Death in the Cards (16 page)

I sat down on one of the white plastic chairs and put my head to my hands.

Fretting wouldn't set things right, though. I looked up, startled at the thought. It was something Mrs. Oglevee had
always said, usually with a smile when she returned to me a homework paper marked with a C, or worse.

Mrs. Oglevee. Somehow Ginny Proffitt had known my dreams of her. I remembered Cherry saying that Ginny had suddenly gone pale at something she'd “seen” while gazing, trancelike, into her crystal ball.

Her own death, maybe?

And before I met Ginny Proffitt for those few minutes in the parking lot, a little more than twenty-four hours before, life had been good. Simple. Predictable. I was going to have a nice weekend with Owen at the corn maze, visit Guy on Sunday . . .

And then I met Ginny, who somehow knew about my dreams of Mrs. Oglevee, and everything went to hell.

Ginny murdered. Hugh wanting to quit tutoring. Winnie's bookmobile shut down. Guy ill. Owen off somewhere, not returning my calls. And now this, a water main break that could hurt my and other businesses in Paradise.

Why couldn't Ginny have predicted any of that and prevented it? Or had she seen something of her own death in her crystal ball, gone to try to prevent it, and failed?

And for pity's sake, I rented the apartment next to mine to two psychics. Couldn't they have predicted any of this? Warned Ginny to stay home? Called the city and warned them of the water main break? Realized someone would break into their store, and bought extra locks?

I sneezed in my cold laundromat. The electricity was off and no dryers were running.

At least, couldn't the LeFevers have told me to take extra Vitamin C pills to shore up my strength so I could better handle all of this?

I shook my head.

The fact was that a person could make plans, try to predict
outcomes, believe she could see the future, maybe even actually see it, for all I knew—and every now and again, she'd still get broadsided, like I'd been. Or murdered, like Ginny.

I left through the back of my laundromat and went up the exterior staircase to my second-floor apartment to pack for a few nights at the Red Horse.

I packed clothes and dry sneakers (the ones I'd worn into my laundromat were soaked) and toiletries and snacks, including a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of green tomato relish that I'd canned just a few weeks before. Then I locked up my apartment and left my suitcase just outside my door, while I used my master key to unlock the LeFevers' door. They were staying at the Red Horse during the psychic fair, I learned when but I'd called and told them what had happened. They'd already heard, through the Paradise grapevine, but were grateful I'd called. Sienna had meant to come by that night to feed Eloise, Damon's and her black and white cat. Could I please go in, make sure she had dry food and a saucer of water? I could use the bottled water in the fridge, Sienna'd told me.

I smiled at that. My only “pet” is a pothos ivy, the sole plant I've managed to not kill in ten years of optimistically buying spider plants and jade plants and African violets and then killing them with kindness, too much water or fertilizer or something. I named my plant Rocky for its determination to survive despite my overwatering habit, and on that waterless Saturday in Paradise, poured the leftovers from my coffee maker on Rocky. Hey, the coffee was cool and besides, I'd read somewhere once that some plants like a little caffeine.

Anyway, Sienna had also asked me to turn on the CD player in the bedroom so Eloise wouldn't feel lonely; she already had Eloise's favorite nature CD loaded in the player.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh at that, or feel touched. In any case, the LeFevers would make good parents.

I took a quick look around the apartment. It was neat and clean, decorated nicely with a new set of furniture, which surprised me, since the LeFevers had made comments about how tight money was since opening their New Age bookstore. Still, they'd always paid their rent on time and as their landlord, I was glad to see the apartment was nicely kept.

I filled the cat's food bowl, opened the fridge, and balked when I saw the bottled water: Perrier. Perrier for a cat? But that was the only bottled water in the fridge. With their money worries, what were the LeFevers doing buying Perrier instead of generic Kroger's bottled water? Or just drinking tap water, as I did? (I figured I could use the extra iron that Paradise's system provided.)

Not your business, Josie, I told myself. But I still cringed as I poured the Perrier in a bowl and carefully put the bowl on the floor.

Then I went in their bedroom. Most of the floor space was taken up with a new king-sized bed, covered with a rose-colored satin quilt, and numerous matching pillows. The bookcase headboard was filled with CDs and books with titles like
Wicca Through the Ages
and
Past Lives, Past Loves.
On top of the headboard were more CDs and books. I stared up at them, starting to read their titles, then told myself to stop. I didn't have time to snoop.

