Herculeah Jones Tarot Says Beware

by Betsy Byars

  “That day, that terrible day, someone come to my house. He come to kill me, but my sister was there. My sister and I just alike—long hair, long noses. My sister opened the door.

  “The man never give my sister a chance to say she not Madame Rosa. Or.maybe she say it, and he don’t believe.”

  There was a pause.

  “And whoever kill my sister—Herculeah, believe this—whoever kill my sister, when he find out it is her dead and not me, he will come after me.”

  Herculeah lowered herself into her mother’s chair.

  “This time there won’t be a sister to give her life for me. This time he will succeed. This time he kill me. You want that to happen?”

  Herculeah could not answer.

  “I have to get away. I don’t want to die, Herculeah. Don’t let your friend die!”

  The rising desperation in Madame Rosa’s voice gave Herculeah a feeling of desperation, too.

  “But why are you, calling me? What can I do? Why don’t you call the police?”

  “The police.” Her tone was scornful. “The police cannot help in matters like this.”

  “Yes, they can. My father would help you in a minute.”

  “Your fadda cannot help me.” Her voice lowered. “Only you.” It was a plea.

  “But what can I do? I can’t do anything. My parents are furious at me already. I had to promise never to go in your house again.”

  “The house.” More scorn. “You don’t need to come in the house. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything against your parents.”

  “What then?”

  When Madame Rosa spoke again, her voice was almost businesslike.

  “You have Tarot.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have him at your house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, it is simple. You know I will not leave without Tarot. He has been with me since I was a little girl of four. Even if the murderer find me and kill me, I not leave without my Tarot. That’s all that I want you to do. Bring me Tarot.”

  “Why don’t you come get him?”

  “I show my face on this street, I am as good as dead. You will bring, yes?”

  “Where are you?” Herculeah asked.

  “I am in back of my house. I have packed my things. I am ready. You come, bring Tarot, and I am on my way.”

  “But—”

  “I beg of you. Just this one last favor, and I am out of your life forever. I beg you, I beg you. I wait for you, Herculeah. Please help me. Do not fail me now.”

  And the line went dead.

  23

  THE BLACK ROBE

  Herculeah dialed Meat’s line. “Busy,” she said to herself. She glanced out the window at his house.

  She waited. She dialed again. “Get off the phone. I need you!”

  She made a decision, put down the phone, and quickly climbed the stairs to her room. She stood for a moment in her doorway.

  Tarot was on his stand by the window. He cocked his head and looked at her.

  “Beware! Beware!” he said.

  “I wish you knew some other words.”

  Herculeah sighed, pulled herself from the doorway, and crossed the room. Her head was full of questions. Was Marianna the living relative Madame Rosa had mentioned? And what of the sister’s son? Was he living ? Nothing made sense. That was why she wanted to see Madame Rosa—or find out who was pretending to be her.

  “Come on, Tarot. Let’s go.”

  She put the bird on her shoulder. “I’ve got to get Meat to go with us. I called his house, but the line was busy. I’ll try again before we leave. He won’t want to come. He hates that house. I do, too, but—”

  Tarot’s wing brushed her cheek as he flapped. The air he stirred around her face smelled of feathers and dry seeds.

  “If Meat doesn’t answer, I’m going to stop by his house. Then the three of us are going to Madame Rosa’s. I thought she was dead, but now I don’t know. I wish my mom was home. I would call Dad, but it’s his poker night, and I don’t know where they’re playing. If all she wants is the parrot ...”

  Herculeah dialed Meat’s phone number. Still busy. She hung up the phone and went out the front door. She crossed the street and knocked on Meat’s door. Meat’s mother opened it and stepped back with a gasp.

  “What are you doing with that awful bird?” she asked. “It’s that woman’s bird, isn’t it, that witch? I recognize it. Get it off my porch. I won’t have that bird anywhere near me.”

  “Is Meat home?”

