The 7th Tarot Card

by Valerie Clay

  “You ladies look amazing, but we’re just a couple of jeans-wearin’ ole cowpokes,” Bobby drawled. “You do know that we’re going line dancing at a country bar, right?” He winked and focused his smile on me.

  Amanda chimed in, “Yes, we know. Yesterday was such a disaster, we needed to get dressed up and feel like women again.”

  Dakota picked up Julie and swung her around. “Yup, you definitely feel like a woman.” Her face turned scarlet, matching her dress, but she looked happy as a little red clam.

  We made our way across the twenty-five-hundred square feet, hardwood dance floor and found an empty table where Bobby, Dakota, and Julie ordered beers. I went for a Cosmopolitan and Amanda decided on her usual, a Grey Goose martini, straight up with two olives. A live band was playing some rompin’ stompin’ country music and soon we were all up and on our feet, dancing like carefree college kids.

  Dakota disappeared for a moment, leaving Julie alone on the dance floor, then reappeared with a sparkle in his eye and whirled her around just as the song ended. As we headed back to our table the band announced a special dedication of their next song to the red-hot women from Seattle. We screamed and cheered with delight as they began belting out Shania Twain’s “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.” I ditched my heels and followed the group back onto the floor, singing and laughing as I tried to learn line dancing from Bobby, who was a pretty fair dancer in spite of his size.

  After a couple more songs, my throbbing toe got the best of me, so Bobby and I headed back to the table to take a break. Oddly enough, Amanda took to line dancing right away, and if it wasn’t for her silk pants suit, it would have been difficult to distinguish her from the rest of the cowgirls. Somewhere along the way she picked up a cowboy hat and wore it proudly as she did the Electric Slide, sashaying back and forth, stepping and turning, and shimmying with the rest of them.

  Back at the table, Bobby and I watched the action and chatted as best we could over the pulsating music. The band was in high gear, blasting out Rascal Flatts’s “Me and My Gang” and the raucous crowd sang along. As he leaned into me, Bobby gave me a flirtatious smile and yelled over the din. “You know, Victoria, I really like you.”

  “I like you too, Bobby,” I shouted in reply, feeling growing affection for this fine-looking Texan that had come into my life so unexpectedly.

  He moved closer to me, took my hand in his, and spoke into my ear, “You’re everything a man could want in a woman: beautiful, intelligent, fun to be with.”

  Yes, I thought, keep going. “Thank you, Bobby,” I said dreamily, feeling light as a feather, as if I were floating on a gossamer cloud high above the Earth. “You’re quite a man yourself.” Our heads were tantalizingly close together.

  He rubbed my hand, kissed it softly, and continued, “If it wasn’t for the fact that I just started dating someone, I’d move hell and high water to see you again.”

  Ouch. Sucker punch. I fell off my cloud and landed in a cow pie. Just when I finally met a man of potential, it was all taken away from me in one tragic instant. At least he was honest, which made him even more attractive. He asked for my number, in case anything changed, and feigning cheerfulness, I handed it to him as Amanda returned to our table.

  She said she’d had enough, and I’d definitely had enough, so we decided to call it a night, but we couldn’t find Julie and Dakota anywhere. After an extended search we discovered them in a secluded corner, on an old leather loveseat making out like a couple of teenagers. When she surfaced for air, she told us to go home without her, and she’d be along soon.

  Right.

  ~

  “Where’s Julie? Did she come home last night?” Amanda asked in a raspy voice as she walked into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee from the pot I had just made. She took a sip and made a face. It was nine-thirty A.M. and since neither one of us was a morning person, we were gently easing into the day. Shortly thereafter, Carl appeared with Henrietta and headed for his water dish.

  “No,” I replied, adjusting the ice bag on my propped up toe. “She should be doing the walk of shame any moment now I would imagine. And what’s wrong with the coffee?”

  “Nothing, just a trifle strong for my tastes. I’ll try one of those miniature creamer things. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out two half and half singles as the front door opened and Julie entered the room, still wearing her red cocktail dress. In her right hand she carried a large, black shopping bag.

