Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  The Good Shepherd Inn inched into view on the right. It was an old red-brick, three-storey hotel with what looked like converted stables out the back. The parking lot resembled a freshly opened sardine can but the valet took Honeycutt’s keys anyway and told us which door to use to find Reception.

  The engraved plaque next to the front door said the Good Shepherd Inn was owned by the Psychics’ Guild and had serviced visitors to MacVille Park since 1890. The walls of the lobby were covered in black-and-white photos of the park, mainly construction shots showing everything from a sizable dam to a partially built tract of residential houses, and included a team of white-gowned doctors and nurses standing outside a Victorian-style hospital.

  The revellers we’d passed so far had been clad in a weird mix of costumes but the lobby was packed full of people in nineteenth century dress. There were at least five Abraham Lincolns present but his was the only get-up I recognised so far.

  We got at the back of the line-up to the desk clerk. There were three couples ahead of us, all straining their ears to pick up every detail of the confrontation a short man in a sea captain’s outfit was having with the icy-faced clerk.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, sir. It is just not possible for me to find you any rooms tonight. The Inn is usually booked out at least two years in advance.’

  ‘You pasty-faced little weasel …’ The sea captain was winding up for a fight. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The clerk tried not to roll his eyes. ‘Sir, I’m sorry but …’

  ‘I’ve come all the way from New York to go to the Guild Ball tonight and I will not be fobbed off. My secretary made a booking for myself and my friends and …’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry but we have no record of your reservation and there are no rooms left. All I can suggest is that you try somewhere further away from the park …’

  ‘Then I insist on speaking to the manager.’

  The clerk tapped the desk bell once and one of the bellboys standing to attention along the side of the desk lunged forward. The sea captain and his crew were steered off to the manager’s office.

  ‘Next, please.’ The clerk beckoned us forward, his attitude a struggle between professional and exasperated. ‘May I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m Daniel Devereaux,’ said Honeycutt. ‘And David Selznick arranged —’

  ‘Ah, Mr Devereaux …’ said the clerk, relieved to be spared another useless confrontation. ‘Welcome to the Good Shepherd Inn. The Selznick suite is ready for your use.’ He checked a note pinned to his register. ‘Mr Selznick and his other guests have already left for Guild Hall, but Miss Lombard is still upstairs. Now, is there anything that you need? There is a bar upstairs and the room service menu …’

  ‘Do you have costumes for us?’ I said, willing him to spit out the right words. ‘Mr Selznick said you rented them out?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the desk clerk with not-so-polite disapproval. We were bad guests now, asking for the impossible. ‘Mr Selznick’s secretary did not mention that. I’m afraid we completely ran out the day before yesterday.’

  The clerk, now panting to get rid of us, didn’t wait for a reply, just tapped the bell again. A keen-faced young bellboy snapped to attention. ‘Please take our guests up to Room 215.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I insisted. ‘Isn’t there somewhere round here we could buy something to wear?’ There had to be!

  ‘Ma’am,’ replied the impatient clerk. A long line had formed behind us. ‘This is the single most important festival in the Guild’s history. Thousands of people will be entering the park tonight. I’m sorry but I don’t know where you could find anything at such short notice.’

  Bloody hell!

  We followed the young bellboy into the elevator.

  ‘How important are costumes anyway?’ said Honeycutt to the bellboy as I fumed.

  ‘They won’t let you in the Guild Ball without them, sir. However …’ An expression wise beyond his years appeared. ‘I think I could get you two outfits for the right …’ He left the sentence hanging.

  ‘The right price?’ offered Honeycutt.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The bellboy nodded. ‘If you would care to wait in your room I can bring them right up.’

  ‘Make it as quick as you can,’ I urged, pulling a hundred out and stuffing it in his willing hand. Otherwise I was going to go downstairs and mug and strip one of the Abraham Lincolns. Honeycutt could fend for himself.

  The bellboy uncrinkled the note in shock. He unlocked our door, flipped me the key and took off at a gallop.

  Room 215 was an old-fashioned suite filled with heavy dark Victorian furniture and green-and-cream wallpaper. The central room was a lounge room, the door off to the right led into a bedroom and the door off to the left was closed.

  ‘Carole must still be changing,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you wait here and take care of the bellboy? I’ll see if she knows anything about Renfrow and the séance.’

  ‘Okay.’ Honeycutt went over to the window and studied the police-lined gates.

  Carole Lombard was wearing a lacy cream bra, suspenders and sheer stockings over a killer body. Clark Gable must enjoy taking them off her. She was getting ready to slip on the cream, pink and green satin dress laid out on the bed.

  She gave me a saucy grin. ‘Kay, so you’re going to the festival too? Good gal! Now I’ll have someone intelligent to talk to …’ She checked the clock on the wall. ‘But, honey, you’d better hustle yourself and get changed. Everyone else has already left for Guild Hall.’

  ‘I can’t, our costumes haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘Our costumes? Who’s your date, anyone interesting?’

  ‘Daniel Devereaux.’

  ‘Yum, the luscious Frenchman? You’re going to have a good night. Can you gimme a hand?’

  I helped Carole slip the dress on then zipped it up. I stepped back and realised it was meant to be an orchid.

  ‘Why are you dressed as a flower? Everyone downstairs looks like they’re straight out of a dusty Victorian history book.’

  Carole shot me a surprised look. ‘Is this your first time at the Festival of the Shades?’

  I nodded.