  “No, I am happy to say Albert is not at home. He’s not at home, so you can’t get him in any more trouble.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Meat’s mother turned her head to the side and looked at Herculeah from under her heavy brows. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.”

  “Well, I can’t stand here talking all night. I’m on the phone. Long distance.”

  “Tell Meat I came by. Tell him ...”

  Meat’s mother closed the door before Herculeah could think of a message, and Herculeah went down the stairs. She took them one by one, hesitantly, as if she didn’t want to proceed.

  With these same slow steps, she walked down the sidewalk. She paused at Madame Rosa’s gate. Herculeah had a deep feeling of dread, of something about to happen.

  “Madame Rosa,” she called at the gate.

  There was no answer.

  The house was dark. It had an empty, deserted look, as if whoever had lived here had left a thousand years ago, instead of a few days ago.

  Herculeah pushed open the gate. She glanced over her shoulder, remembering that when she and Meat had entered, a police car had cruised by. Unfortunately, there was no police car tonight.

  Herculeah left the gate open behind her. Keeping away from the shrubbery, she made her way to the side of the house.

  “Get ready, Tarot, because when I see her, I’m throwing you in her direction and taking off. Madame Rosa?”

  No answer.

  “Madame Rosa.”

  Herculeah took a few steps around the side of the house.

  “I am here.”

  Herculeah turned., The figure had come out of the shrubbery behind Herculeah, cutting off Herculeah’s exit to the street.

  “I’ve got the parrot,” she said in a rush.

  She could see a black-robed figure in the small patch of moonlight that filtered through the old trees, but she couldn’t see the face. Her heart began to pound in her chest.

  “Yes, I see. You have the bird.”

  Herculeah paused, judging the distance, the time it would take to rush past this black figure.

  “Come, bring him to me.”

  Herculeah moved sideways. The bird fluttered on her shoulder, and Herculeah put up one hand to calm him.

  In that moment, Tarot saw the figure against the shrubbery. He screeched, “Beware! Beware!” and beat his wings furiously.

  Herculeah froze. She knew that Tarot never cried “beware” to Madame Rosa, only to strangers.

  And Herculeah knew that whoever it was coming toward her wrapped in Madame Rosa’s cloak, it was not Madame Rosa.

  24

  THE KNIFE

  Herculeah stepped back. On her shoulder, Tarot’s talons clutched, pinching her flesh. His wings beat anxiously against her face.

  “Who—who are you?” Herculeah asked. Her voice trembled. Her throat was dry.

  “I tell you. Madame Rosa.”

  “ No. ”

  There was a pause.

  “Madame Ro-sa,” the voice said again, this time in a sly, teasing way that turned Herculeah’s blood cold.

  “Your voice is like hers,” Herculeah admitted, forcing herself to talk normally. “You might fool me, but you can’t fool the parrot.”

  “Who knows about a bird? Maybe in the darkness, Tarot get confused. Maybe he make a mistake, as
I said, like the police.”

  “No, you are not Madame Rosa.”

  There was a pause and then a different voice, a man’s voice, spoke.

  “No, unfortunately for you, I am not Madame Rosa.”

  “Well, you’re somebody who knows Madame Rosa very well,” Herculeah continued in a rush.

  “Yes, I knew her.”

  Herculeah began to inch sideways toward the fence. She went on in a deliberate conversational tone, “Because you imitate her voice perfectly, and you couldn’t do that if you didn’t know her.”

  Herculeah stopped. She drew in a breath. “Or maybe,” she said slowly, “maybe you’re somebody who knows how to imitate voices.”

  “That could be.”

  “Maybe you’re someone who makes a living imitating voices.”

  As Herculeah said that, she was back at the flea market, standing in front of the puppet show, listening to dozens of different voices, all from one man.

  “Now you’re getting smart.”

  Herculeah said, “Frankie.” It was not a guess, not a question. “The puppeteer.”

  He did not answer, but Herculeah knew she had hit the mark.

  “You killed Madame Rosa.”

  No answer.

  “I want to know why. I have to know why.”

