Madam Roundtree

and the dagger of truth

     Selma Lewis—better known to the Fulton County Tribune’s horoscope readers as Madam Roundtree—stood over the body of her former friend and coworker, Jacqueline Paulson. The 16th-century sacrificial dagger, her most valuable possession, jutted from beneath Jacqueline’s ample left breast like a punctuation mark to a friendship gone sour.

     For a long moment, Selma could only stare.

     “Well, hell,” she muttered. “That’s going to be tough to explain.”

     They’d been fighting like two cats in a bag for weeks, and no one—not even Selma’s own mother—would believe she hadn’t done it. She ran through her mental checklist of the day’s events.

     “Nope, wasn’t me,” she said aloud, mostly because talking to herself had become something of a habit, and she was starting to enjoy the company. Sure, she’d thought about killing Jackie—briefly—but she was fairly sure she hadn’t actually done it.

     Her brain tried to summon sadness, but all it could produce was a replay of last night’s Halloween party, where she’d walked in on her fiancé, Derek, with his pants down—literally—and Jackie striking her best yoga pose on top of him.

     She was only thankful they were too busy to notice her.

     “Who bangs someone else’s fiancé at a kid’s Halloween party?” she said, cupping her hand over her mouth as her voice echoed off the walls of the community center.

     She crouched beside Jackie’s body, fighting the urge to pull out the blade. Years of crime shows had taught her not to interfere with evidence, but that dagger wasn’t just decorative — it was an antique silver blade, inscribed with “Veritas Vincit,” meaning truth conquers. She was aware of the irony.

     Just as Selma hesitated whether to check for a pulse (as if the dagger sticking out of her chest and her glazed eyes hadn’t already answered that question), the double doors behind her burst open.

     “Oh my God, Selma!” Courtney Davis gasped. “You actually killed her!”

     Selma sighed. “Court, I swear, if I had a dollar for every time—”

     Millie Abbott stood behind Courtney, tall and pale, looking like a spooked deer. Courtney, on the other hand, was built like a Steinway—short, wide, and hard to ignore, with curls that looked like they’d been styled by static electricity.

     “I didn’t kill her,” Selma said, standing and brushing off her jeans. “She was like this when I got here.”

     “You’re standing over her with a dagger that looks alarmingly like yours,” Courtney said.

     “Technically, it’s in her,” Selma corrected.

     Millie swallowed hard and avoided looking anywhere near the vicinity of the body. “Do you think there are any cookies left from last night?”

     Selma blinked. “There’s a corpse on the floor, Millie.”

     “I know, it’s just that I get low blood sugar,” Millie said, already heading to the kitchen.

     Courtney followed, muttering, “She’s stress-eating again. If we’re not careful, this could snowball into a ten-pound eating binge. Not that she couldn’t use it on that skinny ass of hers.”

     Selma ignored them and pulled her cellphone out of her purse, hoping that the one person in the world that she didn’t want to talk to wasn’t working.

     “Fulton County Police Department, Sheriff Paul Frost speaking.”

     “Shit,” Selma whispered.

***

     By the time Paul arrived, the cookies were gone, Millie and Courtney looked guilty by association, and Selma had practically worn a groove into the floor from pacing.

     “What took you so long?” she snapped as he walked in.

     “I’m right next door, Selma,” Paul said, eyeing the body. “It’s been two minutes.”

     “Well, it’s been a very long two minutes.”

     He gave her that look—the one that showed he’d once cared about her but was now regretting every second of it.

     “Start talking,” he said.

     “I found her like this.”

     “And the knife?”

     “It’s mine,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I killed her.”

     Paul crouched beside the body, inspecting the blade. “Any reason why your dagger’s sticking out of a dead woman?”

     “Because she’s a conniving witch who slept with my fiancé,” Selma said. “But I didn’t kill her. I was too busy crying and watching Murder, She Wrote reruns. God knows who else she was sleeping with.”

     Paul straightened. “So, Derek Vance—your fiancé—was here last night too?”

     “Yes. With her.” Selma pointed a finger at Jackie.

     “And now she’s dead. With your knife sticking out of her. That’s quite a coincidence.”

     “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Selma said. “I write horoscopes. It’s more like cosmic justice. What do you plan on doing about it?”

     Paul sighed. “First of all, stop talking like that, or they’ll convict you on principle alone. Second, I’ll call the medical examiner. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere I can’t find you.”

