Free House of Bathory by Linda Lafferty Page B

eyes on her.
    “There is a lot of pain here.”
    Betsy started to speak, but the tarot reader shook her head, continuing. “The content is getting in touch with your overwhelming sense of fear. Is there a Scorpio in your life?” Betsy tried to think. A Scorpio?
    “Talk about nightmares!” laughed Gillette, and everyone joined her laughter. “Keep a dream journal,” said Gillette. “And good luck.”

    In the question-and-answer session that followed, a distinguished white-haired man stood up across the aisle from Betsy. He was leaning on an elegant walking stick with a silver handle.
    “Could you speak to Jung’s theory of synchronicity and its implication in tarot cards, Ms. Gillette?”
    There was a murmur of approval from the analysts in the audience. Betsy noted the foreign accent of the man—Eastern European? She wondered if he had studied in Vienna as her father had.
    “Synchronicity? The entire universe vibrates to synchronicity, if only we can hear the rich symphony. The first strains of music, created at our beginnings, the notes wafting through space and time, gathering momentum. But it is only the attuned ear that can detect the chorus.”
    Betsy listened. She thought of her father. The third ear, you must develop the third ear, he would tell her.
    She shuddered in the dark so violently that the man next to her shifted his gaze to her.
    “It is chilly in here,” she muttered, fixing her stare at the two women on stage.
    “I am so sorry to conclude this fascinating discussion,” said the curator. “But our time is up. Thank you all so much for attending tonight’s ‘Red Book Dialogue.’ ”
    The audience clapped, and the lights came up fully. Some people rushed forward to ask the psychic questions.
    Who did she know who was a Scorpio…other than herself?
    She hailed a cab to her hotel. In the dark, her fingers fumbled over the tarot card deep in her jacket pocket.
    Betsy shivered in the darkness of the cab. She felt a strong urge to be back in Colorado, back to work. She knew she wouldn’t sleep that night, not until she was back in her own rumpled bed in Carbondale.

Chapter 12
    C ARBONDALE, C OLORADO
D ECEMBER 6, 2010
    B efore she left, Betsy had spoken with her neighbor at Marta’s Market—a Mexican food and clothing store—who had eagerly promised to take care of Ringo anytime Betsy had to be away from home.
    “This is just a quick trip,” Betsy promised. “A few days in New York.”
    “ No hay problema ,” said Marta, and her two teenage boys had nodded their heads, smiling from their work stacking crates of fresh vegetables. A waft of fresh roasted chiles came in from the back alley, green chiles blistering in a metal drum over a propane flame.
    “We take Ringo for walks, give food, water. Doctora no worry,” said Luis, the eldest. He put his bear-like arm around Betsy.
    Luis was the biggest—but gentlest—young man Betsy had ever known. The Latina kids in the neighborhood called him “Arbolon” or “Big Tree.”
    Then Marta shooed him away and gave Betsy a kiss on the cheek and a generous abrazo herself. She smelled of sweet corn masa from making tamales.
    “Luis and Carlos, they take good care of your doggy.”
    Betsy left them the key to the house, a bag of dogfood, Ringo’s leash, and the number of the vet only a half block away.
    And her cell phone number, just in case.
    Several times a day and once a night, Carlos or Luis walked to the town park with Ringo on a leash, occasionally letting him run loose when they knew a police officer wasn’t around to ticket.
    One evening, just after sunset, a girl with jet-black hair and a black wool coat and boots stopped Luis on the sidewalk.
    “Where did you get that dog?” she asked. “He’s not yours.”
    “It’s Doctora Betsy’s,” said Luis, eyeing her up and down. “Hey, where is the funeral?”
    “What?”
    “Where is the funeral, girl? You all dressed in black.”
    “Funny,” Daisy said.
    Luis shrugged,