  Herculeah continued to move sideways. Just two feet more and she could rush, the figure in the cloak, knock him down, head for the street. With any luck she could be over the fence and—

  Her thoughts broke off. It was important to keep talking.

  “I really do want to know why. I don’t think anybody cares but me. You did kill her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The voice seemed closer. Perhaps the puppeteer was inching in her direction as she was moving toward the fence. She couldn’t see him clearly now.

  She stepped on a dried twig and the snap caused Tarot to beat his wings again. “Beware! Beware!”

  “It was your mother who consulted Madame Rosa, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He gave a dry laugh. “I used to scare my mom into doing what I wanted. My mom would give me grief over something, and I’d start playing with a kitchen knife, twirling it on the counter or holding it like this.”

  Now Herculeah could see the glint of a knife in his hand. He had drawn a knife from under his cloak. He was raising it.

  Herculeah knew he had stabbed one person. He wouldn’t hesitate to stab another.

  She swallowed. She barely managed to say, “Go on with what you were saying.”

  “I guess I scared her maybe a little too much—like I’m scaring you.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You should be.” Another of those dry, frightening laughs. “Well, my mother was. She went to consult the famous Madame Rosa. ‘Oh, Madame Rosa, I’m afraid of my son. Is he going to kill me, Madame, yes or no? Is my little Frankie going to kill me?’ ”

  Now he was speaking in his mother’s voice. Herculeah was cold with fear and dread. She felt as if she were in Madame Rosa’s parlor with the frightened mother and Madame Rosa, actually hearing the conversation.

  “ ‘Give me something of his. Bring me something.’

  “‘I could bring you the knife he threatens me with. ” ’

  The terrible two-part conversation continued, with the puppeteer taking both parts.

  “‘I’ll go home right now and get the knife. You’ll wait for me, Madame Rosa?’

  “‘I wait....’

  “ ‘I am back. Here, here is the knife my boy threatens me with. Here take it. Tell me.’

  “ ‘Yes. Yes. Your boy, he kill with this knife. Your boy will kill!’ ”

  In his own voice the puppeteer added, “I guess the old broad actually flipped out, fainted. My mom told me about it when she got home. She said, ‘Frankie, she thinks you’re going to kill.’ I said, ‘Mom, I’m no killer. You know that. I’ll handle it.’ I meant to handle it by scaring Madame Rosa.”

  Herculeah took another step toward the fence. In the darkness, the puppeteer did, too.

  “I made a witch puppet. You saw her.”

  “Yes. And just as I thought, it was modeled after Madame Rosa.”

  “Of course, even down to the cloak.” He gave a flourish that made the cloak flutter around him. On Herculeah’s shoulder, Tarot gave an answering flutter.

  “Oh, I enjoyed that play. Madame Rosa was doing her little palm-reading thing across the way, and she looked up and there she was on the puppet stage. Her face. Her voice. Her cloak. My knife.

  “She froze with her mouth open—was too scared to close it, I guess—until the witch got stabbed.”

  “That’s when she fled?”

  “I thought she got the message. Then the old fool went to your mom, a private detective, and I didn’t like that. I knew I had to really scare the old woman—like I’m scaring you.”

  “I’m n-not afraid.”

  “A-aren’t you?” the puppeteer asked. This time he spoke in Herculeah’s voice.

  “Go on with your story,” she managed to say.

  “I went to her house. I opened the door with the knife—such useful things.” Beneath his hood he smiled. “Madame Rosa was in the kitchen. I was just going to put the knife somewhere so she could find it. There was a big book on the table. I decided to stick the knife in that. It fell open to a page on dolls. Voodoo dolls. I liked that. It fit. Dolls. Puppets. I raised my knife. Right then that stupid bird woke up and yelled, ‘Beware!’

  “Madame Rosa came in and she went crazy. I just wanted to scare her—that’s all I was going to do—but she threw herself at me. She was going to tear my eyes out or something. She was a wild woman. And I was holding the knife like this—”

  Again Herculeah saw the glint of metal.

