Herculeah Jones Tarot Says Beware

by Betsy Byars

19

  THE OTHER HALF OF THE PICTURE

  “So.”

  Herculeah always hated it when her father started a conversation like that.

  “So.”

  Another one. Two “so”s. This was going to be bad.

  “Your mom tells me you went back to Madame Rosa’s last night.”

  It was Sunday, and Herculeah and her father were in the car, driving to an Atlanta Falcons football game.

  Her father had spoken in a casual, conversational tone, but Herculeah was aware this was not going to be a casual chat. His profile was stern.

  She said, “Mom told you that?”

  “She did.”

  “I wish you and Mom wouldn’t discuss me behind my back.”

  “I wish we didn’t have to.”

  “So, what did Mom say?”

  “She said she had taken the key away from you, and you got it out of her drawer and went over there, taking poor Meat along with you. It was a very dangerous thing to do.”

  “Actually Meat turned out to be the most dangerous part. He tackled me. You’d think he was—who’s that big mean Falcon?”

  “They’re all big and mean.”

  “Well, that was the only time I was in any real danger. I got spooked, I admit that, when Madame Rosa appeared.” She turned to her father. “Dad, are you convinced that body was Madame Rosa’s?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Listen, Herculeah, whoever killed Madame Rosa is still out there.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “This was not some random killing. This was not an intruder who killed and left town.”

  “I know. I remember you telling me that most murders are not committed by unknown assailants.”

  “That has been my experience.”

  “And this one?

  “This one, too.”

  Herculeah hoped her father would elaborate, but he didn’t, so she said, “You think it was someone Madame Rosa knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “A relative? She told me she only had one of them still alive.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Meat thinks she was blackmailing people. That she’d find out all their secrets and blackmail them, but I don’t think so. Do you?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I did notice one interesting thing while I was in that house. This was one of the reasons I went in there. She had a lot of family pictures, and there was one of her with a boy. I’d seen it there a lot of times. Last night it was gone.”

  She glanced at her father, but he seemed intent on traffic.

  “You don’t suppose it could be the boy in the picture that killed her?”

  “We haven’t been able to locate any relatives.”

  Herculeah took in a quick breath. “The mime,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The mime.”

  “Mime? You mean one of those white-faced people?”

  “Yes. Dad, wouldn’t it be the perfect disguise? I mean, we see the mime every day, but we don’t know what he looks like or how old he is or anything. He could wash his face and come out, and nobody would even recognize him.”

  She leaned back with satisfaction. “Meat would be so pleased if it turned out to be the mime. He can’t stand mimes.” She laughed. “I’d love to see you try to interrogate a mime.”

  Her father’s tight profile eased into a reluctant smile.

  “Or see Judge Kellerman try.”

  A wider smile.

  “I wish I knew what happened to that picture.”

  “Well, I don’t guess there’s any harm in my telling you we found it.”

  “You did?” She swiveled around. “Where?”

  “Well, we found half of it. The Madame Rosa half. It was in the alley behind the house. The frame, some broken glass, and half the picture.”

  “That proves it was important, don’t you think? That’s it! The killer tore up the picture and took the half that could identify him!”

  “Or he took the picture to make us think it could identify him.”

  “Were there any fingerprints?”

  He shook his head.

  “Of course not.” She laughed. “The mime always wears gloves.” She shook her head as if to make herself get serious. “I wish I knew where that mime lives. Maybe I ought to follow him.”

  “You’re not following any mime. This is a dangerous business. Give me your word.”

  “Oh, all right, but you know what? I went into that house, got scared, got slammed into a wall, got Mom mad at me, got a lecture from you and”—she showed her empty hands—“and all for nothing!”

  Herculeah glanced at her father’s profile. His lips had tightened again, forming a straight line across his tanned face. She was sorry she had gotten the conversation back to her illegal entry into Madame Rosa’s.

  “I want you to make me another promise, hon.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “I want you to promise you will not go back in that house.”

  “Oh, I’m happy to promise that. I don’t want to go back. I really did get scared, if you want to know the truth. Anyway, there’s nothing to go back for.”

  “There better not be.”

  20

  DEAR ABBY

  “I just did something I didn’t think I would ever do in my whole life,” Meat said as soon as Herculeah answered the phone.

  “What?”

  “I wrote a letter to Dear Abby.”

  “I bet I know what you said. ‘There’s a girl across the street from me that keeps getting me in trouble. How can I get her to stop?’ ”

  “No. If you didn’t keep getting me in trouble, my life would be a complete bust.”

  “Then what?”

  “I wrote for information about finding my father. Remember, you mentioned it last night when we were getting ready to trespass.”

  Herculeah gave the telephone a look of disgust at Meat’s choice of words. Then she smiled. “I can’t wait to hear what she says. You know, I have only learned one pleasant thing since this terrible mess started.”

  “What?”

  “That you have a dancing father.”

  “Well, so Madame Rosa said. She could be wrong.”

