Fool Me Once: A Tarot Mystery Read online

  She was vulnerable—and that was just how he’d want her.

  For some people, “domestic bliss” is an oxymoron. The only bliss they get around the house is when no one else is there. But the Four of Wands reminds us that a home sweet home isn’t an impossible dream. Family life can be harmonious and rewarding; appreciate it while you can. In the moment it might feel like domestic bliss, but in hindsight you might realize it was just the calm before the storm.

  Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing

  It was a twofer. I’d blown it twice with one conversation.

  I hadn’t been able to convince Former Customer X that I wasn’t a lying scumbag, and I’d convinced Marsha that I was one. All because I ran out of options and tried being honest.

  Whoever said the truth shall set you free was full of crap.

  To top it all off, I was having a Scooby-Doo moment. Quoth Fred: “Looks like we’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

  Who was Madame Jezebel, and why was she bad-mouthing me and Barbra? Not that my mother didn’t deserve it. But it had ruined my chances with one of Mom’s marks.

  “Let’s split up and look for clues,” Fred would have said.

  There was only one of me, so I couldn’t split up. But I could split.

  I left the White Magic Five and Dime and walked across the street to visit the competition.

  When I was growing up, we didn’t have neighbors. We had “the guy in the room next door” or “the people above us” or “the assholes down the hall,” and we never had any of them long. Sometimes we’d switch motels five times in a week just to stay ahead of one unhappy camper or another.

  I think the longest we ever stayed anywhere was the time Biddle moved us into a foreclosed McMansion outside Nashville and convinced the neighbors Mom was a loaded divorcée and he was her butler/chauffeur. It was probably a bogus investment scheme or a high-end variation on the badger game or the Spanish prisoner. Whatever the play was, it didn’t involve me, so for three whole days I was free to drift around the neighborhood doing whatever I wanted.

  I played freeze tag with other kids. I swam in their backyard swimming pools. I ate popsicles and ice-cream sandwiches on their porches.

  I was almost normal. Then Mom noticed.

  “Stay in the house,” she told me one morning.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll blab.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’ll let something slip.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’ll blow the setup.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know you won’t—because you’re not going out. Biddle, get her a TV.”

  And that had been that. “Neighbors” went back to being hazy, distant figures to be distrusted and avoided. Even after I ran away from Barbra, I never let my guard down. But maybe finally, twenty-plus years later, I was willing to try.

  “Howdy, neighbor,” I said as I walked into the House of Arcana.

  The store was a mirror image of the White Magic Five and Dime: the same but opposite. Packed with supposedly mystical bric-a-brac yet bright, cheery, airy.

  Josette Berg, the owner, looked up from the small cauldrons and potion kits she was arranging just-so on a display table. She was a tall and willowy woman with long, frizzy gray hair and a shapeless beige frock that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  She grinned at me with effortless, beaming sincerity.

  In some ways, she was my opposite.

  “Good morning, Alanis,” she said. “What brings you in today?”

  “I need to borrow a cup of good vibes.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid we’re all out.”

  “You? I don’t believe it.”

  The shop’s only customers—a pair of cashiers from the local grocery store who’d sometimes spend their breaks poking around the White Magic Five and Dime before leaving without buying anything—finished poking around and left without buying anything.

  “Actually, I have a question for you,” I said to Josette. “Have you ever heard of somebody called Madame Jezebel?”

  The look of near-beatific positivity on Josette’s face sagged in a way I’d come to recognize, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

  “She’s a fortuneteller. Psychic Vibes on Route 179—that’s her place. She’s—”

  “One of the Grandis,” I said.

  Josette nodded grimly.

  She didn’t approve of the Grandis. I didn’t approve of the Grandis. No one would approve of the Grandis unless they approved of manipulative bloodsuckers.

  So the woman I’d just read for had run from my mother straight into the welcoming arms of the most dangerous con artists in the county. Out of the frying pan and into the pits of hell.

  The cards had been clear, too. The woman had trusted, been burned, but needed to trust again—trust me—for amends to be made. Amazing. Yet I hadn’t been able to get the message across.

  Time for another lesson.

  Josette wasn’t just my neighbor. When it came to reading the tarot for a customer, she really was my Obi-Wan.

  “Got time for a reading?” I asked her.

  She gestured at her customer-free store. “What do you think?” she said, her smile returning.

  “Great. Why don’t we use a Celtic Cross this time?”

  “A classic,” Josette said. “And what is it you want to ask the cards today?”

  I thought it over. “Have I lost my freakin’ mind?” seemed a bit too blunt.

  “Was I right to stay in Berdache?” I said instead.

  Josette led me back to her reading nook and had me shuffle the cards there and think about my question. Then she took the deck and laid out ten cards, like so:

  Then Josette slipped the bottom card from the cross in the middle and flipped it over.

  The reading began.

  “We start with your current situation,” Josette said.

  “Wands: the suit of fire, creation, new endeavors. But here, in the Ten of Wands, we see the downside of that. You can take on too much, be too ambitious, and load yourself with burdens that might not be yours to bear. So you’re excited to be committing yourself to something new, but maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. And affecting that situation is…”

  She turned over the other card at the center of the spread.

