In the Event of My Death

by Carlene Thompson

Kurt smiled at her. “No offense to Claudia, but I never considered her the blond bombshell everyone else did.”

  “That’s because she wouldn’t go out with you.”

  “That did show a real lack of taste on her part, but I don’t hold grudges. Besides, I only asked her out because it was considered a feat of success to go out with Claudia Damron. I always found your style more appealing than hers, though.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had any style.”

  “You do. You’ve just never known it.”

  At nine o’clock, her appetite satiated, her body finally warm from the fire, Laurel asked Kurt if he’d mind leaving early. “I had a really busy day and tomorrow promises to be even worse,” she told him.

  “All right,” he sighed. “First forget about our date, then kick me out in the cold.”

  “Kurt, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m joking.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Get a good night’s sleep. Saturday evening we’ll go out for a nice dinner. We might even stay up past eleven since you don’t have to go to work the next day.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Kurt. Thanks for being so understanding.”

  She watched as he went down the long walk to his car. He really is a great guy, she thought. Calm, steady, sweet. No wonder Mom wants me to marry him. I just wish I were in love with him.

  As soon as his headlights disappeared at the end of the driveway, she shut the door and hurried to the phone. She hadn’t lied to Kurt—she was exhausted—but she had a couple of calls to make.

  First she dialed Crystal’s number and was surprised when no one answered. Since Crystal’s husband, Chuck Landis, had left her six months earlier, she’d become a near recluse. Maybe there being no answer was a good sign. Perhaps Crystal was resuming her life.

  Next she called Denise Price. Although Denise had been one of Laurel’s good friends growing up, after they graduated from high school Denise had cut off all contact. Laurel had been hurt at first, then she slowly accepted that none of the Six of Hearts had really wanted to remain close anymore. None with the exception of Angie. It was only through the local grapevine Laurel learned that after graduating from college with a nursing degree, Denise married a doctor, had a daughter named Audra, and was living in Chicago. Laurel was shocked when a little over a year ago Denise and her husband, Wayne, moved back to Wheeling. Shortly afterward Denise asked Damron Floral to decorate her lovely home for a Christmas party. It was then she and Laurel became casually reacquainted and Denise explained it was Wayne’s idea to move to Wheeling where he felt their daughter would be safer than in a big city.

  Wayne answered. “Why, hello, Laurel.” His voice was deep and melodic. “Calling about decorations for our annual Christmas bash? You and Kurt are coming, aren’t you?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it.” Actually she’d forgotten all about it. So much for Kurt’s plans for dinner out on Saturday evening. That was the night of the party. “I do need to speak to Denise about decorations and a couple of other things.”

  “All right. I’ll see if I can find her.”

  It was nearly three minutes before Denise came on the line. When she did, she sounded abrupt and peevish. “Yes, Laurel, what’s the problem?”

  “No problem about the decorations.” Laurel was a bit taken aback by her tone. She and Denise had not and never would regain the kinship they’d once felt, but they were friendly. “Are you free to talk right now?”

  “It’s a little hectic around here. Audra isn’t feeling well and I have a headache.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope you and Audra aren’t getting the flu that’s going around.”

  “Me, too. We both feel awful.”

  “I’ll be brief, then. Have you heard about Angela Ricci?”

  Denise’s voice lowered. “I heard she was murdered.”

  “Yes. Monica called me about it today. Denise, she knows a homicide detective working the case. He says a six and a heart were drawn on Angie’s mirror in her blood.”

  “What?” Denise choked.

  “A six and a heart. There was also a tarot card beside her body. It was the judgment card. Monica is certain Angie’s death has something to do with the Six of Hearts.”

  Denise was quiet for a moment before she muttered, “That’s absurd.”

  “I thought so, too, until I really considered how unlikely it would be that the six and the heart on her mirror are just a coincidence. Monica is coming to Wheeling tomorrow. She wants to talk to you, Crystal, and me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her,” Denise said emphatically. “I don’t ever want to think about the Six of Hearts again.”

  “Neither do I, Denise, but we have to.”

  “No we don’t. I don’t.”

