by Alice Duncan
"Hmm. Now that you mention it, I guess I do vaguely recall that picture. Oh, now I know what you mean about looking like her. She has a bob!"
I love my mother. "Precisely," I said.
"Wasn't she the very first woman to cut her hair like that?"
"No, I think that was Irene Castle."
"I think I've heard of her."
Laughing, I said, "I'm sure you have. She and her late husband, Vernon, were famous ballroom dancers."
"Oh," said Ma, clearly at sea. My mother didn't follow fashions in either pictures or dancing. Good thing I did it for her, or she'd still be wearing those long, lumpy dresses women wore in her youth.
"I'm sure you look better than either Irene Castle or Anna May Wong," said my staunch and loyal father. "Even if you don't make as much money as they do."
"Thanks, Pa. I do try to look as good as possible for my clients. And heck, my job is kind of like an actress's. In a way."
"You do it very well, according to all reports," said Pa. "Too bad Sam isn't here to see you."
I agreed with him, although I only said, "Pooh. He wouldn't even notice."
But he would have. And he'd have approved. I was sorry I hadn't asked him to come to the evening's séance. Oh, well. A girl can't think of everything, can she?
Chapter 15
I arrived at Mrs. Frasier's Orange Grove estate at about seven-thirty that night. The séance was scheduled to begin at eight, and I wanted to be sure I had the séance room arranged the way I wanted it to be.
At the most, I allow eight people to attend my séances. More people than that can become unruly. Or, if not actually unruly, at least not as quiet as they should be. Mind you, I've never yet presided over a completely silent séance, no matter that I always tell the attendees to sit still and be quiet. Somebody always shuffles, sneezes, moans, groans, or scrapes his or her chair across the floor. In the case of Mrs. Frasier's home, the room in which the séance would be held had a gorgeous Oriental rug under the table, so chair-scrapes were unlikely. The rest of the noises would probably occur, however.
Mrs. Frasier's butler, a fellow named Cruikshank, admitted me to the house and showed me to the drawing room. Most of the rich people for whom I worked had drawing rooms instead of the plain old living rooms with which the rest of us mere mortals had to deal. There I go, being snide again. So sorry.
One of the first people I spotted in the drawing room was Diane Chapman. Very well, she wasn't Diane Chapman yet, but she hated the Wagner name so much, I was letting her use it before the court said it was all right. Nice of me, huh?
I headed for her chair but was intercepted by Mrs. Pinkerton before I reached my goal. Only then did it occur to me that I hadn't heard from Mrs. P since Monday! Good heavens, was the world coming to an end?
"Daisy!" she shrieked. She was a big shrieker, Mrs. P. "It's so good to see you. I've missed you these past couple of days. I do so hope you can help Diane and Marianne this evening."
"So do I," I said, my voice registering its soft, spiritualistic tone, hoping it might make an impression and Mrs. P would speak more quietly. Didn't work. I'd expected that.
Clapping a hand to her bountiful bosom, Mrs. Pinkerton bellowed—very well, so I just exaggerated again—"I just know you'll be able to solve this thing." Finally lowering her voice—thank heaven—she added, "Not that I want it to be solved. The man was so horrid, whoever did him in deserves a reward."
That seemed to be the general sentiment regarding the late, unlamented Dr. Everhard A. Wagner. It had been voiced by Mrs. Pinkerton more than once to my certain knowledge, and by pretty much everyone else I'd spoken to about his demise.
Luckily for me, Harold Kincaid appeared at his mother's side before she could drag me into a corner and monopolize me for the rest of the evening. "Daisy, my dear," said he. "Let me take you to see Diane and Marianne before the séance." Turning to his mother, he said, "You can chat with Daisy after the séance, Mother. Diane and Marianne need her now."
"Oh, of course! You're such a thoughtful son, Harold," tittered Mrs. Pinkerton.
With a smile, Harold hauled me away from his mother. Under his breath, he muttered, "Damned right, I'm thoughtful. Hell, someone in the family has to be."
"Stop saying funny stuff, Harold. I want to look like a spiritualist, and giggling doesn't match the image."
