Chapter 30

Once the detectives walked to their car and drove away, The Poinsettia workers stood and prepared to leave.

“Well!” Teach exclaimed. “What did you think of that? Are we all suspects?” Just because we happen to work here, worked with Hella?”

“That’s how it appears,” Phud said.

Ace shrugged and headed for the door. Even Mama G had little to say when she left the house.

“I still can hardly believe Hella died in this cruel way,” Janell said. “Can’t believe we’re all caught up in the aftermath of her murder.”

“I can believe it,” Phud said. “Never did like that woman and I’ll tell the police that if they should ask.” He headed for the door. “I’m outta here.”

Once the three of us were alone again, Janell excused herself and went upstairs to rest, and Rex followed her. I heard water running in the shower, then all was quiet.

Yes, we all were suspects in Hella’s murder. I went to my room and began packing my suitcase, stowing things I knew I wouldn’t need until I reached home. Home. What if the police wouldn’t let me leave? How long could they hold me here? While I worked, the idea of the police talking with a psychic ran through my thinking. I doubted that Detective Lyon believed in Hella’s talents, or at least believed strongly enough to plead with the PD to engage a psychic for help in solving the two recent murders. But there was no reason I couldn’t talk to one on my own. Couldn’t hurt. Might help.

I glanced at my watch. A little after four. By now, the buskers and artists would be starting to gather at Mallory to present their acts, their paintings and crafts. No reason I couldn’t approach a psychic with my questions. Several of them usually set up tables and chairs near the dock—tarot card readers, crystal ball gazers, tea leaf readers. Hella had pointed them out to me the evening I went there with her. They welcomed anyone with a few bucks to spare. I tucked some twenty-dollar bills into my billfold, stuffed it into my fanny pack, and tip-toed downstairs.

Had it been dark, I’d have been apprehensive about leaving The Poinsettia alone, but in broad daylight I felt I’d be in no danger. I agreed with Teach. Someone who had learned of our plans had wanted to prevent Hella’s future readings. And who could that have been except someone at last night’s celebration party? I buckled on my fanny pack, left a note for Janell and Rex on the kitchen table telling my plans, and headed for Mallory Dock.

The late afternoon sun warmed my head and shoulders but a slight chill in the onshore trade wind hinted of a cool evening to come. Had I not smelled the fragrance of popcorn a block away from the dock, I might have returned to the house for my sweater. Instead, I pulled a couple of dollars from my billfold and approached the nearest popcorn wagon. Two wouldn’t do it. I pulled out a third, thinking of 25 cent popcorn I enjoyed at the band concerts in Iowa.

Munching this favorite treat, I savored the taste of butter and salt and popped corn and forgot about needing a sweater later on. I strolled along the dock with an eye out for crystal ball and tarot readers. The sun glinting against the water all but blinded me, so I walked with my back to it.

Passing the man with the trained cats, the contortionist, and a silver-painted mime standing motionless on a silver pedestal, I approached Fondetta the Famous. Fondetta was offering palm readings and tea-leaf readings for ten dollars. For an additional ten, her sign mentioned sharing the visions she might see in her crystal gazing ball. The heavy aroma of gardenia-scented incense wafted around her, and a black cat that could have doubled for Voodoo purred in her lap.

When I paused, looking down at her table and her paraphernalia, she smiled up at me. That mannerism drew attention to two cheek dimples as well as her cleft chin. Dressed in a red satin gown that touched her ankles and a shawl that covered her dark hair but not her golden earrings, she whispered her come-on. All the while she ran her carefully manicured fingernails through her cat’s silky fur.

“Missy. Missy. Come. Do not hang back. Come to me. I tell you where your true love awaits you, Missy. I give you his name. This information presently known only to me will add great happiness to your life. Only twenty dollars, Missy. Only twenty dollars for the name of your one true love.” She stopped petting the car and held out her hand, palm up.

“Do you guarantee your visions, Fondetta?”

“Yes. Yes. Indeed yes, Missy. I guarantee the truthfulness of my crystal ball.”

Before she could say more, the bagpiper near the end of the dock began to blow a penetrating melody superimposed on a heavy drone bass.

Fondetta’s earrings jangled to the rhythm of her enthusiastic proclamations, but the bagpiper’s talent for loudness forced her to abandon her whispery voice. “I guarantee all visions, Miss,” she shouted. “I guarantee. Within one short week your true love will appear. Your soul mate. Do not pass up this opportunity for enlightenment. Fondetta will introduce you to a new life and give you her blessing.”

