Death in the Cards

by Sharon Short

  “Prayers! Hopes! Doctors! None of it’s doing a bit of good,” Maureen said. Her voice was a thin, high-pitched moan. Tears pricked my eyes. Her pain was so strong, so desperate that it thickened the night around us.

  “You know this fool’s errand you’re on won’t do a bit of good, either,” Hugh snapped. “And you know what we think of this.” He threw out an arm, taking in the courtyard, but meaning, I understood at once, the psychic fair that was going on inside the Red Horse Motel.

  Maureen laughed bitterly. “Oh, I know, all right. Psychic healing, foretelling, all of this is of the devil. But mama turned to it quick enough for Little Ed’s sake, didn’t she?”

  What? I thought. I’d never heard of Little Ed. Who was Maureen talking about? I looked quizzically at Hugh, but his gaze was intent on Maureen. I wasn’t even sure he was aware of my presence.

  “That’s history,” said Hugh. “Best forgotten.”

  “Like Ricky will be forgotten, if he dies? Because God knows, we can’t talk about pain in our family, we can only just pray for deliverance—”

  Hugh stood swiftly, grabbing Maureen’s arm as he did so, pulling her up so hard that she gasped, and I gasped, too. I’d never known Hugh to be anything but gentle.

  “No one’s going to forget Ricky,” Hugh said. “And medicine has made a lot of progress since—” he swallowed, hard. “—since Little Ed died.”

  For a long moment, Hugh and Maureen stared at each other. Hugh still held Maureen’s arm, at an uncomfortable angle. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know Hugh to be a violent man, but he clearly was intent on forcing Maureen to go home, and she seemed just as intent on staying at the psychic fair. And Maureen was a grown woman. Whatever her mama and her uncle thought of the fair, she had every right to choose to stay. Or go.

  But then Maureen let out a long sigh. “Oh, Uncle Hugh,” she said simply.

  Hugh let go of her arm, and Maureen put her head to his chest. Hugh put his arms around her and Maureen finally released the sobs that had been building up in her.

  I stood up, walked away from them. Maureen would be okay with her Uncle Hugh. And they needed no witnesses to their private conflict, to the pain that the Crowleys all masked behind tense smiles and tight nods of appreciation in public, at fundraisers and church services and even just coming into my laundromat.

  And I needed to deliver to the police department the handkerchief as well as my knowledge that it and the pants in Ginny’s stolen suitcase were stained with blood.

  So I walked away from Hugh and Maureen Crowley, toward the break in the row of motel rooms that opened to the parking lot, moving at a fast pace.

  Until I heard loud, angry shouts coming from the parking lot, and suddenly became aware of the smell of something—leaves? paper?—burning.

  Then I took off running toward the motel parking lot.

  18

  Dru and Missy Purcell were backlit by the Red Horse Motel sign, and its flickering neon red NO.

  Near them were gathered about twenty of their faithful followers, carrying signs as they had before, but this time their placards read NO WITCHES IN PARADISE! and PSYCHIC DEVILS, BACK TO HELL!

  Before them the fire’s flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the faces of Dru and Missy and their protestors, its primal light at odds with the harsh neon behind them.

  As I pushed to the front of the crowd, to the edge of the fire, I gasped.

  Someone had made a fire ring, a circle of stones, in front of the Red Horse Motel sign, then laid the kindling and logs for a fire, which now crackled and leapt, feeding itself on books. My stomach turned. I swallowed hard to keep myself from being sick. I grabbed a stick on the edge of the fire circle, and used it to prod toward me two books that lay just outside the fire. I knelt. The edges of the books were smoking. But their titles were still readable: A History of and Some Speculations about Serpent Mound. And: Magick and Healing.

  I had to swallow again. These were titles I’d seen at the LeFevers’ bookstore. Which had been broken into just the day before.

  I stood up, stared across the fire at Dru.

  “These tomes of the devil burn tonight just as those who follow their evil teaching will also surely burn,” Dru chanted.

