The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Lila Shaara

  She thought, I have to put the shotgun down, and only then did it occur to her that she might be blamed for having shot him, that now her fingerprints were all over the big gun and Miss Tokay wasn’t in her right mind and might not tell them what really happened, might not even remember, and Darcy Murphy was certainly dead. She lifted the big gun again, not wanting to drop it on the porch and have it shoot, not knowing where to put it away, out of reach of anyone else crazy enough to use it, and then she saw the spinning lights, beautiful, like Christmas, on the roofs of several blue and white cars parked in a zigzag line in Miss Tokay’s grassy driveway; she had the impression of the face of a terrified white boy wearing a grown-up deputy’s hat; the boy was hunched behind an open car door, staring at her through the window. She thought, Have they come for me or for the Purple Lady? And then she heard a crack, a ping, felt something very hot in her shoulder, and looked up to see the trees and the sky, felt the rain hit her like bullets. They think it was me, she thought as she fell, the enormous shotgun clattering on the wooden floor next to her, and she was surprised by how much her back hurt, by how hard and cool the wood felt on her bare arms as her body went down. I’ll find out now where you go, I’m gonna know for sure. Duncan, she thought, and would have sworn, had anyone asked her, that she heard an answering “Josie Posey Puddin’ and Pie.”

  44

  FIVE OF SWORDS

  Wanting the wrong thing, and getting what you want

  Harry used a pay phone in a small grocery store a few blocks from Fay Levy’s house to call Maggie. No answer. Then he called his own house to check his answering machine again. There were no new messages, and he realized with a mental obscenity that everyone would assume he could get to his cell phone voice mail. Goddamn the motherfucking information age, he thought.

  He got Serge’s machine again and left a message, saying that he was coming back to town soon and that he was worried about Maggie’s safety. He added that Serge shouldn’t trust Jonathan Ziegart. He had planned to stop in Virginia to visit Grenier University before flying back to Orlando. Now, however, he felt certain that getting back to Stoweville as soon as possible was imperative, although he didn’t know what he intended to do when he got home. He called the airline; after wading through an intricate series of phone menus, he finally spoke to a real person who told him that the soonest they could leave Harrisburg was the next afternoon. The charge for changing their itinerary was jaw-dropping. Harry didn’t change anything, not trusting his instincts. Staring at the phone after hanging up, he trusted them again and swore aloud.

  Dusty and Harry ate dinner in a restaurant on the outskirts of Lucasta, then went back to the hotel. Harry called Maggie and Serge again with no more success than he’d had before. He left the number of the hotel on Serge’s machine. Dusty watched another bad movie while Harry read his book on Tesla.

  They had breakfast the next morning, then came back to the room to pack. Dusty called Ann to check in again; after a short interchange with her, he handed the phone to Harry. “She wants to talk to you.”

  Harry wasn’t eager to speak to his ex-wife, but he took the phone and said, “What’s up? Is your father okay?”

  “Serge has been trying your cell phone for the last twenty-four hours.”

  “It’s dead.” Harry had a bad feeling in his stomach. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but he said it was urgent that he speak to you.” Harry said he’d call the Olnikoffs immediately, furious that Serge hadn’t called the hotel. He hung up, feeling like wringing his hands, something he’d never actually seen anyone do. He tried Serge’s again; no answer, but this time Harry’s message was more to the point. “What the hell’s happening there? I talked to Ann. Call me. At the hotel, not on my goddamned cell.” He dialed the airline again, willing this time to eat any extra charges for changing flights from Tacamaw, Virginia, to Orlando. All the Orlando flights that afternoon were full, the agent said. Now the soonest they could leave was first thing the following morning. Harry was alternately hostile and apologetic to the ticket agent while he made the reservations, so frustrated at the capriciousness of other travelers that he wanted to throw the phone across the room. After he’d finished with the airline, he wanted to take Dusty for a long walk, but instead he let his son listen undisturbed to his iPod while he paced around the room, waiting for Serge’s call.

