Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two)

by Carol Caverly

  The buffalo was surprisingly delicious, tender and flavorful. I gobbled up the last bit and dropped the plate into a garbage barrel. Spending an afternoon with this couple wasn’t on my agenda. I had enough troubles of my own without witnessing firsthand all the worst things that could happen in a marriage. Thanking them again, I excused myself and entered the cool interior of the exhibit building.

  Bake sale tables sat cheek to jowl with those offering craft items, horse equipment, T-shirts, balloons and even a cappuccino cart. I strolled the aisles with enjoyment; I hadn’t been to anything like this since I was a kid.

  At the end of the second aisle, tacked on the wall above a card table covered with a royal blue velvet cloth, was a sign that said Fortunes Told; Tarot Readings $7.00. The sign featured the regulation picture of a gypsy with a crystal ball, but beneath it sat an Indian woman, thoughtfully shuffling the cards and watching the crowd. I smiled. A North American Indian reading Tarot cards. It struck me as delightfully incongruous.

  She was a large, big-boned woman. Heavyset rather than overweight, with beautiful, golden-bronze skin stretched smoothly over the flat planes of her homely face. She wore a traditional fringed, deerskin dress with a headband and eagle feather. Beneath the table I could see well-worn running shoes on her feet. She could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty as far as I could tell.

  As I watched, two giggling school girls ran up to her table.

  “Sheila, Sheila,” one of them squealed. “You’ve gotta tell us if Tiny Butler’s going to ask one of us to the dance. Can you read us both together? Please, please?”

  With a jerk of her head, the woman motioned them to the chair. The girls fished wadded up bills from their jeans pockets, then with another burst of giggles precariously shared the metal folding chair.

  I moved to an adjacent booth, pretending to be interested in the belts, buckles, hatbands, and everything else made out of rattlesnake skin. Yuck.

  I couldn’t hear the reading, but it seemed to delight the girls, who greeted each statement with more squeals of excitement. Nor was I standing close enough to be considered a kibitzer, but at one point the Indian woman caught my gaze and held it for an uncomfortable moment. She didn’t return my automatic smile. Not that her look was unfriendly, just expressionless. The stereotypical taciturn Indian, I thought happily, still tickled by the idea of an Indian reading Tarot, that most ancient of medieval European necromancy. And why not?

  I’d never had a reading before. What a hoot it would be to get one from this woman, I thought. But I’d missed my chance. Three other women were now waiting in line. So when the girls jumped up and ran off, I turned away, thinking I’d check the line later.

  “You!”

  I looked over my shoulder. The Indian woman jerked her head at the chair in front of her table. “You wanted a reading?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, glancing at those waiting. I’d already butted into one line today.

  She motioned at the chair, throwing, “She was next,” at the others.

  So who was I to complain? I sat.

  She shuffled the cards loosely and looked me over, seemingly taking in every pore of my face. “I saw you watching.”

  If I had any thoughts of political correctness, I forgot them. “An Indian reading Tarot cards intrigued me.”

  “What did you expect? Burnt eagle feathers?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  “You pay your money, I’ll read anything you want. Tea leaves, handwriting, horse droppings, you name it. But Tarot is mine.”

  “The cards are fine, they just didn’t seem to go with your, uh.” I wasn’t sure whether to call it a dress or a costume. Whatever it was, the soft skins and fancy beadwork were beautiful, and I told her so.

  A small smile of pleasure twitched her mouth. “It’s not real.”

  “What?”

  “Not authentic. I made it myself.” She shrugged. “It’s good for business; the tourists expect it.”

  “I like it, anyway,” I said. “How long have you been reading the cards?”

  “Thirty years. I know them well.”

  “Who taught you?” It still seemed amazing to me.

  Her answer—“A nun taught me at school”—left me finally speechless.

  “What’s your question?” she asked. “What do you want to know? Remember I’m not a doctor or a shrink.” She did a quick three-card layout, but she was looking at me again, my face, not the cards. There was a stillness about her, her eyes a bit out of focus as they plumbed mine. I suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable.

