Death in the Cards (10 page)

“But I can't neglect any of that for my studying for our sessions.” Hugh took another sip of coffee, looked at me. He was old enough to be my daddy, but there was something about his sad eyes that rendered his deeply lined face boylike, and made me want to hug him. Such a thing would have scared him, though, so I stayed put. “I don't want to let you down, Josie.”

“Mr. Crowley, you don't need to worry about letting me down. You've given your whole life to other people and to your family's farm. Maybe you oughta think about not letting yourself down.”

Hugh shook his head slowly. He put his cup on my desk, reached in his pocket and pulled out the key again, holding it out to me. “That's not my way,” he said.

I put my own cup down and crossed my arms. “Fine. Don't come here anymore then.” Hugh looked a little surprised, and even a little hurt. The tutoring meant more to him than he would admit. “I'll come out to your place Sunday afternoon. That way you'll be available to your family in case there's an emergency.”

He shook his head. “It's not just the meeting times, Josie, it's studying in between—”

“And we'll just meet every other week,” I broke in. Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace had taught me better than to interrupt or sass my elders. But they'd also taught me never to give up on a person. “That way you can take a little longer to get each lesson down. Of course, you can call me any time you need help or have a question.”

“But—”

I held up a hand. “This way, we won't lose what you've achieved, but you won't feel under so much pressure and you can still be there for your family.”

Hugh stared at me for a long moment, and I held his gaze, stubbornly keeping my arms crossed. No way was I taking back that key.

At last he sighed, and shook his head again. “Ornery woman,” he muttered.

I smiled and finally uncrossed my arms. I took his rough, calloused, thick hand in mine and closed his hand over the key. “Keep it,” I said, “for when you're ready to go back to once a week tutoring.”

Hugh stood up, put the key back in his pocket. “Now about tomorrow. Maybe week after next would be better—”

“I'll be there at 2:00
P.M
.,” I said.

“But—”

I stood up. “You missed last Sunday 'cause of finishing up the corn maze. Tomorrow. 2:00
P.M
.”

Hugh went out the back door muttering “ornery” under his breath.

I grinned to myself and went out into the laundromat and opened up the front doors.

8

Just as I'd predicted—from common sense, no crystal ball or tarot cards needed—my laundromat was even busier than usual for a Saturday morning, what with the water tables low outside of town.

Again, I meant to check the bin in the corner behind the front counter for orders from the previous day, but I got too busy, too fast.

I showed Gurdy McGuire my trick for making throw rugs look like new—adding a half-cup or so of table salt to the wash water.

And I showed Matt Peterman how to get the Silly Putty out of his daughter's frilly go-to-church dress—pouring rubbing alcohol over the putty, rubbing, and repeating until the Silly Putty disintegrates or can be pulled right off.

Of course, just as Sandy's Restaurant had been buzzing with talk of Ginny Proffitt's death, my laundromat was, too. Most of it was the same, contemplation about which of the other psychics had killed Ginny.

In between helping my customers and catching up on the
mail and bills in my back storeroom, I considered the psychics who'd known Ginny. Many of them had had motives, I realized, thinking back on the previous afternoon's trip to Serpent Mound. There was Karen Smith, who wanted Ginny to stop stealing “child prodigy” Skylar's limelight. Max Whitstone, Ginny's ex-boyfriend. Could he be jealous? Even dear old Samantha Mulligan, the pet psychic, who'd lost money on a business deal and who'd gotten a message of vengeance from Xavier the squirrel.

And I couldn't discount Damon and Sienna LeFever. Ginny had given them such a hard time, spreading rumors about their supposed incompetence. I shivered at the thought of the LeFevers, my neighbors and tenants, as killers.

But all the psychics had been busy at the fair the previous night, I thought, as I went over to the ironing board behind my front counter to start on an order of shirts, fresh from the dryer, for Harvey Grieshop, who runs the Paradise branch of the Farmers and Merchants Bank. Ada Grieshop had brought them in that morning. The shirts reminded me I really ought to check under the counter for any orders from the previous day, but again I put it off. Ada had asked for a rush order on Harvey's shirts.