“Fondetta, did you know Hella Flusher?”

A look of fear crossed her face and she cuddled her cat on her shoulder, burying her face in its fur. “No. I d-do not know Hella Flusher.”

Her face flushed and I knew from that and her stammer she was lying. Or maybe she was afraid—afraid someone might have a special penchant for murdering psychics. I turned to walk on.

“Missy. Missy. Do not leave. Do not…”

“Maybe another evening, Fondetta, another time.” From the corner of my eye I saw her shoulders slump when I turned and walked on down the dock, putting distance between us. I turned to look back. She had lowered her cat to her lap and sat pulling her shawl tighter around her head. She might be Fondetta the Famous, but more likely she might also be Fondetta the Fake. I couldn’t imagine Hella ever having used such blatant bits of self promotion. Nor did she ever guarantee her work. Hella almost encouraged people to disbelieve her.

Walking on, I almost missed seeing Levanah who had set up shop for the evening in front of a small cream colored tent partially hidden by a seagrape tree. Zodiac signs covered the tent canvas and Levanah sat in the tent’s opening wearing a leopard print caftan, a matching turban, and at least a dozen necklaces and chains that jangled when she moved. She pointed to a canvas chair that matched her own, both chairs also in leopard print canvas. Inside the tent, sitting in the dimness and almost out of sight of passersby, I saw a man lounging on the ground in a brown beanbag chair. Body guard? Watchman? His gaze never left us.

“Your fortune, Miss?” she called. “Your true path through life is written in the stars. I will point it out to you.”

Levanah’s leopard print, zodiac symbol approach seemed even phonier than Fondetta’s satin robe and whispery-to-screaming voice. I started to walk on, still munching on popcorn.

“Only twenty dollars, miss. Your future revealed in full for the small sum of twenty dollars.”

“No thank you, Levanah. Maybe another time.” I walked on.

“Special price for you today, Missy,” Levanah called after me. “Sunset celebration special—fifteen dollars. Just fifteen dollars for a reading to help you find your true path through life—and your true love.”

I hesitated and then walked back toward her. Beanbag Chair Man never took his eyes off of us. “Levanah, were you acquainted with Hella Flusher?”

In one fluid bit of motion, Beanbag Chair Man rose and stepped from the tent, joining us and placing his hands on Levanah’s shoulders. “Why are you questioning my wife about Hella Flusher? We know nothing about her death. Nothing.”

“But you know she’s dead,” I said. “How did you learn that?”

“Radio. And we take care. We watch our backs.”

“Then you knew Hella.” I made it a statement I hoped he wouldn’t deny.

“People in our business know each other,” Levanah said.

Beanbag Man nodded. “We knew Hella Flusher. We respected her.”

“So can you tell me if she had any enemies that you know of?”

“That we do not know,” he said. “We did not know her well. She told us little of her life or her acquaintances.”

“We only saw her at sunset now and then.” Levanah said. “She didn’t come here every night. Maybe she had a day job to help her pay expenses. Who knows?”

“Is she a friend of yours,” the man asked.

“Past tense. She was a friend. Thank you for talking with me.”

“Missy, I tell your fortune. Listen to me. Maybe I see something about Hella Flusher in your future.” The man shook his head, eased back into the tent, and slumped once more onto the beanbag chair.

“Thank you, Levanah, but not tonight.” I turned and walked on.

“Fool!” She spat the word at my back. “Tightwad!”

The sun still hung above the horizon and its fiery globe made an eye-catching backdrop for the sailboats that paraded in front of it. With practiced skill, they tacked to catch the wind, turned to keep their photogenic position. Tourists, with cameras at the ready, pushed and shoved as they vied for an unobstructed view. I wondered if the city paid the sailors to create this send-a-picture-back-home scene. I had to admit that it made me wish I’d brought my camera along.

Today’s sun was not long for today’s world and I wanted to return to The Poinsettia well before dark, so I almost didn’t stop at Faith Brimwell’s space crammed between two eight-foot tables where vendors stood selling tie-dyed t-shirts. I thought those had gone out of fashion with the hippies, but both women were doing business, stuffing shirts in sacks, pocketing bills.

Faith Brimwell’s booth consisted of one tiny table and two three-legged stools. A lace cloth covered her bare table, bare except for a crystal ball and a small stack of business cards. She wore white jeans, golf shirt, and a visor that shielded her eyes from the sun.