  “Ride ’em, cowboy,” I said, unable to resist.

  “That’s very amusing, Vic,” Julie said as she passed through the living area and disappeared into the bedroom. Amanda and I looked at each other.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked when Julie returned, enveloped in her oversized puffball of a robe.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she replied. “Everything’s right. So right, it’s scaring me.”

  “Then why do you look so serious?” Amanda queried as she brought her coffee cup into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Curling her legs up beneath her, she took a sip and continued, “And what’s in the bag?”

  Julie sighed and headed into the kitchen. “This attraction, or flirtation, or whatever you want to call it caught me by surprise, I guess. I’m not quite sure how to handle it.”

  “So what’s in the bag?” Amanda asked again.

  Julie pulled a sunflower-colored coffee mug from the cabinet and turned to us. “Can anyone ever sustain a long-distance relationship? And look at the guy. He’s a babe. He’s probably besieged by women wherever he goes. Can he be faithful? That’s another question.”

  “Hello, Julie, what’s in the bag?” Amanda asked a third time.

  “Cowboy boots. Dakota bought them for me last night. He wants me to wear them when I fly to Dallas next month to see him.”

  Amanda and I exchanged looks.

  Julie picked up the coffee pot and filled her cup almost to the brim, then took a careful sip, and changed the subject. “How’d things go with Bobby?”

  “Except for the finding out about his girlfriend part, it was great,” I replied.

  “Sorry, Vic, that’s gotta be rough,” Julie responded. She put her mug down and gave me a look of support.

  “It’s for the best, really,” Amanda interjected. “I mean after all, what’s she going to do—jump off the deep end and move to Dallas? That’s not a rational option for anyone, is it?” Lost in thought, Julie sipped her coffee and didn’t appear to pick up on the not-so-subtle hint from Amanda.

  After a leisurely breakfast from room service, we donned the travel clothes we’d picked up yesterday from the hotel gift shop: a long-sleeved, black T-shirt and khaki stretch jeans for Julie; a tropical print sundress and sea green pashmina shawl for me; espresso brown slacks with a cream-colored cotton knit top for Amanda; and a white, jeweled “Elvis” cape for Carl. How Amanda managed to keep those sunglasses on him is still a mystery to me. We checked out, and after numerous ‘group’ attempts at the slots proved futile and expensive, caught a cab to the airport.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You only have one life. You might as well make it interesting.” —Ted Turner, entrepreneur and yacht racing’s America’s Cup winner

  *******

  Shortly after Amanda and Carl were pre-boarded, Julie and I gratefully entered the first class cabin on Alaska Airlines Flight 603 and located our seats. We stowed our luggage (shopping bags) in the overhead bins, sleepily pulled plastic wrap off the fresh pillows and blankets placed in our seats, and fastened our safety belts. Wrapped up snuggly in warm blankets, we settled in for the relaxing journey home.

  Across the aisle from us and two rows back sat Amanda. On the seat next to her was Carl, still inside his carrier and securely strapped in by the seatbelt that threaded through specially constructed loops for air travel. Carl always has his own first class seat whenever he flies. He would accept nothing less. Absent from our triumphant, but weary team of warriors were Laini and Mark. They needed to stay one mo
re day in Vegas to wrap up police matters, and were flying back to Seattle in the morning.

  Pain-filled sounds of ooches and ouches spilled out of Julie as she rooted around, trying to find a comfortable position. “I don’t know why I’m so sore today,” she said as she punched her pillow and readjusted it against the window. “I didn’t do that much dancing, and I’m in pretty good shape.”

  “You don’t know why you’re so sore? Really?”

  She turned and gave me a look. “No, Victoria, I don’t.”

  “I’ll tell you why. Perhaps it’s because of the fall you took from the mechanical bull last night. Or maybe it was the second time you got bucked off. I can’t believe you hopped back on it again, and in that dress.”