I started ironing the sleeve of a blue oxford. When would any of the psychics have had time to kill Ginny? Unless, of course, one of them left the fair, maybe to have a secret meeting with her, which could have gone badly . . .

And speaking of secret meetings, I thought, what about Ginny's meeting with Dru Purcell? I knew I'd seen them together, no matter what he said.

People were talking about that, too. I'd stirred up some juicy gossip by dropping the news at Sandy's that morning. Maybe, I thought, it'd force Dru to tell Chief Worthy about the meeting, and that would help Worthy figure out who killed Ginny . . .

Or maybe my gossipmongering would just make me the next victim, I thought, as Missy Purcell stormed in the front door of my laundromat.

Believe me, she wasn't coming in with a laundry basket. Missy lives in town, where the water pressure's fine, and has her own washer and dryer. And from the fury in her eyes, she wasn't coming in to ask if she could leave off religious saveyour-soul-from-hell tracts, as she did from time to time. (My countertop's always too crowded for those. Although there's plenty of room for the Ranger Girls'–cookie-sale flyers.)

She stopped in front of my counter, her strawberry-blond topknot quivering in the aftermath of her sudden stop right beside me. The smell of her hairspray was overpowering. I coughed. The sound seemed too loud in my laundromat, which had gotten suddenly quiet when Missy entered. Suddenly, no talking—just the hum of the washers and dryers, the low buzz of the TV at the front of the laundromat, by the kiddy picnic table, and the vending machines, the sound of my cough, and Missy's hard breathing.

I went back to ironing another of Harvey's shirts—this one white with gray pinstripes. “Countertop's still too crowded, Missy,” I said.

“I know what you've done,” Missy said. She was speaking low, but I knew everyone in my laundromat could hear her. “Chief Worthy came out to question my husband about him meeting with that evil Ginny Proffitt woman.”

I pressed my lips together to hold back a smile, then spritzed starch on the shirt collar. Missy coughed this time. Hmmm. Maybe the collar could use a bit more starch. Spritz, spritz.

“Dru didn't ever meet with that woman,” Missy said, after she finished a fit of coughing. “And he told Chief Worthy so.”

I slammed the iron down, looked up at Missy. “You know, it might help Chief Worthy figure out who killed Ginny Proffitt if Pastor Purcell would be honest about meeting with her. She might have said something to him that would be an important clue. He might think it's nothing, but something she said might fit with something the chief learned at the crime scene—”

“You think you're so smart, don't you, Josie Toadfern?” Missy interrupted with a smirk. “Like I told Chief Worthy—and he believed me because of course I always tell the truth—Dru was home with me all morning!” With that, Missy turned for the door.

“Oh, Missy, could you pass on something to Pastor Purcell for me?” I called sweetly.

She looked back at me.

“Tell him there's one other besides me who saw him meet with Ginny Proffitt.”

A look of fear flashed in her eyes, and I knew she knew Dru had met with Ginny. They could discount just one eyewitness, especially since everyone knew that Dru and I had come to harsh words in the last Chamber of Commerce meeting. Now, most folks wouldn't think I was a liar, but they might be convinced I was clinging to my mistaken beliefs out of my dislike for Dru. But she and Dru couldn't discount another witness.

Hmmm. So there was something there between Dru and Ginny—something Dru and Missy wanted to keep hidden. Even to the point of lying to Chief Worthy.

Unfortunately for me, the other eyewitness wasn't likely to come forth to testify, at least not on the streets of Paradise.

Still, it gave me an amount of satisfaction to look right in Missy's watery blue eyes and say, “The other witness was . . . God.”

Missy snorted at that, whirled around, and practically knocked over Winnie Porter, who was coming in the front door of my laundromat as Missy was going out.

But Winnie was too distraught to even react to Missy knocking into her, then continuing out the door without so much as a “sorry.”

“Winnie, what's the matter?” I asked, while hanging the gray pinstripe on the clothes rack on wheels behind me. I had three more of Harvey's shirts to go, but they could wait for a good friend like Winnie.

