"We'll just do a general reading, then," Aimee told him, looking disappointed.
As she smoothed out the tablecloth, Teena tottered over on tall, high-heeled silver shoes. "Peter!" she called, her eyes shining. She was dressed in striped stockings and a short, form-fitting black dress, and looked much older—and sexier—than a high-school senior.
"Oh, hi," Peter said weakly.
"Poor guy," I said.
"I'm going in," Quinn announced, striding over to claim her man.
As she touched his shoulder, he jumped; then, when he turned and recognized Quinn, his face broke into a smile of relief. Aimee and Teena, on the other hand, looked as if they had just sucked on lemons.
"Quinn! You look great!'
She smiled back at him. "Thanks. You look... menacing," she replied, pointing to the scythe.
"Aimee was just about to do a reading for me," he said, looking back at the card reader. "You've met Quinn, right?"
"We've met at the café," Aimee said coolly.
"Hi, Aimee. Hi, Teena." Quinn nodded to the two women as Flora and I joined the group around the table.
"I don't usually have quite such an audience for a reading," Aimee said, looking uncomfortable.
"I'm curious to see how it works," Teena volunteered. "I sometimes... well, I know things, but I've never done anything with tarot cards before."
"If you like, maybe I can teach you sometime," Aimee offered, softening a bit. She looked at Peter. "Sure you don't have a question?"
"Well, maybe I do. Think the cards can tell me what to do about that exotic game ranch?"
"You want to know what's going to happen with the game ranch?"
"Sure," he said with a shrug of his cloaked shoulder. "Why not?"
As we watched, she plucked the top card from the stack and laid it down on the cloth.
"The first card is the situation card, in this case, the king of pentacles," she intoned, laying down a card picturing a man on a throne, clutching what looked like a gold coin. "A man with dark hair, who is a master of money."
"Sounds like Bug," Peter quipped.
"Only not so much hair these days," Quinn added, one hand lying proprietarily on her man's shoulder.
"The second card," Aimee continued, "is what crosses you." She laid down a card with more of the gold coins, only this one was a man clutching at them. "Greed," she said.
"That's about right."
As we watched, she put down the rest of the cards. I didn't know how much she interpreted based on what she knew of the situation and how much was the cards, but she did do a pretty accurate job of describing the situation. A dark-haired man doing something for money that wasn't popular or ethical, which we kind of already knew. The cards didn't say much about what to do, though—at least not that I could see.
"And finally," she announced, "the outcome card." She laid down the last card with a flourish, and Teena sucked in her breath. It showed a man dressed very much like Peter—the Grim Reaper—carrying a scythe and riding a pale horse.
"The death card!" Teena murmured.
"Death doesn't always mean actual death," Aimee corrected her. "It often means change, the erasing of something old to make room for the new."
"But it doesn't," Teena said, her eyes looking unfocused. "This is an omen."
Quinn and I exchanged looks; we'd learned to trust Teena's hunches. "What do you mean?" Quinn asked.
"Someone's going to die," she said, and goose bumps crawled up my arms.
2
"Nonsense," Aimee said, sweeping the cards off the table. "It just means change. Things as they are are going to be reshuffled, and there will be something new."
"Like an expanded exotic game ranch?" Peter asked.
She shrugged. "It's hard to say," she said. "Maybe something we haven't even considered will come to pass. That will be twenty dollars," she added.
"What?" Peter protested. "I thought it was free!"
"I'll discount it because I like you," Aimee said, giving him a seductive half smile. "It all goes to the animal rescue operation, anyway."
"In that case, take twenty," Peter the Reaper said, reaching under his robes for his wallet and fishing out a twenty-dollar bill.
Teena's eyes were full of warning. "Be careful, Peter," she said.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I just... I just have a feeling. Something to do with bees."
"We are at a mead winery," Aimee pointed out.
"Are you allergic to bees?" Quinn asked Peter.
"No," he said, and turned to Teena with a kind smile. "But thank you... I'll keep an eye out for swarms."
She nodded and turned away after darting a glance at Quinn.
