by Alice Duncan
After a small spate of silence, Rolly again spoke without my prompting. "'Ah, my love, I fear I canna do that.'"
"Why ever not?" I asked, even more severely.
"''Tisn't my job, my dear. Your police fellow needs to do that.'"
Almost jumping out of my skin at the catastrophe that seemed to be happening right there in the séance room, I asked, feeling pathetic and scared to death, "Can you at least give us a hint?" If that wasn't one of the stupidest questions I'd ever asked during a séance, I don't know what was. For Pete's sake, I was pleading with a fictitious spirit control I'd made up out of whole cloth when I was ten years old! And he kept saying things I didn't want to say and were against my volition.
"'Oh, aye. I can give you a hint.'"
Darn Rolly to heck and back! Why was he doing this to me? I'd created him, for pity's sake! I could jolly well un-create him, if this kept up.
"Well then," said I, yet more severely, "will you please do so?"
"'Oh, aye, if you wish it.'"
Damn him. Sorry for swearing. "Yes, Rolly, we wish it." I fear my voice was a trace harsh by that time.
"'My darling girl, the best hint I can give you is to look to the family.'"
Four or five people gasped.
Diane Chapman said, "Oh, dear God!"
Marianne Grenville fainted.
So, not knowing what else to do, I fainted too. My own personal faint was only partially fake. My wits were scrambled like morning eggs, and I felt as if my entire life had plummeted out of control. Therefore, I moaned piteously, slumped in my chair, my eyes fluttered shut, and I was so befuddled, I didn't even give Cruikshank the signal to turn on the lights.
I do believe Harold Kincaid took control of events at that point, because when I groggily attempted to straighten myself in my chair, I saw him attending to Marianne. Diane hovered at his side, clasping her hands to her bosom as if in prayer, and watching her daughter as if she feared Marianne might have had a heart seizure or something of that nature.
As for me, I wanted to fold my arms on the table, bury my head in them, and burst out crying. I'd never felt so awful in my life, except for when Billy died.
* * *
Several minutes later, I sat beside Harold Kincaid at the séance table, and the two of us were alone in the room. Harold had told Cruikshank to get the rest of the séance attendees out of there and call a doctor to see to Marianne. Cruikshank and another of Mrs. Frasier's minions had carried Marianne out of the room, and I didn't know what they'd done with her until later.
Shaking all over, I said, "I-I-I don't know what h-happened, Harold."
"Good God, Daisy, 'look to the family'? What was that about?"
"I-I don't know! I swear, Harold, I don't know why Rolly said that!" I began crying, feeling like an imbecile and wishing I were dead.
Frowning at me, Harold said, "Are you serious?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm serious! It was like... like that awful time when Eddie Hastings spoke through me. I hated it then, and I hate it now. Only this was Rolly! Oh, Harold, Rolly doesn't even exist!"
Later, I was glad Harold had thought to shut the door to the séance room because if he hadn't, other people might have heard my confession, and then my career would have been kaput, my credibility would shattered, my entire family humiliated, and we'd have had to move to Massachusetts or maybe Outer Mongolia. We'd probably have been run out of Pasadena, tarred and feathered, on a rail. Not sure what people meant when they said someone was run out of town on a rail, but if Harold hadn't been wise enough to shut that door, I fear I'd have learned.
"Perhaps you need a rest, sweetie. After all, you found a body and have been dealing with my mother and the late doctor's family quite often recently. I think the myriad strains are getting to you." He patted my back and handed me a clean handkerchief. My own hankie was more than soggy by then.
"Th-thank you."
"You're welcome."
He sat silent for a while as I attempted to get my tears to dry up. At last I hiccupped and made one last swipe under my eyes, hoping my lightly applied mascara hadn't run down my cheeks.
Finally Harold said, "That's interesting, though, about 'looking to the family.' If what you're telling me is true—"
"It is!" I cried, feeling as though my last friend on earth had deserted me.
He patted me on the back again. "Don't be upset. I believe you. It's just... difficult to comprehend that it really happened."
"You're telling me. I almost died when I heard what was coming out of my mouth."
"Very strange," said he.
"Very," I agreed.
