The Fool Dies Last, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Carol Miller
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
Also by Carol Miller
Moonshine mysteries
MURDER AND MOONSHINE
A NIP OF MURDER
AN OLD-FASHIONED MURDER
THE FOOL DIES LAST
Carol Miller
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Carol Miller, 2022
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Carol Miller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-2303-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0841-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0840-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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For Butchie and Babs
ONE
‘I need to know,’ Rosemarie Potter said. ‘Tell me what you see.’
She thrust her chubby, suntanned arms across the table toward Hope Bailey. Rosemarie was one of Hope’s regular clients, typically visiting the shop two or three times a week, always with her beloved pug Percy in tow. A gregarious woman in her mid-fifties, Rosemarie was fond of billowy flowered dresses and had her hair dyed an eye-popping shade of red. Hope took Rosemarie’s outstretched hands into her own and turned up the palms.
‘Well?’ Rosemarie prompted after Hope had studied her right palm for a minute. ‘Will I get married again?’
‘Wasn’t your divorce finalized only last week?’ Hope murmured, shifting her attention to the left palm.
‘It will be ten days from Tuesday,’ Rosemarie replied cheerfully, without any hint of embarrassment or regret. ‘That’s why I need to know. Time to climb back on the horse, so to speak.’
‘Assuming the horse plans on buying dinner,’ Summer Bailey Fletcher chimed in, coming from the jewelry display case that she had been tidying to supply Percy with his usual pre-reading doggie cookie.
Hope and Summer were sisters – thirty-two and thirty-three years old respectively, separated by a mere fifteen months – and proprietors of Bailey’s Boutique, a small mystic shop that sold crystals, candles, herbs, and the like. The shop was located on the ground floor of an old three-story brownstone that was tucked into an equally old and narrow side street in the historic district of downtown Asheville, North Carolina.
‘A man has to be the sort to want to take you out for dinner and dancing,’ Rosemarie concurred. ‘Otherwise, there’s no sense in it.’
‘And fix things,’ Summer added. ‘He has to be able to fix things.’
‘Speaking of fixing things,’ Hope interjected, glancing up from Rosemarie’s hands. ‘Gram wanted me to remind you that she’s still waiting for Gary to put together the new raised bed for the garden.’
The brownstone was owned by Hope and Summer’s maternal grandmother, Olivia Bailey. She was the one who had originally started the boutique many years earlier when their mom had been no more than a toddler. Hope and Gram both still lived upstairs, while Summer had moved out to the suburbs when she had married Gary. At the rear of the property was a little green space that they used as a patio and garden. It supplied the herbs and many of the flowers and other plants for the boutique.
‘Gary has been awfully busy,’ Summer apologized on behalf of her husband.
‘Still working on that big construction project?’ Rosemarie asked.
‘He was promoted to foreman,’ Summer responded proudly.
‘How exciting!’ Rosemarie congratulated her. ‘That must be good for him getting future jobs.’
‘It’s also good for giving him an excuse not to come home at night,’ Hope remarked dryly.
‘But it’s a three-hour drive to the site,’ Summer protested. ‘It makes sense for him to stay at a motel during the week and only come home on weekends.’
Hope would have agreed, except for the past month Gary had supposedly been too busy to return even on the weekends. She knew that the project was behind schedule and, as a result, the whole crew was working on Saturdays, but she was beginning to have some doubts as to why Gary wasn’t coming back on Sundays. A week or two was understandable. Four weeks seemed to be bordering on the suspicious to her. Summer, however, had full confidence in her husband, so Hope held her tongue.
‘You and Gary have always made such a handsome couple,’ Rosemarie gushed to Summer. ‘Him so blond, and you with that beautiful dark hair. We’re all waiting for you to make some beautiful babies.’
A deep blush spread over Summer’s cheeks. She and Gary had been married for three years, and for the last two Summer had been trying to start a family, without success. It was becoming an increasingly sensitive subject for her, understandably enough. Hope was about to jump in to deflect it when the wind chimes rang out at the front door of the store. A trio of laughing, chattering ladies entered, carrying a plethora of shopping bags, and Summer hurried over to greet them.
It was early May, and the tourist season was slowly beginning. The boutique had a loyal clientele, but tourists were also an important part of their business. That was especially true this year, because although Hope was still reading palms, she had stopped working with the Tarot in February. Before that, her Tarot readings had always been prodigiously popular, both with devoted regulars and walk-ins. The sisters had never earned much money, so the extra income was sorely missed. They were keeping their fingers crossed that the warming weather would bring plenty of vacationers.
