Karen Mercury (12 page)

The rattle was forgotten when the other three participants turned their eyes to the head of the table. The table had settled, the room was still, and spirit hands had ceased to grope. But Caleb, that master mystifier, floated a full three feet above his chair!

The man who was grace itself remained rigid in a sitting position, as though he hovered in an unseen chair. But as the spectators gaped, Caleb’s limbs unfurled and straightened out, and his entire body tilted like a seesaw, until he was lying as though on an invisible board, facing the ceiling.

Jeremiah squealed, got to his feet, and ran headlong from the room, knocking over a glass terrarium on the way. No one else moved.

Foster looked at Tabitha. Her mouth open, she stood with her fingers balancing her on the tabletop. Worth didn’t even look as though he were breathing.

Foster climbed on his chair to get a better view.

“Don’t disturb him,” Tabitha whispered. “You never know what could happen when he’s in a trance like this.”

Foster only wanted to ensure there were no wires holding up the mystic. He passed his hand back and forth over Caleb’s ankles—nothing. Caleb’s eyes were open, hands firmly at his sides as though he lay on a mattress. The oddest thing was that his hair remained floating angelically about his shoulders, not dangling toward the carpet as it should have.

Foster climbed back down. “What should we do?”

Worth shrugged. “What
can
we do?”

Tabitha asked, “I wonder how long he stays up there? Oh, look!”

Everyone looked at the center of the table, where a pair of emerald green gloves lay.

Tabitha said, “These weren’t there before.” She picked them up and turned them over with curiosity. “You know, these would perfectly match that green dress that appeared in the parlor yesterday. They seem to be dyed an identical shade of green.” She regarded Foster, as though a medium were not floating directly above their heads. “I tried that dress on. It fit perfectly. I wonder which spirit has been outfitting me for the fandango tonight.”

Foster could guess, but he didn’t dare give voice to it. “If we make a loud noise and startle him, he might fall.”

“Yes,” Worth agreed. “He’d crash into the table and break something.”

“Who is Ezra Kind?” Tabitha asked.

That reminded Foster of something. “Stay here. Don’t let Caleb fall!” He went out front to get Ezra’s stone from his saddlebag and noted Phineas’s skull he had jammed in there when in a lather over her death.

Foster held the skull in the palm of his hand, and a fresh wave of sorrow at his beloved dog’s death overcame him. “Why?” he asked. “Why is Orianna doing this to us now, all the way from California?” He felt vaguely Shakespearean as he addressed the skull. “Why did she kill you, Phineas? What did you ever do to her?”

And why did she just throw my baby boy’s rattle at me?

So many folks clogged the entry hall to the Elks Club, Tabitha could only hear the fiddling, the stomping, the clapping.

She was already giddy with nerves, this being her first real social appearance since arriving in Laramie. But to be appearing on the arms of not one but
two
men, when perhaps citizens wouldn’t know she was moving out of half-mourning—even then, green was not an acceptable color!

She could not resist the stylish, form-fitting dress. And by Jove, she admitted to herself that she wanted to entice Foster, and even Worth! Yes, she was definitely coming out of even half-mourning, ready and eager to be courted. Caleb’s vision of Foster as Pierre Badeaux, her pirate husband from Campeche in a former lifetime, and the encouragement of the strange “spirit writing” she had done, had only confirmed that Foster was the man meant for her.

She only hoped he would stay around town now that he’d found out that a “discontented” woman had killed his dog. She wondered if this was the Orianna gal mentioned before, but she had not had a moment to question Foster yet. She had been so caught up in the whirl of preparing for the fandango, and now she was supposed to write an article about it for Henry Zuckerkorn, when she barely knew any of the partygoers.

Now, wedged up closely between the firm, hot bodies of both Foster and Worth, Tabitha stood on tiptoes and scanned the packed room for her sister Liberty, who should be there. Worth looked down at her bodice.

“You wear a sunflower,” he noted. “What was Jeremiah talking about, being afraid of sunflowers appearing out of the blue?”

Although many shouting men were trying to shove past them to get some fresh air out front, Foster must have heard Worth’s question. “Yes. You seemed to recognize the ones I had in my saddle. What did Jeremiah mean?”

Tabitha hugged Foster’s forearm closer, under her bosom. Foster had somewhere found a handsome suit—it could not be Harley’s, as Harley was a beefy buffalo, and Foster a gangly, slender man. He had replaced his dusty slouch hat with a crisp straw panama hat, and a silk cravat puffed out from his fancy waistcoat. He was a dashing, rough-and-tumble “fireball,” indeed.

“Oh, yes. When we were playing with the talking board, a sunflower appeared on the desk out of nowhere. That was after the board spelled out that my husband was arriving with a message. And I first saw Phineas in the garden.”

She turned her innocent face to Foster. What dazzling forest eyes he had! They were the color of her gown. “And since you are Pierre Badeaux, my—Bettina’s—husband, I suppose I should ask you. What is your message?”

It was attractive the way Foster’s pale face reddened. He obviously was thinking about a very naughty message, for he said, “I’ll have to tell you later. For now, let me introduce you to some folks I recall from my lawyering days.”

Foster steered her into the main hall where the fandango was in full swing. A Spanish fellow whaled on a concertina, joined by enthusiastic men with fiddles. One fiddler was so vigorous he had broken a string, and his bow was shredded as he cavorted about onstage. Another fellow blew through a comb, and another whacked a hoe about. The music was nearly drowned out by the vigorous bellowing of some very odd lyrics indeed.

Oh we left old New York City with the weather very thick

The second day we puked up boots, oh wasn’t we all seasick!

I swallowed pork tied to a string, which made a dreadful shout

I felt it strike the bottom, but I could not pull it out.

