Death in the Cards Read online

  Ginny stroked the center of my palm with her forefinger. “Ah. Long lifeline. That’s nice.”

  I gave in to my earlier impulse and eye-rolled, since Ginny was staring at my palm. What else would psychics say? Hey, kid, you’re gonna die soon? They wouldn’t get too many repeat customers that way.

  “Hmm. But I see some problems in the near future. You’re going to be worried about someone very dear to you . . .”

  Who doesn’t worry about their loved ones?

  “Health may be an issue soon for someone you care about . . .”

  Flu season’s just around the corner, I thought.

  “A time of turmoil and turbulence is coming . . .”

  Bet she says that to everyone a month before Thanksgiving. Family get-togethers have that effect on a lot of people.

  “But you’ll find the strength to work through it.”

  Pumpkin pie leftovers can do that.

  “An issue that’s been bothering you will become more important to you . . .”

  Gee, could we get any more vague?

  “Do you have a boyfriend who’s hidden important facts about his life from you in the past?”

  What? I rolled my eyes to a standstill and stared at Ginny.

  Ginny looked up at me. “Hmm. Stay open-minded but protect yourself, dear.”

  I relaxed. I bet she said that to all the single women, and she could guess my single status from my lack of wedding band.

  “That’s about all I see . . .”

  Thank the good Lord!

  “Except . . .”

  Ginny’s grasp tightened. “Oh my! You have a spirit guide!”

  Time to start eye rolling again. Let me guess, for only $29.95 I could come to her booth later and find out how to harness the energy . . .

  “A teacher . . . not just now, but a teacher from your past. You dream of her. A Mrs. Aaa . . . No! A Mrs. O, something. Mrs. Ogdon, Ogmore . . . I can’t quite get the name. Doesn’t matter,” Ginny said. Her eyes were distant, as if drawn to something only she could see, her voice awed, but not, I thought, with what she was saying, more as if she never stopped being surprised by her own ability to probe a stranger’s psyche. My psyche.

  “When she comes to you in dreams, you want to dismiss her as just a figment of your imagination. But Mrs. O was important to you in ways you didn’t realize when she was living, and she’s more important to you than you want to realize now, and . . .”

  Ginny’s mouth kept moving, but suddenly I couldn’t hear any of her words. I could only stare into her cool gray eyes.

  And I could only hear Aunt Clara, as if she stood behind me, muttering . . .

  “That there is a devil there is no doubt . . . but is he trying to get in or trying to get out?”

  2

  “Girlfriend, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Sally Toadfern, one of my twenty-seven first cousins on my daddy’s side, and the only one I count as a close friend. She took another long drink from her coffee cup and eyed me thoughtfully.

  “Maybe she’s reacting to something she ate,” Cherry said. “Or smelled. Once in Junior High Home Ec class, when Mrs. Oglevee was showing us how to steam broccoli, Josie went pale like that right before she threw up—”

  I blanched at the mention of Mrs. Oglevee. Cherry and Sally swayed away from me. I was sitting between them at the bar at the back of the Red Horse Motel’s restaurant.

  “Did you have to mention that?” I asked Cherry.

  Cherry runs Cherry’s Chat N Curl, located right next to my laundromat, and she has a memory for details—which customer prefers the green apple-scented shampoo, which one needs a wee more ash blond in her tint to keep from going bluish. And Cherry has a way of putting her gift for recollection to use by recalling my most embarrassing memories better than I do, and sharing them with everyone in vivid detail.

  “Josie hasn’t liked steamed broccoli since,” Cherry went on. “Come to think of it, neither have I.”

  “She’s never been much on ghosts—or ghost stories,” Sally said.

  “Which is why you told them to me every chance you got,” I snapped at Sally.

  Though we were only sipping innocent cups of coffee, we were seated at the bar because the dining room behind us was being rearranged for the psychic fair.

  Sally was chuckling. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? But my stories never seemed to bother you as much as when Great-Aunt Noreen would tell us her freaky dreams about us all drowning at the family reunions . . .”

  “Quit it, both of you! I’m fine.”

  Sally stopped chuckling and cracked her knuckles. Cherry puffed her glossy red lips up into a precious pout. Both of them gave me hurt little glances.

