Herculeah Jones Tarot Says Beware (5 page)

“I know Herculeah couldn't kill anyone,” Chico Jones interrupted angrily.

Meat's mother came around the corner then, a small bag of groceries in one arm. She stopped as she saw Meat and Lieutenant Jones together. Her eyes moved to the police cars in front of Madame Rosa's house.

“What happened?” she asked.

Meat looked at his mother. His eyes narrowed. He remembered that the only thing she had ever said about his father was “Good riddance.” He remembered that when Madame Rosa had tried to help him—when she
had
helped him—at least told him his father had something to do with dance—his mother had put an end to any further help by going over to Madame Rosa's in a rage.

He remembered he had said, “Where are you going?”

He remembered she had answered, “To tell that witch to mind her own business. I could kill that woman.”

“What has happened?” she asked again, with what Meat thought was false concern.

Meat spoke in a cold precise way. He was glad Lieutenant Jones was there to hear his words.

“You will be happy to know,” he said, “that Madame Rosa has been murdered.”

In the living room below, Herculeah's mother's voice rose with concern. “Chico, Herculeah thinks you suspect her!”

“I don't suspect her! That's ridiculous.”

“Well, she thinks you do. She's in tears up there in her room.”

“She's in tears because she found a murder victim. She needs to cry. She's not as hard and cold as you are, thank God.”

Herculeah lay on her bed listening to her parents' angry voices below. Her mother had come home a half hour earlier, put Herculeah to bed, and then gone downstairs to talk to Chico. Herculeah wanted to get up and close the door, but she was exhausted.

“You didn't have to fingerprint her. She washed her hands five times before she got into bed.”

“Look, Mim, our daughter was all over the house, she touched everything, and they just wanted her prints for purposes of elimination.”

“It makes people feel guilty to be fingerprinted.”

“Well, if you'd been home instead of out looking for a kidnapped dog—”

“Let's not get started on my jobs,” Herculeah's mother said, cutting him off. There was a silence. Then in a more conversational tone she said, “As a matter of fact, I was never thrilled about her going to Madame Rosa's when nobody was there but that fool parrot.”

“Then why didn't you stop her?”

“Have you ever tried to stop Herculeah from doing something she wanted to do? For some reason, Herculeah liked the woman.”

“I take it there were people who didn't.”

“That's right.”

“Who? Any names?”

“No. She came to see me one time. Did I ever mention it to you?”

“No. When was this?”

“About a month ago.”

Herculeah listened more intently now. She hadn't known Madame Rosa had consulted her mother.

“About what?”

“Well, she was vague. Apparently some woman had come to her for a consultation—she wouldn't tell me the woman's name: The woman wanted to know if Madame Rosa could tell whether someone was capable of murder.”

“If she could do that, the department could have used her,” Chico Jones said.

Mim continued thoughtfully, remembering. “I believe the woman's son had threatened her with a knife, and the woman was frightened.”

“She could have come to us.”

“She didn't think so. Anyway, Madame Rosa told the woman to bring her something belonging to the son. The woman came back with the knife itself.”

“Did she describe the knife?”

“No. Madame Rosa took the knife in her hand and closed her eyes. After a moment, she became very upset. She dropped the knife as if she'd been burned and cried, ‘Yes! Yes! Your boy will kill with this knife. Your boy will kill!' Then she was so overcome that she fainted. When she came to, the woman and the knife were gone.”

“And she never gave you a name?”

“No, but I got the feeling it was someone local, because Madame Rosa was afraid for her own life. She was afraid the son might find out what his mother had done and come after her. She began to ramble then, talking about the month not being auspicious—cards, bad omens, things like that. Finally I broke in and asked, what was it exactly that she wanted me to do. She said, ‘That is the trouble. There is nothing anyone can do.' ”

Listening upstairs, Herculeah thought her mother did a good job of imitating Madame Rosa's voice. But then Madame Rosa had a distinctive voice.

“I told her she should go to the police. She said, ‘But I have no proof. I only have'—she put her hand on her chest—‘a feeling.' Even though I don't believe in that sort of thing, Chico, the way she said the word ‘feeling' made me shiver.”

“Anything more?”

“No, she got up then and left. I really didn't take the thing seriously, although maybe I should have. After all, she was killed with a knife.”

“Yes.”

“But do you think the two things could be connected?”

“It's possible.”

The phone rang then, interrupting the conversation. Her mother answered, “Mim Jones.”

She listened and said, “Yes, he's right here. It's for you, Chico.”

Her father's voice made a series of nothing remarks—“ Yes.... No.... None? ... I see.... Yes, it does look that way.”

He hung up the phone. Herculeah raised up on one elbow to hear what her father was going to say.

He said, “They just got the results of the fingerprints.”

Herculeah got to her feet and moved toward the door. Her hand covered her heart.

“The only fingerprints on the knife were Madame Rosa's.”

Herculeah didn't wait to hear any more. “She didn't kill herself!” she yelled.

She ran out into the hall.

“She didn't! There was somebody downstairs. I don't care what you say—Madame Rosa didn't kill herself!”

She flew down the stairs. Her parents came into the hallway and looked up at her. Their faces were lined in mutual concern.

“Go back to bed,” her mother said. “I'm coming up to talk to you.” She turned to Herculeah's father. “You'd better go, Chico. She's had too much for one day.”

“I agree,” her father said. “I want to say one thing first.”

“You've already said too much.”

“Herculeah, I'm very sorry you got drawn into this—sorrier than you can imagine. However, I never once thought that your involvement was anything other than the very unfortunate accident of finding the body.”

