“Stung you where, dearie? It’s important.”
“Well… on the neck. It was throbbing but doesn’t hurt much now. Do you mean dangerous as in a delayed reaction?”
Lucia, in Mother Teresa mode, came around the table. “Let me have a look. How close to the jugular? Judy… we’ll need a poultice.”
Both women stood from the table, wobbling some, concerned but obviously stoned.
Birdy, lifting her head, asked me, “What do you think?”
I was disappointed the woman hadn’t answered me about Irene Cadence but said, “You’re doing just fine already. A poultice wouldn’t hurt, I guess, as long as they don’t ask you to swallow or smoke something. What kind of poultice?”
Lucia, who was my height, gave me a cutting look… returned her attention to Birdy’s neck and touched a hand to her necklace, a pendant hidden beneath her dress. “Ask her to swallow something? I’m not surprised to hear you say that. But I don’t practice violence against living things.”
I said, “It pays to be cautious.”
“Yes… but it doesn’t pay to be rude. Suspicion is always rooted in guilt. Yours is anyway. Dearie, I know what you did.”
Birdy’s eyes squinched into slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lucia shrugged. “I’m seldom wrong about these things,” while her eyes stuck to mine: hard eyes that appeared silver by battery candlelight but were probably green or blue.
“If you’re accusing me of something, come out and say it.”
Theo tried to intervene. “Of course she’s not.”
“I already know the answer,” Lucia said, “why would I bother?”
The man I shot-that’s what she meant. Impossible… yet I sensed it was true. For the second time that night, I said, “Excuse me?” which, so far, was the cleverest response I could manage.
Lucia smiled, but the smile flattened before she dropped the subject. “Diviner’s root and camphor and whatever else the girls come up with. A poultice will draw out the poison-something I learned while studying tribal medicine. That’s why I’m worried. The poison”-she lifted Birdy’s chin again-“it’s so damn close to your brain. But of course it’s up to you, dearie.”
The abandoned house-the Cadence mansion, Theo had called it-that’s what this was about. Lucia’s sudden warmth was her way of getting a look inside. Never mind how she had guessed I’d shot a man. No… not guessed-it was a trick. Don’t we all carry secret guilt inside? Lucia was a manipulator. She had used a fortune-teller’s device. I realized it. Did Birdy?
Yes… she did. Birdy took a seat, her back to the picnic table, and waited. She pretended to listen to Theo while Lucia snuck the bong away and carried it inside. Every few seconds, Birdy and I exchanged looks. Each time, her expression sent a message, but I prolonged the exchange to be certain.
Lucia is a fraud. I know it.
That was Birdy’s message.
There was a second message: Get lost.
Liberty Tupplemeyer wanted to do some police work on her own.
Speaking to Theo, I said, “Keep an eye on her, you mind? I’m going to introduce myself to those women.”
He was confused, then followed my gaze. “Oh… the midget twins. They’re always so stoned-don’t be surprised by anything they say.”
It wasn’t a warning, he was worried. The archaeologist didn’t want me speaking to the locals.
I told Birdy, “I’m not going far,” meaning I would be watching her, too.
6
Before I could lure the tiny women into a conversation about Ms. Margaret and Oz, the man awaiting Theo’s attention lured me into a conversation about old bottles and the Civil War. His RV was closer to where two witches and a… and Lucia were preparing a poultice, so I let him convince me to sit for a while.
Another reason: Tyrone’s trailer was on the path and I’d seen a face appear at the window. Possibly checking if it was safe to go out or simply peeping at women again. For me, hanging close, waiting for Birdy, was more comfortable.
After shaking hands, I said to the older gentleman, “Yes, please, cold tea would be nice.” His name was Belton Matás. Adjusting the gas lantern was Carmelo, a hard-looking man, early thirties, with a vacant smile.
“I’ll get it,” Carmelo said and hurried to an Igloo cooler next to a tent. Something about his eagerness suggested that his mind was stunted.
Mr. Matás had waved as I walked past. I’d assumed he was waving at me. In fact, he had been signaling Theo that they were still waiting. It was one of those silly social errors I make too often. But the man put me at ease, saying, “You’re even lovelier up close. Please, sit. Do you live nearby?”
On the table, instead of a board game, were maps and a few books. I explained about the old house while I settled into a canvas chair, then said, “Theo-Dr. Ivanhoff-told us about the award he’s getting. But he didn’t say what it’s for.”
Carmelo, from the cooler, called, “More wine, Mr. Matás?” He spoke the name with a Spanish inflection.
Belton Matás, a blank expression on his face, asked, “Award?” then bought a few seconds by telling Carmelo, “A bottle of water, please.” He waited until he’d opened the bottle, taken a sip after miming a toast. “Dr. Ivanhoff had to be talking about someone else. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails, but I didn’t meet him until this afternoon.” He addressed Carmelo. “Help yourself to another beer, my friend.”
“Thanks, Mr. Matás!”
The older man watched him go. “Carmelo’s a local and not very bright. But there’s an honesty about people like him I find endearing-plus he knows this river like the back of his hand. And please, dear, call me Belton. I’ve given up correcting him.”
“He works for you?”
“Almost a week now. I’m what you would call an amateur historian-slash-self-published author”-a nod at the two books-“which is another way of saying I’m a retired bum. But it’s better than dehydrating in some home for old farts.” He smiled, the lantern reflecting off his glasses. “Excuse my language.”
I touched one of the books. “May I… Belton?” It felt okay using his first name.
He placed his hand on the book to delay me. “I didn’t write these. I brought them as-” Carmelo had returned, realized we were talking, so sat cross-legged near the tent. Belton suggested he find a cushion, asked if Carmelo wanted snacks-there were peanuts in the RV-before he returned to the conversation, saying, “Where was I?”
I asked, “Are you writing about the battle that took place here? I wish someone would. I couldn’t find a word about it on the Internet.”
The man was way ahead of me. “Fascinating, isn’t it? That’s why I came down from Richmond. Carmelo, he’s got what they call a bass boat and we’ve been up every creek and canal north of the Caloosahatchee. Maybe I should explain. The Caloosahatchee is a bigger river-more of a canal, really. It runs from-”
“I’m a fishing guide not far from here,” I said, giving him a pat on the wrist to apologize for interrupting. “Mostly out of Captiva Island. I fish the mouth of the Caloosahatchee some, but I’ve never been farther than the locks above Fort Myers. I’d love to read one of your books.”
Belton, a roly-poly man in his late seventies, was delighted. “Carmelo,” he called, “I’ve met my second native Floridian in a week.”
Carmelo gazed at the moon while he chewed peanuts. “That very cool, Mr. Matás.”
I hadn’t said I was born in Florida, but it was okay. I have a slight accent, I’ve been told, the Florida accent being milder and different than others who are raised in the South. I continued to listen, after a glance at the picnic table where, within shouting distance, the two witches and Lucia tended to my friend. But where was Theo?