Winnie almost never gets distraught. She's a fifty-something librarian who dresses like the 1960s hippie she wishes she'd been but never was, living up in Masonville as she has all of her life. South central Ohio was never exactly part of the flower-powered peace, love, 'n' rock'n' roll culture. Still, Winnie favors Birkenstock sandals (with socks, in October), and long, swirly peasant skirts and peasant blouses. She now wears her gray hair in a short-cropped do, the better to show off her dangly earrings and wide, engaging smile, always at its brightest when she's recommending the just-right book to a bookmobile patron, or reading to a child.

But today, her face was crumpled up in misery.

Winnie leaned her forearms on the counter. She was shaking. “Oh, Josie,” she moaned.

“Winnie—what's the matter? Is it Martin?” When I'd seen Winnie on the bookmobile the previous Wednesday, she'd told me that her husband, Martin, had been having shortness of breath that worried her.

“No, Martin is fine. The doctor says he just needs to work out. He's up at the Big Sam's in Masonville checking out treadmill prices today,” Winnie said. “I came by to tell you what happened at the library meeting yesterday afternoon.”

The meeting, I recalled, that Winnie'd been attending while I was on the psychic tour to Serpent Mound. “Wasn't it just a regular monthly staff meeting?” Winnie doesn't like the monthly meetings of the library branch and department heads—she'd much rather be out on her beloved bookmobile—but as head of outreach services, she's obliged to go. This, though, was beyond her usual complaining.

“Oh, Josie, the director announced yesterday that we're going to have to cut back services because of how much money we've lost in the state funding cuts,” Winnie said. “Fewer hours. Part-time staff cut back.” Winnie's chin trembled. “And no more bookmobile.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “No bookmobile?” Paradise relied on Winnie's twice-weekly visits for books. Teachers at Paradise Local Elementary relied on Winnie's visits, too, to supplement the offerings of the school library. My heart fell.

“I suggested we cut back on something else temporarily—maybe periodicals and video purchases, or a few hours at the main library, but the director said that since most of the tax base for the library is up in Masonville, the bookmobile would have to go.”

A solitary tear coursed down Winnie's cheek. She sniffled, wiped it away.

The bookmobile was Winnie's life . . . and a lifeline to Paradise and many other small communities that dotted the outskirts of Masonville.

I glanced at Harvey's shirts. They'd just have to be late.

“Winnie, we're doing something about this.”

She shook her head. “I already talked to the director. I don't think anything can be done about the bookmobile unless we have a levy that passes next spring to get back some of the funding the state's cut.”

A whole winter without books coming to Paradise? I thought of Mrs. Beavy, who doesn't drive and would have a hard time getting up to Masonville. A whole winter for her without her beloved romance and mystery novels? I thought about Hugh Crowley and how he was just learning to read and how he was looking forward to checking out a few books
from the bookmobile's children's section to read to his grandnephew Ricky. I thought about my own need to read.

I grabbed Winnie by the shoulders. “Winnie, Paradise isn't taking this without a fight. We'll petition to get the bookmobile back, and then we'll petition to get a levy on the ballot next spring that everyone will vote for so none of the programs or hours have to be permanently cut!”

And that's how, again, I put off checking for orders from the previous day. Winnie and I spent the next hour getting everyone we could—and most people were very supportive—to sign our handwritten petition to get back the bookmobile.

And truth be told, I might not have thought to check at all if Chip Beavy hadn't come in that morning.

And Chip wouldn't have come in if his grandmother hadn't sent him in on account of the bookmobile petition, word of which had already spread through most of Paradise.

Funny how things work like that, isn't it? One thing leads to another until pretty soon a whole mess of things end up connecting in ways you'd never predict.

Anyway, Chip did come in. “Josie, Mamaw sent me on over here. She wants me to sign that petition and to know if I can write her name in for her, too.”

“Is she doing okay?” The Widow Beavy was a favorite customer of mine, but I didn't see her quite as often now that she had her own washer and dryer, a good thing, since she's eighty-something and doesn't get around quite like she used to. She only lives a street over, on Plum Street, but it's still too hard for her to tote over her clothes. I do her rugs and comforters for her at the laundromat, though, as her washer and dryer are too tiny to handle such things.