     Selma crossed her arms. “Where exactly would I go? Aruba?”

     Courtney and Millie sat slumped in their folding chairs, eyes wide.

     When the sheriff stepped outside to radio for the medical examiner, Courtney leaned forward. “You know, Selma, if you did do it, I could help hide the body.”

     “Courtney!”

     “Too late anyway,” Millie half-whispered. “Paul’s already seen it. If only I hadn’t insisted on eating the rest of those cookies.”

     “I’m just saying. You’ve helped me move a couch before. I’ve got good upper body strength,” Courtney said, flexing a rather impressive bicep.

     Selma glared. “For the record, I didn’t kill her. But if I had, you’d be the first person I’d call to help me move the body.”

     “Aw,” Courtney said, smiling. “That means a lot.”

***

     The morning after the murder, Selma woke up in her small log cabin with Felix the cat meowing in her face. She felt like she’d swallowed ten pounds of gravel and regret.

     Selma barely slept, reliving the night’s events until the details blurred. When she finally reached the kitchen, Felix was already pacing the counter like a small, judgmental panther.

     “All right, tuna and pumpkin it is,” she said, cracking open a can. “Breakfast of champions.”

     Felix meowed pointedly.

     “You’re not mad at me, too, are you?” she asked. “Because apparently the rest of town thinks I’m the dagger-wielding psycho of Fulton County.”

     The cat blinked. Noncommittal.

     She poured coffee, burned her tongue, and shuffled to her living room, which looked like a 1970s séance parlor—crystals, tarot cards, and velvet drapes included. The phone rang.

     “Selma Lewis,” she said, because “Madam Roundtree” felt too theatrical before noon.

     “Selma, it’s Paul. I need you to come down to the station.”

     “Do I get to change out of my pajamas first?”

     “I’d prefer it.”

     He hung up before she could ask if they had found any leads—or if he intended to arrest her—typical Paul.

***

     The station smelled like coffee, bleach, and bad decisions. Paul sat behind his desk, the weight of the night still heavy on his shoulders.

     Selma sank into the chair across from him. “If this is an interrogation, I’d like coffee and a lawyer. Or maybe just coffee.”

     Paul didn’t smile. “Jacqueline was blackmailing Derek.”

Selma’s eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”

     “She had photos of the two of them together. She told him she’d send them to you unless he paid up. We found several messages to that effect on her phone.”

     Selma leaned back. “Well, I’ll be damned. That woman never did anything for free.”

     “Did you know about the blackmail?”

     “I didn’t even know about the affair until last night!”

     Paul studied her. “You’re sure you didn’t go back to confront her?”

     “I was home crying into a pint of Rocky Road. Felix can vouch for me.”

     Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. “You and that cat.”

     She grinned. “He’s the only man who hasn’t disappointed me.”

     Paul’s mouth twitched, but he caught himself.

     “Derek was supposed to come in this morning,” he said finally, “but he didn’t show.”

     “Well, there’s your killer,” Selma said, throwing her hands in the air.

     “I think that’s your rage talking,” Paul said.

     “Rage? Yeah, I feel rage, but if I had wanted to kill someone last night, it wouldn’t have been Jackie; it would have been Derek.” She paused, trying to think of anyone other than herself who might want to see her dead. “You think I’m the only one with a reason to want Jackie gone? The woman probably blackmailed people for fun. Derek’s a coward, not a killer. As much as I want to see him punished for what he’s done to me, I don’t think he did this.”

     Paul didn’t answer, but she saw the flicker in his eyes—the one that said maybe you’re right.

     “I still need to talk to him,” Paul said.

     “It would be great if you arrested him, just for a while, I mean,” Selma said. “But I suppose you can’t arrest him until you have proof. Maybe have one of the guys rough him up.” The thought made her smile.

     “That’s generally how law enforcement works, yes. But no roughing up, at least not this time.”

     She sighed. “Fine. Then I’ll help you find enough to scare the shit out of him, and maybe figure out who really killed Jackie in the process.”

     “Selma—”

     “Don’t Selma me. You know I’m better at reading people than half your department,” she said, waving her hand around the room. Two men stopped what they were doing to look at her, eyebrows raised. Selma cleared her throat. “And besides, I’m already the town suspect. Might as well be useful.”

     Paul mumbled something under his breath about the inevitable and stubborn women.

     Selma smiled sweetly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

***

     Selma didn’t have a badge, but she did have intuition, caffeine, and a general disregard for authority. She drove her ancient blue Subaru toward town, talking to herself again.

