Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3)

by Joanne Pence

But right now, it was Shay’s hacking skills he needed. Shay would be able to find out things about Neda Fourman’s life that not even Homicide could learn. And if “call me Sandy” had anything to do with it, Shay would find that out as well.

  o0o

  That same morning, Rebecca went through her notes about Neda Fourman. The review confirmed that there was no reason for her and Sutter to have questioned Neda’s death as anything but natural. She was simply an old woman who’d had a heart attack.

  Rebecca called her contacts in the Los Angeles Police Department to find out what she could about Betty Faroni’s death. There again, a heart attack, no question about it. They also had nothing on Sandor Geller.

  Rebecca wondered if she really wanted to pursue this, or just drop it. On the one hand, she had no case. Despite what might or might not have happened in Los Angeles, Neda Fourman’s death appeared as natural as any elderly person’s with a heart condition. And for that matter, so did Betty Faroni’s.

  But, what if Richie was right? There could be four old ladies all biting the dust a wee bit earlier than nature intended: not only Neda Fourman and Betty Faroni, but also the unnamed woman Richie simply referred to as “Betty’s girlfriend,” and, possibly, the woman with the funeral fit for a pauper last week.

  Although she was probably wasting her time, Rebecca picked up the phone and got through to Geller’s secretary—a woman who sounded awfully cheerful for someone who worked around séances and, supposedly, the dead. Rebecca set up a meeting with Sandor Geller at 5 p.m. to discuss Neda Fourman who, at least, had once been her case.

  At the appointed time, she went to his suite of offices in a Victorian-style house on Octavia Street near Vallejo. With its dark blue, purple and white gingerbread facade, a turret, and gabled windows, it looked like the perfect place to hold a séance.

  The interior appeared to have been completely renovated. Despite the Victorian furniture and faux oil lamps, it was set up like an office suite. The young, teeth-achingly perky receptionist led her from the parlor/reception area through a long corridor. On the left she passed open double doors that looked in on a generous room with a sofa, comfortable chairs, a large round table, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with thick, serious-looking tomes. She wondered if Sandy held his group sessions there.

  On the right, a row of offices gave insight to the size of Geller’s business. Answering phone calls, emails, and requests for private meetings and public appearances seemed to require a couple of people full time, plus a bookkeeper.

  All this was quite amazing for someone who held public performances at what was essentially an old, run-down theater smaller than many high school auditoriums.

  At the end of the hall, the receptionist had her enter Geller’s surprisingly sterile office, with a desk, and a small sitting area with a leather-covered sofa, chair, and coffee table. One modern painting filled with red and yellow lines and squares hung on a wall. As she took the chair by the sofa, the receptionist offered tea or coffee. She chose coffee.

  Some ten minutes later, the doorknob turned, and Sandor Geller walked in. He was casually dressed in jeans and a blue pullover. She stood. As they introduced themselves, she saw he was older than he had appeared on stage where he wore make-up, with freshly washed and blow-dried hair that flopped youthfully about. Now, she could see age lines on his face, as well as weariness and redness in his eyes.

  After preliminary pleasantries, he sat down on the sofa. “So tell me, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  She had to admit that even bloodshot, there was something intriguingly intense about his blue-eyed stare. “I’m looking into the death of a woman named Neda Fourman. Does her name mean anything to you, Mr. Geller?”

  “Call me Sandy,” he said, and then his face took on an expression of benevolence and dismay. “Ah, yes. Neda. She was a complete delight. An older woman, rather sickly, as I recall. But she died many weeks ago. That can’t be why you’re here, can it?” Then, as if he’d just been goosed, he sprang to his feet. “I just realized—you’re in homicide. That doesn’t mean there was something suspicious about her death, does it?”

  She all but gawked at him. Was this guy always acting? Never before did a person she was interviewing need to remind himself that she was in homicide. “If there was nothing suspicious, I wouldn’t be involved, Mr. Geller.”

  “Call me—”

  “Sandy,” she said quickly.

  He sat again, his eyebrows knitted as if he were greatly troubled, and his voice barely above a whisper. “You aren’t thinking she was murdered, are you?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. “What can you tell me about Ms. Fourman?”

  “There’s not really a lot for me to say. She was sweet, never married. But there was a man she had pined over for most of her life. Unfortunately, he had a wife, and so she simply loved him from afar. He was rather young when he died, only sixty, and she wanted to know if he had ever thought of her.”

  Rebecca was sure she knew the answer, but still asked. “Had he?”

  He smacked his hands together as if in prayerful joy and with a face filled with compassion said, “Oh, yes. I was able to contact him and we learned that he had been quite in love with her, but he never felt he was good enough for her. That was the reason he never acted on that love.”

  “When you say you ‘contacted’ him, you mean …?”

  “Yes. On the other side.”

  “I see.”

  “It was all quite sad.” Sandy looked almost as melancholy as he had on stage. “But once she learned how he’d felt, it actually made her happy. She knew she hadn’t spent a lifetime being foolish.”