  Laurel’s reaction had been much the same this morning, but a day of thought had put her on Monica’s side. “Denise, we do need to think about this. After all, if Angie’s death had something to do with the Six of Hearts, the rest of us could be in danger. Monica’s smart and she knows a lot about the case.”

  “Monica formed the Six of Hearts,” Denise said bitterly. “She got us into the mess that resulted.”

  Laurel felt a wave of impatience. “Monica didn’t force us to form a club or do any of the things we did. We’re all responsible for ‘the mess that resulted,’ as you put it.” Denise was silent. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know exactly what happened to Angie and that Monica is coming. Whether or not you choose to talk to her is your decision.”

  “Yes, it is.” Denise was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I’m very busy tonight. I’ll talk with you later. Goodbye.”

  The phone clicked in Laurel’s ear.

  3

  Laurel tried to be angry with Denise for her curtness, but she couldn’t. Denise had a husband, a child, a safe and very comfortable life. The last thing she would want to be reminded of was the Six of Hearts. Then there was Angela’s murder and Monica’s theory that her connection with the Six of Hearts had something to do with it. She’d probably sounded as abrupt with Monica this morning as Denise had with her this evening.

  She fixed a cup of cinnamon tea, went to the bookshelf and withdrew an old album whose vinyl cover was cracked. I should have taken better care of this, she thought as she sat down on the couch again. With Kurt gone, April and Alex jumped up to join her, cuddling on either side. Slowly sipping her drink, she flipped the pages of the album. Several albums on the shelf were devoted to Claudia, always posing and preening, in love with the camera. Only this one was hers. Laurel flipped past the pages showing her as a baby and toddler, stopping at the ones with photos of her with her first and best friend, Faith Howard.

  She smiled. There they stood, arm in arm, in front of the dazzling flower bed in her backyard. Both had long hair, Faith’s thick with natural curl and glowing like copper in the sun. Each wore a crown of daisies Laurel remembered weaving, thinking they made them look like Queen Guinevere. “Guinevere with two missing front teeth,” she giggled, gazing at herself.

  Laurel wore red shorts and a white top that looked as if she’d spilled chocolate on it. Faith flaunted a flowered sundress, one strap dangling rakishly off her seven-year-old shoulder while she pointed a dirty, bare foot like a ballerina. Quite the femme fatales, Laurel thought. It was a wonder Kurt Rider and Chuck Landis had ever become friends with them.

  They hadn’t wanted to, at first. They both lived nearby and Faith seemed to have a nose for finding them, determined to befriend the two good-looking, rowdy little boys, but the guys shunned them at first. “You’re just skinny old girls,” Chuck had told them scathingly one day as she and Faith stood on the ground, watching the boys sitting up in their elaborate tree house behind Kurt’s house eating Ritz crackers and peanut butter. “This is Tarzan’s tree house and girls aren’t allowed.”

  “Yes they are,” Faith maintained staunchly. “What about Jane?”

  The boys had stared at each other, puzzled about how to argue their way out of that one. Then Kurt
looked triumphant. “Jane could swing on a vine. Only girls who can swing on vines get to come up.”

  They chortled as Laurel and Faith wandered away, Faith feigning tearful rejection. Fifteen minutes later both boys shrieked when Faith swooped through the air clutching an ivy vine and landed with a thud on the edge of the tree house. She broke her arm, but she’d won the admiration and acceptance of Kurt and Chuck. They’d agreed to be her friends, and she’d insisted they be friends with Laurel, too. The four of them had been close that summer. Naturally as they got older they grew apart, Kurt and Chuck spending their time with other boys, Laurel and Faith forming intense friendships with girls their own age, but the basic warmth of the relationship the four had developed that summer did not fade. Not until thirteen years ago, that is.

  Laurel laid the album aside and stared into the flames in the fireplace, her mind spinning back over the years to a night not unlike this one.

  She remembered the cold. She was supposed to be spending the night with Angie. They all were, although none of the parents knew the Riccis were away for the weekend and thought Angie was staying with Laurel. Five of them would have been content to remain in the Ricci home, eating popcorn, calling boys, watching videos, and drinking the wine Monica had brought along. None of them were drinkers and the presence of wine turned the overnight stay into a heady experience for everyone except Monica. She wasn’t content to stay home. She wanted the Six of Hearts to make one of their visits to the Pritchard farm.

