Free Haunted by Randy Wayne White Page A

poison”—she lifted Birdy’s chin again—“it’s so damn close to your brain. But of course it’s up to you, dearie.”
    The abandoned house—the Cadence mansion, Theo had called it—that’s what this was about. Lucia’s sudden warmth was her way of getting a look inside. Never mind how she had guessed I’d shot a man. No . . . not guessed—it was a trick. Don’t we all carry secret guilt inside? Lucia was a manipulator. She had used a fortune-teller’s device. I realized it. Did Birdy?
    Yes . . . she did. Birdy took a seat, her back to the picnic table, and waited. She pretended to listen to Theo while Lucia snuck the bong away and carried it inside. Every few seconds, Birdy and I exchanged looks. Each time, her expression sent a message, but I prolonged the exchange to be certain.
    Lucia is a fraud. I know it.
    That was Birdy’s message.
    There was a second message:
Get lost.
    Liberty Tupplemeyer wanted to do some police work on her own.
    Speaking to Theo, I said, “Keep an eye on her, you mind? I’m going to introduce myself to those women.”
    He was confused, then followed my gaze. “Oh . . . the midgettwins. They’re always so stoned—don’t be surprised by anything they say.”
    It wasn’t a warning, he was worried. The archaeologist didn’t want me speaking to the locals.
    I told Birdy, “I’m not going far,” meaning I would be watching her, too.

Before I could lure the tiny women into a conversation about Ms. Margaret and Oz, the man awaiting Theo’s attention lured me into a conversation about old bottles and the Civil War. His RV was closer to where two witches and a . . . and
Lucia
were preparing a poultice, so I let him convince me to sit for a while.
    Another reason: Tyrone’s trailer was on the path and I’d seen a face appear at the window. Possibly checking if it was safe to go out or simply peeping at women again. For me, hanging close, waiting for Birdy, was more comfortable.
    After shaking hands, I said to the older gentleman, “Yes, please, cold tea would be nice.” His name was Belton Matás. Adjusting the gas lantern was Carmelo, a hard-looking man, early thirties, with a vacant smile.
    “I’ll get it,” Carmelo said and hurried to an Igloo cooler nextto a tent. Something about his eagerness suggested that his mind was stunted.
    Mr. Matás had waved as I walked past. I’d assumed he was waving at me. In fact, he had been signaling Theo that they were still waiting. It was one of those silly social errors I make too often. But the man put me at ease, saying, “You’re even lovelier up close. Please, sit. Do you live nearby?”
    On the table, instead of a board game, were maps and a few books. I explained about the old house while I settled into a canvas chair, then said, “Theo—Dr. Ivanhoff—told us about the award he’s getting. But he didn’t say what it’s for.”
    Carmelo, from the cooler, called, “More wine, Mr. Matás?” He spoke the name with a Spanish inflection.
    Belton Matás, a blank expression on his face, asked, “Award?” then bought a few seconds by telling Carmelo, “A bottle of water, please.” He waited until he’d opened the bottle, taken a sip after miming a toast. “Dr. Ivanhoff had to be talking about someone else. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails, but I didn’t meet him until this afternoon.” He addressed Carmelo. “Help yourself to another beer, my friend.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Matás!”
    The older man watched him go. “Carmelo’s a local and not very bright. But there’s an honesty about people like him I find endearing—plus he knows this river like the back of his hand. And please, dear, call me Belton. I’ve given up correcting him.”
    “He works for you?”
    “Almost a week now. I’m what you would call an amateur historian–slash–self-published author”—a nod at the two books—“which is another way of saying I’m a retired bum. But it’s better than dehydrating in some home for old