  “So she saw you once and you were able to do all that for her?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, Inspector! I can tell you know little about mediums. Think of it this way. Suppose, in an ocean filled with drops of water—for that’s easily the number of spirits floating about out there in Heaven, or The Great Beyond, or the Wheel of Life, or whatever you want to call it—someone comes and asks you to find one particular droplet. It would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, the good news is that the person doing the asking already has formed some sort of a connection to that particular spirit. Think of it as a thread, a very thin thread, between their subconscious. It’s my job to take hold of that thread and carefully pull it towards the person, doing my best not to break it. But often it breaks, and then we have to establish the connection once again another time.”

  “So her thread broke over and over?” Rebecca asked.

  He laughed again. She was growing really sick of all his guffaws. “It sounds so crude when you put it that way. I’m afraid it did take awhile to connect with him, but once his spirit came to her, through me of course, how very happy she was. She came back a number of times simply to meet with him again.”

  “I see. And what was his name?”

  At that, Geller sent a text to his secretary to find the Fourman file and bring it to him.

  “While we’re waiting for that information,” Rebecca said, “tell me about the Sandoristas.”

  This time, his chuckle turned into a loud belly laugh. Something was seriously wrong with this guy. “A fellow who came to one of my group sessions in Los Angeles first used the term, and it stuck. That’s all.”

  “But people join the group.”

  “They do. In great numbers. Very great numbers. Since I can’t do everything, it’s basically a self-help bunch. We have a monthly newsletter, and a number of local chapters throughout the country. Members get to know lots about each other while in the sessions, and before you know it, many become friends, sharing good times and bad with each other as well as each other’s spirits. It’s really quite remarkable.”

  “I would say so,” Rebecca muttered.

  “Yes, and it gets even better when their spirits become friends with each other as well. So now, people in the group know that their loved ones have company in
the afterworld.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  He began to laugh again, but abruptly stopped as he realized she was being sarcastic. “You aren’t a believer.” His voice held not only dismay, but also peevishness.

  “I’m afraid not. From what I’ve seen working Homicide, I think it’s just fine that some murderers end up as nothing more than dust. And good riddance to them.”

  “That, my dear Inspector Mayfield, is what Hell is all about.”

  “Touché,” she said.

  He smiled and studied her a moment. “You intrigue me. You're a student of death, I'm a student of what happens after death. If you’re free, I would love to carry on this conversation over dinner. I have a favorite French restaurant just a few blocks from here, and if you could accompany me, I would be most overjoyed.”

  He was on his guard here in the office, clearly acting, and she wondered if he might be more relaxed and open away from it. Also, talking to him did bring back some of her latent interest in psychic phenomena. “Overjoyed?” She couldn’t help but tease at his use of the word. “How can I say no to that? And it is almost dinner time.”

  He gave her a broad, deep-dimpled smile. “Wonderful. It’s also the cocktail hour, so I hope you’ll consider yourself off duty by the time we get there.”

  “That’s very possible,” she said.

  Just then, his secretary stepped into the room and handed him a folder.

  He looked perplexed a moment, and faced Rebecca. “Ah, what was it I was supposed to look up for you?”

  “The name of the man Neda Fourman spent her life in love with. The one whose spirit came to her.”

  “Oh, yes. Poor old Neda.” He opened the folder and flipped through several pages. “Here he is, Kenneth Neary.”

  She jotted down the name, and then closed her notebook. “Done.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Richie was at Big Caesar’s nightclub talking to the bartender when one of his bouncers came up to him. Lenny Deeds was huge, with short blond hair and a neck about the size of Richie’s waist. Richie had given the fellow a task to do that day, well before the club opened.

  “I’m back, boss,” Lenny said.

  “Let’s go to my office.”

  Once there, Richie shut the office door and offered Lenny a healthy shot of whiskey. Lenny downed it in one gulp.

  “What do you have?”

  Lenny handed over his digital camera with a telephoto lens. Richie began to go through the photos of everyone coming and going from Sandor Geller’s offices on Octavia Street. In the few photos provided, he recognized no one until, in a photo taken late in the day, he saw a person he knew very well.

  “Inspector Mayfield?”

  “Yeah, boss. I knew you’d be interested in seeing that.”

  Richie was glad to know she took his suspicions seriously, and was investigating the guy in person.

  He continued through a couple more photos. When he reached the last one, his eyebrows rose. It was a photo of Mayfield and Geller leaving the office together. “What’s this all about?” he grumbled.

  “She left the office with him about quarter to six. I figured nobody else would be going to see him if he wasn’t even there, so I followed them. They walked to a cocktail bar a couple blocks away.”

  That was the last thing Richie was expecting. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I was getting thirsty, so I went in, too. She had a Mai Tai, and he had straight shots.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “About seven.”

  So they were at a bar about an hour, Richie thought. Rebecca was probably quizzing the guy—maybe because she thought she’d get more out of him after he’d had a couple of drinks. “Okay, good. Thanks.” He started towards the door to send Lenny back to his regular job since the club was about to open.

  “Then they went over to a French restaurant,” Lenny added squeamishly.

  Richie froze mid-way across the office. “They what?”