  The hotel didn’t have a restaurant, so they had to leave the room for lunch. There was an omelet house a mile away, and they had a brief debate about whether or not to leave Dusty in the room, but he couldn’t tell Harry what he wanted to eat without seeing a menu. So they drove to the restaurant and ordered their food to go. Dusty was now infected with his father’s urgency; he didn’t want to miss a call from Serge any more than Harry did. They got back to the room within an hour of leaving it; there was still no message from Serge. Harry called the Olnikoffs’ again. This time, he got Amelia.

  “Serge is at the courthouse with Tony Frantz, filing papers to keep that crazy old lady out of jail.”

  “Which crazy lady? You mean the fortune teller? What the hell’s she done now?”

  “Oh my God, Harry, you haven’t talked to anyone here? You don’t know what’s happened?”

  “I know nothing other than I leave town for a week and everything seems to have fallen to pieces. What the hell’s going on? I left our number on your machine. Why didn’t he call me on it?”

  “He tried. He kept getting a gas station.”

  She repeated the number he’d left; the last two digits were reversed. He let loose a colorful string of expletives in his mind, almost feeling the seams of his body rip apart with the effort of keeping them to himself.

  Amelia was saying, “Oh God, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you all this.” Harry thought, Something’s happened to Maggie, but Amelia said, “The fortune teller’s dead, Harry. She was shot by the police.”

  “What? Josie Dupree? You mean her, right?” He had a sudden horrible worry that Maggie might be labeled a fortune teller, too, by people who didn’t know her.

  “Yes. Josephine Dupree.” Harry’s relief made him feel sick with guilt. “It’s a huge mess. Serge says it’s all a terrible cock-up by the sheriff’s department, but we don’t really know for sure.”

  “How’s Maggie? Has anyone talked to her or seen her? Is she all right?”

  “She’s okay. She called Serge last night. She was very upset, obviously. She begged him for help because the old lady they were staying with had been arrested. They think she shot someone, a meter reader or something. None of it makes sense yet.”

  Why the hell were they staying with Miss Tokay? Harry thought. Why in hell did she shoot anybody? And who knew she had a gun? He said, “Did Serge get Miss Tokay out?”

  “Eventually. Actually, Tony did. You know he’s the best criminal defense attorney around here. He’s semiretired and mostly teaches at the law school now, but Serge strong-armed him. You know how he can be when he’s wound up. He knows that Maggie is important to you, so he really threw his weight around.”

  “Is Frantz doing this pro bono or is someone going to have to come up with a billion dollars later?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll work something out, I guess. The important thing is that Miss Toky is out of jail on bond, and is home now. I gather that Maggie is staying with her.”

  Harry didn’t correct Amelia’s pronunciation of the old woman’s name; he knew that it was misplaced gratitude but at the moment didn’t know how to express it any other way.

  “When are you coming home, Harry?” she said.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Goddamnit to hell, it’s the soonest I can make it.”

  · · ·

  The sheriff’s department no longer looked like the calm, well-run establishment it had when Jonathan Ziegart had been given the tour by Lieutenant Deputy Faber. The place was both noisier and quieter, in that there was much silent walking around by various employees, all at work even on
a Saturday, muted phone conversations at desks as deputies talked intently to members of the public, the press, and Jonathan imagined, employees of the Florida attorney general’s office. He’d read the local paper; the sheriff’s department hadn’t come off well in the “shrine shoot-out” as a headline dubbed it. Jonathan greeted Serena the receptionist with a sympathetic smile. He took her hand and said, “Hard morning?”

  She didn’t smile back, but she seemed to relax in the way that people did when they were happy to see someone under miserable circumstances. “Things are bad. The sheriff’s not here. Do you have a meeting with someone?”

  “I’ve offered my services to Lieutenant Deputy Faber. I imagine he could use any extra hands he can get investigating this thing.”

  Serena shook her head. “Wally can’t investigate himself, Jon. That’s up to the Law Enforcement Review Board.”

  “Faber’s being investigated?”

  Her voice dropped. “It’s automatic when any officer uses deadly force, and now it’s not clear whether or not it was called for. It looks like he bypassed all the appropriate protocols when he took a bunch of guys out there in the first place. But I think it’ll all come out all right. These things usually do.”