A small CD player was on a side table. I pressed the play button. A nature CD of birds chirping and wind rustling and a stream babbling started up. Suddenly, I realized I had to pee. I started back to my apartment, and then stopped. No using the plumbing.

I hurried toward the door again. I'd just have to get to Red Horse, fast. I stopped again as I realized I'd heard this CD before, through the wall that divided my bedroom from the LeFevers. Not that they'd played it loudly. It had been mostly a background hum I hadn't even really registered hearing—until I heard it again, now, in the LeFevers' bedroom. If I'd heard this, then the LeFevers could have heard me, say, hollering out in a nightmare about Mrs. Oglevee. Maybe I'd even hollered something like—“Mrs. Oglevee, shut up and go away!” Then they could have told that to Ginny Proffitt, and that's how Ginny could have known about Mrs. Oglevee and my dreams, and . . .

I shook my head. It didn't make sense. Why would the LeFevers bring that up, especially in the midst of pulling off the psychic fair and worrying about their financial woes?

I started to leave, but stopped yet again when I heard a shuffling sound under the bed. I knelt down, lifted the pink satin bed skirt.

“Eloise?”

Suddenly, it seemed, a black-and-white dust bunny sprang to life and streaked past me. Eloise. I yelped and then, when my heart stopped thudding, noticed the shoebox Eloise had knocked out from under the bed.

The shoebox's lid was missing, and credit card bills filled the box to the brim. I admit it. I looked at the top one. It was for a Visa . . . third notice . . . past due and over the $25,000 credit limit. I gasped. Below that, I saw an ATM slip. Okay, I looked at that, too. One of the LeFevers had tried to withdraw twenty dollars a few days before from a checking account, but the withdrawal had been denied, due to insufficient funds and an overdrawn overdraft protection. Try again later! the message at the bottom of the slip chirped cheerily.

But from what little I'd seen, the LeFevers were running out of financial options for trying again.

I pushed the shoebox back under the bed, knowing I'd seen more than I had any right to, even if I could blame Eloise—mostly. The LeFevers had talked about how tight things were financially for them, with the loans they'd taken out to open their shop. And yet they'd been reckless with their personal
expenses. They had to be desperate for the psychic fair to go well and help build a regional customer base for them. And they'd been angry when Ginny had threatened to pull out of coming at the last minute. Had she done something else to anger them, to jeopardize the psychic fair after she arrived? Should I be suspecting them instead of Dru?

I got up and left the apartment quickly, waving my fingers at Eloise, lapping up her Perrier in the kitchenette. But she—as cats so often do—ignored me.

12

I was halfway down the metal stairs on the outside of my building when I lost my grasp on my heavy suitcase and it went tumbling, handle over wheels, down the steps.

“Damned suitcase,” I muttered to myself.

That's when I remembered Ginny's luggage. The shock of the broken water main closing down my laundromat and rousting me from my apartment had pushed it from my mind until that morning.

Even though I was eager to get to the Red Horse, I knew I had to get Ginny's suitcase from the storage area of my laundromat and take it to Chief Worthy. The strange contents plus the handkerchief in my pocket might provide some clue that would help solve Ginny's murder.

I hoisted my own suitcase off the ground and let myself back in my laundromat to check under my desk for Ginny's bag.

It was gone.

Twenty minutes later, I rushed into the small building that serves as Paradise's mayoral and council chambers, prison
(only two cells), and police station. I went in the section that houses the police station and prison and saw that Jeanine was dispatcher at the front desk that day. My heart fell.

Jeanine is fifty-something, raised four kids by herself, is one of Sandy's neighbors in the Happy Trails Motor Home Court, and has a thickly crusted battle-ax attitude. It's her way of coping, which I understand, but it also makes her hard to deal with.

Still, I rushed past her desk without saying a word.

“Josie! What the hell do you think you're—”

“Ladies' room,” I said, rushing past Jeanine's desk to a tiny hallway to the left that led to the men's and women's rooms. Technically, I was supposed to sign in. But this was an emergency. Jeanine would understand, I was sure.