"That wasn't meant to be funny," said Harold. "It was the truth."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Harold didn't acknowledge my sympathy because we'd reached Diane's chair by then, and she'd been joined by Marianne. I smiled graciously at both women, who smiled graciously back at me. Diane's bruises still showed, but she'd managed to subdue them with powder. Marianne smiled shyly at Harold and me.
"How are the two of you this evening?" I said gently. "Well, I hope. I also hope this evening's séance will prove of benefit to you."
"I hope so, too," said Diane, taking my gloved hand in her right hand and covering it with her left. "You were of such comfort to me two years ago. I'll never forget how much hope you instilled in me at Griselda's séance."
Oh, boy. Two years prior, I'd had Rolly tell the poor woman that Marianne wasn't present on the so-called Other Side, which meant she was still alive. That particular séance had been held in Mrs. Bissel's house, the basement of which had been Marianne's hiding place until I found her there. I was glad to know Rolly's words had given Diane comfort, but I'd felt like a vile fraud ever since that night, as I knew full well Marianne had been, at the precise time I'd held the séance, hiding in the little cottage behind Grenville's Books.
Nevertheless, I said, still softly and soothingly, "I'm so glad."
"You saved my life back then," said Marianne, smiling at me. "And I'm grateful to you for helping Mother, too. And you didn't tell on me. I felt so bad for deceiving Mother." She gave a little sniffle and dabbed at her eyes with her hankie, which looked to me as if it had been used a time or two already.
"Harold and George did every bit as much as I did," I told them, lying nobly. Neither Harold nor George had wanted to get involved back then, but they'd been persuaded, bless them both. And then George had nearly driven me crazy by practically showing Marianne off in public. I'd had to speak severely to both George and Marianne, and they hadn't appreciated it until they realized why I'd been so adamant about keeping Marianne hidden. Golly, doing good deeds can give a person ulcers sometimes, can't it?
"Nonsense. You were the one who saved me," said Marianne.
"Well, I'm glad to have helped." Glancing around the room and discovering all of the séance attendees had arrived, I said, "But I must prepare the room for the séance now. I'm happy the two of you could come this evening."
"I have no one in my life who can dictate what I can and can't do anymore," said Diane, her smile nearly triumphant. "I had to go against my late husband's wishes to attend that one séance at Griselda's house."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Mother."
"It was worth every blow, just to know you were still alive, darling."
Every blow? Good Lord, did she mean her detestable husband had beaten her up for attending my séance? The man was rising to the status of Jack the Ripper in my mind. I wouldn't have felt guilty if I'd murdered him myself. On the other hand, I did feel guilty about Diane having braved his wrath in order to attend one of my phony séances. Hmm. Maybe I'd quit the spiritualist business after Sam and I got married.
Or maybe I wouldn't.
"But now the big bad wolf in both of our lives is gone," said Marianne, laughing softly. Her laugh sounded slightly strained to me. Poor thing.
After bidding the two women adieu, I walked over to Mrs. Frasier, a tall, lean woman, who was at that moment entertaining Mrs. Bissel by showing her some of the tricks she'd taught her miniature pinscher, Percy. Percy had once disemboweled my handbag and stolen a hankie therefrom, but I liked him anyway. At the moment, Percy was standing on his hind legs and waving his paws at Mrs. Bissel, who b
eamed down upon him.
"He's adorable, Laura. Just adorable. Although, as you know, I'm partial to dachshunds." Mrs. Bissel noticed me and said, "Oh, but it's Daisy! She has one of my dachshunds. What's more, she took it to the Pasanita Obedience Club's obedience class, and he did wonderfully!"
"How do you do, Mrs. Bissel? Mrs. Frasier. I see Percy is doing well." I leaned down to pet the frenetic little beast. He was a cutie, if a trifle too bouncy for me.
"Percy is doing superbly, Daisy. Thank you. Oh, and do you know what I just learned?"
I hadn't a clue, so I shook my head, still smiling.
"The AKC has just recognized miniature pinschers as a distinct breed! They'll be able to enter the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in February!"