"Poor girl," Quinn murmured as she fled. "I really hope she finds someone to date; she's so beautiful and kind."
"She will," Peter said. "And hopefully, he'll be closer to her age. Let's go get a drink," he suggested, and together we walked over toward the bubbling cauldron in the middle of the clearing. "Have any of you eaten anything yet?"
"No," I admitted.
"The food's great; I had some corn a few minutes ago, and there's sausage on a stick over in the corner there. The sausage's from Elgin—it's delicious."
"I can't believe so many people turned out," I said. "After all the controversy and everything."
"Oh, there are still a few grumblers," Peter said as we approached the cauldron, which was suspended over a bed of glowing coals. The contents were definitely mead; I could smell the spicy, honeyed scent perfuming the air. "But they're all enjoying the mead."
As he spoke, there was the sound of angry voices coming from near the cauldron.
Serafine stood with her arms crossed, looking every bit the magical figure. Her black braids were swept up on top of her head, and she wore a long, star-spangled gown with a black velvet cloak. The expression on her face made her look like she'd just found a toad in her cauldron. Across from her was Bug Wharton, his face bright purple, looking like he was about to blow a gasket. His brother, Mitch, hovered between them, looking nervous.
"You're a cruel, evil man," Serafine shouted. "Those animals... you're raising them by hand and selling their lives to the highest bidder, all so you can line your pockets."
"It's business," he said. "And it's legal, and there's nothing you can do about it. Why don't you and your pagan friends find some other town to pollute with your demonic rituals?"
"We were here first," she announced. "And I'll fight you with everything I have at my disposal," she said.
"I just want something to drink, not a lecture," he said. "Here. Go ahead and save your animals. I'll do what I want with mine." He tossed a twenty on the table next to Serafine. "Keep the change."
Her tilted eyes narrowed as she handed him a cup. "Drink deep," she said. "And remember, what you put into the world comes back to you thrice over."
It sounded like an incantation as much as a challenge. Bug didn't look away as he took the cup, drained it, and threw it on the ground, crushing it with his heel. "Overrated," he said, and turned away, swaggering over to the sausage stand as the onlookers watched with bated breath. Mitch, looking uncomfortable, trailed behind him.
Serafine bent down to retrieve the paper cup and tossed it onto the coals beneath the cauldron, where it flared quickly. Then she brushed her hands off, as if ridding herself of something unpleasant, and turned to the next person in line.
"So, he's going ahead with the exotic ranch plan?" Peter asked, anger in his voice. He clenched the scythe hard.
"It's already a done deal, I'm afraid," I said.
"It's so frustrating. I talked to the mayor, but she said there was nothing she could do," Peter told me. "So did Serafine." As he said her name, she looked up and saw us, and her face broke into a smile. "Lucy! You made it! And Peter and Quinn, too."
"And Flora," I added as we walked over to where she stood, indicating our sweatshirted companion.
"Nice to meet you, Flora," Serafine
said, reaching out to shake the woman's hand. "Can I get you some mead?" she asked.
"We'd love some," I said as she ladled up a few more cups.
"I can't believe that man showed up here," Serafine said, glancing at the twenty on the table. "I didn't want to take his money, but the animals need everything they can get. Food and litter are expensive."
"No luck with the mayor on keeping the ranch from going ahead?" Peter asked
She shook her head as she handed him a cup. "I can file a complaint, but I can't find a way to stop it. I don't understand why he's doing it," she said. "From what I hear, he's already got loads of money. Although I don't know how; last I heard, he's working part-time down at the courthouse."
"I'll talk to the mayor, too," Flora volunteered.
"Thanks," Serafine said. "I don't know if it will do anything, but every little bit helps." She turned to me. "Given any more thought to having a hive of your own?" she asked.
"I'm thinking I'm going to give it a shot," I said. "Just tell me what to do."
"Great," she said, grinning, then turned to Tobias, who had walked up while we were talking. "I hope you don't mind, by the way... one of my rescues isn't looking so hot. Would you mind checking on her while you're here?"
