thus started the Second Seminole War. Some Native Americans retreated to the Everglades. They differentiated into the Hitchiti speaking group known as the Miccosukee, and the Creek Seminoles who speak Muskogee.”
“Their problems brought them together in one respect,” Marla commented, pointing to the casino. “Now they all speak the language of money.” A loud crack of thunder ripped the air. Pulling into an empty space just vacated by a Caprice, she switched gears and cut the ignition.
Outside, Marla surveyed a confusing array of building entrances. Jackpot…Do-It-Yourself…Bingo. A few droplets of rain hit her head. They’d never make it to the third entry before the deluge.
Tally took the lead, pushing open the first door they encountered. “I’m sure we can get through to the bingo section from here. Holy smokes, this is like Las Vegas.”
Dazzled by row after row of slot machines, Marla hesitated. While thunder rumbled outside, clinks and bells filled the cavernous interior. Somber patrons sat on green vinyl seats, punching buttons on devices that swallowed their money. Mustering her nerve, she strode forward, noting that the minimum bet was one dollar.
“Not Las Vegas,” she commented wryly. “There you can play for a nickel.”
Gold Rush, Super Touch Lotto, Golden 7s, Joker Poker. These were games she’d never heard of. What happened to the old-fashioned slots with an arm that you pulled, hoping to get cherries or a row of bars?
“I wonder if all the tribes have casinos,” she murmured, glancing at the carpet underfoot. It sported a vibrant design of tangerine sunbursts. She noted similar colors in the paintings on the walls that depicted various Indian scenes: riders on horseback, women in colorful skirts in a chickee hut, warriors on a hunt. Thatching rimmed the ceili
ng, creating the effect of being in an encampment. Modern amenities intruded by means of mounted televisions playing sports games and radio music blaring from loudspeakers.
“Cocktails, cappuccinos, expresso,” called a server circulating through a section of poker tables inhabited mostly by men with solemn expressions.
Pushing past a glass door, they entered the bingo room, where cigarette smoke tinged the air. Apparently the state law prohibiting smoking in public places did not apply to the reservation. Marla’s nostrils clogged while she noted the guards hovering about the exits and the white-shirted attendants roaming the crowd.
“I guess we have to go over there,” she said, pointing to a line snaking from another door.
When it was their turn to pay, Marla drew out her wallet. “We’re supposed to meet Rosemary Taylor here,” she said to the cashier, a woman whose world-weary face barely glanced at hers. “I understand she comes regularly.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s her over there.” Waggling her finger, the woman indicated a dirty blonde in a lavendar dress. Rosemary sat at a long table, one of many that reminded Marla of the tables in a school cafeteria. Unlike their school counterparts which would have resounded with noisy chatter and laughter, these tables were surrounded by deathly silence except for the shuffle of bingo paraphernalia. It appeared bingo players took their occupation seriously.
“Which pack do you want?” the attendant asked.
“What are my choices?”
“The twenty-two-dollar pack plays a four-hundred-dollar game; for thirty-three dollars, you can play the eight-hundred-dollar game; and for forty-four dollars you can play the eleven-hundred-and-ninety-nine-dollar game. Then you can buy extra books and specials.” Selecting a handful of brochures, she thrust them at Marla.
“Uh, I’ll just take the first one.”
“Paper or handset?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want a paper pack or computer?”
Marla glanced at some of the players already seated. They had cards laid out before them, and some had miniature tabletop computers. Her eye caught on colorful tubes that looked like paint. “What’s the difference?”
“With the paper, you have to mark off each number. You can buy your own dauber in the machine over there.”
“I see.” She noticed a lady testing her dauber by blotting colored circles on a blank piece of paper. This was a far cry from grade-school bingo where you put tokens on a gaming card. “Does the computer automatically mark the numbers called?”
“You still have to key in the number, but you don’t have to locate it on the grid. The computer will do that for you. It’s a lot faster if this is your first time. The game gets intense. Some people use both methods because they get bored.”
Marla studied the brochure for the evening session. Eighteen games were interspersed with brief intermissions. “What’s this Ko Na Wi where the prize starts at twenty-five thousand?”
“That costs one dollar to enter, and you pick six numbers ahead of time. It’s like the Lotto. If your numbers are called, you win. We only call sixteen numbers total.”
Marla bit: her lower lip. “I’ll just stick to the regular bingo game.” Aware she was holding up the line, she paid quickly and grabbed her power box. Now to figure out how to work the thing. Fortunately, a couple of seats were vacant on either side of Carolyn’s bingo partner.
If she ever entered a contest for bag ladies, Rosemary Taylor would win the prize, Marla thought. She couldn’t decide which sagged more: the lines of dissipation on the older woman’s face, or the shift she wore that looked like a recycled drapery from the flowery sixties. Dry blond hair with brassy highlights stuck out in clumps from under a battered felt hat. Her limpid blue eyes, lashes heavy with mascara, gave Marla a quick glance.
“Hi, are these seats taken?” Marla began. She introduced herself and Tally after Rosemary indicated the spaces were available. “This is our first time here. I hope I can understand how this thing works.” After settling in, she pushed the power button on her unit, watching as the screen lit up. Rosemary had sheets of paper laid out in front of her plus a computer and a row of daubers in different colors.