  “It’s a small, pricey place, you know, and they sat near a window, so I was able to watch pretty easy. They was just getting the soup when I decided I better get over here for my job. It’s one of those places where the food comes slow, you know, and a different kind of wine is brought out with each dish.”

  Richie ran a hand along the back of his head. “Christ, almighty.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lenny said, his mouth downturned. “There’s really places like that. Kind of wasteful if you ask me, but—”

  “I know there are.” Richie realized his voice sounded a bit harsh and Lenny was only trying to help. “Anyway, how were they acting? Did it seem like they were talking business or what?”

  Lenny gave him a strange look as he rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure, boss. I mean, I know she used to come here to see you and all.”

  “She never came here to see me,” Richie assured him. “It was always about business.”

  “Oh.” Lenny nodded. “Well, in that case, they were looking pretty damn chummy.”

  Richie poured himself a straight shot, this one even larger than Lenny’s had been. “Tell you what. You go back over there and watch them. Let me know when they leave, and where they go. Or, I should say, where Inspector Mayfield goes. It’s important.”

  “Sure, boss. But what about the club’s front door?”

  “I’ll cover it myself if necessary,” Richie raged. “Now, go!”

  He slugged down the whiskey and when he looked up again, Lenny was gone.

  o0o

  Rebecca found Sandy to be a surprisingly interesting man. In the cocktail lounge, he told her a lot about himself—how he realized he had a gift as a child and all that he went through to build a reputation for himself.

  He had met a number of famous psychics and demonologists, including the Warrens, and told Rebecca about them as people. She found it so fascinating that she was glad to continue the conversation over dinner.

  Sandy suggested L’Auberge, which she knew to be pricey. “Dressed like this?” she asked, looking at both their jeans.

  “They know me,” he said.

  She nodded.

  The restaurant was small and dimly lit with a dark, rustic decor. They were seated at a candle-lit table by the window. She took a look at the French menu, no prices on hers, and decided to let him order for them both.

  After their wine was served, Rebecca asked one of the primary questions she’d always had about séances: “For many years now, magicians have shown how easy it is to replicate feats performed at séances, so, why believe in them?”

  Sandy steepled his fingers and smiled confidently. “Yes, it’s true. Many mediums are fakes, but we must consider this: to use science, a study and subject devoted entirely to the material and physical realm to prove that something “extra-sensory” and non-physical exists, is ridiculous on its face.

  These days, he explained, improved technology provided a number of techniques to measure and test psychic phenomena. But interestingly, teams of researchers and institutes have been unable to prove that psychic phenomena does not exist. Once they threw out those cases where fraud was found, and studied only what remained, while no case had yet been conclusively proven to be authentic, at the same time, no fraud was proven either.

  “You’re saying it’s a standstill,” Rebecca said.

  “I’m saying it’s impossible to scientifically prove the supernatural exists, which is why it’s ‘supernatural.’ Also, mediums these days don’t use those old magic tricks of the past. They’re nice theater, but that’s it.”

  “So what do you use?” she asked.

  “Mostly channeling. The key is to naturally communicate with the spiritual world. In fact, I’d love to show you what I’m talking about. There’s a house in Half Moon Bay where the spirit haunting it is very strong and even has a physical presence that many people have seen. I’m meeting a photographer there tomorrow to take a number of photos for a television special. I’ve had contact with the ghost that
lives in the house several times. I haven’t actually seen her, but I know she’s been near. I’m sure, even a skeptic like you will feel her presence.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes. The wife.” Just then the waiter showed up with their first course, leek soup. “I need to be there about six tomorrow evening. We want some photos with the sun setting over the Pacific, and the ghost appears most often in the evening hours. Please say you’ll come with me. I’ll tell you all about it when we’re there. It’ll be an experience you’ll never forget, I promise.”

  Scenes from old movies she used to thrill over, like The Haunting of Hill House and The Turn of the Screw, filled her head. “I’m in,” she said. “No doubt about it.”

  o0o

  Richie’s evening was pure hell. He kept expecting Lenny to get back to the nightclub any minute with news that Inspector Mayfield was home, tucked in bed, alone. But Lenny didn’t.

  Richie rarely touched alcohol when at work, and often nursed one drink the entire evening—a gin and tonic without the gin. But as more time passed, the more his imagination went into overdrive and he kept going back to his office for another shot.

  Not that he cared that she was out with a stinking rich, world-famous jerk who was wining and dining her, trying to lure her to who-knows-where, to do who-knows-what. Richie didn’t care about that at all. It wasn’t as if he and Rebecca would ever work as a couple. Not with the kind of guy he was, and the kind of woman she was. Oil and water had nothing on them.

  His only concern was that she might be out with a psychotic killer. And he was the one who put her onto the smarmy SOB.

  Midnight had come and gone before Lenny returned, his feet aching. He’d had to abandon his look-out vehicle because after the dinner, Mayfield and Geller went walking. They kept stopping in art galleries all around Union Square, and ended up at a bistro where they drank Irish coffees before finally getting into a cab.

  “A cab?” Richie asked, his fingers curling into fists. He had half a mind to send Lenny through a nearby window, but he knew better than to shoot the messenger. “Where did they go?”