  “The King of Wands! Well, well! This is an important man in your life…or one who’ll be important soon. He’s powerful, energetic, restless, unpredictable. Be ready, Alanis. I’d say he’s going to shake things up.

  “But back to your problem—the first card. Your burden. Where’s that coming from?”

  She moved to the card just below the first two.

  “Hmm. Here we have a journey you’ve been on…perhaps a sad one. Yet you’re carrying something with you that you’ll need in the future: those swords. They could be skills you’ve accrued or wisdom you’ve gained.

  “Now—the recent past.”

  She turned over the card to the left of the center cross.

  “More swords! And another man. Swords can mean conflict, of course. But not always. And not necessarily with the king here. He’s an authority figure. A defender of the status quo. A no-nonsense type. A good man to have in your corner, I’d think. Let’s see what you two are up against. A possible outcome…”

  She flipped the card above the center cross.

  “Wands. Again. And more conflict—a lot of it. You’re surrounded, on the defensive. You’ve got the high ground and a way to fight back, but the odds aren’t necessarily in your favor.

  “Hmm. Maybe the near future will look a little brighter.”

  She went to the card to the right of the center cross.

  “Oh. Our first reversal.

  “You know how it is, Alanis. Not everyone puts any stock in reversals, but I do.

  “Usually the Ace of Cups is a wonderful card to get. It signifies love, abundance, a gift of happiness, and spiritu
al fulfillment. Good stuff!

  “Reversed, we get the opposite. The love pours away. We get conflict again—disruption, chaos—and the gift turns into a curse. Not so good.

  “Let’s see where you’re coming from—the self.”

  She moved her hand to the four cards to the right of the cross and turned over the one at the bottom of the line.

  “Well, there’s an old friend: the Fool! He always seems to pop up in your readings. I think that’s you coming to Berdache, Alanis. The wanderer beginning a new journey with a heart full of hope. But he’s reversed today. Maybe there’s reason not to be so optimistic. Maybe it’s time for a little caution. Maybe the Fool needs to slow down a little. Think things through more. Look before leaping.

  “Moving up, we see what’s around you—your environment.”

  She flipped the card above the Fool.

  “Look at that: another reversal. A lot’s being turned on its head.

  “The Magician shows us power and skill used well—for creativity and transformation and new beginnings. Reversed, that power and skill might still be there, but they’re being thwarted or misused.

  “I think this might be another yellow light. You have abilities and insights, but are you in too much of a hurry to use them? What are your true goals—and are there better ways to achieve them?

  “Moving up again, we come to what some readers call your hopes and fears. I look at it more as the spread’s last chance to get in a word before the grand finale—just something you ought to know. In this case—”

  She turned over the third card in the line of four.

  “We’re back to wands. That guy looks a little tired, doesn’t he? He’s been through a lot of battles, you can tell. And he’s ready for more, no matter how weary he might be. Look at his face, though. See the suspicion there? The distrust? He’s got reason to be cautious, but he should be open to help, too. He just needs to make sure he accepts it from the right people.

  “All right. Finally. The bottom line. The outcome.

  “Drum roll, please.”

  Josette let her hand hover a moment over the final unturned card, then picked it up and put it back down faceup.

  “Ah. Oh. Okay. Hmm.

  “Sometimes the cards look…um…a little more dramatic than they really are. This isn’t necessarily an act of violence we’re looking at. It just means things are going to get a bit…intense. But I know you’ve been through intense times before. The key thing is not to overreact. Stay focused and calm and confident and everything will work out fine. Probably.

  “There are a lot of wands in this spread. That’s your passion, your enthusiasm, your fire: keep that alive in you. I think it’s what’s drawing trouble to you, but it’s what’s going to see you through, too.

  “That’ll be thirty dollars, please. Cash or credit card?”

  Josette was smiling when she asked for the thirty bucks. She’d stopped charging me for readings a week before.

  “Professional courtesy,” she’d said.

  The smile she wore now was small, tentative. A “sorry—just kidding” kind of smile. The kind you give someone you’re trying to cheer up.

  I gave her a big, bright smile back. What did I have to be gloomy about? I’d accepted that the tarot had some value as a sort of psychedelic Rorschach test, but that didn’t mean it could predict the future. The only reason I’d gotten a reading at all was to pick up tips and improve my tarot patter…right?

  Still, I glanced back down at that last card—the Ten of Swords, looking like an outtake from Gladiator—and I knew what I’d do the second I was back in the White Magic Five and Dime.

  I was going to check on Marsha Riggs.

  Marsha didn’t answer when I called her motel room, and I gave her plenty of chances. I must have called ten times that afternoon. The phone just rang and rang.

  I’d thought about setting Marsha up with a cell phone, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. I kicked myself for that now.

  I tried Eugene’s office, too, but Marsha wasn’t there and he hadn’t heard from her.

  “I have the scoop on Bill Riggs, though, if you’re interested,” he said.

  “I’m interested.”

  “I got curious when you asked about the charges against him this morning, so I called a buddy of mine in the state attorney’s office. He said Riggs somehow landed Charles Dischler as his attorney, and now the possession and assault and resisting arrest charges—the whole smear—it’s all going bye-bye.”

