Tarotica

Behind her, Miranda heard a click. Turning in the direction of the sound, she saw a balding middle-aged man holding a digital camera.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said angrily.

Startled by the change in her voice, the colt trotted away.

She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Oh shit, now look what you’ve done.”

“Sorry,” the man apologized. “You looked so pretty, standing there with the horse. Like Lady Godiva befriending her mount. I couldn’t resist.”

Miranda grabbed her shorts and T-shirt and pulled them on, shoving her underwear in her tote bag. The man checked his camera.

“Want to see your picture?” he asked.

“You’ve got one hell of a nerve.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, I know. If it’s any consolation, your face doesn’t show.”

“If you had any decency, you’d erase the damn thing.” She jammed her baseball cap on over her wet hair.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see it, at least?”

Miranda’s curiosity got the better of her. “Oh, all right.”

She walked to the man’s side and peeked at the image in camera. Hmmm. It’s really good. The guy’s got an eye.

He handed her his business card. Scanning it, she noted the name of a national magazine under his own. “If this picture turns up in print or online, I’ll sue you, I promise,” she threatened.

He grinned at her, as if calling her bluff. “You should be so lucky. If you give me your e-mail address, though, I’ll send you a jpeg.”

A mischievous idea popped into her head. She dug into her bag, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scrawled Eli’s e-mail address. “How ’bout sending it to my boyfriend? It’ll make him wonder.”

* * *

The B&B’s back porch overlooked a garden of old roses. Miranda was sitting on a wicker settee, enjoying their sweet aroma and drinking iced tea when her cell phone rang.

“How was your trip to the island?” Eli asked her.

“All in all, very satisfying. I saw some wild horses, collected shells, and went swimming in the ocean.” If that photographer e-mails him the nude picture of me, he’ll see for himself. “What have you been up to?”

“Working, mostly.”

“On Saturday?”

“Grapes don’t stop growing on weekends.” He paused so long, she thought the call had dropped, before asking, “Miranda, did you tell anyone we were going to New Orleans?”

“I don’t remember. I might have said something to one of my girlfriends. Why?

Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“I’m still trying to figure out how those Frenchmen knew where to find me.”

Miranda finished her tea and set the empty glass on the floor, swinging her bare feet up onto the settee. “Did they? You said yourself you couldn’t be sure the two guys who accosted us in Jackson Square were the same ones who attacked you in San Francisco.”

“True.”

“How can you even be sure they were French?”

“When we started running away I heard one of them say ‘Arretez les.’ It means

‘Stop them’ in French.”

“Half the population of Louisiana speaks French,” she pointed out. “It’s more likely they were local thieves bent on robbing a couple of tourists.” I never told him about the scene I saw in the crystal. He’d probably think I’m nuts.

After another long pause, he said, “You may be right.”

“Have you run into any more problems since you’ve been back at work?”

“No. Surprisingly, it’s been pretty quiet so far.”

“Good.” She checked her toenails and thought, I really need a pedicure. “Look, Eli, I’m not discounting your theory. But if a competitor wanted to get you out of the picture to keep you from revealing what you know, wouldn’t they have tried again by now?”

“You’ve got a point,” he admitted, letting the subject drop. “So where are you headed next?”

“Home. I can’t believe my vacation is almost over.” She switched the phone to her other ear. Okay, time to find out where things stand between us. I need some clarity.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She took a deep breath. “When I get back, I’d really like to have you come visit me. I’d like to show you around New England.”

“I’ve never been to New England.”

That’s not exactly a yes. “Eli, do you have a girlfriend in Napa?”

“No, there’s nobody special.”

“It’s just, well, it’s been fun hanging out together, when we weren’t running from bad guys, that is. I like you. I hope we can see each other again.”

“I like you, too. When I’ve straightened things out here, we’ll work something out. I hear Salem’s the place to be on Halloween.”

* * *

After he hung up, Eli kept hearing Miranda’s words ringing in his head: “Half the population of Louisiana speaks French.”

Giselle’s from Louisiana, he reminded himself, remembering the hint of an accent that lingered in her speech. He flashed back to last night when he’d caught her going through his desk drawers, and her response when he told her he’d given the Mort Jaune report to Troy: “Mon dieu.”

He picked up the remote and turned on the TV. For several minutes he channel-surfed, trying to find something worth watching, and eventually gave up. The only people I told about my trip to New Orleans were Coyote and Giselle. He switched off the TV, leaned back in his chair, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. For the umpteenth time he asked himself, Who had the opportunity to plant diseased vines in our fields between three and four years ago? And who bore a grudge against Meditrina?

Pieces of the puzzle slid together in his mind’s eye, forming a clear picture. He shook his head, wondering how he could’ve missed seeing what lay right in front of him.

Eli, you’ve been thinking with the little head instead of the big one.

Card 20: Judgment

For several long moments, Eli stood silently at the threshold to Troy Aransas’s office, staring at his boss’s back while Troy tapped away on his computer keyboard.

Finally he rapped on the open door and went in.

Troy spun around in his leather chair. “Hey, Eli. How’s it going?”

“I need to talk to you. Is this a good time?”

“Sure, sure.” Troy motioned for him to sit.

“Mind if I close the door?”

Troy smiled an uneasy smile. “Must be serious.”

“It is.” Eli shut the CEO’s door and pulled up a chair.

“Coffee?” Troy offered.

“No, thanks.” Eli crossed his right ankle over his left knee, trying to decide where to begin. I’ve