  “Vic! I did not ride the mechanical bull. You must be thinking of someone else,” she huffed.

  “Oh, it was you all right. To prove it, I’ve got a delightful shot of you on my camera phone upside-down in mid-air, legs flailing. Wanna see it?”

  “You show that to anyone and you’re dead meat.”

  “I’ll just file it away for sometime in the future, when I might need a little leverage.” I smiled wickedly at her and she glared back at me. Knowledge is power.

  “Victoria Morgan, do you understand the concept of mutually assured destruction?”

  “Are you saying you have something on me?”

  “I have many things on you. Remember the potato incident?”

  “You’re bluffing,” I challenged.

  “Try me, sweetcakes.”

  “Jeez you’re crabby when you’re hung-over, Julie.”

  “And, I’m not hung-over. I’m just tired and in pain.”

  I decided to leave her alone, opened the new detective novel I’d picked up at the airport newsstand, and began to read. The flight was smooth and steady, the constant drone of the engines, soothing. Still mentally and physically weary from the mob ordeal, we nodded off, waiting for the flight attendant to come by with our warm meals—I mean our microscopic, cold rations.

  A few minor bouts of turbulence jostled me awake, so I took a sip from the plastic cup of ice water sitting on my tray table. Julie looked over at me, repositioned her pillow, then closed her eyes again.

  “You know, Julie,” I began, “this episode in Vegas got me thinking some wild new thoughts.”

  “That’s nice,” she mumbled.

  “In spite of it all—the danger, the lack of sleep, the craziness—you have to admit, it was exhilarating.”

  Julie didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. She just said, “You mean the cowboys were exhilarating. Everything else was scary as hell.”

  “Weren’t they though?” I said, grinning wistfully. “Too bad Bobby has a girlfriend back home. But you and I make a pretty good team, don’t you think?”

  ”I guess,” she said, eyes still closed.

  “Call me crazy,” I continued, “but I’ve been doing some reflecting on the events of the past few days and I have a proposition for you. What if we went into business together? Opened our own private detective agency? This was our first case and we saved two lives and helped apprehend a dangerous fugitive. Not bad work for two neophytes, wouldn’t you say? Imagine how fabulous we’d be with some training under our belts.”

  Julie sat straight up in her seat and looked at me. “You’re not serious? We almost died. Twice.”

  “Let’s not dwell on that.”

  She shook her head and said, “If the threat of death is not enough of a deterrent for you, there are a thousand other arguments as to why this is a bad idea.”

  “Okay, give me three good reasons why we shouldn’t try something new, become entrepreneurs, take a chance.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . safety, stability, sanity come to mind,” she said.

  “Well if you’re going to speak in ‘S’ words, how about ‘short,’ as in ‘Life is Short.’ We would only take on low-key, safe investigations—a little surveillance work here and there—nothing risky. I’m bored to tears with my job. I need a career change, and you’ve been considering early retirement. This would give you something interesting to do. Look how heroic you were under pressure; how you kicked that gun right out of Lenny’s hand and took down that whack job, Crystal. You were nothing less than amazing.”

  ”Well, that was just years of training, but it did go fairly well didn’t it?” she said, trying hard to suppress a smile. “But seriously, Victoria, for two women to run a successful detective agency, they’d have to be a couple of hardcore, badass chicks.”

  “I know. That’s totally us, don’t you think? But in a nice way.”

  She responded with a blank stare, so, feeling like I was making inroads, I pressed on, “Imagine if you will, a red brick, storefront office. The sign on the door says: Morgan and Thompson, Private Investigators.” I made a sweeping flourish with my hands.

  “How about Thompson and Morgan?”

  I grinned. “So, you think it’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a terrible idea. However, I’ll admit it does sound somewhat interesting, in an insane, self-destructive sort of way. But then there’s Dakota to consider. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “That’s all I ask,” I said as I reclined my seat, closed my eyes, and smiled. I went back to my plotting as visions of a new career danced through my head.