  “Amen!” shouted one of his followers. I heard a less certain “Amen” echo from the crowd and saw it came from Elroy, who owned the gas station just outside of town. Sickness gripped my stomach. Elroy was a good man. A man who was fair to his customers, who was sincerely concerned about the future of Paradise and shared that concern at every Paradise Chamber of Commerce meeting. A man who put his goodness into action at every chance. Such as helping with the chili-spaghetti fundraiser for the Crowleys the previous weekend.

  He wanted to do, and be, right. But I could see in his face that while he wasn’t sure that going along with Dru was right, he wasn’t sure that not going along was right, either.

  The problem with wanting to be right, wanting to see things as either absolutely right or absolutely wrong, is that the impulse to be right can make even people like Elroy forget the value of tolerating a different view, of knowing that faith means trusting in the ultimate rightness of the universe even though you don’t have—can’t possibly have—all of the answers.

  I could see that conflict in Elroy’s face. I looked at the fire, at the two books I’d rescued. I didn’t know if I would agree with their contents. In fact, I didn’t buy into much of what the psychics and their devotees believed. But then, I didn’t buy into everything that my church taught, either.

  I did know that tolerating an amount of not knowing in my own soul made me more than human. It made me humane. I did know that trying to stomp out another’s belief with the certainty of one’s own only led to destruction and hatred and hurt.

  I looked back across the fire at Dru. Despite the heat, my aunt’s saying coursed through my thoughts again, chilling me inside and out: That there is a devil, there is no doubt. But is he trying to get in, or trying to get out?

  Which is it, Dru? I wondered, as he droned on and the chorus of Amens grew.

  Suddenly, the ranks of the crowd broke as Damon Lefever and Luke Rhinegold stumbled through to the edge of the fire circle. In the light from the fire and the neon sign, I could see the strain in their faces.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Damon interrupted. “You don’t have to like our event, but what gives you the right?”

  Dru pointed upward. “The Almighty gives me the right.”

  But Luke was in no mood for religious or philosophical discussion. Suddenly, a dash of water slapped the fire, which sizzled, but then kept burning.

  “Well, the Almighty doesn’t give you the right to trespass on private property,” hollered Luke.

  The crowd shuffled as Greta herself broke through, armed with two buckets. Luke took one and threw its water on the fire, which sputtered.

  So did Dru. “We’re protesting in the name of the Almighty, burning these evil tomes—”

  “And how did you get them?” I called. “These are titles I’ve seen at the LeFevers’ shop.” I was furious. Dru and his followers, destroying books, precious pages of others’ thoughts. Never mind if they did or didn’t agree with those thoughts. The loss of books, any books, was a sin.

  “We bought them for the purposes of destroying them,”

  called one of Dru’s followers. “We can do anything we want with things we’ve purchased.”

  “Hey, Damon, you got the records for the sales of books to these fine folks?” I hollered to him.

  His stricken face answered me before his words. “Our computer was destroyed in the break-in. No records are left—”

  “We are good citizens. We bought these books for this very purpose, to do the Almighty’s bidding—” Dru started.

  Greta took aim with her second bucket of water, but skipped the fire and threw it at Dru, who sputtered. A few folks—hangers-on, watching the spectacle as entertainment—laughed.


  “Don’t care how you got ’em,” Greta shouted. “You’re trespassin’.” She pushed forward to Dru and faced him, her head reaching the middle of his chest, which she poked hard with her finger. “And you’re creating a public disturbance—”

  Poke.

  “. . . and a fire hazard, and destroying private property . . .”

  Poke, poke.

  “. . . and we’re filing a police complaint on all accounts.”

  “The laws of the land are important to me, dear lady, but the laws of the Almighty reign supreme. In the Bible it says—”

  Greta ran out of pokes and patience. She swung her empty bucket back, then up, then down on Dru’s head. Dru stumbled back into Missy. They barely kept from falling over.

  “Don’t lecture me on the Bible! I read it every damned morning, even before my first cup a coffee,” Greta hollered. “And I taught fourth-grade Sunday School for thirty-two years. The Bible doesn’t say a thing about burning books to worship the good Lord.”