  I was lying about being fine, and they knew it. If I told them that Ginny Proffitt had seriously spooked me, they’d probably tease me. Not that I’d blame them. It was the kind of thing that invited teasing. But I wasn’t in the mood for it.

  You see, most of Ginny’s “reading” of my palm had been generic fluff, but somehow she’d tapped into a truth I hadn’t ever told these two, or my friend Winnie, or my boyfriend Owen: I do, in fact, have dreams in which I am visited by Mrs. Oglevee, my Junior High history and home-ec teacher. Mrs. Oglevee died four years after retiring and one week before she was supposed to go on a luxury Riviera cruise, for which she’d saved from her meager teacher’s pay and by substitute teaching after retirement. As you might imagine, Mrs. Oglevee is not in a good mood in my dreams. But she does love to give me much unwanted advice and criticism. Just as she did in real life.

  I’ve always chalked up these dreams to simple explanations, like enjoying a fried garlic-bologna sandwich too close to bedtime. But how could I explain away a total stranger like Ginny Proffitt knowing about my dreams, when I’d never mentioned them to anyone? I pushed the question to the back of my mind while pushing a smile to my face.

  “So, tell me what’s new with the two of you,” I said brightly.

  “The triple-threats have stopped eating everyone’s glue, but rumor has it their teacher is still considering a career switch to sales,” Sally said, referring to her sons’—Harry, Barry, and Larry—kindergarten experience so far. She shrugged and added flatly, “I have a kitchen cabinet install this weekend.” Sally owned the Bar-None bar on the edge of town—having just bought it from her ex-mother-in-law—but she also did odd carpentry jobs when she could. She struggled, but got by as a single mom. (Her ex-husband Waylon Hinckie, a.k.a. the Rat, had taken off with a honey on a Harley when potty training the triplets got to be too much for him.)

  “No date for me tonight,” Cherry said, sighing. Sally and I cut each other a look. We thought it was just as well Cherry had broken up with DeWayne Forrester, her most recent beau. His idea of a romantic date was going to the Burrito Barn for the double-wide burrito special. Plus he’d been two-timing her with Robin Seales. But Cherry hates to be without a fella.

  “I guess I’ll go over to her place for line dancing,” Cherry added, jerking a thumb at Sally.

  Then Cherry and Sally went silent and glared at me. I knew what this was—emotional blackmail—and I wanted to throttle them for it. Both of them would normally be talking over the top of each other with a lot more info than that.

  They thought I couldn’t bear their stony silence.

  And they were right. I broke down right away.

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. I was more or less mugged, right out in the parking lot.”

  “What? Mugged? Oh my God, we need to call the police!” Cherry dug into her big purse, which was silk-screened with a black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe, Cherry’s hero, never mind that Marilyn died a decade and a half before Cherry was born. Sally and I had gone in on the bag for Cherry’s thirtieth birthday party, held after hours at the Bar-None. That—and a lot of bourbon—had helped make up for the fact that we’d teased her unmercifully about turning thirty a year before us.

  “Damn it, where’s
my cell?” Cherry cried. Mascara, lipsticks, tissues, Tootsie Rolls, and other assorted goodies all plopped out onto the bar.

  Sally was on her feet, hands on her hips. “What’d the guy look like? I’ll take care of him.” She cracked her knuckles again.

  You’ve gotta love friends like this. Or else you’d kill ’em.

  I put a hand on Sally’s shoulder, tried to press her back down to the barstool. “It wasn’t like that. I said I was more or less mugged. I’m fine. For pity’s sake, here’s your phone, Cherry, but don’t dial 911.” I plucked her cell phone out from under a pile of tissues and York Peppermint Patties.

  I myself had just gotten a cell phone a month before, after Guy had fainted at Stillwater. The incident had scared me because Guy’s health has always been excellent. After that, I got the cell because I wanted the Stillwater staff to be able to reach me anytime, anywhere.

  Sally picked up a patty, unwrapped it, plopped it in her mouth, and said around it, “I thought you were on another diet, Cherry?”