  “No special question,” I said nervously. “Umm, just what do you see ahead for me, I guess. That kind of thing.” But she wasn’t listening. Her gaze had dropped to the three cards in front of her. A frown creased her smooth brow.

  Though I know a little about Tarot, I’m certainly not familiar with all the cards and their symbolism. But of the three cards face up in front of her—a brick tower ripped apart by a lightning bolt; a man on a throne—the third card was recognizable by anyone. A grinning skeleton sweeping the earth with a scythe. The Grim Reaper. Death.

  Four

  A quiver of fear raced up my spine. Gramps! I thought, so suffused with a rush of sorrow that I almost missed the startled glance given to me by the Indian woman. She gathered the cards quickly, shuffled, laid out three more, gathered them again and repeated the process with a more complicated spread. Her fingers worked so quickly I couldn’t follow what she was doing, or what cards were turning up. Clearly, she had forgotten me and was lost in her work.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What do you see? Wasn’t that the Death card?”

  She shuffled again, thoroughly, deliberately, but didn’t answer my question.

  When she looked at me again, her face was as emotionless as before, but tiny beads of sweat hovered above her lips. She touched the pack to my forehead, then handed the cards to me.

  “You shuffle.” I did.

  “The Death card can mean many things,” she said dismissively. “Cut the pack three times to the left.” Then, “Pick them up right to left. Cut them again into three.”

  She directed me to put the three sections in front of her in a vertical row. Only then did she touch them. With a quick move of her hand she spread each pile into a row. Only the edges of the cards were visible, yet she seemed able to read them this way as well. She studied them, shook her head, and muttered under her breath.

  “What is it?” I asked impatiently.

  She seemed surprised that I was still there. Forcing her face into a stiff smile, she said, “This is the past, the present, the future,” gesturing at each row, top to bottom.

  She began to point to different cards and delivered the blandest of interpretations, even at one point throwing in that old saw “I see you taking a trip over water.” I knew she was making it all up, that it had nothing to do with what she really saw in the cards.

  “Please,” I said, “tell me about the Death card. What does it mean?” All I could think about was Gramps, the light of my life. While Mom and Dad earned a living Gramps saw that my brother and I got to all the fun things in life. Carnivals, zoos, swimming pools and ice cream parlors. I knew death was inevitable, but I couldn’t bear watching the death of his spirit. I wanted a miracle, to see him whole again, grumping around like Web Corcoran, irascible, but alive and fighting. I couldn’t bear to give him up.

  “Tarot speaks in symbols. The Death card talks of transitions, sometimes physical, most often not.” She paused briefly, then said, “I haven’t seen you around before. You new in town?”

  “Yes,” I answered warily.

  “Tourist?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She looked at me expectantly, obviously wanting more details.

  “I’m visiting friends.”

  “Who?”

  I began to wonder if this were some kind of act, a con man’s lure, leading me into more readings, or more money. I wasn’t getting much for my money.<
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  “Look,” I said impatiently, “aren’t you supposed to be telling me things like I’ll meet a tall dark stranger?”

  Her head jerked back in surprise. Her eyes bored into mine. She leaned forward and tapped the last card in the middle row. “This,” she said with startling intensity, “is the card to worry about. The King of Swords. A man with dark hair. Up to no good. Who did you come here to see?”

  “Max Holman,” I answered, caught up in her urgency.

  “Oh.”

  “You know him?”

  She said, “I know who he is. Where are you staying?”

  “Racy Ladies.”

  The look of alarm that flashed across her face frightened me. I jumped on it.

  “Why does that bother you? What’s wrong with Racy Ladies?”

  “I don’t know.” She gathered up the cards.

  “Wait a minute. You haven’t told me anything yet. Don’t I get a reading?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t tell if it’s you or me influencing the cards. Just listen to me; pay attention. This,” she gestured to the table top where the cards had been spread, “this is not about your grandfather. Be watchful.”

  “About what?” A tiny frisson tightened the skin on the back of my neck.

