Died Blonde (6 page)

A walk on the beach would dispel anyone’s anxieties; this was nothing new. How could she return the topic of conversation to Carolyn?

“Do you have plants in your house?” Wilda said before Marla could marshal her thoughts.

“No, I kill plants.”

“Ah.” The psychic gave her a look connoting superior wisdom. “You may have too much electricity. Try running the faucet at home and putting your hand on the metal spigot. It will ground you. You should keep citrus and mint around, too. Mint opens the channels; citrus harmonizes them. It’s been proven that mint provokes business. You know about aromatherapy? If you dispense mint fragrance in your shop, people spend more.”

Again, that made sense. Marla always noticed when she walked into a store and it smelled pleasant. This was a given sales principle.
Tell me something I don’t know
.

Wilda closed her eyes. “I’m seeing chairs, heavy wooden chairs. You’re picking up negative energy from them. You’ve heard of wood nymphs? These are unseen things from the other dimension that live in wood. It could be coming from them, or maybe not.”

Marla gave the medium a startled glance. “My boyfriend’s late wife filled their house with antique furniture.”

“You don’t care for that style, do you?”

“The stuffy pieces remind me of a mausoleum. I’m trying to encourage Dalton to clean out his place, but he won’t get rid of anything belonging to his dearly departed wife.”

Wilda’s lids snapped open. “You’re absorbing the negative vibrations. You must protect yourself. Put out a bowl of water in the room. Water attracts negative energy. Dump it outside and replace it each day. Antiques can be dangerous; you don’t know who owned them before you bought them. Let me tell you about this woman who came to me once. She’d bought a settee. Every time she sat on it, she got irritated. Well, after I visited her, I could tell why. The couch came with two ghosts.”

Marla smirked, shifting in her seat. “Maybe that’s why I’m uncomfortable when I stay at his house. Pam’s ghost still haunts the place.”

“Don’t make jokes about it. Keys, rings, furniture, clothing, everything carries a story. You have to avoid bad vibrations. That’s why I don’t shake hands with people. I don’t want to pick up their negative energy. It’s all around us, and we must guard against it.”

Who did Carolyn have to guard against
? Marla stood and stretched, inpatient to move on. “Linda Hall mentioned a collection that Carolyn had left to her. Something valuable, but the sister didn’t know what it was. Do you?”

“I wouldn’t trust what that woman says. She felt a lot of resentment toward Carolyn. She even went to a root lady once to put an evil spell on her sister. I was able to block the influence, but it wasn’t easy.”

Root lady? Somehow Marla didn’t think that referred to hair roots. Her mind conjured an image of an old hag brewing herbs over a steaming cauldron. Wait until Vail heard these stories. She could imagine his incredulous expression.

“Linda told me that Carolyn was jealous of her,” she said.

“Just the opposite, dear.” Wilda’s expression clouded. “Carolyn needs your help. She can’t rest until her murderer is exposed. She wants you to find her killer.”

“Why me? Carolyn hated me. She tried to sabotage my business when she moved back to Palm Haven.”

“That’s not what she told me. She said you forced her out of town initially, and she was only returning to her origins. But your relationship is not the issue here. You’re good at solving crimes. If anyone can help Carolyn’s spirit find its way to the light, it’s you.”

“What else did she say?” Marla asked.

“Someone close to you needs to see a doctor.”

“How could she tell you that? I thought you received messages in symbols, not words.”

“It’s nothing written out in sentences,” Wilda snapped. “I get a feeling that comes through. Someone associated with you is ill. Carolyn will reveal who it is when you find her murderer.”

“What is this, some sort of spiritual blackmail?” Marla snatched her purse, uncomfortable with the turn of dialogue.

“I am merely delivering a message from the higher spiritual plane.”

And I’m a schlemiel to have wasted my time here
. “I’ll consider it. Tell me, do you have any suspicion who might have killed Carolyn?”
Other than you, since you inherited a fairly lucrative business
.

Wilda raised a hand to ruffle her thick red hair. “That’s for you to determine, dear.”

“What about this collection Linda said she inherited?”

“I’ve no idea. Carolyn never said a word to me about it.”

“Did Carolyn mention receiving negative vibrations from anyone?” Marla tried, speaking in Wilda’s terms.

“You mean, anyone besides you? That’s not for me to say. Our sessions were confidential.”

“Well, if you think of anything else, you’ll let me know? It will make my job easier.”

Wilda’s face creased into a grin. “I knew you would help. I could foresee it.” Her expression sobered. “I’d suggest you work fast. Your loved one’s aura isn’t strong. I sense…it ceases in the near future.”

“What does that mean?”

“Transformation occurs. To a higher plane of existence.”

“You mean someone dies?”