"Sure," he said, leaning over to give me a kiss on the head in greeting. "I'm really thankful for what you're doing."
She was about to respond when someone yelled "Help!" from near the sausage stand. It was Bug Wharton's brother, Mitch.
"What's wrong?"
"It's Bug," Mitch said. "In his truck... he's in trouble. Hurry!"
Tobias dropped his cup and rushed after Mitch as he turned and raced to Bug's enormous pick-up truck. Peter, Quinn and I followed.
Mitch was right; Bug was in trouble. The truck door was open, and Bug was sprawled across the driver's seat. His face had swelled up, and his lungs whistled as he struggled to breathe.
"EpiPen," Bug said in a strangled voice. "Glove compartment."
"I've got it," Peter said, racing to the passenger side and throwing open the door.
As Tobias unbuttoned Bug's collar, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. What seemed like an eternity later, Peter dug the syringe out of the glove compartment and handed it to Tobias.
As we watched, Tobias plunged the needle into Bug's thigh. "This should work pretty fast," he said. Relief flooded me, and not for the first time, I was thankful for Tobias's medical training. I didn't like Bug, but that didn't mean I wanted him to die
Unfortunately, as we watched, his breath whistled in and out a few more times and then stopped completely.
By the time the paramedics arrived, Tobias had been giving Bug CPR for fifteen minutes, but there was still no sign of a heartbeat.
"I don't understand it," Tobias said, shaking his head as he stepped back and let the paramedics take over. His eyes looked haunted; I could tell he felt personally responsible for what had happened. "We got him the EpiPen so fast."
"Maybe it wasn't an allergic reaction," I suggested.
"It had the hallmarks of one, though," Tobias said. "No sign of blockage in his throat. And he asked for the EpiPen." He turned to Bug's brother. "Did he have any allergies you know of?"
"Bees," he said.
"Could it have been the honey in the mead?" I asked, thinking of the cup he'd drained.
Tobias shook his head. "Highly unlikely. It's the venom that causes the allergy, not the honey."
"I didn't see any bees," I said. "Plus, it's getting dark; they usually aren't out now."
"There's one there," Peter pointed out. He was right; there was a small, lifeless black and gold body in a crumpled cone of paper in the front seat.
"There was one in the cab when we got here," Peter said. "It flew out when I opened the door." He reached for the cone of paper.
"Don't touch it," I warned him. "It could be evidence."
Mitch Wharton blinked, and I took a look at him for the first time. He looked like his brother, but scaled down, somehow. His chin was a little less strong, and although he and his brother shared a barrel chest and six-feet-plus in height, somehow Mitch seemed less of a presence. Like a cup of tea from the second steeping. "Evidence?" he asked. "Of what?"
As Tobias and I exchanged looks, a siren blared next to us, announcing that Sheriff Rooster Kocurek was on the scene.
"Thank goodness we have the professionals involved," Quinn said dryly.
"What's goin' on here?" Rooster crowed as he heaved himself out of his Crown Victoria, his reddish wattle wobbling over his too-tight polyester collar.
"This man stuck my brother in the leg with an EpiPen and he died," Mitch volunteered.
"It looked like an allergic reaction," Tobias said. "He asked for the EpiPen."
"And you're the one who told me where it was," Peter pointed out.
"It looks like someone might have put some bees in the truck," I said, pointing to the cone of paper on the front seat.
Rooster squinted at the dead bee on the paper, and then at me. "I'll talk to you all separately in a minute," he said, in a typically imperious manner, and jabbed a finger at a scrubby oak tree a few yards away. "Go stand over there."
We followed instructions, lingering under the low branches of the ancient tree while the paramedics loaded Bug into the back of the ambulance. Tobias was looking more shaken than I'd ever seen him.
"Maybe I shouldn't have used the EpiPen," he said. "If he had heart trouble... I may have caused him to have a heart attack."
"He was already struggling when you got to him," I pointed out. "His face was swollen, he couldn't breathe... and besides, his brother said he thought it was an allergic reaction."
"But the EpiPen didn't work," Tobias said.