“May I help you this evening, Ma’am?” She spoke to me only after I’d picked up one of her cards. “Faith Brimwell,” I read. “Professional Psychic.”

“Yes.” Faith smiled. “May I help you?”

I smiled back at her, really interested in what she might have to say.

“If you think I may be of help to you this afternoon, please sit down and make yourself comfortable and we’ll talk.”

I wondered just how comfortable she thought I could get on a three-legged stool. But at least she wasn’t trying to give me a hard sell on her abilities.

“What is your charge?”

“My charge will not exceed twenty-five dollars. It depends on your questions, of course, but the charge may be less. Never more. However, I do impose a ten-minute limit on my reading.”

“Of course,” I agreed, as if I was quite familiar with all psychic’s penchant to set prices and time limits.

“What is it that you wish to discuss with me this afternoon?” Faith asked.

“I’m concerned about the recent murders here on this island.”

Faith’s gaze met mine and held it. I don’t think I could have looked away, had I wanted to. And I didn’t want to.

“Ma’am, are you in some way connected with these deaths, these horrible murders?”

“Only marginally.” I explained my relationship to Janell and Rex and The Poinsettia. “Have you thought about these murders?”

“Not professionally. But I think everyone in Key West has thought about them to some extent. What is it that you want to ask me?”

“I want to ask if you can visualize, see in your mind’s eye the person who might be guilty?”

“Ha!” She spat the word. “If I could see that so easily, I would have rushed to the police with the information.”

“Hella Flusher, the woman who was murdered last night at The Poinsettia was also a psychic. I knew her. I’ve been a guest at that B&B for a few days. I think Hella might have been able to see, to give information, about the person who murdered Abra Barrie, the murder victim of a week or so ago.”

“And why do you think that?”

I knew I’d said enough. Maybe more than enough. “Miss Brimwell, I’m a police officer from Iowa, from a town where the PD drew on help from a psychic to assist in solving a case. I’ve suggested to Detective Lyon at the Key West PD that he might want to consult a psychic for help with the solving of Hella Flusher’s murder.”

“The police haven’t contacted me,” Faith said. “I’m not eager to become involved in a murder investigation.”

“If the police contacted you, would you try to help them?”

“I might. I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

“May I give Detective Lyon your business card?”

“Of course,” Faith pushed the stack of cards toward me and I took another one to add to the one I already held. “If the police get in touch with me, I’ll have plenty of time then to make the decision concerning whether I might be able to help them.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking of you—to hear them out if they come knocking on your door.”

“I’m here every night,” Faith said, “but I live on Big Pine Key—about thirty miles up the highway. It’s a quiet spot, a quiet island. I prefer it to the noise and clamor of Key West. Serenity gives me time and space to think.”

I had started to walk away when she called to me.

“Miss?”

“Yes?” I faced her again

“Were you a personal friend of Hella Flusher?”

I thought for a moment about my relationship to Hella. “I’d known her for about a week. Yes, I was her friend. We had differences of opinion and sometimes we rubbed each other the wrong way. But I’ll always count her as a friend. And I miss her.”

I smiled at Faith Brimwell, tucked her business cards into my fanny pack, and walked again along the pathway, jostling my way through the tourists crowding around the vendors’ booths. I found a quiet spot next to a safety railing between the sunset watchers and the Gulf and held the flat of my hand toward the sun.

Years ago a Girl Scout leader had shown my troop the trick of judging time using the horizon and the sun as guides. Each finger you could hold between the bottom of the sun and the horizon equaled fifteen minutes of time before sunset. This afternoon, I could fit two fingers into that distance. Thirty minutes. I turned and headed toward The Poinsettia. No point in my being out after dark, or even in the twilight preceding dark.

A half hour allowed me ample time to get back home and I strolled along without hurrying. I had turned my back to the dock, walked down the alleyway used by motorists ready to pay their parking fee and drive on to other events. When I stepped onto Front Street a man joined me, strode along beside me. The angel Gabriel? The guy’s skin gleamed with silver paint. He wore a wide belt with a skin-tight leotard that looked as if it had been painted on, too. At first I thought he was the mime I’d seen posing on a pedestal at the dock. But no. A silver yachting cap sat on this man’s head and a silver mask hid his features.

I stopped in front of a t-shirt shop and turned to face him. “Who are you? What do you want?”