Free Haunted by Randy Wayne White

subject—a person with enough spiritual layers to teach me something. The habitually unevolved . . . simpletons, them I avoid. Theo?” The woman waved away the question Birdy was in the middle of asking. “They’re your friends. I don’t want to upset you. But if she wants proof, I’ll give it to her.”
    There was a dreamy, superior quality in Lucia’s voice that would have been more effective without the nasal whine.
    My read on the situation: The assistant professor didn’t want to be in the middle. He had been bedding Lucia, despite her age, buttonight had his sights set on a younger woman, even though she was a cop.
    Theo tried diplomacy. “Whatever you say. But, first, I didn’t tell you this but Bertie and Hannah have the keys to the old Cadence mansion. They’re sort of camping there tonight and—”
    “They’re
what
?”
the women at the table asked simultaneously. Envious, not incredulous.
    Theo said, “Bertie’s aunt bought the place.”
    All three straightened, a reflexive deference to my friend’s new importance. One of them asked, “Have you heard the weeping bride yet? I’ve spoken to her many times.”
    She was referring to Irene Cadence—the woman on the balcony. I didn’t believe it, of course, but couldn’t help asking, “What did she tell you?”
    Theo drowned out my question. “They’re doing the sleep-in-the-haunted-house thing, but a scorpion stung the hell out of Bertie a few minutes ago. That’s why I brought the girls to see you.” He addressed us. “These ladies know more about herbal medicine than anyone I know. Scorpions, the ones here, aren’t supposed to be dangerous, but—”
    “They can be damn dangerous,” Lucia warned and got to her feet. “Where did it sting you?”
    Birdy said, “If I needed a doctor, I’d call one, okay?” Then weakened. “What do you mean
dangerous
?”
    “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 s
omething? 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 Isensed 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