"But do you really think a member of Wagner's family might have done him in?"
"How the heck should I know?" I nearly burst into tears again. "It was Rolly who said that. I had no control over him. Oh, Lord, Harold, that's never happened before."
"Well... There was the Eddie Hastings séance."
"Yes, but that wasn't Rolly speaking. It was Eddie Hastings speaking through me. Rolly is my own personal invention, and he's never been beyond my control before tonight."
"Hmm. I don't blame you for being upset."
"Thank you a whole lot."
"Hey, Rolly isn't my fault."
"I know. I know. I'm sorry, Harold, but I feel so awful about what he—I—oh, whoever said it—said."
"I know, sweetie. Wish I knew what to do to help."
"You're doing it by remaining my friend, even in the face of this... catastrophe."
"I don't know if the séance qualifies as a catastrophe—"
"It does!"
"Then I'm sorry. And I remain your friend through thick and thin. Don't forget that I shot a man for you once."
"How could I ever forget that?" We'd been in Turkey, and Harold had only shot the man because we were attempting to rescue Sam Rotondo from some bad guys. Harold had been a true hero then, and he was a true friend now.
I told him so.
"Hmm. If you say so. I'd rather comfort you than shoot anyone else."
"I appreciate you for wanting to do both."
"Of course. What are friends for? Not that I wanted to shoot that guy, but..."
"I know. You did it because you had to."
Harold shuddered as he remembered that day near the shore of the Bosphorus Strait.
"I wish I could be of some use to you, Harold, but it always seems to be you who's rescuing me for one reason or another."
"Yes. I've noticed that."
"Oh, Harold, I'm so sorry!" I started weeping again. Pitiful. I was truly and disgustingly pitiful.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Daisy Majesty, drain the damned swamp and quit blubbering!" Harold actually shook me.
In doing so, he jostled the tears right out of me. I sniffled, wiped my eyes with his handkerchief again and said, "Thanks, Harold. I needed that."
"So did I. I've never known you to be so weepy, Daisy. If you keep it up, you'll remind me of Mother, and that will never do."
I almost smiled, but couldn't quite drum up a smile even for Harold that evening.
"Thanks again, Harold."
"You're welcome."
Because I knew I had to rise and face the music—or at least the séance attendees—soon, I asked, "Do I have makeup smears running down my cheeks?"
Peering at me critically, Harold said, "Not really, but I'd better do a touch-up job."
"You can do that? I don't have anything with me."
"Have any face powder?"
"Um... Yes. It's in my handbag, which is... I don't know where it is. Oh, Lord, Harold! My life is over!"
"Stop being so melodramatic, Daisy! Just stop it right this minute."
"All right," I said meekly. I didn't want to antagonize the person who might well be my last friend on earth.
"Good. Is this your handbag?" He picked up a small black bag from the table near where I'd been sitting.
"Yes." Sniffle. "I know I fool people for a living, Harold, but I honestly didn't inten
d Rolly to say any of those things." Another sniffle smote the air wetly.
"Yes, yes. You've told me that seven hundred times already. Stop overacting and sit still while I see what I can do to fix you," he commanded.
So, rather like Spike, only much meeker than my confident and obedient hound, I sat still while Harold wiped my cheeks with another hankie and daubed powder over my face. He frowned critically at me. "We're going to have to do something about those eyes."
"My eyes?" My right hand flew to one of them. "What's wrong with my eyes?"
"Swollen and red," said he. "But never fear. I have a solution. Just sit there for a few minutes. I'll be right back."
"Don't leave me!"
He rolled his eyes. I swear, he and Sam reminded me so much of each other sometimes. "Just sit there and be still. And stop whining, for God's sake."
Whining? Was I whining?
Shoot, I guess I was. I told myself to get a grip on my emotions. I was the best spiritualist-medium in Pasadena; all of my clients said so. Complete strangers had called me at home and told me they'd heard as much from some of those very same clients. Falling apart was definitely not part of my act.
