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Chapter 6
I dived for the entrance, struggling against the wave of locals and tourists headed in the opposite direction. The screams continued, their terrified cadence filling the air, preventing me from asking anyone what in hell was wrong.
I wanted to put my hands over my ears; the sound made my teeth ache. But I needed my hands to shove aside the last stragglers before I could burst into the store and, from the volume and nature of the screams, prevent bloody murder from continuing.
However, when I at last stood on the tile floor near the cash register, all I saw was a young Gypsy woman facing off with Mrs. Charlesdown, she of the earsplitting screams. Her husband the pharmacist, and her oldest son stood rooted a few feet away, staring at the Gypsy with wide eyes.
"What's the matter?" I shouted.
At least Mrs. Charlesdown stopped screaming. Mutely she pointed at the girl. I couldn't tell what was so terrifying about her. All I could see was her back.
Tall and willowy, she had long dark hair that reached over her white blouse to the waist of her colorful skirt. Her feet were bare, displaying golden rings on two of her toes; I didn't understand why that would make Mrs. Charlesdown lose her mind.
Then the Gypsy turned, and I saw what had. A cobra hung around her neck, undulating and sticking its tongue out in an age-old na-na-na-na-na gesture. I hadn't seen the thing because the girl's hair had masked the body looped around her neck. But from this angle, there was a whole lot of snake.
My gaze lifted to the Gypsy's face. She was perhaps twenty, with the olive skin common to the rest of her clan, though her eyes tended more toward hazel than brown. Strong nose, high cheekbones, there was nothing remarkable about her, except for the snake.
"She. . . she. . . " Mrs. Charlesdown continued to point.
"Relax," I soothed. "Miss?" The girl ducked her head so that her hair fell over her eyes. The cobra weaved back and forth as if dancing to a tune only it could hear. "You probably shouldn't come to town with your. . . pet. "
Her lips curved, and she stroked the snake with one long-fingered hand. The golden bangles on her wrist clacked together, making Mrs. Charlesdown jump as if someone had goosed her. The involuntary movement brought back her voice.
"She was stealing. "
Mrs. Charlesdown glanced toward her husband for support, but he'd already retreated behind the pharmacy counter and gotten back to work, as had her son.
"She was," Mrs. Charlesdown insisted.
The Gypsy's lips tilted downward, and she shook her head so vigorously her hair flew out of her face.
"Oh yes, you were," Mrs. Charlesdown insisted. "What's in your hand?"
The girl shoved the hand that wasn't stroking the cobra behind her back.
"See?" Mrs. Charlesdown said triumphantly.
"Just because she's got something in her hand doesn't mean she was stealing it," I pointed out. "You didn't give her a chance to pay. "
"She was on her way out the door when I stopped her. Then that thing hissed at me. "
This was really a job for Grace, but since I was here. . .
"Can we see what's in your hand?" I asked.
The Gypsy continued to shake her head; eyes wide, she reminded me of a horse, rearing and bucking and frothing at the mouth.
"I'm calling the sheriff. " Mrs. Charlesdown picked up the phone.
The girl made a strangled sound of negation and shot her arm out.
"Put that down," I ordered, and Mrs. Charlesdown complied.
The fingers of the Gypsy were permanently curled inward, stiff, clawlike. What I could see of her palm was empty.
Mrs. Charlesdown's cheeks reddened, but her lips pressed together primly. "You can't blame me. Everyone knows Gypsies steal. "
"Just as we kidnap children. "