  Cherry gave her a look. “Those are just for breath freshening,” she said, with a defensive sniff. I considered pointing out the lower fat grams of Tic-Tacs, then thought better of it. “And you gave us a scare, Josie Toadfern. Explain yourself.”

  I helped Cherry sweep everything back into her purse. Sally plucked up another Peppermint Patty before Cherry could swat her hand. Sally does not diet. She has a firmly toned hourglass figure, even after birthing triplets, damn her. Cherry and I are, well, pleasantly plump.

  “The psychic fair is going on this weekend—”

  “We know,” said Cherry.

  “—and I was delivering the Rhinegolds’ laundry order when I met one of the psychics. A woman named Ginny Proffitt. And she, well, she forced a psychic reading on me!”

  Sally and Cherry stared at me.

  Sally crumpled up her York Peppermint Patty wrappers. I swallowed. Only Sally could make squashing two one-square-inch pieces of aluminum foil look intimidating. Well, maybe Ginny Proffitt could, too.

  “That’s it?” asked Sally. “Some little old lady in a gypsy skirt wants to tell you ’love is around the corner and don’t forget to buy a lottery ticket’ and you can’t say ’no, thanks?’”

  “She wasn’t little. Or old. Or much of a lady, for that matter. She was pushy and her prediction was much more spooky than that.”

  Cherry clutched my arm, looking suddenly alarmed. “She didn’t say you were going to be in a wreck, did she? ’Cause once at the county fair me and Marcia Jean went to see the gypsy lady—”

  “I said she wasn’t like a gypsy lady—”

  “And when Marcia Jean wouldn’t tip the gypsy lady, she hollered that Marcia would be in a wreck, and sure enough, she was. Fractured her fibia in both legs!”

  “You mean tibia—” I started.

  “How long was the wreck after the prediction?” Sally asked skeptically.

  “Twelve years. But still—”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up,” I moaned.

  “C’mon, Josie, tell us what she said,” Cherry pleaded.

  I paused. I couldn’t tell them about my dreams about Mrs. Oglevee. Sally would never let me hear the end of it. And Cherry would give me a list of questions for Mrs. Oglevee, no doubt about her future love life and whether or not she should add a new line of styling gel to her salon.

  But I had to tell them something. “I have this same dream over and over,” I said. “It’s—it’s about drowning in the lake. Like Great-Aunt Noreen always said we would do. And it’s got all of these specific details, like the color of the swimsuit I’m wearing—”

  “Bright orange bikini?” Cherry asked.

  I frowned at her. “Navy one-piece.”

  Cherry frowned back. “Hmmm. That doesn’t sound so bad. I mean, if this is a nightmare, bright orange bikini would be more fitting—”

  “For pity’s sake, it’s my nightmare!” Okay, it was my imaginary, white-lie nightmare. But still. “Anyway, the point is, there’s no way this woman could know the details of my dream, but she looked at my palm, and the next thing I know, she’s telling me all about it. Don’t you think that’s creepy?”

  “Don’t the psychic fair organizers rent the apartment next to yours?” Sally said.

  “Yeah. Damon and Sienna LeFever. So what?”

  “Well, so what if you hollered out some details about your dream in your sleep without knowing it and they heard it and mentioned it to this Ginny?”

  I felt a surge of hope, and then frowned again. “I don’t holler out in my dreams.”

  “You sure about that? Lots of people do and don’t realize it.”

  Cherry gave me a sly look. “Yeah, Sally’s right. You should check with Owen.”

  I didn’t say anything. She and Sally’d been trying for weeks to get me to say if Owen and I sometimes spent the night together. I figured it was none of their business.

  Sally chuckled, and put down two dollars to cover her coffee and a tip. She stood up. “C’mon, let’s go see what we can learn about this Ginny Proffitt.”

  “What? No—we’ll be late for the tour!”

  The LeFevers had organized a tour for the fair’s psychics to Serpent Mound, the largest serpent effigy in the United States, created by the Fort Ancient Indian culture sometime between A.D. 1000 and 1500. The mound—which is about three feet high and coils for about 1,300 feet atop a plateau overlooking the valleys around it—has been a Ohio Historical Society park for about a century and is a National Historic Landmark. Which means lots of nearby school groups visit it.

