Mallory Kane - Death of a Beauty Queen

Then he spotted her. She was dealing tarot cards, tucking each one under the ribbons that crisscrossed her table. She had on black knit gloves today—still fingerless, and she handled the cards like a shark.

Was the sight familiar? Had he seen her here before and not recognized her? He couldn’t be sure.

Watching her, he realized she wasn’t reading the cards so much as her customer. The woman was fortyish, tired-looking and obviously going against her husband’s wishes by having her cards read. She kept glancing over to where he leaned against the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the St. Louis Cathedral and the park named for Andrew Jackson, smoking a cigarette and glaring at her.

Periodically, he turned his head and yelled, “Get back over here,” at two little boys who seemed determined to feed their popcorn to a seagull.

Dixon was pretty sure even he could tell the woman’s fortune. She was in for another dozen years at least of taking care of her sons, being bullied by her husband and wishing she had more time to herself. But he doubted Rosemary was giving her such dire predictions.

Sure enough, after Rosemary pointed at several cards and talked seriously for a few minutes, the woman smiled and laid her hand on Rosemary’s arm. Rosemary blushed and smiled back, and the woman took out two bills and tucked them under the ribbons, earning her a dark look from the husband.

Dixon sat down on a bench next to a bored-looking punk with a dirty blond ponytail and drained his fast cooling coffee. He didn’t stare at Rosemary, but he kept an eye on her, not quite sure exactly what he was doing there. He only knew that it was important to him to be sure she was safe.

For the next three hours, he watched her reading cards and making people happy, judging by their reactions and the money they gave her. Apparently fortune-telling wasn’t a bad career, especially if the teller was a beautiful and mysterious gypsy.

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