“Within months, but delay may be possible with the proper treatment.” She gripped Marla by the elbow. “Heed my words. I’m not a nut case. This is the message I’m receiving.”

“It’s just your interpretation.” Perhaps Carolyn had left a ghostly residue. That might account for the fading aura Wilda visualized. But in the event her words held any truth, Marla considered what other questions to pose on her way to the exit.

“Why did Carolyn go to the meter room that day?” she asked. “Were you able to gain any information from her staff?”

“No, but that’s a good angle for you to work on.”

Marla sidestepped an obelisk on the floor. “How could Carolyn afford to move in the first place? I thought her other salon wasn’t doing too well.”

“She had her resources. Sometimes people can turn around their fortunes with the right attitude. Let me tell you a story about this man who came to see me.”

Recognizing another lengthy tale about to begin, Marla raised a hand. “I really have to go. Thanks for your hospitality.” Her temples throbbed, and she longed for the comfort of her own home. An hour’s drive wouldn’t help her mood.

“Wait, you have a headache. Let me relieve it.” Stepping forward, Wilda pressed her fingers to Marla’s brow.

“It’s getting late,” Marla protested, strangely hesitant to move. Maybe she was just hungry. She felt oddly weak. “Do you feel anything? A sensation of warmth?” Marla stared at Wilda’s age-crinkled face. “Nothing.” “You’re not receptive.” Wilda regarded her knowingly. “It’s okay. Just remember to protect yourself. Absorbing too much negative energy will bring you down.”

“I can’t decide if Wilda is for real or not,” Marla said after describing the interview to Tally. Speeding down 1-595 in her Camry, she gripped the steering wheel. They were on their way to the bingo hall in Hollywood. By seven o’clock on Wednesday evening, most rush-hour congestion had cleared, although it mainly affected the opposite lanes. She couldn’t conceive of why anyone would move farther west, despite the prestige of a Weston address, when you’d commit to fighting bumper-to bumper lines crawling east every morning and the reverse every evening. Maybe she just wasn’t a commuter.

Tally turned her blond head to gaze at Marla with wide blue eyes. “You don’t think Wilda is a true medium? Or is it that you don’t believe the soul lives on after death?”

“It’s not a matter of what I believe. Why would Wilda say Carolyn wants me to find her murderer?”

“Perhaps she did get a message from beyond.”

Glancing at the rearview mirror, Marla grimaced. An edge of storm clouds marched from the west. She pressed the accelerator, hoping to beat the torrential tropical downpour. “Wilda claimed messages come through in symbols, not words. Telepathy is the means of transmission. So how do you think Wilda received this message, as an image of Carolyn’s dead body? And where did I come into the picture? Give me a break.”

Tally’s eyebrows arched. She’d darkened them with pencil, her natural color being so light as to be almost invisible. “Carolyn knew you solved crimes. It’s possible she truly does want your help. Her soul will be doomed to wander until justice is served.”

“Ha. Then what about those crimes that never get solved? Police files are full of cold cases.”

Sadness altered her friend’s expression. “Let’s hope the victims find peace.”

“Wilda said people who die suddenly can’t understand what happened to them. They may linger in the same spot for months, and a medium can pick up their negative energies. She advised me to protect myself. Maybe this was her oblique way of warning me against someone who is very much alive.”

“Could be.”

Marla took the turnoff for State Road Seven heading south. Overhead, the sky darkened as the encroaching clouds blotted out the sun. “As if her message from Carolyn wasn’t enough incentive, Wilda hinted that someone close to me should see a doctor. Doesn’t that sound like a threat?”

“Do you consider Wilda capable of harming someone?” Tally’s raised tone indicated it had never crossed her mind to include the psychic as a suspect.

“Why else would she imply one of my relatives is ill? Couldn’t she just as well be talking about a consequence if I don’t comply?” Focusing her attention forward, Marla ignored the passing stream of used-car dealerships, gas stations, and adult video stores. This wasn’t the most scenic part of town. Like any avenue that had once been a central hub, it had gone downhill after communities expanded westward.

“Why do you question everything she says?” Tally countered. “It’s just as likely Wilda truly communicates with Spirit.”

“I’m grounded in reality. And I think Wilda’s words serve an ulterior purpose.” Uncomfortable with their conversation, Marla brushed a strand of hair off her face. While she conceded that psychic powers were possible, logic dictated that Wilda must have a vested interest in her cooperation. Although the reason for that eluded her, she was determined to track down the truth. She didn’t like it when people pressured her into acting on their behalf.

Shifting in her seat, Tally gave her a sly glance. “There’s one way for you to tell if Wilda is a fake. Go to Cassadaga.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a spiritualist camp in Central Florida. Residents are certified healers and mediums. They offer all kinds of classes, readings, and healing sessions. The people in my drumming circle have talked about hiring a bus for a weekend. I’m sure they’d let you join us.”