  Jonathan had to exert some effort to keep from asking Serena about the tip Faber had gotten while the sheriff gave a speech on compassion and tolerance to the Elks club. There hadn’t been anything specific about it in the newspaper. He said, “I understand he had some sort of information about the old lady. You know, operating one of those doomsday cults on her property.”

  Serena fluttered her tongue between her front teeth, making a tsking sound. “The sheriff’s grandmother went to school with Edith Tokay. He went to her house for barbecues when he was a teenager. She’s crazy all right, but about as dangerous as a dead cat.”

  Jonathan thought, They’re more dangerous than you might think. Dead claws are still sharp. He soothed and flattered until she allowed him to pass into the large open office area behind her. The sheriff was nowhere to be found; Jonathan assumed he was being yelled at in the office of the mayor or the district attorney. Jonathan spotted Wally Faber at the coffeemaker; he was holding a cup and looking earnestly at a tall man in a navy blue suit with thinning hair and a long nose. The man in the suit was talking not to Faber but at him, pushing his index finger dangerously close to the younger man’s chest. Jonathan recognized the suit at once: the uniform of the FBI. He heard Faber say, “Look, Agent Soames, everyone knows the old lady’s batshit.” The voices of the two men were low but still loud enough to be audible to anyone interested in their conversation. Jonathan imagined he wasn’t the only one in the room listening with straining ears.

  “So now you’re a psychologist as well as an antiterrorism expert.” The man named Soames was drawn and angry, and he saw Jonathan and said, “Who the hell’s this? Somebody’s nephew, playing cop? Jesus Christ, are you people for real?”

  “I’m Jonathan Ziegart,” Jonathan said, extending his hand.

  The FBI agent didn’t take it. “Bully for you. Go back to your dorm room.”

  Faber said that Jonathan was a forensic anthropologist who had offered his services to the Stowe County Sheriff’s Department on an earlier occasion. Soames didn’t appear impressed at all; he said simply, “Don’t talk to him about anything, Faber.” Agent Soames disappeared into the sheriff’s office, which he appeared to have commandeered.

  Jonathan said, “Can I help?”

  Faber considered this. “No, Jon, but thanks. There’s nothing exotic to examine. Fingerprints. Crime scene photos. You know, the normal stuff.” Faber shook his head. One eye was twitching with such regularity that Jonathan found himself timing it. He knew that, if he waited, Faber would talk more than was wise; sure enough, after six twitches, he said, “The inspector for North Florida Light, the one that was killed, he had a grudge against the old lady and her neighbors because they used solar panels. Makes you think, eh?”

  Jonathan wasn’t sure what it was supposed to make you think of, but he agreed, keeping his voice pleasant. “What happened, Wally?”

  “A tip. A series of ’em, actually. One said that the Purple Lady’s cult had started up again. The sheriff didn’t take it serious, but I wondered. Lots of militias in the central part of the state. You always have to keep watch, especially these days.” Jonathan agreed again, happy that Faber had apparently decided to ignore Agent Soames’s orders. “We got a second one when Sheriff Kimble was away. The caller had his voice disguised with one of those computer thingamajigs. The call was recorded, but the lab guys say there’s not much likelihood of ever IDing it. The phone was a prepaid cell. We don’t even know if it was a he or a she, but the caller said that somebody was building a dirty bomb in the old lady’s garage. Murphy, the inspector, was maybe in on it with her. Maybe even the instigator.”

  “You thought it was a credible threat?”

  “Nothing else was going on, and I figured it was worth a look-see, you know? I took some guys, and then there was a shot and some guns drawn, and the next thing you know, it’s all a big fucking mess.” Faber wiped his hand over his face. “I may need to go job huntin’, Jon.” Jonathan saw with interest that the lieutenant deputy was close to tears; his hands were shaking, and there were dollops of sweat the size of peppercorns speckling his forehead. It was unpleasant to look at, although he found it fascinating when two drops starting traveling down toward the deputy’s left eyebrow. He said, “I’ll make a call to the Lucasta Police Department. They might need somebody.”

  It was meant as a joke, but Faber didn’t smile. It looked as though he was trying to, but instead his upper lip lifted in a sort of grimace, exposing his front teeth, one of which was outlined in gold. Jonathan found that fascinating as well. He said, “So, no trace of dirty bombs anywhere, I guess?”

