Chapter One
That there is a devil, there is no doubt. But is he trying to getin ... or trying to get out?
This was the only commentary my Aunt Clara Foersthoefel-- may she rest in peace -- ever made about religion,and she made it often until the Sunday she quit church.
At least, she quit attending the Paradise Church ofAlmighty Revelations, a fundamentalist, nondenominationalcongregation that still meets in a log building on the outskirtsof Paradise, Ohio, just down the road a piece from the HappyTrails Motor Home Court.
Uncle Horace and I fancied sleeping in on Sundays, theonly day our family-owned laundromat closed. But on thatSunday some fourteen years ago, when I was about fifteen,our slumber was shattered when Aunt Clara came slammingin the back door, proclaiming she'd quit her once-belovedchurch, and giving as her answer to our question of why:"that there is a devil, there is no doubt. But is he trying to getin ... or trying to
Chapter One
That there is a devil, there is no doubt. But is he trying to getin ... or trying to get out?
This was the only commentary my Aunt Clara Foersthoefel-- may she rest in peace -- ever made about religion,and she made it often until the Sunday she quit church.
At least, she quit attending the Paradise Church ofAlmighty Revelations, a fundamentalist, nondenominationalcongregation that still meets in a log building on the outskirtsof Paradise, Ohio, just down the road a piece from the HappyTrails Motor Home Court.
Uncle Horace and I fancied sleeping in on Sundays, theonly day our family-owned laundromat closed. But on thatSunday some fourteen years ago, when I was about fifteen,our slumber was shattered when Aunt Clara came slammingin the back door, proclaiming she'd quit her once-belovedchurch, and giving as her answer to our question of why:"that there is a devil, there is no doubt. But is he trying to getin ... or trying to get out?"
It was the last time she ever uttered that saying.
Then Aunt Clara herself slept in for two Sundays in a row.The Sunday after that, she roused Uncle Horace and me fromslumber, made us put on churchgoing clothes, and turned usall into demure Methodists, which I have been ever since.
I never knew just where Aunt Clara's devil saying camefrom. Was this Aunt Clara's personal theory? Or a doctrineshe'd heard the Almighty Revelations pastor, Dru Purcell,preach on some fine Sunday morning? Truth be told, I neverquite understood it, either. All I know for certain is that it stillgives me the willies.
A few years after Aunt Clara uttered her saying one lasttime, Uncle Horace died. Aunt Clara passed on two years afterthat, and I inherited the laundromat. In the years sincethen, Aunt Clara's devil saying slipped from my thoughtsentirely.
Until the morning a few weeks ago, back in late October,when I met Ginny Proffitt, and suddenly Aunt Clara's adageseemed like more than just a scary old saying.
It seemed like prophecy.
I'm Josie Toadfern, owner of Toadfern's Laundromat, and astain expert. Self-taught and proud of it. Best stain expert inParadise, Ohio. Or in Mason County. Or in Ohio. Maybeeven in all of the United States.
After my aunt died, I took over the laundromat that hadbeen my uncle's (my aunt helped with the laundromat butworked full-time at a local pie company) and eventually renamedit Toadfern's. I also took over the guardianship of myaunt and uncle's only son, Guy Foersthoefel, an adult withautism who lives at Stillwater Farms, a residential home fifteenmiles north of Paradise. My life has been plenty busy inthe nine years since I took over the laundromat (I'm twentyninenow). I didn't have much time to dwell on the past orcontemplate the distant future -- my thoughts and actions were firmly embedded in the present and near future, and Iliked it that way.
At least, that's how I felt just a few weeks ago on a Fridaymorning in late October. I was happily anticipating the weekend.That evening, I was going on a date with my boyfriend,Owen Collins, to a local "haunted" corn maze, and I plannedto relax with him Saturday evening after working in my laundromatall day. Sunday, after church, I'd tutor my literacystudent, Hugh Crowley, and after that, I'd visit my cousinGuy at Stillwater Farms. For Sunday night, I envisionedmore snuggling with Owen. This pleasant rhythm would beaccented with chats with my best friends -- Winnie, Cherry,and Sally -- or by reading a good book.
As I contemplated my upcoming calm weekend, I staggeredacross the parking lot of the Rhinegolds' Red HorseMotel, my gait awkward because I embraced a large laundrybag overstuffed with fluffy ecru towels and washcloths.
But my load didn't stop me from letting my thoughts driftfrom the pleasures in my immediate future to the perfectionof the autumn morning. The pleasantly crisp air. The cloudlesssky blue with a hue that can only come in autumn, as ifit's taken the heat of an entire summer to burnish the sky intodeep cobalt. The huge oak tree that grew right out of the asphaltby the motel's entrance, my ultimate destination.
I love that tree and the fact that the Rhinegolds pavedaround it back when it was a sapling and have never cut itdown. The tree was a brilliant orange red, the perfect counterpointto the vibrancy of the sky.
The autumn colors were, ironically, made more vibrant bythe fact that we'd suffered a long spell of drought from latesummer into autumn.
Across from the Red Horse was Beeker's Orchard, acresof apple trees laden with Jonathans and Red Delicious andWinesaps. Just a glimpse of the orchard made my mouth water from the taste-memory of hand-pressed cider and homemadeapplesauce.
With all that sensory input, who could blame me for gazingaround, taking it in -- and not seeing the woman crossingthe parking lot?
The woman herself, it turned out.
We ran smack into each other. She bounced off the front ofmy laundry bag with a loud "oof!" I dropped the bag andstaggered around, stunned from the surprise impact.
I regained my balance and took a good look at the woman,sprawled on the asphalt, knocked out cold right by the signproclaiming, red horse motel, vacancy, color tv, pool,air conditioning, an ultramodern amenity when the signwas put up in the 1950s.
I ran over to the woman and knelt beside her. She wasn'tbreathing and her eyes were closed. I held my hand over herface and didn't feel any breath. My heart started racing, mythroat tightening. Oh Lord, I thought. I've killed her!
Continues...
Excerpted from Death in the Cardsby Sharon Short Copyright © 2005 by Sharon Short. Excerpted by permission.
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