     “Blackmail, betrayal, and bloodshed—all before lunch. My horoscope was right. Damn Scorpio season.”

     Her first stop was the community center. The yellow tape fluttered in the breeze, and the smell of disinfectant and stale frosting still lingered in the air. Through the glass doors, she could see the faint outline of where Jackie had fallen.

     She slipped around the back entrance. “If Paul wanted me to stay out, he should’ve been clearer,” she whispered, pushing open the door.

     Inside, the decorations still hung limply from the ceiling—paper bats drooping, a skeleton missing its left arm, and a deflated pumpkin balloon slouched in the corner like a bad hangover.

     Selma scanned the floor, half-expecting a clue to announce itself. But then she spotted something—a small silver chain glinting near the stage. Selma bent down and picked it up with one of the scattered napkins—a man’s chain—the same kind of chain she had bought him last Christmas, broken at the clasp.

     She didn’t need a psychic vision to know whose it was—Derek’s.

     “Well, well,” she said, pocketing it. “Guess who left their jewelry at the scene of the crime? Amazing Paul’s men missed this, a bit too amazing.”

***

     Derek Vance answered the door to his apartment in sweatpants and guilt. His hair was a mess, and his eyes darted around her like a cornered raccoon’s.

     “Selma,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

     “Relax,” she said, stepping inside anyway. “I’m not here to kill you. Though, apparently, I’m good at getting framed for it.”

     He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

     “Oh, good, a confession already. Saves time.”

     Derek froze. “What do you mean?”

     Selma reached into her pocket and held up the chain. “You dropped this at the community center. Right by Jackie’s body.”

     He swallowed. “That’s not mine.”

     “Of course it isn’t,” she said. “And I guess you’ll tell me those scratches on your neck are from my cat, and the blackmail texts on her phone weren’t sent to your number either? It was stupid to leave her phone behind.”

     He opened his mouth, closed it again, then sank onto the couch.

     “I know this looks bad, but I swear, I didn’t kill her. Yes, I was there with Jackie last night; she’s been blackmailing me for weeks, just not for money.”

     “You disgust me,” Selma said, tossing his chain onto the coffee table and sitting down opposite him.

     “Jacki’s always had this thing for me, I don’t know why; I’ve never given her a reason to. Anyway, she caught me taking money from the company, just a little here and there. I’d lost my shirt during the lockdowns, and I owed some pretty nasty people.

     I thought it was a one-time thing; she knew we were engaged, but then she had photos and emails from me, and she said she’d send all of it to you.”

     Selma folded her arms. “It didn’t matter anyway. I already knew about the two of you. I saw her with you last night, which makes me suspect number one around here.”

     She wasn’t exactly sure how he could have looked any more desperate, but he did. She almost felt bad for him.

     “I went to talk to her after the party,” he said, voice trembling. “I just wanted her to stop, to make her delete everything. We started arguing. She grabbed the dagger, waved it at me, and said she’d tell you everything.”

     Selma’s voice softened, but only a little. “And then?”

     “She came at me. I pushed her. She fell on the dagger. I swear, it was an accident.”

     Selma tilted her head. “Derek, she was stabbed in the chest. Straight in. You expect me to believe she tripped and did that to herself?”

     He looked down at his shaking hands. “I panicked. I left her there. I didn’t know what to do.”

     “Calling the police might’ve been a good start,” Selma said. “But sure, running away always screams innocence.”

     There was a sharp knock on the door. Derek’s eyes went wide.

     “Expecting anyone?” she asked sweetly.

     When he didn’t answer, she opened it herself. Sheriff Paul Frost stood there, arms crossed, a weary look on his face.

     “I figured you’d come here,” he said to Selma.

     “I found him,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

     Paul gave her a look halfway between admiration and exasperation. “Mr. Vance, I think you and I need to have a chat.”

     Derek stood, pale as paper. “Paul, it was an accident—”

     Paul shook his head. “Save it for the tape recorder.” He motioned for the deputy behind him, who stepped forward with handcuffs.

     As they led Derek out, Selma couldn’t resist. “Guess your horoscope forgot to mention that breaking a girl’s heart has consequences.”

     Paul shot her a warning glance that failed to hide his smirk.

***

     Later that afternoon, the community center parking lot was quiet again. Paul leaned against his patrol car while Selma stood nearby, arms folded, watching the leaves swirl in the wind.