"How wonderful for you," I said, thinking it must be nice to be rich and not have to think about anything but taking dogs to various dog shows.
"It is wonderful," agreed Mrs. Bissel. "Of course, dachshunds were recognized by the AKC in 1885." She sounded a trifle smug.
"That may be true, but min pins have been around for just as long as dachshunds. It's only that they weren't brought to the USA until later than dachshunds." Mrs. Frasier sniffed. "And I think they're the perfect breed."
"They're both delightful breeds," I said, trying to avert a war of words between the two dog breeders. If I were being honest, I'd have to say I preferred dachshunds to miniature pinschers, but honesty and my job didn't always go together, so I didn't. "However, I need to be sure the séance room is set up properly, Mrs. Frasier. May I do that now, please? I'll need a few minutes to collect myself after that."
"Oh, yes, dear. Of course," said Mrs. Frasier. "I understand you need to compose your mind to receive messages from your spirit control."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Bissel. "That's very important."
Right. It sure was.
Oh, dear, there I go again with the sarcasm. I'm sorry. I loved my clients; I really did. Just because I thought they were... well, kind of silly for believing the stuff I told them didn't mean they weren't nice folks.
"Here, dear. Let me show you the room." Mrs. Frasier gestured to Percy to come with us, and he heeled as if he'd been trained almost as well as Spike. "You probably remember it from the last séance you conducted here, but Percy and I will just take you there. Then you can let me know if there's anything you need."
"Thank you." I shook Mrs. Bissel's hand and leaned in to whisper, "I like dachshunds better than min pins, too, but please don't tell Mrs. Frasier."
Mrs. Bissel burst out laughing. Of all my clients, she was the most down-to-earth. Even if she was richer than Croesus, whoever he was. One of those old Greek guys, I think.
At any rate, Percy, Mrs. Frasier and I walked down the hallway to the room designated for the séance. I told her how happy I was for her that miniature pinschers were at last getting their just recognition from the American Kennel Club.
"Thank you, dear. We min-pin people have worked so hard for this honor. It's rewarding to have our work acknowledged."
"I'm sure it is. If all min pins are like your Percy, they're charming."
Pleased, Mrs. Frasier said, "Well, of course, Percy is special, but the breed in and of itself is wonderful."
The breed, if Percy was an example, was a teensy bit exuberant for me. I preferred Spike's more relaxed view of life and the world. Naturally, I didn't tell Mrs. Frasier that.
Opening the door to the séance room—I think it was a den or something during its every-day life—Mrs. Frasier said, "Here you go. I set the table up with the one cranberry-glass candle holder the way you like. If you need anything else, just ring for Cruikshank. He'll be at your bidding this evening."
Poor Cruikshank. Not that I aimed to overwork him. All he'd have to do was turn off the lights at the beginning of the séance and then turn them on again at the end of it.
"Thank you very much. I'll sit and meditate for a few minutes now."
Mrs. Frasier peered at what looked to me to be a solid-gold wristwatch on her slender wrist. "It's ten minutes until eight, so will that give you enough time?"
"That will be perfect. Thank you."
"Thank you. We're all so hoping the spirits will be able to direct us to the person who killed that terrible man. If we even want to know. We're all so happy he's gone, it might be better if we never find out."
"Yes. I've heard that same sentiment from several people since his body was found," said I, thinking that, no matter what happened during or after the séance, I would have to make a full report to Sam Rotondo. At that point, I wasn't sure I wanted to, especially if I did accidentally learn the name of the killer.
Unless, of course, the killer turned out to be someone I disliked. Then I'd have no trouble at all blabbing to Sam.
Bother. I'd have to tell Sam whatever I learned. Providing I learned anything, and since I was a fake, the likelihood of that was slim.
I felt better after I'd come to that conclusion.
Anyhow, I spent the next ten minutes sitting in the chair at the head of the table, which was oval—oval and round tables are my favorites at which to conduct séances because people seemed to fit better around them than at square tables—and was, I hoped, looking mysterious and spiritual when the séance attendees filed in.
