She looked up at him, much younger than he’d expected—twenty-seven or twenty-eight, several years younger than he was. Small and very thin, her dark curling hair held in place by two combs. Delicate features, swarthy complexion, her face more piquant than pretty. Italian, he thought. A genuine Gypsy wouldn’t be permitted to work here.

She gestured at the chair opposite her, the silver bracelets on her arms jingling. “Have a seat. Twenty-five cents.”

She held out a hand as he sat, searching for his coin holder. He removed his notebook, set it on the table as he emptied his pockets.

“Here it is.” He extracted a quarter and dropped it into her palm. She set it aside and reached for the teapot, poured tea into one of the cups, and pushed it toward him.

“Drink that. Every drop.”

It was tepid and tasted of jasmine smoke, but he downed it. She set the cup upside down on the saucer and turned it three times, tapping it as she gazed at him.

Looking for tells, he thought. He held up his hands so she could see he wore no wedding band. She gave him a tired smile, turned over the cup, and leaned forward to stare at the sodden mass.

“These here—these are tears,” she said, dabbing a finger in the saucer. “And this—”

Her finger hovered above a small mound of tea leaves. “This mountain signifies you have a powerful enemy.”

“An enemy?” He laughed.

“Yes.” She tipped her head. “You have no enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, it means trouble, anyway.” She narrowed her eyes. “You won’t marry,” she said, lifting her head to see his reaction. He tried to manage an expression that combined diffidence and disappointment, instead felt himself blushing under the woman’s intense stare.

“What else?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“What else,” she murmured. “I don’t see anything else.”

“That’s it?” he said in mock dismay. “A powerful enemy and I won’t marry? You’re not even trying!”

She made a face and prodded the tea leaves with a fingernail. “You might consider getting a dog.”

“A dog?”

“For companionship. And to protect against your enemy.”

He snorted. “For a quarter I should get a good omen.”

“You want me to lie? The dog’s not a bad omen. It’s a piece of advice. Usually I charge extra for that.”

He stood and tipped his hat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it up with my landlord.”

He pulled aside the velvet curtain and left. Neither he nor Madame Zanto noticed that he had left his notebook on the table.

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

IT WAS AFTER five o’clock when Francis returned to the Riverview station house. Magruder manned the desk, chin propped on one hand as he read a newspaper. At the sight of Francis, he held up the front page so Francis could see the headline: