Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 02 (5 page)

The door flew open and Estelle came outside, her purse clutched under her arm. "I swear, Arly, sometimes you're slower than sorghum at Christmas. I told Madam Celeste we'd be there at ten o'clock sharp, and she has a very busy schedule. Not to mention other folks, who have a business to run and Elsie McMay at ten-fifteen for a haircut, shampoo, and set. As you well know, Elsie practically has a stroke if she's kept waiting."

"I'm terribly sorry. Shall we walk or drive?" I asked humbly.

"Goodness' sakes, Arly, it's not more than a hundred feet up the road." Estelle took off at full mast, the hem of her lavender uniform flapping in the breeze. The red, dangling curls had been vanquished to hair heaven in favor of a beehive of admirable height -- and not one hair trembled despite her pace. Which was leaving other folks breathless, I might add.

I caught up with her on the porch of Madam Celeste's house. In contrast to Estelle's house, the place was a sorry mess. Paint peeled off the sides in curling gray tongues or bubbled like alligator skin. The yard was a collage of crabgrass, wild onions, bleached patches of dust, and beer bottles. The only thing that saved it from essence of squalor was a satellite dish sitting in the side yard, although the weeds were getting a mite high around the base. Maybe they used it to beam down The Grapes of Wrath and Tobacco Road.

Before I could mention the possibility (or hightail it back down the road to my car), Estelle rang the doorbell. "You are going to love Madam Celeste," she confided as she straightened the belt of her uniform. "She is astounding, just plumb astounding -- as long as you don't turn up your nose and act all snooty. The only thing you have to do is to believe in her powers, Arly."

"Is that all?" I said in a distracted voice. I was busy envisioning a heavy-set, elderly, swarthy Gypsy, complete with scarves, beads, gold hoop earrings, and a long, embroidered dress that hung down not quite far enough to hide swollen ankles. A mustache and bright-red lipstick. A hoarse Hungarian accent, if one was attuned to such things. A mole on her chin. Lugging a crystal ball, a Ouija board, and a floor lamp with a fringed shade.

A short woman with bleached-blond hair opened the door. "You are late," she snapped, one hand on her hip. "I have other appointments today, and there may not be enough time to do a complete reading. I really don't like to start and then have to quit just when I've begun to feel the cosmic force. It gives me a headache. But come in, come in."

"I'm so sorry," Estelle said, dragging me through the doorway. "This is Ruby Bee's daughter, Arly Hanks."

Two icy green eyes turned on me. "And this reading is for you -- is that correct? Do you want cards, sand, an astrological reading, or a numerological analysis?"

Estelle leaned over and cupped her hand around my ear. "Take the sand, Arly; it's the most revealing," she advised in a hiss. "You might as well get your mother's money's worth."

"The sand, by all means," I said to Madam Celeste.

Estelle patted me on the back, then announced she simply had to dash off because of Elsie McMay. She preceded to abandon me to the clutches of the psychic. Madam Celeste appeared to he under forty, although there were some lines around her eyes -- perhaps from all that peering into the future. She was shorter than Ruby Bee, but her waist was trim and her hips were contained in tight designer jeans. She wore a faded T-shirt and rubber thongs. No mustache, no mole, no scarves, no beads, no hoop earrings. The accent was odd; I couldn't place it, but it didn't sound like Budapest. She would have been attractive if her features had been less linear and harsh; as it was, she reminded me of a sharp-chinned cat, if that makes any sense to you.

"Are you ready to begin?" she said impatiently. "I don't have time to stand in the foyer all day while you goggle at me as if I, Madam Celeste, were a sideshow freak. Come along to the solarium." She wheeled around and stalked through a doorway, muttering under her breath.

I stalked after her, muttering under my breath. Odds are we weren't muttering the same things.

Forty minutes later, I came out of the solarium (which bore an uncanny resemblance to a breakfast room, owing in part to the tea-kettle wallpaper and the dinette set), armed with the knowledge that in the past I'd been treated unfairly but had shown courage. In the future I would see great changes in my life, make a meaningful career move, encounter two strangers who would have a profound influence on my life, travel, survive a test of character, and find great happiness down the line. Every time I'd asked for specifics, Madam Celeste had rubbed her temples and told me that it just wasn't coming through because of negative vibrations in the atmosphere. For those agog with curiosity, Mesopotamian sand is blue and looks like the stuff in the bottoms of aquariums. It was in a Tupperware salad bowl. She'd had me make a handprint in it, then done a lot of staring at it.

Madam Celeste opened the front door for me. "I hope you were satisfied with the reading, but I do not offer any guarantees. Sometimes I can see things as clearly as I see your face; other times I must battle negative vibrations, although I cannot say from where they emanated."

I wasn't going to tell her; after all, she was the psychic. "I have days like that myself," I said in my most sympathetic voice. "Ruby Bee said you came here from Las Vegas. That was quite a change, wasn't it?"

"Yes, of course it was." She gave me a wary look, no doubt thinking her newest client didn't have all her carob chips in the cookie dough, so to speak.

"But it must seem awfully tame here. Why did you trade Las Vegas for Maggody?"

"I had great trouble with the police there, if you must know. A woman came to me, very distraught, crying and twisting her hands, begging for me to help her. Her child, a dear little boy of seven, had disappeared over a month before. The police searched for him, but finally gave up and told her the case was as good as closed. To say such a thing to a mother -- can you imagine such heartlessness!"

"Why did she come to you?"

Madam Celeste drew herself up (to about five foot two). "Because I am a world-renowned psychic. I have studied with the greatest clairvoyants of the European continent. At that time I was working at one of the largest casinos, and creating much excitement and comment. This poor woman heard about me from one of her friends, and literally threw herself at my feet. After some discussion, I agreed to help the police find the child. The police, stupid scum that they are, laughed at me and sent me away -- but in the end I was able to give the mother some guidance as to the location of the poor little boy's body several miles out in the desert. He'd wandered away and fallen into a ravine, where he could not be seen from above. The police were embarrassed, of course, and made wild accusations about me to cover up their stupidity."

"So you decided to come to Maggody, Arkansas?" I persisted. "Had you been here before? Do you have friends here?"

"I was drawn here by some unknown force, as if my destiny were to be unfolded and made known to me here in this peaceful little village," she said briskly, making me suspect she'd recited it many a time. She glanced at her watch. "Now I am very busy. You must leave so that I may prepare for my next appointment. It will be a most difficult session for me, and I must have time to arrive at the proper frame of receptiveness. I use your mother's credit card number, yes?"

I had a whole truckload of questions left, but I suggested she bill Ruby Bee time and a half for the additional few minutes, then went down the porch steps and along the road to my car. I hid out at the PD all afternoon and, with sly anticipation, went home for a can of chicken noodle soup just before Kevin's arrival. Conscientious enforcer of law and order that I was, I clipped my beeper on my belt as I scooted out the door.

Later that evening, I went over to David Allen's house and told him about the reading, which had been as perceptive and personal as a syndicated horoscope column in a newspaper. We agreed that the whole thing was apt to blow over, and on that optimistic note shared a six-pack and played Trivial Pursuit until midnight. It beat sitting at the front window of my apartment, counting the Mercedeses that went through town in one evening. If you're wondering, the world record to date was three.

"How'd she act?" Ruby Bee demanded as she wiped the surface of the bar. "Did she stop by afterward to say what happened?"

Estelle popped a beer nut in her mouth and chewed it pensively. Once she'd washed it down with soda pop, she said, "Well, if you want my opinion, I'd say Arly was a tad nervous when I took her over, but she settled down nicely after I'd introduced her to Madam Celeste. Nearly an hour later, I saw her come back and get in her car, but just as I put down my styling comb to run outside and ask her what happened, Elsie started telling me about her last obscene telephone call. I told Elsie she had a filthy mouth, and that sort of led to a prickly discussion. By the time I looked out the window again, Arly'd left."

"What all did Elsie say the caller said this time?" Ruby Bee put down the dishrag and propped her arms on the bar. "Four-letter words or sexual remarks or what?"

