“Achieve a vibe?” Birdy whispered. “Star channeling? Oh my god. And check out that dress-they’ve got Target stores in the jungle someplace.”
“Definitely a bitch,” I agreed. The word was out of my mouth before I realized it.
Birdy said, “There’s hope for you yet,” and walked toward the table. I started after her but stopped for no reason other than a strange sensation blooming within me: a sudden wariness of the verbal sparring that awaited. I didn’t know these women. I didn’t want to know them. What was I doing here?
Paranoia. Mild, but it was there in my head.
Too much rum, plus that smoke, I thought. Or was it the smoldering bong beneath the table? Reefer and incense and woodsmoke swirled, the dusty air corralled by shadows, the moon sliding westward. The moon seemed the only familiar and trustworthy thing for miles. My eyes swung from Birdy to the activity around us. Three campfires, the biggest near a cluster of trucks, men and women milling, drinking, talking, too far away to decipher words. People who did a lot of this, set up in campgrounds, miniature homes bolted to their trucks, always ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Gypsies? I wondered. Until Birdy’s summary, I was unaware that Gypsies lived in Florida.
You’re being unfair. That came into my mind, too, and it was true.
A camper door opened, a woman the size of a child stepped out. She walked with the quick, muscle-bound strides of a dwarf-“Little people,” I corrected myself. Another miniature woman joined her. In her hands, a basket of something, while her friend, head bowed, lit a cigarette… or a joint.
Not Gypsies, carnival workers, I realized. Suddenly, I felt more at ease. Like the moon, carnies and circus performers were familiar. Not commonplace, but they fit in because it is true that Florida’s their traditional wintering place. Just across the street from where my mother lives, and where I grew up, is a colony of gingerbread cottages known as Munchkinville. Supposedly, carnival folks built them years ago. When I was a girl, my uncle would take me to Gibsonton, which is on the Myakka River near Tampa and north of Sarasota, where there is a trapeze-and-clown academy. I had enjoyed those trips, usually by truck but once by boat. We’d seen elephants being washed along the river and caged monkeys. We ate at the Giant’s Restaurant and toured shops and a post office that provided a special mail slot at dwarf level because so many little people lived nearby.
I had met the “Werewolf-faced Lady,” who was very kind, although shy, and clean-shaven during the off-season. I’d had my photo taken with the sweetest little woman you can imagine, despite her age and fame. “Miz Margaret,” I had called her. Ms. Margaret, only three-feet-something tall, had been the “Flowerpot Munchkin” in The Wizard of Oz, one of my all-time favorites. She’d also played other roles in the film, wearing different costumes throughout. On the day we’d met, a back ailment was causing her pain, but she had brightened like a rose for the camera while I’d knelt beside her and managed a smile of my own.
Margaret… Margaret Pellegrini. It took a moment to recall her last name. And a news story, a few years back, that reported her death at age eighty-nine. I’d been in middle school when we’d met. For no rational reason, I suddenly wanted to fill in the blanks. It was at least fifteen years since I’d seen her. How had Ms. Margaret’s life gone during the intervening years? I wondered if it would be rude to intrude on the two tiny women across the clearing who stood alone near a fire sharing a joint, not a cigarette. Even stoned, they would certainly know the name Margaret Pellegrini.
“Hey… Smithie… are you okay?” Birdy, who looked out of place in her slacks and stylish blouse, stood next to Theo, who was a foot taller, while the three women gabbed among themselves.
I felt better but wanted to keep moving. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.
Don’t abandon me was the look on her face.
Theo called, “Hey… first, I want to introduce you to three honest-to-god witches. Or ‘sorceresses,’ they prefer. All from Cassadaga, so it’s got to be true.”
Thanks to my mother, I knew that Cassadaga was a village in central Florida founded by an old-time spiritualist. The place is still known for witches and fortune-tellers.
Instead of laughing at Theo’s claim, the women puffed up in importance, bored, but willing to indulge the good-looking archaeologist.
“The correct term is Magissas,” the heaviest of the three warned when I was close enough. “From the Greek. And we don’t shake hands.”
Fine with me. I forgot her name and the name of the other woman within seconds of hearing them. The lean, attractive one was Lucia. Lucia, with her sharp, aggressive eyes, said, “I do shake hands,” and we did, but she caged mine with her fingers and wouldn’t let go until I pulled free.
“Don’t be offended,” she said, “it was actually a compliment,” then explained to her friends, “This one has some beasties bottled up inside her head-I’ll tell you later.”
I said, “Excuse me?”
Using her eyebrows, she communicated with her friends: See what I mean?
“Lucia picks up on”-Theo grinned at the woman-“what did you call it? Through skin contact with certain people, Lucia says she can splice into their thoughts, sense past traumas or health issues. Neuro-communication… no, -cognation. No, neuro-cognition, that’s it.”
Birdy didn’t approve. “You have a P-H-D but still believe that sort of crap?”
Lucia, speaking to Theo, said, “I’m used to it,” then addressed Birdy. “I don’t bother to prove myself unless I find an interesting subject-a person with enough spiritual layers to teach me something. The habitually unevolved… simpletons, them I avoid. Theo?” The woman waved away the question Birdy was in the middle of asking. “They’re your friends. I don’t want to upset you. But if she wants proof, I’ll give it to her.”
There was a dreamy, superior quality in Lucia’s voice that would have been more effective without the nasal whine.
My read on the situation: The assistant professor didn’t want to be in the middle. He had been bedding Lucia, despite her age, but tonight had his sights set on a younger woman, even though she was a cop.
Theo tried diplomacy. “Whatever you say. But, first, I didn’t tell you this but Bertie and Hannah have the keys to the old Cadence mansion. They’re sort of camping there tonight and-”
“They’re what?” the women at the table asked simultaneously. Envious, not incredulous.
Theo said, “Bertie’s aunt bought the place.”
All three straightened, a reflexive deference to my friend’s new importance. One of them asked, “Have you heard the weeping bride yet? I’ve spoken to her many times.”
She was referring to Irene Cadence-the woman on the balcony. I didn’t believe it, of course, but couldn’t help asking, “What did she tell you?”
Theo drowned out my question. “They’re doing the sleep-in-the-haunted-house thing, but a scorpion stung the hell out of Bertie a few minutes ago. That’s why I brought the girls to see you.” He addressed us. “These ladies know more about herbal medicine than anyone I know. Scorpions, the ones here, aren’t supposed to be dangerous, but-”
“They can be damn dangerous,” Lucia warned and got to her feet. “Where did it sting you?”
Birdy said, “If I needed a doctor, I’d call one, okay?” Then weakened. “What do you mean dangerous?”