"Maybe it was a faulty syringe," Peter suggested. "He asked you to use it; he obviously thought he was having a reaction, too."
I squeezed Tobias's arm. "You didn't do anything wrong," I reiterated. "You can't save everyone."
"I probably shouldn't have done it," he said. "I'm a vet, not a human doctor."
"You were trying to help," I reassured him. "You did what he asked you to do."
"I'm the one who fished it out of the glove compartment," Peter said. "And I'm the one who called PETA to do a demonstration in front of his ranch the other day."
Quinn grabbed Peter's arm. "I'm sure it was just an accident," she said.
I thought of the paper with the dead bee in it and couldn't help but come to a different conclusion, but I didn't say anything. But as I looked over at Mitch Wharton, who was rocking back and forth with his hands in his pockets, his lips in a thin grimace, I wondered how he really felt about his brother's death—and who inherited the game ranch now that Bug was gone.
It was dark by the time we loaded back into the car, any festive feelings long gone. Once we'd answered Rooster's cursory questions, we'd gone back to the ball to try to regain some of the fall magic, but Bug Wharton's death had thrown a pall over things. The crowd had largely dispersed, and no one wanted mead anymore.
"Even in death, he managed to ruin things," Serafine said as we followed her to the house. "This was supposed to be the big fund-raiser for the animal sanctuary, and now everyone's gone home. And Rooster won't let me serve any more mead—not that anyone would drink it."
"They think Bug was poisoned?"
"That's what people are saying," she told me. "I can't believe he had to pick the mead winery to get stung by a bee. I know the mead wasn't poisoned, so that's got to be what happened. I mean, if you're allergic to bees, shouldn't you stay away from them?"
Tobias and I exchanged glances. Serafine didn't seem too upset about Bug's death, that was for sure.
"So instead of promoting my business and helping the animals," Serafine continued, "the whole Witches' Ball backfired on me. Thanks to that stupid Bug Wharton."
She was seething as she unlocked the door and let us into the farmhouse, but her whole demeanor changed as soon as she squatted down next to a larg
e crate by the front door. "How are you doing in there, sweetheart?" she cooed as a little dog with a pink nose came to lick her through the crate's metal grid. She opened the crate and scooped up a small, bald, sore-covered dog. "I think she's looking a little better, don't you?" she asked.
I blinked; if this poor creature was looking better now, I hated to think of what she'd looked like before. Her skin was covered in sores, and her paws were bright red and swollen. "What happened?"
"Neglect," Serafine said as she handed the little dog to Tobias. "Untreated mange and lots of secondary infections."
"Are you giving her the Ivermectin?" Tobias asked as he inspected the little dog.
"I am," she said. "And I'm doing the baths and wiping down her feet, too, just like you suggested. I just wanted you to check on her."
He peered into her eyes, then put her down for a moment and watched as she made a beeline for Serafine, putting her small, swollen paws on the young woman's leg, begging for attention. She bent down and fondled the little dog's ears, then picked her up.
"She looks good to me," he said. "The swelling is going down, and the sores are healing. It will just take time, but if you keep treating her, you should be able to lick the mange. She seems steady on her feet and her eyesight is good, so there are no ill effects from the medication —at least none that I can see. Let me know if she has tremors or seems to have any vision problems."
"I will," she said. "She's such a sweetheart. I know when she's healed, she'll be gorgeous." She rubbed the little dog's head and surveyed the living room, which was covered in boxes of paper cups and napkins; it was obviously a staging area for the Witches' Ball. "We didn't even get to do the costume contest," she said bitterly.
"Maybe we can do a redux closer to Halloween," I suggested.
"We'll see," she replied with a sigh. "I just hope I can make enough to keep things going for the dogs—and for the winery."
"I know the feeling," I told her. "My well dried up."
"Are you sure it's not just a problem with the pump?"
I shook my head. "Lenny doesn't think so; he's coming back tomorrow to talk about options." I sighed. "I think it's time to head home, unless you need a bit of help cleaning up." Peter and Quinn had already taken Flora.
Deadly Brew (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 3) Page 2
