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
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
DECEMBER 6, 2010
Before 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, his heavy shoulders lifting and falling with a seismic shift.
“You know Doc Betsy?” he asked.
“Yes, I am a…friend. I was just going to visit her.”
He eyed her silently. Friend, he thought. No, she must be one of the Doctora’s locos. No matter. Underneath all that black-and-white makeup, the girl was bastante guapa. Even with the wild colmillo, a crazy tooth like a lobo.
“Good. La Doctora’s friends are my friends,” he said, winking. “Come have a beer with me, amiga. Doc is out of town for a couple of days.”
Luis noticed the creases in her brow, plastered in white makeup. “You and me and a Tecate, bruja.”
“I can’t. I’m—underage.”
“Yeah? Cool, me too. Come on, funeral girl. Cheer up with some cerveza.”
“I can’t, really. Hey, just let me pet the dog, OK?”
“Sure. Sure. Girls always go for the pups.”
Ringo pushed close to Daisy, licking her bare hand as she scratched his ears. Luis watched as Ringo twisted his body, wagging his tail frantically at the girl.
“He likes you,” said Luis.
“Yeah. I like him, too.”
“Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got to feed him.”
Daisy straightened up from petting the dog. “You have a key to the office, I mean, her house?”
“Yeah, man. She trusts me with the dog, the house. Everything,” he said, puffing out his chest.
Daisy hesitated for just a moment, then, “Sure, yeah why not?”
They walked back along Main Street just as the streetlights flickered on. A gust of cold wind from the mountains barreled down the road, biting at their skin. Daisy put on a pair of black wool gloves.
“Whew! This is when I wish I was back in Veracruz, man. Drinking a cerveza, eating ceviche. Watching the girls in their bikinis. Everyone sweating, drinking, having a good time. Mariachis—”