Herculeah Jones Tarot Says Beware (9 page)

Herculeah moved to the front door. She unlocked it and pulled it open.

“I knew it!” her mother said. She strode into the hallway. “I knew it. You took that key the minute my back was turned.”

“Mom, I can explain.”

“And, Meat, is that you back there?”

“Yes'm.” Meat stepped forward.

“Meat, you've got better sense than Herculeah. You should have stopped her.”

“I did my best.”

“Herculeah, this is trespassing!”

“Mom, listen. Someone was here. Someone was upstairs. And they came down. Meat heard them, didn't you, Meat?”

“And I saw them—the foot, anyway. And, Mrs. Jones, that was the most terrible foot there could be in the world. I'll probably have foot nightmares tonight. I know I will.”

“And I saw the person. Mom, listen. It was either Madame Rosa or somebody pretending to be her. Oh, Mom, now that you're here, we can put on all the lights and really search.”

Meat held up one hand as if to stop anyone from speaking.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“It sounded like the click of the back door closing,” Meat said in a hushed voice. “I think someone just went out the kitchen door.”

“Great!” Herculeah said, turning in that direction. “If we hurry—”

“If we hurry,” her mother said firmly, taking her arm, “we can get home before midnight. Come along, Meat.”

Meat glanced anxiously toward the kitchen. “Gladly,” he said.

“So.”

Herculeah always hated it when her father started a conversation like that.

“So.”

Another one. Two “so”s. This was going to be bad.

“Your mom tells me you went back to Madame Rosa's last night.”

It was Sunday, and Herculeah and her father were in the car, driving to an Atlanta Falcons football game.

Her father had spoken in a casual, conversational tone, but Herculeah was aware this was not going to be a casual chat. His profile was stern.

She said, “Mom told you that?”

“She did.”

“I wish you and Mom wouldn't discuss me behind my back.”

“I wish we didn't have to.”

“So, what did Mom say?”

“She said she had taken the key away from you, and you got it out of her drawer and went over there, taking poor Meat along with you. It was a very dangerous thing to do.”

“Actually Meat turned out to be the most dangerous part. He tackled me. You'd think he was—who's that big mean Falcon?”

“They're all big and mean.”

“Well, that was the only time I was in any real danger. I got spooked, I admit that, when Madame Rosa appeared.” She turned to her father. “Dad, are you convinced that body was Madame Rosa's?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Listen, Herculeah, whoever killed Madame Rosa is still out there.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “This was not some random killing. This was not an intruder who killed and left town.”

“I know. I remember you telling me that most murders are not committed by unknown assailants.”

“That has been my experience.”

“And this one?

“This one, too.”

Herculeah hoped her father would elaborate, but he didn't, so she said, “You think it was someone Madame Rosa knew?”

“Yes.”

“A relative? She told me she only had one of them still alive.”

“It's a possibility.”

“Meat thinks she was blackmailing people. That she'd find out all their secrets and blackmail them, but I don't think so. Do you?”

“It's a possibility.”

“I did notice one interesting thing while I was in that house. This was one of the reasons I went in there. She had a lot of family pictures, and there was one of her with a boy. I'd seen it there a lot of times. Last night it was gone.”

She glanced at her father, but he seemed intent on traffic.

“You don't suppose it could be the boy in the picture that killed her?”

“We haven't been able to locate any relatives.”

Herculeah took in a quick breath. “The mime,” she said.

“What?”

“The mime.”

“Mime? You mean one of those white-faced people?”

“Yes. Dad, wouldn't it be the perfect disguise? I mean, we see the mime every day, but we don't know what he looks like or how old he is or anything. He could wash his face and come out, and nobody would even recognize him.”

She leaned back with satisfaction. “Meat would be so pleased if it turned out to be the mime. He can't stand mimes.” She laughed. “I'd love to see you try to interrogate a mime.”

Her father's tight profile eased into a reluctant smile.

“Or see Judge Kellerman try.”

A wider smile.

“I wish I knew what happened to that picture.”

“Well, I don't guess there's any harm in my telling you we found it.”

“You did?” She swiveled around. “Where?”

“Well, we found half of it. The Madame Rosa half. It was in the alley behind the house. The frame, some broken glass, and half the picture.”

“That proves it was important, don't you think? That's it! The killer tore up the picture and took the half that could identify him!”

“Or he took the picture to make us think it could identify him.”

“Were there any fingerprints?”

He shook his head.

“Of course not.” She laughed. “The mime always wears gloves.” She shook her head as if to make herself get serious. “I wish I knew where that mime lives. Maybe I ought to follow him.”

“You're not following any mime. This is a dangerous business. Give me your word.”

“Oh, all right, but you know what? I went into that house, got scared, got slammed into a wall, got Mom mad at me, got a lecture from you and”—she showed her empty hands—“and all for nothing!”

Herculeah glanced at her father's profile. His lips had tightened again, forming a straight line across his tanned face. She was sorry she had gotten the conversation back to her illegal entry into Madame Rosa's.

“I want you to make me another promise, hon.”

“What, Dad?”

“I want you to promise you will not go back in that house.”

“Oh, I'm happy to promise that. I don't want to go back. I really did get scared, if you want to know the truth. Anyway, there's nothing to go back for.”

“There better not be.”

“I just did something I didn't think I would ever do in my whole life,” Meat said as soon as Herculeah answered the phone.

