Randy White - Haunted

“That’s all you said?”

“Threatening to break his arm wasn’t enough? Besides, being a pompous prick isn’t a deal breaker with me. Not if he’s got nice bone structure and nice hands. Did you notice Theo’s? Kind of delicate for a man his size.”

“There’s a word for that kind of behavior,” I told her. “Are you sure the witches didn’t drug you?”

Birdy smiled, “Hold that thought,” and returned with the wine and two glass tumblers, the River’s Edge being a mom-and-pop motel with kitchenettes and cupboards fully stocked. She poured the glasses, handed me one, then offered a toast-“To separate bathrooms”-before telling me about her time alone with Theo and the three women.

“They knew that my aunt sent us. And she knew way too much about me for it to be a series of lucky guesses. I’d like to say I don’t believe in paranormal powers, but…” Birdy sipped her wine, made a face, and said, “God, this is awful.”

“You’re talking about Lucia?” I asked. “What did she say?”

Birdy sniffed her glass and focused on the dock, where the trawlers were buttoned up for the night but the houseboat’s windows were bright. On the roof deck, two long, lean silhouettes listened to Garth Brooks, the music softer than male laughter. “I bet those men have an extra cold beer or two. If there’s a God in heaven, maybe even some decent tequila and a lime.”

I replied, “It’s too late to go begging drinks from strange men. Answer my question.” I was tired-another reason I wasn’t in good humor. This was the first chance we’d had to talk because Birdy had followed me in her BMW rather than leave one of our vehicles unattended at the Cadence place.

“You’ve got a prudish streak in you, Smithie.”

“It’s a good thing one of us does. Maybe this wine needs to breathe a little. Tell me what happened while we wait.”

“C-P-R and a respirator can’t change vinegar into merlot. How much did you pay for this?”

I said, “About the same as a gallon of gas. Now, tell me what happened.”

What happened was, Lucia had done a good job of proving-in Theo’s words-that she could splice into the thoughts of certain people, especially those who also had psychic gifts. That made Birdy an especially difficult subject, according to Lucia, an insult my friend fumed over while explaining, “I don’t know how the bitch did it. She told me things about my childhood that no one-I mean, no one -knows. I’ve gone over and over it in my head. It’s an act, a fortune-teller’s act, but how did she do it?”

I had a theory. Bunny Tupplemeyer had confided secrets to her astrologician , a person who wasn’t trustworthy. It was guesswork on my part and a serious charge that might offend the socialite if she heard. So I let my friend talk.

“The clever thing was, Lucia didn’t come right out and state such and such happened at whatever age I happened to be at the time. She would make a statement, then ask leading questions, like, ‘You have a scar on your lower abdomen, the right side. Children have their appendix removed, but I don’t see an operation in your past.’ You know, talking in that superior tone of hers. Then comes the question, but she already knew the answer, I’d bet on it. She asks me, ‘What happened when you were fourteen years old?’ No, she says, ‘What happened, dearie .’ The way she uses that word, it’s like a razor with a smile.”

Birdy hated being called dearie, but had tolerated it, just as she had tolerated the other women fussing over a poultice made of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. Theo had sat cross-legged on the picnic table, watching, not saying much except to marvel over Lucia’s accuracy

I asked, “What about the scar? Was she right?”

“I was sixteen, not fourteen-see what I mean? Even her mistakes are convincing. It’s a technique.”

“Yeah, but how did it happen?”

Birdy talked over me. “Same with asking questions. Remember her crack about your guilty conscience? She knows you shot someone, I think.”

I said, “I thought about that on the way here,” but still withheld my theory.

“Lucia is smooth. The questions make her routine more believable. You know, force people to participate. It allowed her to manipulate me into giving answers that, like I said, she already knew. Maybe not the specifics, but close enough. Very professional. But how the hell does she do it? Oh”-Birdy snapped her fingers-“and there was something else. I’d bet that Lucia and Theo have known each other for a lot longer than three weeks.” She sniffed her wine again. “Tell the truth, do you think he’s screwing her?”

“Theo and Lucia?” I asked, but decided it was wiser to take a guess about the scar. “You did something really stupid when you were sixteen, didn’t you? That’s why you won’t say.”

“The way Theo would chime in, it was almost like he was working as her shill. That would be a deal breaker for me. The timing, a sort of patter they had going.” Birdy ruminated over Theo’s behavior but finally answered, “I wouldn’t call getting a kiss from David Ortiz stupid.”

I couldn’t place the name but said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope, but it didn’t start out as fun as it sounds. I was at Fenway Park and fell over the railing when I stretched too far for a foul ball. Next to the dugout is a sort of camera pit and I landed on a field keeper’s rake-seven stitches-but Big Papi was right there and swept me up. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’ll show you the ball he signed.”

She was a Red Sox fan. I knew she was talking about baseball but had to ask, “What about David Ortiz? Why did he kiss you?”

Birdy, amused for some reason, replied, “I didn’t say he kissed me ” and laughed but was watching the houseboat. The two men were lounging while a new song floated over mown grass and a hint of distant jasmine. She gave the wine another try, then dumped it. “They’re probably locals-fishermen, maybe. So they might have some good stories about the Cadence place. That could be helpful.” She let that settle, then asked, “Do you know anything about country music?”

I knew what she was working up to. “They’re playing Garth Brooks-but don’t you dare go bothering them this late.” She had called me prudish, which I am not, so it felt okay to play the role I’d been assigned-until I proved her wrong. And I would.

Birdy stood and straightened her collar, prettying herself up. “Is he popular?”

“Think of David Ortiz in a cowboy hat,” I said. Then I swung over the railing so that I was the first to introduce myself to the men on the houseboat.

Birdy was right. The Cadence house was well known in Labelle. The same was true of people who lived near the house-including a neighbor who was said to be insane. But the rumors were so dark, they were of a whispering nature, and it took work to pry those stories free.

The men were locals-nice guys-but they weren’t fishermen, despite the houseboat. They were honest-to-god cowboys-a claim I would have doubted if they hadn’t been so modest when describing their jobs. Copenhagen cans in the pockets of their Hawaiian shirts and rodeo photos inside the boat added to their credibility.

Cow hunters, they called themselves. That was persuasive, too. It’s what Florida cowboys have always been, called because in a state that’s mostly swamp, not open plains, more hunting than herding is required. They kept horses at a stable north of Labelle and hired out to cattle ranches, but sometimes used four-wheelers if they didn’t have to rope or chase strays.