  But because it is believed to have been created for religious or spiritual purposes, it’s also long been a draw for followers of New Age beliefs, which included many (although not all) of the psychics coming to the psychic fair.

  I’d been invited along on the LeFevers’ tour of the Serpent Mound because I’d staunchly defended the LeFevers against the ranting rage of Pastor Dru Purcell, leader of the Paradise Church of Almighty Revelations that my Aunt Clara had attended long ago, then abruptly quit. Dru had crashed several Chamber of Commerce meetings demanding we rise up against the force of the devil, as he called it, moving into our town in the form of the LeFevers and their new business, Rising Star Bookshop and Psychic Readings. I’d spoken up for freedom of religion, business, and expression—all of which are intertwined—and said we should welcome and support the LeFevers.

  I made the same statements at a city council meeting at which Pastor Purcell had called the LeFevers “dangerous weirdos” and demanded Paradise be rezoned free of businesses “based on or catering to psychic phenomena, Wicca, or other alternate New Age beliefs.” Several chamber members wavered toward Pastor Purcell’s point of view, until I pointed out that we in Paradise benefited from visitors to Serpent Mound, which besides being a historical monument was a draw for many New Age visitors because of the mound’s spiritual nature. So, in effect, our entire town’s economy catered to what Pastor Purcell decried as spiritually dangerous. Why, I’d said, besides selling gas to Serpent Mound visitors who passed through town, Elroy’s Gas Station and Body Shop even offered a fine selection of Serpent Mound postcards and souvenirs. (At that, Elroy went a little pale and looked nervous.)

  In the end, my argument prevailed and the LeFevers opened Rising Star and happily planned for what they hoped would be the first of many psychic fairs in Paradise. And as a thank-you, the LeFevers invited me to join their tour of Serpent Mound and to bring some friends. Winnie Porter was working the bookmobile and my boyfriend Owen Collins was teaching at the Masonville Community College, so I’d asked Cherry and Sally, who’d happily agreed, thinking a tour of Serpent Mound with a bunch of psychics (instead of teachers and fellow students) would be a “hoot.”

  “The tour doesn’t start for another half hour,” Cherry was saying, drawing me back to the present conversation. She clutched her short skirt’s hem so she could slide off her stool with some modesty. She pulled two dollars from her M
arilyn Monroe bag and put them on the bar.

  “Look, I overreacted, let’s just let it go—” I said, but my friends had already headed away from the bar into the dining room. I looked at the bar. My cup of coffee was still half full.

  But I tossed down two bucks, too, and went after Sally and Cherry, hoping to catch up before they could offend Paradise’s guests—the visiting psychics—by calling them gypsy women. That would most definitely not be a “hoot.”

  3

  The dining room had been rearranged for the psychic fair. The square tables were lined up in rows and cleared of their usual trappings—sweetener packets, paper napkin dispensers, salt and pepper shakers labeled S and P. The tables were covered with white, spotless tablecloths, which gave me a wee swelling of pride.

  The cloths had come out of the Rhinegolds’ storage room, after having been entombed there for nearly a decade, and I’d been hired the previous week to wash and de-stain them just for this event. Rust spots from our town’s water had emerged on the tablecloths, not an uncommon problem with old linens. But lemon juice and sunlight had taken care of the rust spots, and a careful washing on the delicate cycle had made the cloths almost as good as new.

  The chairs were placed on either side of the rows, I reckoned for psychics on one side and . . . well, what would you call people getting their futures read? Psych-ees? . . . on the other. The room was mostly empty, except for two women unpacking boxes behind one of the tables, and Damon LeFever, huddled over in one of the booths.

  These booths, plus a few tables, had been left available for diners. Usually, the Red Horse just serves drinks and snacks in its combined bar and dining room. Luke and Greta Rhinegold, the Red Horse owners, were in their seventies and Greta had given up cooking full menus about five years before, due to her arthritis. But for this event, the Red Horse would offer hot dogs, hamburgers, and chips.

  A corner of the dining room was blocked off with movable panels to create a private area, whether for the psychics or some other purpose, I wasn’t quite sure.

  The only other people in the dining room were two women who looked like a mother and daughter. They were arguing in low voices, but we could hear them because the room was nearly empty.