“What?”

“I wrote a letter to Dear Abby.”

“I bet I know what you said. ‘There's a girl across the street from me that keeps getting me in trouble. How can I get her to stop?' ”

“No. If you didn't keep getting me in trouble, my life would be a complete bust.”

“Then what?”

“I wrote for information about finding my father. Remember, you mentioned it last night when we were getting ready to trespass.”

Herculeah gave the telephone a look of disgust at Meat's choice of words. Then she smiled. “I can't wait to hear what she says. You know, I have only learned one pleasant thing since this terrible mess started.”

“What?”

“That you have a dancing father.”

“Well, so Madame Rosa said. She could be wrong.”

“I wonder what kind of dancing. Toe? Tap? The twist? Boogie?”

“Don't try to be funny. I do not appreciate jokes where my father is concerned.”

“Sorry.”

Herculeah was on the sofa. She stretched out to get more comfortable. “I went to the Falcons game with my dad today. I just got back. We were going to stop for supper, but my dad got a call.”

“I saw you come in.”

As Meat spoke, he remembered seeing them leave as well. He had stood at the window, jealously watching as they drove away. If he had a father, he would even be willing to go to a Falcons football game to be with him.

 

“I pumped my dad for information, but I didn't get much. During the game ... to be honest, sometimes football bores me, but I don't want my dad to know, because he does not bore me. I like to be with him. Anyway, during the game I started recreating Madame Rosa's last hours.”

“Oh?”

“Here's what I think.” Herculeah sat up straight, caught up in her theory. “Madame Rosa had been reading something in that book, and she goes into the kitchen to boil some water, possibly for tea. She drank a lot of herbal tea. I drank one cup once, which was enough for me. The doorbell rings. Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe the killer just walks in. That's more like it. Madame Rosa is back in the kitchen and she hears Tarot screech, ‘Beware! Beware!' and she knows someone has come into the house. I'm getting goose-bumps, are you?”

“No,” Meat lied.

“Madame Rosa is so upset, she doesn't even turn off the stove. She goes into the hall. Nobody there. She goes into the living room. Nobody there. She goes into the parlor. There he is—the killer.”

“There he is!” Meat said.

“That's just what I said.”

“No, I mean the mime! There he is! Look out your window.”

“Oh, he's probably been to the flea market. It's seven o'clock, so it just closed.”

“Let's follow him.”

“I can't. I promised my dad I wouldn't.”

“Well, I didn't promise.”

“Meat, my dad feels like this is dangerous. I'm beginning to think so, too.”

“Well, all right, I won't follow him. I'll just take a walk in the same direction he's walking in, and see where he goes.”

“Meat! That is following! Just like us going into that house was trespassing and—”

But Meat had hung up the phone.

Herculeah pressed against the window and watched as Meat came out of his house, pulling on his jacket. He ran down the steps.

Herculeah hesitated.

She reached for her binoculars. She raised them to her eyes. She noticed three things:

Herculeah put down the binoculars.

“I promised my dad that I wouldn't follow the mime. I did not promise my dad that I wouldn't follow Meat.”

She reached for her jacket and headed for the door.

Meat paused at the corner. He peered around the drugstore. The mime was halfway down the block.

Just the sight of that black suit, those white-gloved hands caused Meat to shiver. He took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders. He turned the corner, prepared to duck into the nearest doorway if necessary.

It wasn't. The sidewalk was empty. The mime had disappeared.

Slowly, looking from side to side, exactly as Herculeah had imitated him doing at the flea market, Meat continued down the sidewalk.

The last place he had seen the mime was just before the entrance to the alley that ran between the houses. No one used the alley much anymore, and it was overgrown with weeds.

Meat stopped and peered into the alley. The dark shadows from the buildings made it even more uninviting. Still, he knew the mime had to have gone this way.

He glanced around uneasily. No one was in sight. He lifted his hand and waved, as if to a friend in front of the drugstore. If the mime was watching—and he probably was—this would make the mime think someone had seen Meat entering the alley and make the mime think twice about ... whatever.

Meat walked slowly into the alley. Gravel and broken glass crunched beneath his feet.

He passed an old sagging garage, and the rotten boards gave off the smell of mildew and rot. He put his hand over his face to blot out the smell. Meat was sensitive to odors.

He peered around the back of the garage, and in one terrible gasp, he inhaled a deep breath of the air he had wanted to avoid. He was face-to-face with the mime.

Meat coughed up some of the air. Then he managed to say, “Hi.”

The mime gave an elaborate gesture that asked, or so it seemed to Meat, the question he most didn't want to answer: Why are you following me?

“I wasn't. I just happened to be, you know, coming this way.”

Then, to Meat's unhappiness, there followed a dreadful one-sided conversation, apparently the only kind you can have with a mime.

The mime: I don't like to be followed.

“No, no, that's why I wasn't following you. I don't follow people.”

The mime: What do you want?

“Nothing. Nothing. I don't want one single thing.”

The mime: Then why are you here?

“I don't know. Actually, I was just getting ready to go.”

As Meat peered into the white face, it almost seemed like one of those death masks you see in museums. The mime's face was still empty of expression, but Meat had the feeling that the mime was mad enough to commit some sort of murderous act upon him. He remembered that wave he had been clever enough to make to his nonexistent friend, and he added, “My friend's waiting in front of the drugstore.”

He took two backward steps toward the street.