  Sirens cut over the crowd noise. I exhaled, relieved. Thank, well, the good Lord, that the Rhinegolds had called the police before coming out to the crowd.

  But Dru was incensed. He poked at the red horse on the sign behind him. “When filth like what smolders before us fills our land, the riders of Armageddon shall come forth, as in the book of Revelation, seven riders on seven horses . . .”

  “Stop!”

  The voice was high, harsh, and unmistakable. Missy.

  “Stop,” she cried again at her husband.

  He did stop and blinked as if suddenly confused. He turned and looked at her. “Missy?” he said.

  “Enough,” she said, her voice softer now. “Let’s go.” She looked past him to their followers. “It’s over now. We’ve made our point. Let’s go home before there’s more trouble.”

  The placard carriers looked confused, but did as she bid and started wandering off. So did some of the spectators.

  Dru rubbed his eyes, still looking mystified. I was confused, too. What was Missy up to? She’d always stood by in silent but proud support of her husband’s fiery protests and revivals, speaking up only to defend him, as she had earlier that day at my laundromat, when I’d dropped the barb about seeing Dru with Ginny.

  But now she was quieting him down, and hurrying him toward the parking lot. Almost as if she were protecting him. And he accepted her taking charge. Almost meekly, I realized in surprise. And I knew Greta hadn’t beaned him that hard. What was going on with Dru and Missy?

  Greta followed after them, though. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere! The police are here and when we tell them what you’ve done to our property . . .”

  Luke followed after her. “Greta, come on, we’ll go talk to the police now, let them handle it.”

  The crowd was mostly gone. “I’m going to get more water to put this out,” Damon announced wearily, “before it can do any more damage to the Rhinegolds’ property. Anyone want to help me?” He picked up two of the buckets the Rhinegolds had dropped.

  “I’ll help,” a soft voice said, cutting across the now quiet night.

  I looked over. It was Hugh, staring sadly at the fire that licked about the remains of books, books that he couldn’t yet read, that probably he wouldn’t want to read anyway.

  But still.

  Maureen took his arm in a comforting gesture. Hugh’s and my gaze met across the fire.

  I knew and understood his pain, what he was thinking.

  I nodded gently, so he’d know I understood.

  He turned, then, without another glance at the fire, and picked up a bucket and followed after Damon.

  19

  I was late getting to the Bar-None for my meeting with Winnie, but truth be told, she didn’t notice. She was too busy happily kicking up her heels with Martin on the parquet dance floor in a line dance to the local band, the Shoo Flies, playing “Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox If I Die.”

  I sat at the bar, watching the dancing in wonderment. The transformation of Winnie, from Super Librarian who wears retro 1960s’ peasant shirts and skirts, to a denim-clad line-dancing fool, never ceases to amaze me. But I reckon we all have multiple sides to our personalities. I’d sure observed that just an hour or so before in Maureen and Hugh. And in Dru and Missy, for that matter.

  On the way to the Bar-None, I’d stopped by the Paradise Police Department, catching Jeanine just before she was about to leave work and make way for the third shift dispatcher. I told her I’d been at the Red Horse Motel when the police and sheriff had arrived to break up Dru’s protest and illegal bonfire. She grunted at that. I tried to pry from her the name of who’d called in the complaint, but got nothing. My guess was the Rhinegolds, but I’d just wanted to be sure.

  Then Jeanine sent me back to talk to night lieutenant Tammy Holladay—Chief Worthy was gone for the night—and I indulged in a little white lie by saying I’d forgotten the handkerchief in my pocket. Then I indulged in yet another little white lie saying I’d gotten it out while changing clothes, then accidentally spilled hydrogen peroxide on it in the course of sterilizing a new set of pierced earrings. Officer Holladay looked perplexed by that. You always sterilize your earrings the first time you wear them? she’d asked, staring at my left ear lobe which, like my right ear lobe, sported a simple silver loop. Oh yes, I’d said brightly.