They took their cue from my own demeanor, and what little chit-chat had been going on prior to their reaching the door stopped as soon as they entered. My head was bowed when they arrived, but I lifted it as soon as I'd counted enough footsteps so as to believe everyone who was supposed to be there was. There, I mean.
I gave the assembled guests one of my patented mysterious, spiritualistic smiles and said in my gentlest and most mystical spiritualist's voice, "There's no arranged seating. Please sit anywhere you like around the table." I added the "around the table" clause in case some wit said he or she wanted to sit on the table or in the corner or on top of the china cabinet something. I tried to avoid silly stuff like that. Heck, the whole notion of a séance was silly; it didn't need help.
So, as quietly as a small herd of people can be, they pulled out chairs, sat, and drew their chairs to the table. They all looked at me kind of like sheep, except for Harold, who knew I was a fake and honored my ability to keep my performance at its peak level at all time. Well, most of the time.
I don't mean to boast, but I really was good at my job.
Softly and sweetly, I said, "Please take hands."
Everyone took his or her neighbor's hand. There really ought to be a gender-neutral singular pronoun in the English language—aside from the word "it," which refers to non-human things. I hope someone will invent one someday.
Then I nodded to Cruikshank to switch off the electrical lights. He did so, and we sat at the table, everyone gazing raptly at the red glow coming from the cranberry-glass candle holder in the middle of the table.
Again I bowed my head and sat still for a few minutes. This was in order to convince my spirit control, Rolly, to come to me. As soon as he supposedly did, I moaned softly and sagged ever so slightly in my chair.
So. The evening got off to its regular, time-honored, standard spiritualist-medium-séance start.
After that, things got weird.
Chapter 16
The weirdness didn't happen all of a sudden. I was firmly into my act, and all the attendees were behaving just as they ought when Rolly greeted me. As ever, he called me his "love," since we were supposed to be soul mates through eternity.
Then I said to Rolly, "Rolly, a new soul has crossed to the Other Side recently. A gentleman named Doctor Everhard Allan Wagner passed only a few days ago."
"'Aye, my love, so he did. But he was no gentleman. He was a very bad man.'" I hadn't intended for Rolly to say that. It just slipped out.
Murmurs of approval from around the table let me know Rolly hadn't said anything wrong. Good. I always feared I might slip up.
"Rolly," said I, "Doctor Wagner was cruelly done to death, and we are gathered here to
discover who did the deed."
In his best Scottish accent, Rolly said in a voice about an octave deeper than my usual speaking voice, "'Why would you want to do that, love?'"
I swear to heaven, I hadn't meant to say that either. A couple of soft chuckles from séance attendees didn't quell the jolt of shock that zipped through me.
Internally scolding myself—I honestly didn't know where that comment from Rolly had come from—I said, "The police are looking for his murderer. Whoever killed Doctor Wagner needs to be brought to justice."
"'And what is justice?'" said Rolly. Against my will. That darned voice of his just seemed to have taken hold of my vocal chords.
In order to give myself a bit of space in which to recover my poise, I let out a soft murmuring moan. Scrambling to get my wits together, I said, "Murder is a foul deed, Rolly. Whoever killed the man was wrong to have done so."
"'If you say so, my love. I think he should have been done in twenty or thirty years ago.'"
Curses! This had only happened to me once before, when the voice of a murdered fellow had come out of my mouth. I'd had no control over myself then, and I seemed to have no control over Rolly now. Blast and heck!
"Rolly," I said severely, "murder is a vile act and a criminal one. Do you know who killed Doctor Wagner?"
"'Oh, aye. I know.'"
Assorted gasps from the audience. I doubt anyone heard my own personal gasp, which slipped out past my guard. But doggone it, Rolly never got out of my control! Well, except for the case of Eddie Hastings, the above-mentioned murdered fellow. If the voice of Dr. Wagner suddenly spouted from my mouth, I aimed to faint and end the séance right then and there. Well... I'd pretend to faint.
"You know who killed Dr. Wagner?" I tried not to sound as upset as I felt.
"'Oh, aye.'"
"Will you please tell us?"