Oh, joy. Just what I’d like to do on my day off, ride on a bus with a bunch of New Age enthusiasts beating drums in the background
. Nonetheless, it was a good idea to check Wilda’s prediction against another medium’s reading, sort of like getting a second opinion from a doctor.

“It sounds like a worthwhile trip, but I’d rather go alone. Maybe you’d like to come with me. With fewer people, we’d have a better chance at getting appointments with the mediums we wanted. Less competition,” Marla added as an incentive. She could imagine Dalton’s reaction if she invited him. Just the thought of his cynical expression made her smile.

Her attention was diverted by the sign announcing the Indian reservation, and she scanned the area for the bingo hall. She had never been inside the place; not being a gambler, she’d always passed by without a second glance.

The sand-colored building with burgundy awnings wasn’t as garish as the Miccosukee gaming resorts in the area. Those were gambling palaces, complete with restaurants, entertainment, and a variety of ways to lose your money. Marla never had enough disposable income to risk on games of chance—plus, she’d rather spend her excess on clothes.

Across the street, signs offering live turtles, genuine western wear, a produce market, and a native village tempted tourists. “Look at all the pawnshops,” she said. “That must be for people who lose at the gaming tables. I wonder how many different tribes run these places.”

“Haven’t you read your Florida history?” Tally teased.

With a broad grin, she pulled a guidebook from her handbag. “Always be prepared, that’s my motto.” She flipped open the pages. “Ponce de Leon arrived on our shores in 1513. The Spanish explorer named the land Florida, which means ‘full of flowers’ in Spanish. At that time, about ten thousand Indians lived here. They belonged to four tribes: the Calusa and Tequesta in the south, and the Timucua and Apalachee in the northern territories.”

“So the Seminoles weren’t here initially,” Marla said as she searched for a parking space.

“That’s right. Warfare and diseases brought by the whites killed many of the Native Americans. That left the territory open for other settlers. In the early 1700s, a band of Oconee Indians migrated south from Georgia.
Sim-in-oli
means ‘wild,’ so that’s where their name originated. Other groups joined them. They all spoke a language called Hitchiti until another band arrived who spoke Muskogee.”

“Were those the Miccosukee?” They seemed more prevalent; Marla had noticed their land on Alligator Alley heading west toward Naples and on the Tamiami Trail in Miami.

Tally shook her head, tendrils of blond hair escaping from her twist. “The early Seminoles clashed with whites over escaped black slaves, hunting grounds, farmland, and other issues. Sometime after the War of 1812, General Andrew Jackson attacked the Seminoles, destroying their villages. Those remaining were herded into reservations, but not all complied. The government tried to get rid of them, and thus started the Second Seminole War. Some Native Americans retreated to the Everglades. They differentiated into the Hitchiti speaking group known as the Miccosukee, and the Creek Seminoles who speak Muskogee.”

“Their problems brought them together in one respect,” Marla commented, pointing to the casino. “Now they all speak the language of money.” A loud crack of thunder ripped the air. Pulling into an empty space just vacated by a Caprice, she switched gears and cut the ignition.

Outside, Marla surveyed a confusing array of building entrances. Jackpot…Do-It-Yourself…Bingo. A few droplets of rain hit her head. They’d never make it to the third entry before the deluge.

Tally took the lead, pushing open the first door they encountered. “I’m sure we can get through to the bingo section from here. Holy smokes, this is like Las Vegas.”

Dazzled by row after row of slot machines, Marla hesitated. While thunder rumbled outside, clinks and bells filled the cavernous interior. Somber patrons sat on green vinyl seats, punching buttons on devices that swallowed their money. Mustering her nerve, she strode forward, noting that the minimum bet was one dollar.

“Not Las Vegas,” she commented wryly. “There you can play for a nickel.”

Gold Rush, Super Touch Lotto, Golden 7s, Joker Poker. These were games she’d never heard of. What happened to the old-fashioned slots with an arm that you pulled, hoping to get cherries or a row of bars?

“I wonder if all the tribes have casinos,” she murmured, glancing at the carpet underfoot. It sported a vibrant design of tangerine sunbursts. She noted similar colors in the paintings on the walls that depicted various Indian scenes: riders on horseback, women in colorful skirts in a chickee hut, warriors on a hunt. Thatching rimmed the ceiling, creating the effect of being in an encampment. Modern amenities intruded by means of mounted televisions playing sports games and radio music blaring from loudspeakers.

“Cocktails, cappuccinos, expresso,” called a server circulating through a section of poker tables inhabited mostly by men with solemn expressions.