Foster lifted a glass of muscatel from a long table that was laden with aguardiente, olives, cakes and crackers, cheese and grapes. Tabitha felt very feminine when he handed her the glass first before taking another for himself.

“Here, pet.”

Pet!
A rush of love surged up her innards to hear Foster speak that way. He pulled her aside just in time as a pair of reeling dancers flung themselves into the buffet. Sardines, apples, and an entire turkey went flying, but everyone just laughed in appreciation for the dancers’ zest, and Foster introduced Tabitha to a rancher of some sort.

Then there was the glass-manufacturing fellow, then a priest, then a railroad tycoon associated with her father. Tabitha was quite overwhelmed with names and had to take her notepad from her reticule so she had notes to write the article with later.

She waved at Henry Zuckerkorn, who was skipping about in a lively reel, yanking his knees high as though he wore clogs. Perhaps Foster was right about Henry—he was dancing only with very young girls who would probably not be interested normally in a forty-year-old scribbler. Worth Ludlow even careened by, surprisingly agile on his feet, and with a pang of jealousy Tabitha saw that he was the new “man about town” in Laramie. With his boyish dimples and athletic frame, the few unattached women of Laramie clamored around him.

Tabitha longed for Foster to ask her to dance, but he was busy discussing someone’s recent arrest for walking down First Street with their greatcoat purposely wide open displaying their privates to every woman and barnyard animal within eyeshot.

“And let me tell you,” the lawyerly fellow told Foster, “it was a sight that should’ve been
kept
private. Any unfortunate witness can tell you.”

When Worth bowed low before her, Tabitha eagerly took his hand. She searched Foster’s face for a reaction, gratified that his raised eyebrows seemed to indicate envy.

With the shuffling, stomping, and trading off of partners, she did not get a chance to chat with Worth. It was lovely to be in society again, to become acquainted with folks who might become her friends. Parker would not want her to pine away indoors playing at solitaire or eagerly reading every new issue of the
Police Gazette
. Since Parker’s free love motto was that sexual passion was a transcendent spiritual state, the “best source of human happiness” possible, she doubted he would want her to shrivel up an old maid.

Worth was certainly a lusty dancer! He, too, was tired of the wilderness, thrilled to be back in the settlements. Tabitha could tell by the vigor with which he stomped and clapped, how eagerly he grabbed her hands and sprang down the aisle, under the archway made by other dancers’ joined hands.

“Look at Foster!” he cried.

What did Worth mean? Tabitha took her place in the line of women, scanning the crowd for Foster’s brilliant red head of spiky hair. He should be easy enough to find—not only did his fireball head stand out, but he was taller than most men. She had already studied his shapely ass well enough to pick it out in a crowd of a hundred backwoodsmen. But she didn’t see him.

The next time they loped down the passage created by the dancers, she shouted, “See Foster where? I don’t see him!”

Worth bounced with relish. “Onstage!”

What?
Why would Foster be onstage? As Tabitha clapped in the women’s line, she looked over her shoulder at the stage. Why, Foster was up there tucking a fiddle under his chin, and he proceeded to saw away with abandon!

It was evident from the first notes that he was a player of great skill, and his music reinvigorated the dancers. The yahooing and yee-hawing rose to such a crescendo it hurt her ears. Tabitha wanted to break away and watch Foster rake that bow wildly across the fiddle, but she was forced to hop and clap with the women.

Foster was a sawing fool, his notes sailing clear and high above the dancers’ heads. His fiddle was not missing strings and had an intact bow, and even people in the outer foyer were crowding the doorway to get a glimpse. He had stripped off his coat and rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and he cut quite the dashing figure. His playing was so skillful and spirited that even gals in Tabitha’s line were hollering something indecent, and a few fellows onstage were bleating out:

Hop high ladies for the cake’s all dough,

Hop high ladies for the cake’s all dough,

Hop high ladies for the cake’s all dough,

I don't mind the weather so the wind don't blow

When she joined hands with Worth again, she yelled, “He’s very good!”

“Yes!” Worth shouted back. “He used to play at night when we were riding to Laramie, after having a nightcap!”

Now, nearly all the women in her group were looking over their shoulders at Foster, and Tabitha’s bosom burned with jealousy. Foster Richmond was
her
man—she had been married to that French pirate in Texas in the twenties and had just now found him again! She would
not
allow him to escape once more!

Tabitha knew these two partners weren’t really ganymedes. Hell, they had just returned from months in the bushes. It was understandable they would need a bit of rutting. She had overheard Foster warn Worth to keep his paws off her—why would he do that if he were not interested in her himself? And the image of Foster, when she had barged into the bathroom after they had coupled so heatedly, well… His juicy, plump penis at half mast, clothed tightly in his drawers, was burned into Tabitha’s very brain cells. And his cock had not gone flaccid the longer she had stood in the bathroom scrutinizing it.

Foster was no androgyne! Well, certainly, he had enacted buggery. Lots of men probably did, especially when holed up with nothing but other bucks to take their lust out on. She had once shared her marital bed with a friend of Parker’s who was fond of gripping Parker’s prick and stroking it, ostensibly to better guide him in his lovemaking with Tabitha. Parker had never complained. It must happen even more often in the wild West frontier where women were scarce and mores were much looser.

Loose mores were demonstrated right now as Foster scraped the fiddle into a blur and the men onstage screeched

The cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn

The cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn

The cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn

And another little snort wouldn’t do us any harm.

The stomping of even the women’s little boots was so fierce the very floorboards of the Elks Club shook, and Tabitha became dizzy. On her next swing around the crook of Worth’s arm, she lost her balance and crashed into a yee-hawing youth. His swinging arm flung her into the buffet, nearly facedown into the turkey that had already had one journey through the air. Someone had placed it back onto the platter, but shreds of sawdust and grass clung to its wings and insides.