“Are you through, Chico? Will you please go now?”

“No, I am not through.” He looked up at Herculeah. “Hon, you did everything exactly right. You didn't touch anything vital. You called the police. You gave us your help.

“But now, your involvement is over. I will keep you posted on anything you need to know. In the meantime, I want you to get on with your life and leave this investigation to us.”

Herculeah paused. The strength that had sent her flying down the stairs now left her. She put out one hand and gripped the banister for support.

“She did not kill herself,” she said stubbornly.

“On that point we agree,” her father said.

Herculeah awoke at midnight. She was so twisted in her covers that she had to work to free herself. She got to her feet. She saw her moonlit reflection in the mirror.

The ribbon that had bound her hair had come loose, and her hair was extra wild. She smoothed it down and went into the hall.

The house was quiet. Slowly, she started down the steps.

Her first thought when she awoke was not of Madame Rosa. She had not even dreamed of Madame Rosa, as she had feared she might. Her thoughts were of Tarot. What had become of the parrot? Who had taken him? She should have thought to do that herself.

In the morning she would call her dad and find out. He might let her keep him until a relative was found. She recalled there was only one.

Herculeah walked into the darkened living room. She crossed to the window where she had stood just that afternoon. It seemed a long time ago.

She looked up the street at Madame Rosa's house. Then she rested her forehead against the cool glass.

Outside, the street was deserted. There had been a light rain, and the streetlights gave a soft glow to the parked cars. She lifted her head and glanced again at Madame Rosa's house. Her look sharpened.

There was a light on in the living room downstairs. She could see a thin crack of light through the partly opened draperies. Herculeah didn't think the strip of light had been there when she first looked. If it had not been, then someone had just turned on the light.

She tried to shake off the thought. I do have too much imagination, she thought with a sigh.

She glanced down, saw the binoculars, and picked them up. She lifted them to her face. She noticed two things.

1. The police barricade had been broken.

2. The light was no longer there.

From the doorway her mother said, “Herculeah, what are you doing at the window?”

“Mom, listen, I woke up and I thought about Tarot and I came downstairs. I was just standing here at the window, and I noticed that a light was on in Madame Rosa's living room. And then I picked up the binocs to check it out and the light went away. Either someone turned off the light or someone pulled the drapes closed. Mom, somebody's over there. If you don't believe me, look, the police barricade's down.”

“Anybody could have broken that. Anyway, this is your father's business. You can call him in the morning.”

“But, Mom, in the morning he'll be gone. And what if it's the murderer?”

“If it's the murderer, it's up to your father to catch him, not us. You heard what your father said. He wants you to stay out of this, and for once I agree with him. Now, good night.”

“Mom, just let me tell you one thing.”

“I'm listening.”

“We could go over there. We could check it out. Mom, listen, I've got the key.”

“What key?”

“The key to Madame Rosa's. She gave it to me so I could look after the parrot.”

“Where is this key?”

“In my drawer upstairs. I'll go get it.”

“We'll both go get it.”

“Mom, you'll actually do this?” Herculeah asked. She didn't feel tired at all now. She was always exhilarated by investigation. “We're going?”

“We are going to bed, young lady.”

“Mom, you know I hate it when you call me ‘young lady. ”'

“In this case, it's a compliment. I could call you a lot of other things.”

“Like what?”

“If you are trying to distract me from that key, you have not succeeded. I want it.” She held out her hand. “And I want it now.”

“Oh, all right.”

Her mother took Herculeah by the arm and led her upstairs. She waited at the door to Herculeah's room.

Herculeah went into her room, opened her top drawer, and took the key out of the old cigar box where she kept her valuables.

She handed it to her mother. “There.”

“Thank you,” her mother said.

Herculeah watched as her mother went into her bedroom. She listened as her mother opened a drawer and dropped the key inside.

Herculeah knew which drawer her mother had opened—the one in her bedside table. Satisfied, Herculeah went back to bed.

“Do you get the feeling we're being followed?” Herculeah asked uneasily.

“Who would follow us?”

“I don't know,” Herculeah said. “The Shadow,” she added in a theatrical voice. She glanced over her shoulder. “I don't know. Meat, I have the feeling that I saw something yesterday afternoon that ought to make sense to me and it doesn't. Or maybe somebody thinks I saw something. It's like I'm in a daze.”

“I know. That's why we've come to the flea market—to take your mind off it.”

“There was something wrong about that body.”

“Yes, it was dead.”

Herculeah grimaced.

“You want my opinion, Herculeah?”

“About what?”

“About why she was killed?”

Herculeah glanced at him.

“Blackmail,” he finished.

“Why blackmail?” Herculeah asked.

“Because people told her things, like I spilled my guts about my dad. Herculeah, you get in that little room, and it's like being in a psychiatrist's office—only darker and more secret. You tell things.”

“Maybe.”

“Take it from me. You tell things.”

Meat and Herculeah were making their way through the open-air part of the flea market. They sidestepped around baby strollers, young kids with Sno-Kones and cotton candy, families of shoppers.

“I saw Madame Rosa in here once,” Meat said. “She was handing out flyers. I took one.”

“Do you remember what it said?”

“‘I know your future—do you?' That was in big letters. Below that, it said she did readings, contacted departed loved ones, located missing people—that was what made me go to her about my dad. But, of course, she didn't help me—at least she didn't get to finish helping me.”

The flea market was spread over the grounds of an old cotton warehouse. During the week, it was nothing but a stretch of cracked tarmac and a dusty field, but on the weekends, the vendors set up booths or sold from the backs of station wagons or from blankets on the ground. There were music and balloons in the air.