‘Enough about Summer’s wonderful marriage. I want to know about mine.’ Rosemarie wiggled her arms on the table like a pair of plump pink salmon struggling upstream. ‘Tell me, Hope. Tell me.’
With a smile, Hope directed her attention back to Rosemarie’s palms. On the outer edge of her hand, extending into the palm under the little finger, there were five small horizontal lines.
‘Those are your marriage lines,’ Hope explained.
‘So I’ll be married five times?’ Rosemarie exclaimed.
The trio of ladies, who were in the process of trying on various bracelets, pendants, and earrings based on Summer’s explanation of what the different semi-precious stones related to, glanced over with interest.
Smiling once more, Hope shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. The lines show the potential for strong relationships. It doesn’t mean that you’ll get married each time. One – or more – of the relationships could end up being just a close friendship with lots of mutual attraction.’
‘But five!’ Rosemarie repeated with enthusiasm.
‘You see how two of the lines are so fine, those other two are somewhat heavier, and that one is really clear and defined?’
Rosemarie nodded.
‘That one also comes up strongly from the side of the hand. It shows that you’ll have a very deep and stable relationship.’
An exhalation of joy escaped from Rosemarie’s lips.
All four of the lighter lines curved slightly downward, indicating that four separations or divorces were also likely. But Hope knew better than to share that piece of in
She released Rosemarie’s hands, and after another blissful exhalation, Rosemarie rubbed the five little lines with vigor, as though it might make a magic genie in the form of a marvelous new husband appear out of one of them. Suppressing a chuckle, Hope pulled open the drawer on her side of the table and reached into a bag for Percy’s post-reading doggie cookie. Percy was very familiar with the standard order of business: remaining dutifully at Rosemarie’s feet while in the shop and refraining from barking at customers equaled a treat.
As Hope presented Percy with his reward and added a bit of scratching under his harness, the trio of ladies approached the table. Hope wasn’t surprised. In fact, she rather expected it. Customers in the boutique for the first time were often too shy or uncertain to ask about a reading, but once they saw somebody else getting one, they were usually hooked. That was particularly true if the current reading happened to involve the invariably intriguing topics of love, sex, or money. The table was set discreetly in one corner of the store, and Hope always kept her voice low to protect her clients’ privacy. Rosemarie, however, was far from bashful and had spoken loudly enough to be overheard.
The subject of marriage lines was simply too fascinating to be ignored, and the ladies quickly decided that they wanted a reading, too. They were running late for the four o’clock wine-and-cheese at the nearby hotel where they were staying, but they made a triple appointment for the following afternoon, while their husbands were scheduled for a round of golf. Happily for all, Hope had the requisite time available. Summer finished with the ladies’ jewelry purchases, and the trio departed laughing and chattering even more enthusiastically than when they had arrived.
Hope was about to start helping Summer straighten up after the ladies when Rosemarie gave a plaintive sigh. She was still sitting at the table. It was an aged, coffee-brown pine table with simple lines and little embellishment, in all likelihood the product of some local North Carolinian furniture craftsman a century or two earlier. The table was perfect for Hope’s purposes. Over time the rectangular top had been worn soft and velvety smooth to the touch, with no chance of painful splinters. It was small enough to reach across for palm readings but still wide enough to cast the larger Tarot spreads, and the single drawer on one side was just the right size to hold all of Hope’s supplies.
The table had been left in the attic of the brownstone by the previous owner. There was initially some question as to whether Hope should try to bring it downstairs. The attic – or, more accurately, the attic’s spectral inhabitants – could get rather possessive of its contents, even aggressively so on occasion. But in the end, after a bit of bartering, the attic had given up the table without opposition. It had also relinquished custody of the four matching coffee-brown straight-backed chairs. Although as worn as the table, the chairs were still sturdy and surprisingly comfortable.
Leaning back in her chair and continuing to rub the lines on her palm – more slowly and thoughtfully now – Rosemarie sighed again. ‘I wish that you could tell me something about him, Hope.’
‘Your hand only talks about you,’ Hope reminded her. ‘No one else.’
‘But how will I know who he is?’ Rosemarie’s voice warbled with anxiety. ‘You said that it would be a deep and stable relationship. But what if I miss it? What if I miss him somehow, by accident?’
