"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."
Mason found a bottle in a kitchen cabinet and came back to the sitting room, still wishing he were upstairs in bed. "If she's dead, why don't you arrange a seance and see what all she has to say about the other world?"
"Do you think that amuses me, Mason? Do you see me smiling? Do you hear me laughing? Am I dressed in a clown suit?"
"I was just making a little joke, Sam. Lighten up, why don't you?"
"Do you think what I do is a joke?" She filled her glass and drank half of it. "It is not easy, you know. I have many feelings that you and the others cannot understand. I see auras; I hear voices. I know things that do not always make people happy-but I tell them the truth because I know the truth."
Mason figured that the truth was he was tired and she was drunker than a boiled owl. But, being the good brother that he was-and depending on her for his substantial allowance-he sat back and took a swallow of beer. "So, Celeste, did you have a good day?"
"No, I did not. My first client was late, and although she listened and asked questions, I could see that she was skeptical. This disturbed me. It ruined my day, in fact, and made it impossible for me to put aside her condescending smile and concentrate on more cosmic things."
"One of those biddies from the beauty shop?"
"Those women believe in my powers and pay very promptly for my services. Of course, I am worth every penny of it," Madam Celeste said, pouring yet another six inches of sherry into her plastic tumbler. "No, this was a woman not older than you. The daughter of one of my clients; she has been away on a vacation for several months. I took her as a favor, but now I think I should not have done so."
"Single?"
"She did not wear a wedding ring, but there was a faint mark as if she'd worn one once. The sand said she had been treated badly not too long ago; perhaps a divorce-I could not be sure."
This time Mason leaped to his feet and, with a small bow, filled Celeste's glass. "Allow me, Sis; I can see you're tired. This new client client-she's my age and single? Does she have warts or anything?"
"She was pretty, in a cool way. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes, the high cheekbones so common in the Slavic aristocracy. But why are you asking all these questions, my little brother? I can smell cheap perfume on you, so I know you have been with a woman. Are you still so very desperate?"
Mason squirmed as her eyes bored into him; he wondered if maybe she did have a line to an inky universe he sure couldn't dial direct. "Lay off it; I told you about that already. It was just a group having dinner and barhopping. Why does that make me desperate?"
"Because she's a cop, dammit." Celeste shot him an unfathomable look, then banged down her tumbler and left the room.
The beeper was an interesting little critter. Black, so it'd go with both my uniform and my cocktail dress. Two buttons, and a grill that covered its mysterious organs. The idea was that I'd leave the PD telephone on call forwarding so folks would end up with the sheriff's dispatcher. She'd beep me, and I'd know to call her for a message. Damn thing had a range wide enough to cover the county, so there weren't too many places I could hole up or hide.