“The warmups will get you oriented,” Rosemary said in a raspy voice that ended in a cough.
Observing the stubs littering the woman’s ashtray, Marla wasn’t surprised when Rosemary lit a cigarette as long and slim as a pencil. Her throat constricted, and the lack of windows contributed to her oppressed feeling. It must be raining, but she couldn’t even hear the thunder. Very few people conversed with each other, and those few got disapproving glances. It felt as though she’d entered a prison where you weren’t allowed to speak, and breathing the smoky air was part of your sentence.
“My friend used to come here often,” Marla said, focusing on her purpose. “She kept urging me to play, but I couldn’t find the time. I’m so sorry she isn’t here tonight. Maybe you knew her? Carolyn Sutton.”
“Oh my. Carolyn was a friend of mine, too. Poor dear.”
Marla lowered her voice. “They say she was murdered.”
Rosemary’s face pinched. “Oyg evalf, it’s horrible.”
“Are you Jewish?” The woman did possess Mediterranean features. It was possible she came from the Sephardic strain.
“I’m Irish-Italian, honey. You live around here long enough and you pick up certain phrases. It’s necessary in my line of business.”
“And that is?” Tally asked, inclining her head to listen.
They spoke in low tones but still attracted attention. Not that anyone cared what they said. The glares they elicited indicated people were more concerned about the interruption to their focus—even though the games hadn’t even started—than they were about eavesdropping. Marla shuddered. What kind of lives did these women lead that this was their sole means of recreation?
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a scout,” Rosemary whispered.
“You work for the Girl Scouts?” Marla must have heard incorrectly. Rosemary didn’t look like a troop leader.
“Trail scout, talent scout, you know. I scout out the opposition.”
“Oh, like you work for someone else?”
Rosemary nodded. “This is the enemy camp,” she said, glancing furtively over her shoulder. “I’m here to keep my eye on the mark. Mustn’t let them get on to me.”
Marla watched her rearrange the paper cards on the table in a repetitive shuffling motion. Am I missing something here, or does Rosemary lack a few stairs on the way to her attic?
“I’ve heard people aren’t happy about the new hotel and casino down the road,” Tally commented. “Didn’t it cost two hundred million dollars to build, while the surrounding neighborhood is one of Broward County’s poorest areas?”
“You’re right, honey,” Rosemary said, puffing on her cigarette. “You can see the mobile-home community from the highway.”
“Doesn’t the income provide for better living conditions on the reservation?” Marla cut in. “I would think the new construction provided a lot of jobs.”
“Not for us. Our area has more traffic, more crime, and more car accidents. We have no say in what the tribe votes on, while their decisions affect everyone in the neighborhood.”
“If you dislike it so much, why do you support them by coming here?” Marla challenged.
Rosemary shot her a waspish gaze. “It’s my job.”
“You mean someone pays you to gamble?”
“I told you, I’m a scout. Shh. Don’t let anyone hear us.”
Tally signaled to draw Marla aside. Using the excuse that they were getting a snack, they headed for the concessions. “I remember a case in a newspaper a while ago,” Tally told her. “The Internal Revenue Service investigated the tribe’s finances after some men were accused of stealing from them. The men were acquitted, but tribal leaders admitted they didn’t pay taxes on gifts they gave people. In a three-year period, council members spent more than eighty million dollars on gift
s.”
Marla gawked. “They make that much money?” After South Florida voters turned down proposals for casinos that would draw tourists, she’d never considered the reservations as gambling magnets.
“They’ve made millions since this place opened. Each tribal member receives almost forty thousand dollars per year. Not bad for an allowance, huh?”
“How do you know all this?”
“I read the newspapers.”
“Do you really think Rosemary is telling the truth about being paid to play bingo?”
Tally frowned. “She can’t gather too much information if she sits in the same spot all day.”
“Rosemary isn’t spending her funds on grooming, I can tell you that. Did you see the dirt under her fingernails? And she smells like she hasn’t seen a shower for days. I wonder why Carolyn liked her.”
“Let’s go back and find out.”
When they returned to their seats, Rosemary gave them each a furtive glance. “Did you see him? He’s out there,” she said, grasping her blue dauber. Thankfully, she’d finished her cigarette, but smoke lingered in the air, tightening Marla’s throat.
“Who is?” Marla croaked, sipping her coffee. She hadn’t been impressed by the snack bar. Dirty linoleum floor, bare block tables, worn chairs, glaring overhead lights. Fearing the kitchen nurtured a variety of wildlife, she hoped the heat from the liquid had vaporized any germs.
“The one who watches me. I have to be careful. Their assassins have tried before, but I foiled them.” Uncapping her red dauber, Rosemary stabbed the tip on a margin of paper as though demonstrating their attempt in a mock circle of blood.
“Maybe they got to Carolyn first,” Marla suggested.
Rosemary sucked in a sharp breath of air. “You could be right. She told me about the evidence. I warned her that it was dangerous to keep those things, but she didn’t listen.”
Died Blonde Page 7