  “And she fell against it. I never wanted to kill her. I don’t want to kill anybody. I don’t want to kill you.”

  Herculeah took another step sideways.

  “It just happened then, like it’s going to happen now. She knew too much. You do, too.”

  Without any more warning, he came toward her. His long billowing cape made him seem huge. Herculeah threw Tarot at him. There was a flurry of wings and cape as the puppeteer fought off the bird.

  He managed to throw the bird to the ground. He came for Herculeah again. He made one thrust with the knife. He missed. He drew back for another.

  She ducked and as she swirled away, she shoved him with all her strength. He stepped backward, stumbled on the hem of the cape, and fell to the ground.

  This was the moment Herculeah had hoped for. She rushed past him. She had a moment of elation. She was free. She was going to get away. She was safe.

  And then she felt his long, cold fingers circle her ankle.

  25

  WEAPON OF CHOICE

  Herculeah cried out in fear. She kicked, trying to shake off his fingers, but the puppeteer’s grip was strong. His fingers held.

  She kicked again—and again. He was as desperate as she. They were both fighting for their lives.

  Herculeah twisted. With her free foot she stomped down, hitting the puppeteer’s wrist. There was a grunt of pain, but he held her fast.

  Tarot, frantic with alarm, was flapping around Herculeah’s legs, adding to the confusion, raising her fear. She glanced down.

  In the moonlight she saw the knife in the puppeteer’s free hand. She saw him draw it back. He was ready to strike.

  Herculeah stomped again, this time with all her considerable strength. And this time there was a real scream and this time the fingers lost their grip.

  Herculeah took off. She ran around the house, across the old lawn. She took the fence in one jump and kept running. She flew across the street.

  As she came up on the pavement, she ran straight into something that knocked her breath out. It felt like a frying pan.

  “Help me! Help me!” she gasped. She clutched the person who held it. “Help me! There’s a man back there—a murderer. He tried to
murder me, and he did murder Madame Rosa. He’s got a knife. He may be coming—”

  She broke off and glanced in fear over her shoulder. The street behind her was deserted. “He’s—” She sagged, completely out of breath. Anyway, it was impossible to explain what had happened to a stranger.

  “I knew you were going to get yourself into trouble,” the woman Herculeah was clinging to said. “As soon as I saw that bird on your shoulder I knew no good would come of it.”

  This was not a stranger. Herculeah looked up. Lit by the streetlight was the surprisingly beautiful face of Meat’s mother.

  “Am I going to need this frying pan, or are you safe?”

  “I think we’re going to need more than that. We need the police.”

  “I already called them. I hung up on my sister—long distance from Chicago. I said, ‘I got to hang up, Tiff.’ I said, ‘That was a girl at my door, and she had a bird on her shoulder that gets people in trouble. I’m calling the police.”

  “I’m glad you did. Oh, it was just awful. I can’t describe it. I thought I was going to get away, and then I felt his hand grab my ankle—like that.” She made a claw of her hand and shuddered at the memory. “It was the puppeteer.”

  Meat’s mother went back to her original topic. “And as soon as I hung up after talking to the police, I went to the kitchen. My frying pan was waiting for me on the stove. I came out here and stopped on this very spot. I told myself I wasn’t going to cross the street again unless I absolutely had to. I wasn’t going a step closer to that murder house until I heard screams.”

  “I did scream.” Herculeah thought that Meat’s mother and her frying pan, her weapon of choice, would have been a welcome sight.

  “Not loud enough. You have to work on your screams if you expect me to hear you.”

  “I will. But the puppeteer screamed, too. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “I wouldn’t lift my frying pan for the likes of him,” Meat’s mother said firmly. She looked up. “Well, here they come at last.”

  A police car, blue lights flashing, siren wailing, came around the corner and stopped at the streetlight. A second car came racing around the back road, blocking off the alley.

  “It’s about time,” Meat’s mother told the first officer who got out of the car.