  “I wonder what kind of dancing. Toe? Tap? The twist? Boogie?”

  “Don’t try to be funny. I do not appreciate jokes where my father is concerned.”

  “Sorry.”

  Herculeah was on the sofa. She stretched out to get more comfortable. “I went to the Falcons game with my dad today. I just got back. We were going to stop for supper, but my dad got a call.”

  “I saw you come in.”

  As Meat spoke, he remembered seeing them leave as well. He had stood at the window, jealously watching as they drove away. If he had a father, he would even be willing to go to a Falcons football game to be with him.

  “I pumped my dad for information, but I didn’t get much. During the game ... to be honest, sometimes football bores me, but I don’t want my dad to know, because he does not bore me. I like to be with him. Anyway, during the game I started recreating Madame Rosa’s last hours.”

  “Oh?”

  “Here’s what I think.” Herculeah sat up straight, caught up in her theory. “Madame Rosa had been reading something in that book, and she goes into the kitchen to boil some water, possibly for tea. She drank a lot of herbal tea. I drank one cup once, which was enough for me. The doorbell rings. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the killer just walks in. That’s more like it. Madame Rosa is back in the kitchen and she hears Tarot screech, ‘Beware! Beware!’ and she knows someone has come into the house. I’m getting goose-bumps, are you?”

  “No,” Meat lied.

  “Madame Rosa is so upset, she doesn’t even turn off the stove. She goes into the hall. Nobody there. She goes into the living room. Nobody there. She goes into the parlor. There he is—the killer.”

  “There he is!” Meat said.

&nb
sp; “That’s just what I said.”

  “No, I mean the mime! There he is! Look out your window.”

  “Oh, he’s probably been to the flea market. It’s seven o’clock, so it just closed.”

  “Let’s follow him.”

  “I can’t. I promised my dad I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, I didn’t promise.”

  “Meat, my dad feels like this is dangerous. I’m beginning to think so, too.”

  “Well, all right, I won’t follow him. I’ll just take a walk in the same direction he’s walking in, and see where he goes.”

  “Meat! That is following! Just like us going into that house was trespassing and—”

  But Meat had hung up the phone.

  Herculeah pressed against the window and watched as Meat came out of his house, pulling on his jacket. He ran down the steps.

  Herculeah hesitated.

  She reached for her binoculars. She raised them to her eyes. She noticed three things:1. The mime had paused at a store window.

  2. The mime was checking to see if he was being followed.

  3. Meat was busy zipping up his jacket and wasn’t aware the mime knew Meat was following him.

  Herculeah put down the binoculars.

  “I promised my dad that I wouldn’t follow the mime. I did not promise my dad that I wouldn’t follow Meat.”

  She reached for her jacket and headed for the door.

  21

  MEAT AND MIME

  Meat paused at the corner. He peered around the drugstore. The mime was halfway down the block.

  Just the sight of that black suit, those white-gloved hands caused Meat to shiver. He took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders. He turned the corner, prepared to duck into the nearest doorway if necessary.

  It wasn’t. The sidewalk was empty. The mime had disappeared.

  Slowly, looking from side to side, exactly as Herculeah had imitated him doing at the flea market, Meat continued down the sidewalk.

  The last place he had seen the mime was just before the entrance to the alley that ran between the houses. No one used the alley much anymore, and it was overgrown with weeds.

  Meat stopped and peered into the alley. The dark shadows from the buildings made it even more uninviting. Still, he knew the mime had to have gone this way.

  He glanced around uneasily. No one was in sight. He lifted his hand and waved, as if to a friend in front of the drugstore. If the mime was watching—and he probably was—this would make the mime think someone had seen Meat entering the alley and make the mime think twice about ... whatever.

  Meat walked slowly into the alley. Gravel and broken glass crunched beneath his feet.

  He passed an old sagging garage, and the rotten boards gave off the smell of mildew and rot. He put his hand over his face to blot out the smell. Meat was sensitive to odors.

  He peered around the back of the garage, and in one terrible gasp, he inhaled a deep breath of the air he had wanted to avoid. He was face-to-face with the mime.

  Meat coughed up some of the air. Then he managed to say, “Hi.”

  The mime gave an elaborate gesture that asked, or so it seemed to Meat, the question he most didn’t want to answer: Why are you following me?

  “I wasn’t. I just happened to be, you know, coming this way.”

  Then, to Meat’s unhappiness, there followed a dreadful one-sided conversation, apparently the only kind you can have with a mime.

  The mime: I don’t like to be followed.

  “No, no, that’s why I wasn’t following you. I don’t follow people.”

  The mime: What do you want?

  “Nothing. Nothing. I don’t want one single thing.”

  The mime: Then why are you here?

  “I don’t know. Actually, I was just getting ready to go.”