A few minutes later, I was back in front of Jeanine's desk, feeling much relieved. Plus I liked the freesia scent of the new bottle of hand sanitizer in the women's room. That had to be Jeanine's touch. None of the men, certainly not Chief Worthy, would think of such a thing. I told Jeanine as much.

“Want to fill out a comments form complimenting me on it?” Jeanine asked wryly, in her cigarette husky voice. “Maybe it'll get me a good evaluation and fifty cents more an hour.”

I laughed. “Sure, I'll take a comment card. I'll fill it in later and drop it off.”

Jeanine rolled her eyes. “That's what they all say.”

“Fine. I'll do it now.”

She pushed a card at me and watched, suspiciously, as I filled it out. When I finished, she plucked the card from me, and read my praise of her ingenuity and attention to detail that make living in Paradise a far more pleasant experience.

She looked at me, eyebrows lifted. But I could see a bit of softening in her eyes.

I smiled. “I need to see Chief Worthy.”

“He's busy. If you got a complaint, you can fill out another form, then see Officer Trenton—”

I thought about asking for another comment card, but veiled threats would only harden poor Jeanine further, so instead I made puppy dog eyes. “Jeanine, c'mon, it's about the murder. Ginny Proffitt. Chief Worthy'd want me to talk with him.”

Jeanine stared at me dubiously. Everyone knows Chief Worthy dislikes me so much that once a week he buys me a lottery ticket and leaves it on the front counter of my laundromat, hoping I'll win a million bucks and hightail it out of Paradise. Which I wouldn't, because of Guy, but Chief Worthy wouldn't understand that.

“I'll tell Sally to give you happy-hour prices at the Bar-None whenever you want, for a whole week,” I said.

Jeanine sighed, but the hint of a smile slipped across her lips. “Go on. Don't take too much of his time.”

I went, glancing back to see her carefully slipping my card into the comment box.

“You came to report a stolen suitcase that isn't even yours?” Chief Worthy glared at me.

I glared right back. “The suitcase that was stolen was Ginny Proffitt's. I think its contents might provide important clues to her murder.”

Chief Worthy snorted. “You think dirty laundry could provide clues to solve a murder.”

“Well, of course,” I snapped. “How many people commit a crime in the nude? So if a killer is wearing clothes, the clothes are bound to have traces of the crime. Blood. Poison. Dirt or mud from burying the body.”

Chief Worthy looked amused. “You found all that on the clothes in Ms. Proffitt's suitcase?”

“No! I'm speaking theoretically. The overalls in Ginny's suitcase were just paint spattered. But—”

Suddenly Chief Worthy lunged forward on his desk, waving a finger at me. I leaned back in my chair.

“But you just can't keep your nose out of things that are none of your business, Josie. So what if Ms. Proffitt dropped a suitcase with some dirty clothes at your laundromat? She probably just wanted some tips on paint-stain removal—”

“But she was murdered. So this could be relevant . . .”

Chief Worthy sighed. “You know, with the water main break, I'm real busy here.”

I stared exaggeratedly all around the room. “Funny. I don't see any water seeping up through the floorboards. And last I saw, it was the fire department—plus most of your staff—who was busy on Main Street.” I turned a sharp gaze on Chief Worthy. “So why don't you want to hear about something a murder victim did in the last few hours of her life—even if it was something as mundane as dropping off at my laundromat filthy clothes that are way too large for her and years old? Even if you don't like the idea I might actually have a clue, you ought to listen. You're usually not this mule-headed.”

Chief Worthy slapped his hands on the edge of his desk. “All right, since it will probably hit the news by tonight anyway, I'll tell you why I'm not interested in your clue. Because Ginny Proffitt wasn't murdered. She committed suicide.”

“I don't believe that. Ginny wasn't suicidal. She—”

“You knew her well?” Chief Worthy demanded.

I thought about Ginny in her brightly colored warm-up suit, bounding across the Red Horse Motel's parking lot just yesterday morning. Her jolly insistence on reading my palm. Her eerie ability to divine my dreams of Mrs. Oglevee. Her sly gaze in the Serpent Mound parking lot. Her odd note that echoed my Aunt Clara's devil saying. All the things I'd heard about her over the past day.