As I waited in Mrs. Frasier's former séance room, I straightened my shoulders and told myself to buck up. I reminded myself that strange things happened occasionally. Remember those waving pine trees in your crystal ball? I asked myself. I nodded. Indeed, I did remember those stupid pine trees in my stupid crystal ball. I also remembered the terrifying time the late Eddie Hastings' voice had emanated from my own mouth. I guess, all things considered, this time wasn't as horrid as that time had been.
The door opened, and I realized I hadn't calmed down an iota when I jumped approximately twelve feet out of my chair, clapped a hand to my chest, and barely stopped myself before I screamed.
"Harold," I said, letting out a long, agonized sigh. "I'm so glad it's you."
"Who else would I be?" asked he, trotting to my chair and plunking himself down on the one next to it. Only then did I notice he carried a small bundle in his hands. "All right. Close your eyes and look at me."
"How can I look at you with my eyes closed?"
"Stop being so damned literal, Daisy Gumm Majesty! Turn your head so it's pointed toward me, shut your mouth and your eyes, and be still."
I obeyed without another word.
To this day, I'm not entirely sure what Harold did to me, but it involved ice, powder, and a soft rag. He worked on my face for I don't know how many minutes, but it seemed like hours. At last he sat back and said, "There."
"There what?"
"You may open your eyes now. You'll do fine, as long as you don't have hysterics when we join the rest of the group."
Only then did I recall we had another injured party or two in that group. I sucked in a gallon or so of air. "Oh, Lord, I forgot all about Marianne! How is she doing?"
"She's fine."
"Are you sure? Did an ambulance come for her?"
"No. She woke up and refused a doctor or an ambulance. She's still in the drawing room, and her mother and mine are hovering over her like buzzards."
"That's not a pleasant image, Harold Kincaid."
"How about fluttering like hummingbirds."
"Much better."
"Good. Now smile."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Smile, dammit! We have to go out there and beard the dragons. I've told everyone the séance sapped your strength and it's taking a while for you to recover. So far I think they believe me."
"As well they should, because it did, and I did."
"I know, sweetie. Just don't project yourself as feeling robust. Pretend you're still all atremble at what your spirit control said."
"I don't have to act to do that. I am all atremble. I swear to God, Harold—"
"Yes, yes, I know. You didn't have any control of your control." He rolled his eyes again.
"It's the truth," I said, still pitiful.
"It's all right, dear. I believe you. And I'm a total skeptic. You'll have much better luck with the rest of the gang. So brace yourself. We're going to face the ravening horde. By the way, I don't know if I've told you yet, but that gown is stunning. Love the uneven hemline."
My gown? I looked down at same. Oh, yes. I remembered now what I'd donned for this wretched séance. I was glad Harold approved, although I didn't much care at that point. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. All right now. Here we go."
"Oh, Lord," I whimpered.
"Buck up, dammit!"
His harsh tone so startled me, darned if I didn't buck up. Good old Harold.
Chapter 17
More than a little wobbly on my pins, I allowed Harold to take my arm, guide me from the séance room and down the hall to the drawing room. When I entered, all eyes shot straight at me. Oh, dear. I'm sorry about that sentence. The notion of shooting eyes is totally disgusting. What I meant was that everyone turned their heads and stared at Harold and me.
"Daisy! Are you all right?" Mrs. Frasier rushed up to me, an expression of concern on her face.
A little surprised—I'd kind of expected to be stoned, if only figuratively—I said softly and a bit shakily, "Yes, thank you. I'm so sorry about... what happened. Is Marianne all right?"
"She's awake and alert now," said Mrs. Frasier. "Lucy"—Lucy was one of Mrs. Frasier's housemaids—"brought in a tea tray, and I made sure Marianne drank a cup of hot, sweet tea with plenty of milk. And you should have one, too."
"Oh, but, I don't deserve—"
Harold pinched my arm, and I winced. He said, "That would be perfect, Mrs. Frasier. Thank you very much. Mrs. Majesty is definitely shaken. The séance was quite an ordeal for her."
"I know," said Mrs. Frasier in a thrilling whisper. "It must have been. Come here, dear. You, too, Harold."
She led us across the room. I almost didn't dare peer around for fear I'd see killing looks directed at me, but Harold pinched me again, so I peeked at my victims. For heaven's sake, they all watched me as if they feared I'd drop dead of something. Fright or spiritual collapse, I guess. They were almost right.