  Monica had always been fascinated with the place, particularly the old barn. Everyone in the area knew about the Pritchards’ slave, Esmé Dubois. In 1703, the Pritchards’ eldest son was thrown from a horse and killed. Weeks later scarlet fever carried away four of the remaining five children and only days afterward Mrs. Pritchard was found drowned in the farm pond.

  The Pritchards prided themselves on their devotion to God. They knew they didn’t deserve such hardship and decided the devil must be at work in their midst. Esmé was from the heathenish islands where voodoo abounded. They quickly deduced that she had been practicing her black arts. She was found guilty of witchcraft in a court where the judge and members of the jury were all in some way beholden to the wealthy Pritchards. When she was only nineteen, Esmé was hanged in the Pritchard barn, the same barn that had weathered almost three centuries to become the sometime meeting place of the Six of Hearts.

  On that cold December night Monica decided it was time for one of their trips to the barn. Everyone else groaned. “Monica, it’s freezing outside. It’s beginning to sleet,” Crystal wailed.

  “We have coats,” Monica stated.

  Laurel sided with Crystal. “Why can’t we wait until it’s warmer?”

  Monica glared at her. “Because it won’t be warmer for months. Besides, we stand less chance of being caught when no one else is out. I thought we could do something a little different tonight, something a little spooky.”

  “Oh, no,” Denise moaned. “Not another one of those witchy things, those rituals. I don’t think we should be messing around with witchcraft. It scares me.”

  Suddenly Faith, who’d been unusually quiet, came to life. “Yeah, it’s a perfect night,” she said spiritedly. “It’s Friday the thirteenth. What better night for a ritual?”

  Crystal looked at her in bewilderment. “Your dad’s a minister. Seems like you’d be the last one of us to mess with witchcraft.”

  Faith rolled her azure eyes. “My father is the unordained minister of some crazy religion he made up. I think he and all of his followers are nuts. Witchcraft makes a lot more sense.” She stood. “Let’s go to the barn.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be fun,” Angie suddenly chimed in. She always enjoyed the theatrics involved in Monica’s Satanic rituals. “It’s a perfect night and we don’t get chances like this very often.”

  Still grumbling, Laurel, Denise, and Crystal acquiesced. Monica, Faith, and Angie were by far the strongest personalities in the group. Looking back, Laurel realized the Six of Hearts was ruled by Monica, but Angie and Faith were her seconds-in-command. She, like Crystal and Denise, had always been a follower.

  Laurel took another sip of her tea and shifted uncomfortably as she remembered the drive. Although the place had not been owned by a Pritchard for nearly a century, it was still known to locals as the Pritchard farm. In the days of Esmé, the farm encompassed over a hundred acres. Now it was reduced to twenty. The massive old barn, no longer used by the present owner of the farm, sat nearly a hundred yards from the house. They parked a quarter of a mile away and ran quietly through the night. Monica carried a duffel bag. She must have packed it before they left the house.

  They opened the door of the barn only wide enough for each girl to slip through although the lights in the house looked far away. A dog barked somewhere and Laurel remembered being afraid it might come charging toward them, but nothing happened. Either it was tied up or behind a fence. She also remembered someone, probably Angie, giggling.

  Once inside, Monica quickly found a kerosene lantern she kept stashed behind some ancient equipment for these occasions. She held a match to it and in a moment light bloomed, throwing shifting shadows around the barn’s old, rotting interior.

  Taller than any of them, Monica held up the lantern. Light danced on her long mahogany hair and turned her eyes to emerald above her high cheekbones. “Tonight we’re going to bring back the spirit of Esmé Dubois.”

  “What?” Crystal squeaked. She looked fragile and childlike with her long golden hair, wide blue eyes, and small frame. At seventeen, she was only five feet two inches tall. “Bring back a spirit?”

  “Yes,” Monica said calmly in her husky, commanding voice. She withdrew a fresh bottle of wine from the duffel bag. “Red wine. Wine as red as blood.” She pulled the already loosened cork from the bottle. “We’ll each take a drink.”