     “You know,” he said, “you really shouldn’t have gone back to the scene. That was tampering with evidence.”

     “Evidence your guys managed to overlook, besides, I call it investigating, and I used a napkin; all the fingerprints were intact,” Selma said. “You’re welcome for solving your case, by the way.”

     He chuckled. “You didn’t solve it, Selma. Derek is still screaming that it was all just an accident!”

     “I don’t believe in accidents either.”

     Paul shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

     “That’s what all the good horoscopes say.”

     He smiled then, a real one. “You ever think about using those instincts for something other than causing me headaches?”

     “Sure,” she said. “But what fun would that be?”

     They stood quietly for a moment, watching the clouds drift over the ridge. Something felt wrong, something nagging at the back of her mind.

     “You know,” Paul said, “for what it’s worth, I never thought you did it.”

     Selma raised an eyebrow. “You sure had a funny way of showing it.”

     “I just needed to be sure,” he said.

     “Right. Can’t let emotions cloud your judgment, Sheriff.” The thought occurred to her that she was doing exactly that—letting her emotions cloud her judgment.

     He grinned. “Exactly.”

     Selma turned toward her car. “Well, now that my good name’s cleared, I’ve got a cat to feed and a column to write. Maybe I’ll do a theme this week: Beware of exes bearing daggers.”

     Paul laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

     She paused by the door and gave him a wink. “Believe it, Sheriff.”

***

     That night, back at her cabin, Selma settled into her favorite armchair, Felix curled at her feet, purring like a tiny engine.

     “Well, Felix,” she said, sipping her tea, “another murder solved, another man disappoints, and I’m still the only psychic in town with a clean record.”

     The cat yawned.

     “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I told you I didn’t do it. Only problem is, I don’t think Derek did either.”

     She flipped on the TV. Murder, She Wrote was starting—how fitting.

     As the opening credits rolled, Selma smiled to herself. “You know, Jess,” she told the screen, “some of us don’t have to go looking for trouble. It just shows up with a dagger.”

     It just shows up with a dagger.

     “Oh my God,” Selma said. “The dagger wasn’t at the community center; the dagger was with…”

     There was a knock at her door, and Selma felt panic rush over her.

     Seconds later, Millie Abbott was standing there, shaking in the middle of her living room.

     “It was you, wasn’t it?” Selma asked.

     At first, Millie only nodded, the words refusing to leave her lips.

     “I don’t even really remember doing it. I went there to confront Jacqueline; she’d ruined so many lives already, and now she was at it again, destroying yours. I had to stop her, make her see.” 

     “You look like you’re going to faint, why not sit,” Selma told her as she led her to the sofa and gently helped her onto it.

     “She’d ruined my relationship with Donavin two years ago, and now this, I didn’t even realize I still had your dagger in my pocket until it was in my hand.”

     “Derek never mentioned you were there, never said your name,” Selma said, suddenly not so angry with him anymore.

     “I believe he was more shocked than I was; it all happened so quickly.”

     “Take your time, tell me everything.”

     “They were fighting when I walked in; Derek was begging her to leave him alone and to stop threatening him. It got physical; she attacked him, clawed his throat, and ripped the chain off that you’d bought him last Christmas. I bent down to pick it up when she turned on me, accusing me of wanting Derek,” she paused to steady herself, shaking her head. “It was the farthest thing from my mind, believe me.”

     “I believe you,” Selma said.  

     “I don’t remember hating someone so much in all my life. She lunged at me, and the next thing I remember was the feeling of heat washing over my hand and looking down at the blood.”

     Millie let out a mournful sob, “I never would have let you be arrested, you must believe me. I would have confessed long before that. I don’t understand why Derek’s saying he did it.”

     “I guess he feels just as guilty, and you’re both just as innocent.” Selma stood and picked up her phone from the table. “I’ll call Paul now, he’ll help you, we both will. Everything will be okay.”

***

     Hours later, Selma leaned back, her home once again quiet, the corners of her mouth curling up into a gentle, optimistic smile. “Let’s hope the stars are more peaceful in next week’s horoscope.”

     Felix purred in agreement.

     Outside, the autumn wind rattled the cabin windows, and in the flicker of the TV light, Madam Roundtree, seer of truths and finder of corpses, lifted her teacup in a silent toast to small-town scandals and the strange comfort of knowing the stars were rarely ever wrong.

The End.