Mrs. Pinkerton, as Harold had already told me, still loomed over Marianne. Marianne sat on a sofa next to her mother, and as soon as Mrs. P saw me, she leapt up and made a rush at me. Harold, bless him, intercepted her by inserting his body between his mother's and mine, so there was no big collision.
"Oh, Daisy! How terrible for you! Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. P asked, tugging me away from Harold and nearly crushing me to her large bosom. "Poor Marianne fainted, too."
Too? Did everyone think I'd really fainted? I hoped so. I sneaked a peek at Harold from the one eye not smushed into Mrs. P's massive frontage.
"It took Mrs. Majesty quite a time to come out of her trance," said Harold, loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. "This séance was harder on her than most of them are."
And that was the absolute truth. Nobody else needed to know why.
"Oh, Daisy!"
This cry had come from Diane, who left her daughter and hurried over to the group of us. Thank the good Lord, Mrs. P finally let me go. I staggered a trifle after she released me. I truly was adversely affected by that dratted séance.
As Diane elbowed Mrs. Pinkerton aside—quite a feat for the skinny Diane—she said, "Daisy, are you all right? You look terrible!" How kind. I didn't say so. She went on, "And Marianne is so afraid Rolly meant George was the murderer!"
"What?" My voice remained weak, and not because I wanted it to be. "I'm so sorry. I'm sure he didn't mean Mr. Grenville did the deed, Diane."
"But what did he mean? 'Look to the family'? What did that mean?"
"Mrs. Wagner, I think we'd better get Daisy settled somewhere before we ask her questions," said Harold, who, as I may have mentioned several times already, was my very best friend in the whole wide world. "She's a good deal unnerved by what happened."
"Oh," said Diane. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry, Daisy. Marianne and I are
just so... worried. We're unnerved, too."
"I can certainly understand that," said I in a voice barely registering above a whisper. "The séance was... an ordeal for many of us."
Mrs. Frasier, tsking, led me to the other end of the sofa from Marianne. "Here, dear, let me pour you some tea."
"Thank you." Knowing where my duty lay, I turned to Marianne. "I'm so sorry, Marianne. I had no idea what Rolly was going to say. And I don't know what he meant by what he did say."
She smiled wanly at me. "It's all right. I know you can't predict what the spirits will tell you."
Not always, but usually. I didn't say that. "That's true, but I hate it when they say things I don't understand. Or things that don't address the question asked, as Rolly did this evening." That was diplomatic, wasn't it?
Probably not. Bother.
"I understand, Daisy," said Diane, taking over for her daughter, still standing over me and wringing her hands. "Marianne and I are only rather confused about Rolly's message."
Completely understandable. So was I.
"Here you go, dear," said Mrs. Frasier, handing me a cup of tea that looked as if it had been well stocked with milk and sugar.
Harold intercepted the cup and saucer. "Here," he said, placing the saucer on the coffee table in front of the sofa and handing the cup to me, not letting go of it until he saw I had a firm grip on the handle. "I don't want you dropping anything."
"Thank you, Harold. Thank you, Mrs. Frasier." I sipped the tea.
It was good, and I discovered, after drinking the cup dry, it really did help to perk me up slightly. Therefore, as soon as I'd returned the cup to the saucer and taken a deep breath, I turned again to Diane, who once more sat next to Marianne on the sofa. The two women held hands and both appeared nervous.
I said, repeating myself, "I apologize, Marianne and Diane. I had absolutely no idea what Rolly was going to say, and I also have no idea what he meant by what he did say." I sucked in some air and let it out slowly. "Does... I mean, did Doctor Wagner have any other family besides you two and the two younger Wagner men? Brothers? Sisters? Aunts? Cousins? Anyone at all?"
As if this idea were a new and welcome one, Diane and Marianne exchanged a glance.
After a moment or two, Diane said, "Um... He has a brother, but they hadn't spoken in years. His brother's name is Arnold Wesley Wagner, and as far as I know, he lives in Mississippi. Or maybe it's some other southern state. They weren't close. No one was close to Doctor Wagner." Some bitterness crept into her last sentence.