  “No. Miss Tokay lets a friend of hers do fix-it jobs in her garage. A junk dealer who repairs people’s toasters. There were a few engine parts lying around, but nothing that amounts to anything. Soames is looking into his background, but he’s local, been here forever, no complaints, no sheet. Nobody knows why the inspector for the electric company showed up on her porch. He may have meant the old lady harm, but maybe not. We don’t know why he had a gun on him either. The old lady says he was there to scare her off her land. Maybe he was. Soames is looking at her nephew, thinking maybe Murphy was working for him. He’s known to be eager to get his hands on the place.”

  “So she wasn’t the one killed? I read in the paper that a woman was shot. A fortune teller or something? I assumed that she was the crazy shrine lady.”

  “Oh no. It was another neighbor. We’re not even sure which crazy woman shot Murphy. On the videotapes, you can’t see what was going on in the house when he pulled his gun.” He stopped and took a shaky breath, then turned to the coffeemaker. “He left a wife. No kids, thank God. The fortune teller just left a niece.”

  “She wasn’t there?” Faber looked surprised at the question, and Jonathan took a breath and told himself to calm down. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, but he didn’t pull it out.

  “She was at the library with two little girls. Other neighbor kids. She’s all grown up. She’ll be all right.” Faber tried to pour coffee into a cup, but he couldn’t still the trembling of his hand enough for any kind of accuracy, so he put the carafe back on the burner. He put the clean mug back with its fellows on the paper place mat that sat next to the coffeemaker. There was also a jar of nondairy creamer, a cup of plastic stirrers, and a box of sugar packets along with the mugs. Jonathan didn’t like powdered whitener, so he didn’t pour himself any coffee.

  45

  THE MAGICIAN

  She holds the four symbols of creation: a wand (fire),

  a cup (water), a sword (air), and a pentacle (earth).

  Harry got into the outskirts of Stoweville by noon. Dusty was mad at being left at his grandparents’ house in Orlando, but Harry had said, “You go back to sch
ool in three days. You’ll be finished in two weeks. I’ll come down the day you’re done and we’ll pack you up and bring you home with me. I’ll call you every day and let you know what’s going on. But right now I need you to help your grandmother take care of your grandfather, and to be as nice as you can to your mother.” He’d added with emphasis, “And stay away from the bus station.”

  He still hadn’t spoken to Maggie. He’d tried Miss Tokay’s house when he got to Orlando, but the phone was “temporarily out of service.” There was no answer at the double-wide. Serge hadn’t spoken to Maggie since the previous evening; he didn’t know where she was either.

  Harry went to Crane’s first. She wasn’t there, but Shawntelle was, and she didn’t look amused anymore. He was greeted with warmth by Dottie and Fat Calvin. The latter looked shrunken and bereft. Neither knew anything useful, although Dottie wanted to engage him in long, pointless, if well-meaning speculation. He left with promises to let them know if there was anything they could do to help.

  He drove by the trailer and saw only Josie’s car, so he didn’t stop. He backtracked to the shrine, noticing now how it was pitted and blackened; he stopped at the edge of the driveway and rolled down his window to get a better look. Someone had shot it enough times to make it looked frayed around the edges, burned and wounded. There was a lot of trash: empty paper cups and the wrappers of burgers and candy bars. The detritus of reporters and rubberneckers.

  He continued down the drive, stopping the car and getting out to move the chain from across Miss Tokay’s driveway, then pulled his car up to the house. There was crime scene tape all around the front porch and a horrible stain on the edge of the wood flooring. There was no other vehicle in front of the house and no answer to his knock when he hammered on the solid purple door. Behind the house he could see the Purple Lady’s temple, the second one, which had once been a garage and was now just for storage. There was no car in front, where the big doors had long ago been boarded up with plywood. He thought he could hear music, far off in the trees, like nothing he’d ever heard before. Alien music, but so faint it rose away from him in the heat and then was gone. He listened to the silence for another minute before he got back into his car, welcoming the air-conditioning; then he drove to the cemetery.