‘You won’t miss it – or him.’ Hope spoke confidently, and she gave Rosemarie’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
Hope was good at comforting her clients. It was one of the reasons they liked – and trusted – her so much. She had gained a reputation for being reliable, because unlike some in her line of work, she was honest. Hope didn’t pretend to see things that weren’t actually there, and although she was careful about how and when she dispensed bad news, she didn’t automatically limit her readings to only happy information. People came to her looking for knowledge, and she didn’t think it right to restrict that knowledge solely to nice and agreeable things. Life certainly wasn’t always rainbows and sunshine. Pretending that it was didn’t help anyone. Hope believed that the more information a client had, the better choices they could potentially make, especially when those choices might be difficult ones.
‘You’ll feel it when it’s right,’ she told Rosemarie, nodding at her encouragingly. ‘And you know that you can come here any time if you’re worried or having doubts.’
Rosemarie nodded back at her with gratitude. ‘I do know, Hope. And I appreciate you always fitting me and Percy into your schedule, even at the last minute, but …’ Shifting in her seat, she let the sentence trail away unfinished.
When a reading was over, there were some clients who promptly departed, while others – such as Rosemarie – tended to linger, either because they wanted to muse about what Hope had told them or simply to hang out and chat for a while. By its nature, the boutique was a social place. Friends and neighbors frequently dropped by, looking for a piece of advice or just to say hello and pass along a bit of gossip. Hope and Summer enjoyed the company and never pushed anyone out of the door, no matter how long they dawdled. After all, customers had to feel comfortable sharing their problems, and that couldn’t be rushed.
‘But?’ Hope asked patiently.
‘Well …’ Rosemarie hesitated, clearly wanting to say something but reluctant to do so. Finally, the words tumbled out. ‘I need to know more about him, Hope. I really do. Like his job. Or if he loves animals as much as me. Or what sort of personality he has.’
Hope didn’t respond. She could guess what direction Rosemarie was headed, and she was not happy about it.
‘Just a little something,’ Rosemarie went on. ‘A hint. Maybe his astrological sign? Or the color of his hair? I know my palms can’t show any of that’ – there was a slight pause as she shifted in her seat once more – ‘but the cards …’
Summer set down the necklace that she had been returning to the jewelry display case and turned toward them. Hope didn’t look at her or at Rosemarie. Knotting her fingers together beneath the table, she stared out of the front window of the shop.
Rosemarie cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘It wouldn’t have to be one of those big, fancy spreads. Just a few cards. One or two, even. Like you used to do when someone had a quick question.’
‘You know that Hope doesn’t work with the Tarot anymore, Rosemarie,’ Summer interjected.
‘But she could see so much,’ Rosemarie entreated. ‘And she was always so accurate. Everything would turn out just like she said.’
‘Not everything,’ Hope corrected her in a low tone.
‘If you mean …’ Rosemarie began. ‘But you couldn’t have seen that—’
Summer shook her head at her, and Rosemarie didn’t continue. A heavy silence followed. Hope kept her gaze fixed outside, watching the people pass by on the sidewalk. A young mother pushing a stroller with a screaming toddler. Two middle-aged businessmen in dark suits engaged in an earnest discussion. A delivery chap steering a hand truck with a wobbling tower of cardboard boxes.
‘How about an early dinner tonight?’ Summer suggested after a minute. ‘When we close up, instead of eating here, we could go across the square to the café with the good soup. It’s Thursday, so they’ll have that yummy potato feta.’
‘Oh, I love that place!’ Rosemarie exclaimed. ‘And Percy loves their burgers. They allow dogs in the outdoor section. If you’ll let us join you, it’ll be my treat.’
‘Of course you can join us,’ Summer replied. ‘What a nice offer. Isn’t that a nice offer, Hope?’
Hope wasn’t at all hungry, but she nodded anyway, knowing that the offer was Rosemarie’s good-natured attempt at an apology. Except there was no need to apologize. Hope wasn’t angry with her. It wasn’t Rosemarie’s fault. That’s what happened when you read the Tarot, and everybody relied on you to read the Tarot, and then you suddenly stopped reading the Tarot. People tried to be understanding and accepting, but really they just wanted you to start reading the Tarot again. Summer was different. She didn’t keep pushing Hope back to the cards. Instead, she tried to ply her with food, because food – especially creamy soups, biscuits slathered with gravy, and anything in the cheesecake family – was Summer’s emotional fortification in times of distress, so she naturally assumed that it worked with Hope, too. But it didn’t. Hope had lost her appetite back in February, and she hadn’t regained it.