  ~

  The wheels of the Boeing 737 squealed as we lightly touched down, arriving back in Seattle, safe and sound. I leaned across Julie and gazed through the window at the enveloping dusk as we taxied to the terminal, and for the first time in a long time, really appreciated the beauty of the tall evergreen trees as they gently swayed back and forth in the early evening breeze. Never had it felt so good to be coming home. A misty rain falling from silver-lined clouds softly spritzed against the window, but instead of feeling gloomy it felt comforting, like putting on a pair of favorite old sweats. It was the kind of moody evening where you just wanted to light a couple of candles and listen to some smooth jazz.

  Julie and I said our goodbyes to Amanda and Carl as they went off in search of the courtesy van for the Park-and-Ride, then we left the terminal and crossed the street to the parking garage. The rain-soaked air smelled fresh and pure, thick with the scents of pine trees and the sweet damp earth. I inhaled deeply as we walked across the wet pavement. For the third time in as many days I reflected on how good it was to be alive.

  In her Jeep on the way to my car, we rode together in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts. After some time, I interrupted the quiet and said to Julie, “Tell me honestly. Do you think this whole situation has changed me?”

  She turned to me, “What do you mean?”

  “I shot a man. What does that make me now? A treacherous killer woman? A menace to society?”

  “Technically speaking,” she responded, “you didn’t shoot a man. You shot at a man. And, if it wasn’t for that lucky ricochet, we’d all be dead now. On top of that, it was self-defense. Don’t over-think it,” she advised, always the pragmatist.

  Of course, she was right. So why did I feel guilty about defending myself? Is that a female thing? Little girls are brought up to be polite, accommodating, and nurturing. Sugar and spice and everything nice. They aren’t supposed to go around whacking people. I deliberated on that until we reached the parking lot, where she dropped me off and reminded me one last time to be careful.

  Under Julie’s watchful eye, I climbed behind the wheel of my faithful Subaru and locked the doors. Even with over 100,000 miles on her, this wagon still ran like a sewing machine. I felt for the Taser beneath the seat, pulled it out and placed it in my lap where I could quickly get to it if need be. As good as it was to be home, there was still the looming stalker situation to be considered. Julie invited me to stay with her for a few days, but I had to go home sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. She waited until I started my car and safely pulled out of the parking lot before she departed and turned south, heading away from me.


  Watching her drive away in my rear-view mirror, I suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. The text message—When are you coming home?—haunted me. Who was this guy and how did he know I’d been out of town? How did he get my cell phone number? Why was he harassing me?

  My heartbeat quickened as I eased onto I-405 northbound. Hunched over the steering wheel like a near-sighted ninety-year-old, I shot furtive looks around and behind me as I blended into the last remnants of Thursday’s rush hour traffic. Throwing my Action Plan to the wind, I started biting my fingernails, when it occurred to me—what would Emma Peel do? Would she dissolve into a lily-livered chicken-heart? I think not. Any self-respecting Avengers fan knows that. This could actually be an opportunity to hone my detective skills and practice some diversionary maneuvers. It’s all in how you think about it.

  I pulled myself together, sat back in my seat with a brand-new attitude, and calculated. First things first: change lanes several times and be on the lookout for a tail. Check. Then, I alternated my speed, took a different exit further north of my usual, predictable route, and doubled back. Traffic moved around and past me, and no one followed me off the exit or into my condominium complex. Either I was exceptionally gifted at losing a tail, or no one had been tracking me in the first place. Whichever one was the case, I felt an empowering sense of achievement and the burgeoning of a new resourcefulness.

  By the time I pulled into my garage, the sky had already darkened. It felt like I’d been gone a week, instead of just two nights. With my bags clenched in my left hand and the Taser gripped firmly in my right, I left the car and closed the garage door. Carefully scanning the parking lot, I scampered across the wet pavement and up the stairs. After the crowds of tourists and craziness of the past two days, I looked forward to some blissful solitude in my home, my haven, my sanctuary for contemplation, my—what the . . . ?