  She shrugged. “No charge. See me tomorrow; I’ll try again.”

  “Where will I find you? What’s your name?”

  I caught the first name, Sheila, but the rest was a muddle. I asked for a repeat. It sounded like Rishearse.

  “I’m sorry, would you spell the last name?” I wanted to be sure I could find her again.

  She raised an eyebrow, then spoke very slowly, as if to an idiot. “Rides Horse. R-I-D-E-S and you know how to spell horse.”

  She was right, I felt like an idiot. And dismissed. Another woman had been motioned into the chair. I stood there a moment, as if paralyzed. A part of me wanted to stay and see if this next person got a successful reading, but only a very small part. I forced myself to turn and walk away. Her words seemed to follow me, floating in the air, whispering in my ears. “Watchful. Be watchful.”

  Stepping back out into the sun and heat, I shivered. With relief, I thought, trying to shake off the foreboding sense of unease the Tarot reading had given me. She’s a charlatan, I told myself sternly, and I had allowed her to play me like the greenest of greenhorns. Angry at myself, and a bit humiliated, I put the Indian woman out of my mind.

  A voice droned over the loudspeaker. “This will be the last group of calf-ropers, folks, before the main show begins. Let’s give these hardworking cowpokes a big hand.”

  I stopped a moment to watch three young boys gathered around a man on a big chestnut-colored horse. He wore deerskins, dark with use, and a coonskin hat. A pet fox lounged across his lap, indifferently letting the boys scratch his ears. I couldn’t resist; I joined them and reached out my hand, as well. The fox lifted his head and eyed me brightly, maneuvering a bit so my fingers landed on what must have been a particularly itchy spot behind his right ear.

  “How old is he?” I asked, delighted.

  “‘Bout four years, I reckon,” the man said with a grin that revealed brown broken teeth and lots of gaps where others should have been. “Got him as a pup.” Greasy gray hair straggled from beneath the cap and an unpleasant odor that couldn’t all be blamed on the fox hung around him.

  The horse shifted restlessly. I backed cautiously away, gave the man a smile of appreciation, and joined the milling crowd drifting towards the rodeo arena.

  A gap opened ahead of me and I glimpsed the small figure of a man standing by the fence in front of the grandstand. He held something in his right hand. The gap closed before the image actually registered in my brain: Web Corcoran carrying his oxygen unit. I’d bet my life on it.

  Quickening my step, I dodged around the large family group blocking my way. A casual chat with the Kid might be much more revealing than a formal interview with a tape recorder and notebook.

  “Hey there,” a voice called and a hand gripped my shoulder.

  I didn’t recognize him at first, probably because of the hat. The brim of the straw cowboy hat was folded tight to the crown on both sides, and sharply down fore and aft. It looked to be at least ten years old.

  “Remember me?” he said. “Kendall Hauser. I flew you in that little screamer from Casper this morning.”

  The pilot. “Well, hi, Kendall,” I said. “Who’s your friend?” A creamy, golden-colored unsaddled horse with spots on his rear trailed behind him, nose bent to the ground, rather stupidly looking for something to eat in the loose dirt.

  “This is Clover.”

  “Clover? Sounds more like a cow.”

  He grinned and jerked at the rein held loosely in his hand. “Look up here, Clover, and say hello to the lady.” The horse obediently raised his head and shook his beautiful white mane. We eyed each other warily.

  “Best ropin’ horse in the county,” he said. Then with the engaging grin that was banishing my blues, “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  I’d told him about coming to see Max Holman when we were flying up here.

  “I guess he’s sitting an oil well that’s about to burst, or some fool thing. He’ll be in later tonight, or in the morning.”

  “Well, come on then. Join me. I’ve got the best seat in the house. You don’t want to sit in the stands anyway, that’s for weenies. And I need a hot-looking woman to cheer me on.”

  He threw the reins over Clover’s neck and in a sleek movement was up on the horse’s bare back. He bent over, slid his hand under and around my left arm and grabbed my wrist.

  “Step on my foot,” he said.