  “You say ‘Charles Dischler’ like I should know that name.”

  “You should if you ever need a better lawyer than me—and you win the lottery. He’s probably the most famous criminal defense attorney in Arizona, and he doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Riggs is a twenty-nine-year-old hothead shmoe who sells condos and timeshares. How’d he come up with the money for someone like that?”

  “Beats me. But however he got it, it’s the best investment he ever made. A week ago he was looking at jail time. Now the state’s just praying he doesn’t sue.”

  “Great.”

  There was a long silence I felt too glum to fill with more talk.

  Finally Eugene said, “Are we done? Another minute of this and I’ll have to start billing you.”

  “We’re done. Thanks for the gossip.”

  “My pleasure. And, Alanis—don’t worry. I’m sure Marsha’s fine.”

  “Me, too,” I lied.

  I hung up and headed for the door.

  I drove to the drab, dark little house at 1703 O’Hara Drive. The Riggs’s home.

  I was afraid that I would find Marsha’s ancient, dent-dimpled Civic in the driveway. That she’d run back to what she knew—as smothering and sometimes brutal as it was—when she discovered that she didn’t really know me at all.

  The Civic wasn’t there, which didn’t necessarily mean Marsha wasn’t there. But her husband’s red Camaro was parked out front, so peeking in the windows didn’t seem like a good idea.

  I sat in my car, watching the house. It wasn’t long before I noticed that I wasn’t the only one.

  Half a block away, on the opposite side of the street from me, was a white and blue Arizona Highway Patrol cruiser—with (I had to assume) an Arizona Highway Patrol Officer behind the wheel. I was too far away to make out any details other than (A) he was a human being and (B) he was a big one.

  And (C) he didn’t like me watching him.

  His cruiser was pointed toward me, but when he drove off—which he did about half a minute after I laid eyes on him—he backed into the nearest driveway behind him and pulled out headed in the opposite direction, all so he wouldn’t have to drive past me.

  So somehow Bill Riggs suddenly comes up with the money to get the charges against him dropped—some of which were because he Hulked out on the state trooper who had found the goodies I’d stashed in his glove compartment—and the next thing you know the highway patrol’s wandering into his neighborhood…which happens to be a good mile from any highway they could be patrolling?

  And here I’d thought Riggs was just an abusive asshole. Now it turned out he was an interesting abusive asshole, which was not an improvement.

  I drove the twenty miles to the motel Marsha had been staying at. She didn’t answer when I went to her room and knocked on the door. The fact that her car wasn’t in the parking lot gave me no comfort.

  There was plenty of desert around to ditch a dinky old rust bucket like that—along with whatever might be in the trunk.

  I’d barely gotten started at this do-gooding thing and already I had to wonder if I’d done very, very bad by Marsha Riggs.

  I went back to the White Magic Five and Dime and spent the rest of the day going through the motions. Every half hour or so I’d notice that Marsha still hadn’t called, so I’d call her.

  She never picked up.

  A tall, dark, handsome man appeared before me.

  I didn’t notice.

  I was standing
behind the counter at the White Magic Five and Dime, staring at the pirate ship at the bottom of the fish tank and still thinking about Marsha Riggs and Bill Riggs and that human pincushion on the Ten of Swords.

  The tall, dark, handsome man cleared his throat.

  “Sorry,” I said. “How can I help—? Oh.”

  The tall, dark, handsome man gave me a small, almost wary smile.

  He was Victor Castellanos.

  My date.

  “Hi,” Victor said. “Ready to go get Mom at the home?”

  Quite the Casanova, huh? “Ready to go get Mom at the home?” What red-blooded American woman could resist a pick-up line like that?

  I could’ve, actually, though I’d spent the previous two weeks browbeating the man into asking me out. His mother had been one of Barbra’s most loyal—and gullible—customers, and at first he hadn’t believed me when I’d said I was trying to pay her back. His penance—because he was indeed so tall, dark, and handsome—was an evening on the town.

  Bringing Mom along had been his idea—because “you two seem to have hit it off,” he’d said.

  I knew better.

  Victor Castellanos was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds and coached the high school wrestling squad. And he was afraid of me.

  For a split second I considered backing out. It was the thought of short, dark, and wrinkled that made up my mind—Victor’s mother, Lucia Castellanos.

  Lucia always seemed so glad to see me. It was an experience I hadn’t had much with mothers, and I liked it.

  “Let me just close up the shop,” I said, coming around the counter.

  Victor took a big step back to maintain the four-foot safety zone he always seemed to keep between us. The handsomest man in town, and he treated me like I had cooties. Oh, well.

  At least I could look forward to all the breadsticks I could eat.

  “Forget Olive Garden,” Lucia said when we picked her up from the Verde River Vista Senior Residences. “Mr. Ranalli down the hall from me finally died—in his sleep, the lucky bum—and it’s put me off Italian.”

  “Sure, Mom,” Victor said. “Where do you want to go instead?”

  Lucia wrapped her little wizened claws around my arm and pulled me closer.

  “Let’s let beautiful decide.”