  “I don’t want any more,” Crystal said. “I don’t like it.”

  Laurel didn’t like it, either. Only later did she learn she had an intolerance for alcohol. The smallest amount had an exaggerated, nauseating effect on her. But that night she’d drunk because she didn’t want the others to laugh at her. They all drank. When the bottle was empty, Monica, seemingly unaffected, resumed speaking in her authoritative tone. “Tonight we will summon the spirit of Esmé Dubois.” She withdrew a rope from her duffel bag. “We’ll reenact the hanging.”

  Laurel was aghast. “You’re going to hang someone?”

  Monica looked at her disdainfully. “Of course not. We’ll only take things to a certain point. Then the spirit of Esmé will return.”

  “I don’t like this,” Crystal ventured.

  Monica ignored her and looked at Denise. “You’ll be Esmé.”

  Denise’s gray eyes widened. “Why me?”

  “Because I’ve decided you’d be best,” Monica returned. “Your hair is black and really curly like Esmé’s. You look the most like her. Angie, help me get this rope over that beam. Then we’ll make a noose. Denise will put her head in it.”

  “Oh, no I won’t!” Denise snapped.

  “Yes, you will.”

  Denise gave Monica a steely look. “Esmé may have been a slave but I’m not. I don’t have to take orders from you, Monica Boyd, and I will not put my head in a noose.”

  Monica stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Denise, you’re always so damned serious. This is just a game.”

  “I’ll put my head in the noose!” Faith announced in a slightly slurred voice. They all looked at her. Her long red hair gleamed in the light and her eyes had a wild, abandoned expression. She’d been acting odd all evening, alternately withdrawn and aggressive. Maybe it was the wine. She’d drunk more than any of them. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Don’t do it,” Laurel told her. “This is crazy.”

  Faith giggled. “I like doing crazy things. Loosen up, Laurel.”

  “Faith—”

  “I’m doing it!” Faith shot out. “C’mon, Monica, I’ll help w
ith the rope.”

  By this time Laurel was beginning to feel sick. She sat down on the straw-laden dirt floor while Monica and Faith worked. Soon Monica was dragging a rotting bale of straw beneath the noose. Faith climbed up on the bale. Monica moved the kerosene lamp closer. Shadows flickered over Faith’s beautiful, sensual face. She seemed taller than she really was and the whole scene took on a surreal quality.

  “Faith, put your head in the noose,” Monica ordered. “Everyone else form a circle around her and join hands.”

  Laurel tried to stand but couldn’t. Monica looked at her in annoyance. “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laurel murmured. “Never had wine before.”

  “Just sit there, then. You look green. I don’t want you throwing up on us. Everyone else get in the circle.”

  “I don’t feel so good, either,” Denise said.

  “You’re fine,” Monica told her firmly. “Get in the circle.”

  Faith had climbed onto the stool and slipped the noose around her neck. “I’m standing up here with my head in a rope,” she shouted. “Hurry up!”

  “Be quiet,” Monica hissed. “They’ll hear you at the house.”

  “She’s drunk,” Denise said. “She’s swaying. This is dangerous. Faith, take off that noose.”

  Faith stamped her foot. “No. Do the chant.”

  “Yeah, let’s get it over with,” Crystal said. “I’m freezing.”

  They joined hands and began circling Faith. Laurel watched a moment before their movement make her feel even sicker. The whole room was beginning to spin.

  Monica began to chant, throwing her husky voice down a pitch, saying the words slowly, hypnotically. She went through the ritual prayer once with everyone staring at her. Then Angie began to repeat it, then Crystal, and finally Denise. “Hail, the Lords of Darkness. In the name of the rulers of the earth, the kings of the underworld, rise to this place. Open the gate, and bring forth your faithful servant Esmé Dubois, who died for doing your work among the God-worshipers.” They circled faster. “Azazel, Azazel, scapegoat released on the Day of Atonement, its destination hell.” Around and around they went, their voices ringing out in unison. “Appear before us, Esmé and Azazel. Appear before the Six of Hearts, your modern-day servants. Let us bask in your glorious presence.”