  As Meat peered into the white face, it almost seemed like one of those death masks you see in museums. The mime’s face was still empty of expression, but Meat had the feeling that the mime was mad enough to commit some sort of murderous act upon him. He remembered that wave he had been clever enough to make to his nonexistent friend, and he added, “My friend’s waiting in front of the drugstore.”

  He took two backward steps toward the street.

  “Actually,” he said then, surprising himself, “this friend-in-front-of-the-drugstore”—he made one word of it—“and I are looking into Madame Rosa’s murder. We’re beginning to think that the murderer was a young man, someone from the neighborhood.”

  The mime waited.

  “He might be someone whose mother had consulted Madame Rosa. The mother was afraid of the son. He’d threatened her with a knife—”

  At that, the mime threw back his head and laughed. And he didn’t just pantomime laughter. He roared.

  The effect was so startling that Meat moved back some more.

  “I’m sorry, but that tears me up,” the mime said.

  Meat shrugged. Now the tables had turned, and it was the mime who spoke and Meat who was wordless.

  “You must not know my mom.”

  Meat shook his head.

  “In about a minute you will.”

  They waited in silence, then the back door of the house was thrown open. A loud voice yelled, “Bertram, you out there?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Well, get yourself in here. Supper’s ready. I mean now.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  The mime looked at Meat. “That woman has never been afraid of anything or anybody in her whole life.”

  Meat nodded. “I can believe that.” He lifted one hand in farewell.

  He walked down the alley and met Herculeah in front of the drugstore. “This is exactly where you were supposed to be,” Meat said.

  “I followed you. I saw the mime glance in a store window. He knew you were following him, and I was worried.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not about the mime anyway. The mime’s mother did not consult Madame Rosa. The mime’s mother isn’t afraid of anything.”

  They started for home together.

  As they walked, Herculeah said, “I think we’re overlooking one very important thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Madame Rosa saw something at the flea market that really scared her.”

  “Yeah, scared her to death,” Meat said.

  “Tell me what that man said again.”

  Meat thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it will be word for word.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “He said she came running out ‘like the devil himself was after her.’ Those were his exact words. Then he said he stopped her. He asked if she needed help. He said she was as white as if she’d seen a ghost. She muttered something about a knife, and he asked if somebody had pulled a knife on her. She gave him a look he said he’d never forget. Then she said, ‘No, but they will.”’

  They walked to the end of the block in silence.

  Meat glanced at Herculeah. He said, “Maybe we ought to go back to the flea market and talk to the man again, try to find out what happened.”

  “I don’t have to,” Herculeah said. “I think I already know.”

  22

  MADAME ROSA CALLS

  The phone rang.

  Herculeah crossed to her mother’s desk and picked it up. It was after office hours, but sometimes clients called her mother at night.

  “Mim Jones’s office,” she said.

  There was a silence.

  “Mim Jones’s office.”

  Again there was no answer, but for some reason Herculeah did not hang up. She waited. She could hear soft breathing on the other end of the line. It made her uneasy and yet she still could not make herself hang up.

  After another long moment, a faint, hauntingly familiar voice said her name, “Herculeah.” It was a voice from another world, a voice from the dead.

  For a moment Herculeah couldn’t speak. Now it wa
s her quickened breathing that went over the line.

  This was the voice Herculeah had heard that night in the hallway. In her mind she again saw the. cloaked figure.

  When she was finally able to speak, she said, “This is Herculeah.”

  There was another pause. Herculeah knew the caller had something more to say. All she had to do was wait.

  “This is Madame Rosa.”

  Although that was what Herculeah had expected, she found herself shaking her head in disbelief. She reminded herself that Madame Rosa had a voice that was easily copied, that this couldn’t be her. Madame Rosa was dead. But the voice on the phone did not sound like an imitation. It sounded like Madame Rosa herself.

  She forced herself to speak. “I don’t believe you. Who are you really?”

  “I tell the truth. I am Madame Rosa.”

  “No. Madame Rosa is dead,” Herculeah said in a flat voice, as if to remind herself. “I was the one who found the body. I saw you.”

  “You saw a dead woman. I grant you that.”

  Herculeah waited.

  “But the dead woman was not me.”

  Herculeah exploded. “It was. I saw you, saw her. Your shoes, your long hair, your—”

  “But did you take a really good look. Did you?” A pause. “I thought not. Did you lift the hair and look at the face?”

  “ No. ” “If you didn’t see the face, how can you be so sure?”

  “It had to be you. I know it was. My father said it was, and he’s with the police.”

  “The police, they can be mistaken like everybody else. The body that you saw was that of my sister.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “My sister, Marianna. Is true.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Is it so hard for you to believe I am alive? I’m your friend.” The voice was wheedling now. “You should be happy your friend is alive.”

  “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not my friend. I’m hanging up and calling the police.”

  “Wait. Give me one minute. I tell you what happened. One minute is all I ask. Then you hang up all you want to. Call anybody you want. Police. Anybody.”

  Herculeah hesitated.

  “You are still there, Herculeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will listen?”

  “I’ll listen, but—”