  Well, I couldn’t very well say the truth, or use the white lie that I’d been cleaning a cut on my own person, or the officer (and later Chief Worthy) was likely to dismiss the report of blood on the handkerchief as just being from me. I explained that I saw the brown stain fizz and start to disappear and realized, from my stain-expertise background, that the brown stains on the handkerchief were in fact blood.

  Officer Holladay bagged the handkerchief carefully and filled out her report, assuring me the evidence baggy would be checked in with the other evidence in Ginny’s case, and that I should be available in case I was needed to answer more questions about the handkerchief.

  A half hour later, I found myself slumping on my stool, my elbows propped on the beaten-up wooden bar in the Bar-None, while I nursed a bourbon and water as well as a Diet Big Fizz Cola, sipping first from one, then the other.

  “Want to tell the bartender your troubles?” Sally asked, wiping a glass.

  I looked up at her. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes. In about an hour, the Bar-None would close. She’d go home to her tiny two-bedroom trailer in the Happy Trails Motor Home Court, spend a bit of time missing her three little ones who were off on their fishing trip with their grandpa, then probably tackle something else, like mending some clothes or trying to figure out which bills to pay and which she could put off.

  And yet, she sincerely wanted to hear about my troubles. I smiled at her. “You don’t have all night,” I said. “And I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Sally lifted her eyebrows at that. “And yet your weekend started out so perfectly. Come to think of it, as of yesterday morning, your life was pretty much just the way you wanted it.”

  “Just goes to show there’s no predicting how things might change. Or how fast,” I said.

  “Don’t tell the folks over at psychic fair,” Sally said.

  I laughed, took another sip of my bourbon and water.

  “ ’Course, things might change again, for the better,” Sally added, helpfully.

  “You never know,” I said. Although, truth be told, I felt that I did know. Things had gone sour on every front and weren’t likely to get better, I thought. I wasn’t in a mood to be easily cheered up.

  “How’d I get here, anyway?”

  “You drove, I thought,” said Sally, suddenly looking worried. “You have a nip at the Red Horse before you got here?”

  I shook my head, a bit hurt at the question. “You know that’s not like me.”

  “I know. But it’s not like you to not know how you got to where you are.”

  “I meant how did I get to this point in my life?
Alone. Not wanting to be.”

  “You’re with Owen.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I thought you liked being single. Fancy free.”

  I took another sip and still didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I reckon there’s no predicting how what you want might change, either,” Sally said. She patted my hand. “You’ll be okay.”

  “That’s your prediction?”

  Sally grinned. “Yep. And I’m sticking to it.”

  I grinned back, and then held up my glass. “Here’s to the best damned prediction I’ve heard all weekend.”

  Sally finished wiping up her last glass and went over to help another customer. A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around on my stool. Winnie was standing behind me, huffing from her exertion but glowing with happiness. I was glad to see her looking like that, especially after how miserable she’d seemed that morning with her news about the bookmobile.

  “We have a booth,” Winnie said. “Come on over while the band’s breaking, and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. Martin is off talking to Jimmy Dobbs about a possible deer hunting trip.” She rolled her eyes. She wasn’t thrilled about her husband’s hunting hobby, but it was a topic they’d agreed to disagree on.

  I left my empty bourbon and water glass on the bar and took my Big Fizz Diet Cola with me, following Winnie to the booth.

  We settled in, across from each other. “How are you doing?” I asked. With the band on break, I didn’t have to yell to be heard.

  Winnie knew just what I meant, that my question wasn’t general politeness. Her expression turned serious. “I’m still upset about the bookmobile,” she said. “But I’m calmer about it, now that I’m taking action. We have more than fifty signatures already. I think by midweek, I’ll have well over two hundred, because quite a few folks agreed to gather signatures, too.” Winnie gave me a grateful look. “Thanks, Josie, for understanding this morning and suggesting the petition idea.”

  “I’m glad the petition’s working out,” I said. “You know I’ll do anything I can to help get the bookmobile back.”