  “No, really,” I began, “I can’t.”

  With amazing strength, he lifted me off the ground. I grabbed for his shirt, one of my flailing feet stepped on his braced foot and I landed with a thud right where he wanted me: astraddle behind him. It was a miracle.

  “Hang on,” he said needlessly. He walked the horse skillfully through the people headed for the grandstand, speaking to most of them. The old-timer with the pet fox trotted past us, heading for the dirt track behind the grandstand. He nodded, either at me or Kendall.

  I nodded back. “Who’s the guy with the fox?” I asked.

  Kendall looked around and spotted him. “Oh,” he said with a laugh. “That’s old Deefy Hammersmith. Quite a character. He’s been dressing up and coming to fairs and rodeos since I was a kid.”

  The view from my new perch was great. The small man I’d seen—if it had been Kid Corcoran—was no longer by the fence, but as we cleared the crush and headed behind the grandstand, I saw Garland and Trish Caldwell again. They were in the midst of a furious fight. He had a grip on her arm and a finger jabbing at her nose, emphasizing every word that poured from his mouth. As I watched, she pulled away, spat a few words back at him, and stalked off. Any effect she might have hoped to make was seriously spoiled by her having to stop every few feet to shake dirt from her pretty little gold sandals.

  What were they fighting about? Had she finally goaded him beyond his limit of control? Unwillingly a thought flashed through my mind: the King of Swords; a man with dark hair. Garland Caldwell wore his close-to-black hair stylishly slicked back from his forehead.

  The horse lurched into a faster pace, grabbing my attention. I began to bounce and slide with abandon. As we cleared the far side of the arena I saw the man in the coonskin cap standing by the fence talking to Kid Corcoran. So the Kid was here. I was glad for that.

  “You okay?” Kendall hollered back at me. I nodded, which of course he couldn’t see. He reached back with his free hand to steady me with a firm grip on my thigh, then picked up the pace another notch. Though faster, the ride was smoother. We took off on the racetrack, flying around the far end of the arena. I wrapped my arms around Kendall’s middle and found myself thrilled with a heady mixture of exhilaration and danger—until I recognized the refrain running through my mind in time to the insistent beat of the
horse’s hooves against the dirt: Death rides a pale horse. Death rides a pale horse.

  Five

  Damn the Tarot reader! I thought, as we slowed to a bone-jarring trot. I will not let her ruin my day. Besides, she said it wasn’t about Gramps, so what did I have to worry about? But hey, I hadn’t said anything to the Indian woman about Gramps, had I? How had she known I was worried about him?

  Kendall pulled Clover to a stop by the back of a battered pickup I remembered only too well. He threw a leg forward over the horse’s head and slid to the ground, then held his arms out to me. I disembarked much less gracefully.

  “All right,” he said, with his usual enthusiasm. “How’d you like that?”

  I laughed, only too glad to set aside my thoughts about the Tarot reader. I didn’t believe in all that stuff anyway. “Actually,” I said, “it was an improvement over the plane, and the truck.” I even patted the horse’s nose and told him he didn’t look the least bit like a cow.

  I looked around. On this side of the arena cars, pickups and four-wheel-drives were parked nose-in to the fence with enough room left in front for a blanket to be spread on the ground. Everyone was well settled-in with picnic lunches, enjoying the show. Farther down, the flat-bed truck had parked in a large open area, and the band was playing for a group of square dancers.

  Kendall threw Clover’s reins loosely around the truck’s bumper, got a small cooler from the cab of the truck and produced a couple of Coors. He opened one, handed it to me, and took the other for himself. Beer is not always my drink of choice, but there are times when there is nothing better. Like on a hot, hot day with the sun burning your nose, and flying dust scouring your skin, and the air filled with pungent smells of animals, hay and straw. To hell with gloom and doom, I thought, and drank deeply.

  “Whooee, that tastes good!” Kendall said, echoing my sentiments. He grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s go to the chutes and I’ll show you the bronc I drew to ride. I need to get a good look at the old buzzard.”