Estelle repeated the conversation as best she could remember. She and Ruby Bee decided that Elsie sure enough had a filthy mind -- if not a filthy mouth. Anyone who relished those calls ... Course the caller was mentally deranged and sure hadn't laid eyes on Elsie ... They were really getting into it good when the door opened and the newest barmaid trudged across the room. The light fixture above the dance floor quivered but held tight. The customers in the booth hunkered over and stuck their noses in their beers.

"Am I late?" Dahlia O'Neill said.

"Yes," Ruby Bee said, "but don't fret about it. As you can see for yourself, business is right slow. Put on an apron and go ask those folks in the corner if they want another pitcher."

Dahlia's mouth opened and closed slowly, like an immobile fish feeding on plankton. "I don't" -- close, open, close, open -- "recollect where the aprons is kept."

Ruby Bee studied the girl's monumental girth. "That's all right," she said kindly. "You don't need to wear an apron now. This evening when I get home, I'll run up a special one on my Singer Deluxe. If I have time, I'll embroider your name on the top of the pocket."

"That'd be real nice," Dahlia said. "Now what is it you want me to ask them folks over in the booth?"

Even though she figured it was too late, Ruby Bee couldn't stop herself from having Second Thoughts, not to mention a few Severe Misgivings.

Mason Dickerson got back to town about midnight. There wasn't a parade to welcome him; in fact, there were only two lights visible along the whole stretch of highway -- and both of them were streetlights. Mason wasn't surprised. He took the opportunity to drive his BMW faster than the signs suggested, and whipped around the corner by the Emporium in a spew of gravel, dust, and chicken feathers.

He was in a fine mood. A little bleary from the wine, but his stomach was full and his sexual drive met for a while. For Mason, who was thirty-seven and healthy, bronzed to perfection, dressed with impeccable taste and proud of it, well groomed and always a gentleman, the lack of decent women in the podunk town was the most difficult thing to deal with. High school girls were too young and silly. Maggody didn't boast a sorority house with nubile occupants or a junior League with perky young matrons in sable jackets and designer suits. They'd be married, anyways, Mason thought as he pulled into the yard and cut the engine. The three single women he'd thus far met in town had good reasons for their marital status; he had no inclination to alter it. Not, of course, that he had exalted standards. He just couldn't imagine kissing a woman who was hairier than a summer groundhog, or older than the hills. Or tipping the scales at three hundred pounds plus. Mason wanted a nice girl -- nothing spectacular, but nice.

The house looked dark, but as he came inside, he saw a light in the back sitting room. He wondered if he could slip upstairs without being caught, then glumly decided he couldn't and went on to the kitchen. "You want I should bring you a beer or a glass of sherry?" he called to his sister.

"No. Why are you out so late? Do you realize it is midnight? Do you care that I have stayed up to worry about you, even though tomorrow I will have hideous dark circles under my eyes? Do you -- "

Mason rattled the refrigerator door, drowning out the final rhetorical demand. Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard had been in the sherry, he told himself as he took out a beer and popped the top. The bottle in the garbage can confirmed his theory, although he hadn't had much doubt. He once again considered flight, but instead went to the sitting room and poked his head through the door. "I'm right sorry you waited up, Sis. I didn't mean to worry you," he said.

"But you did," she retorted, her eyes harder than emeralds.

"I realize that now, and I'm truly sorry. I stopped for a drink and got to chatting with some folks. One thing led to another, and pretty soon we ended up eating enchiladas at a little place on the edge of town."

"For seven hours? How many enchiladas did you eat in seven hours?"

"Well, after dinner we went to a couple of bars to listen to music. Listen, Sarah Lou, I'm old enough -- "

"Do not call me that. It is not my name." She found a glass of sherry on the table and drank the contents in one gulp. "I have told you never to call me that again. Sarah Lou is some child who lives in a hovel and wears hand-me-down clothes. She is some mindless womanchild who whimpers while her drunken husband beats her until her eyes are so swollen she cannot see. Sarah Lou is dead." She broke off with a scowl and pointed a finger at Mason. "Bring me another bottle of sherry."