Pushing past a glass door, they entered the bingo room, where cigarette smoke tinged the air. Apparently the state law prohibiting smoking in public places did not apply to the reservation. Marla’s nostrils clogged while she noted the guards hovering about the exits and the white-shirted attendants roaming the crowd.

“I guess we have to go over there,” she said, pointing to a line snaking from another door.

When it was their turn to pay, Marla drew out her wallet. “We’re supposed to meet Rosemary Taylor here,” she said to the cashier, a woman whose world-weary face barely glanced at hers. “I understand she comes regularly.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s her over there.” Waggling her finger, the woman indicated a dirty blonde in a lavendar dress. Rosemary sat at a long table, one of many that reminded Marla of the tables in a school cafeteria. Unlike their school counterparts which would have resounded with noisy chatter and laughter, these tables were surrounded by deathly silence except for the shuffle of bingo paraphernalia. It appeared bingo players took their occupation seriously.

“Which pack do you want?” the attendant asked.

“What are my choices?”

“The twenty-two-dollar pack plays a four-hundred-dollar game; for thirty-three dollars, you can play the eight-hundred-dollar game; and for forty-four dollars you can play the eleven-hundred-and-ninety-nine-dollar game. Then you can buy extra books and specials.” Selecting a handful of brochures, she thrust them at Marla.

“Uh, I’ll just take the first one.”

“Paper or handset?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want a paper pack or computer?”

Marla glanced at some of the players already seated. They had cards laid out before them, and some had miniature tabletop computers. Her eye caught on colorful tubes that looked like paint. “What’s the difference?”

“With the paper, you have to mark off each number. You can buy your own dauber in the machine over there.”

“I see.” She noticed a lady testing her dauber by blotting colored circles on a blank piece of paper. This was a far cry from grade-school bingo where you put tokens on a gaming card. “Does the computer automatically mark the numbers called?”

“You still have to key in the number, but you don’t have to locate it on the grid. The computer will do that for you. It’s a lot faster if this is your first time. The game gets intense. Some people use both methods because they get bored.”

Marla studied the brochure for the evening session. Eighteen games were interspersed with brief intermissions. “What’s this Ko Na Wi where the prize starts at twenty-five thousand?”

“That costs one dollar to enter, and you pick six numbers ahead of time. It’s like the Lotto. If your numbers are called, you win. We only call sixteen numbers total.”

Marla bit: her lower lip. “I’ll just stick to the regular bingo game.” Aware she was holding up the line, she paid quickly and grabbed her power box. Now to figure out how to work the thing. Fortunately, a couple of seats were vacant on either side of Carolyn’s bingo partner.

If she ever entered a contest for bag ladies, Rosemary Taylor would win the prize, Marla thought. She couldn’t decide which sagged more: the lines of dissipation on the older woman’s face, or the shift she wore that looked like a recycled drapery from the flowery sixties. Dry blond hair with brassy highlights stuck out in clumps from under a battered felt hat. Her limpid blue eyes, lashes heavy with mascara, gave Marla a quick glance.

“Hi, are these seats taken?” Marla began. She introduced herself and Tally after Rosemary indicated the spaces were available. “This is our first time here. I hope I can understand how this thing works.” After settling in, she pushed the power button on her unit, watching as the screen lit up. Rosemary had sheets of paper laid out in front of her plus a computer and a row of daubers in different colors.

“The warmups will get you oriented,” Rosemary said in a raspy voice that ended in a cough.

Observing the stubs littering the woman’s ashtray, Marla wasn’t surprised when Rosemary lit a cigarette as long and slim as a pencil. Her throat constricted, and the lack of windows contributed to her oppressed feeling. It must be raining, but she couldn’t even hear the thunder. Very few people conversed with each other, and those few got disapproving glances. It felt as though she’d entered a prison where you weren’t allowed to speak, and breathing the smoky air was part of your sentence.

“My friend used to come here often,” Marla said, focusing on her purpose. “She kept urging me to play, but I couldn’t find the time. I’m so sorry she isn’t here tonight. Maybe you knew her? Carolyn Sutton.”

“Oh my. Carolyn was a friend of mine, too. Poor dear.”

Marla lowered her voice. “They say she was murdered.”

Rosemary’s face pinched. “
Oyg evalf
, it’s horrible.”

“Are you Jewish?” The woman did possess Mediterranean features. It was possible she came from the Sephardic strain.

“I’m Irish-Italian, honey. You live around here long enough and you pick up certain phrases. It’s necessary in my line of business.”

“And that is?” Tally asked, inclining her head to listen.

They spoke in low tones but still attracted attention. Not that anyone cared what they said. The glares they elicited indicated people were more concerned about the interruption to their focus—even though the games hadn’t even started—than they were about eavesdropping. Marla shuddered. What kind of lives did these women lead that this was their sole means of recreation?