  ‘This is a special orchid that only grows in the Shrine of Gloriata Rose.’ She smoothed the dress over her thighs as she checked its fit. ‘Most festivals we wear costumes that represent one of the ways the Psychics’ Guild uses to communicate with the other realms. But this year’s the centenary of Merlin Jones’ spiritual awakening … and he founded the Guild, so they’re encouraging visitors to wear costumes that celebrate his life.’

  That explained the nineteenth century gathering in the lobby. ‘I’ve heard that there’s going to be a séance after the ball.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the highlight of the festival, honey,’ said Carole. ‘Merlin Jones is going to give the Guild Council a special message at midnight.’

  I was guessing Jones had to be dead. ‘Just members of the Guild Council?’

  ‘They’ll be the only ones present … that’s what Merlin Jones stipulated.’

  Damn! So was Renfrow going to be at the séance or not? ‘I’d heard that there were going to be people other than the council present at the séance.’

  ‘Where did you hear that, Kay?’ Carole narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s supposed to be members only.’ She cursed. ‘The friggin’ council has no backbone!’

  Hmm. Time to change the topic. Carole obviously didn’t know anything about Renfrow attending the séance, and I was betting it wasn’t a good idea to give away that information.

  There was a rap at the bedroom door.

  I opened it to find the lounge room empty and the other bedroom door shut. There was a fresh pile of clothes flung across the sofa.

  I started sorting through. I had to cover my hair and face.

  ‘Not much here,’ said Carole, holding up a particularly ugly purple and orange hibiscus dress with one disdainful hand.

  ‘This is it,’ I said, laying a colourful Mexican skirt, peasant blous
e and a heavy black mantilla on the end of the sofa.

  We went back into the bedroom and Carole helped me dress.

  The skirt was long and red with turquoise and black trim. The peasant blouse was black and embroidered with red and turquoise flowers. The bellboy had been smart and I was lucky. Both pieces were loose enough to fit anyone and matched the black shoes I was already wearing. I plaited my hair and then draped the long black mantilla over the top. I could pull the ends up to cover my face if needed. I finished by slinging the black bag carrying my torch and gun back over my shoulder.

  We had to get out of here!

  ‘Olé, senorita,’ said Carole, with a click of pretend castanets. ‘Your black eyes are perfect …’ But her smile melted into a grimace when she caught sight of Honeycutt in the next room.

  He was in a grey Confederate soldier’s uniform … hat, boots, sword and all. He wore a short grey coat with gold trim on the short stiff collar, gold epaulets on the shoulders and two gold corporal stripes. The trousers were a matching grey with a gold stripe running down the outside seam to meet black ankle boots. His hat, which had crossed gold sabres on the front, was ready on the lounge while he adjusted the sword and scabbard attached to his belt.

  It was tight across the shoulders, a little loose at the waist and the sleeves were short, but otherwise it wasn’t too bad. Honeycutt had a soldier’s body and, when he wasn’t too busy flirting, the attitude that went with it.

  Carole frowned. ‘But, Daniel … why did you pick that costume?’

  Honeycutt nodded back at the bedroom behind him. Through the open door you could see an untidy pile of men’s garments strewn across the bed. ‘It’s the only one that comes close to fitting, Carole.’

  I checked her expression. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,’ said Carole unconvincingly. ‘We haven’t got time to do anything about it anyway.’

  33

  THE FESTIVAL OF THE

  SHADES

  As we edged our way through the crowded lobby, I leant into Honeycutt and whispered, ‘Don’t mention anything to Carole about us trying to get into the séance.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She said that the séance is supposed to only be attended by members of the Psychics’ Guild Council. When I mentioned that people outside the Guild might attend she was ready to detonate.’

  ‘But we need more information about where the séance will be held, in case they knock Selznick back …’

  ‘We’d better hurry,’ cut in Carole. ‘They won’t allow vehicles into the park tonight and it’s a bit of a hike to the Guild Hall on top of Mount Mortimer.’

  She froze, staring across the road at the gates.

  I lifted the mantilla to cover the lower half of my face.

  I hate crowds anyway, they make me claustrophobic, but now there were not only LAPD watching at the gates, there was a squad of them marching through.

  ‘Carole, there was a murder just up the road from here,’ said Honeycutt, nudging us both off the porch. ‘I think they’re searching for the culprit.’

  ‘But …’ said Carole.

  ‘It’s late,’ crooned Honeycutt persuasively. ‘Let’s talk on the way up.’

  We made it past the cops at the gate and entered the park, Honeycutt answering Carole’s questions about the murder as they went; me hanging back, face covered and searching for Muller.

  He was nowhere in sight.

  Good.

  Muller was a detective — surely he wouldn’t bother himself with the search?

  Twilight had finished but the way up into the dark hills around the foot of Mount Mortimer was lit with Victorian iron streetlights. Beyond them the line of oak trees fringing the cobbled road was strung with tiny lights, adding to the holiday atmosphere. The presence of the cops hadn’t taken the edge off everyone’s mood, if indeed most of them had even noticed.

  A yellow full moon hung over the ridge above us.

  Life-sized iron statues of men and women, garbed in the same nineteenth century clothes that I’d seen in the lobby of the Inn, lined both sides of the road. But there was only one I could identify: Abraham Lincoln. He was obviously a recurring theme around here.

  Honeycutt stopped in front of the statue next to Lincoln. It was an African-American with grave lion-eyes and a strong mouth.

  Honeycutt was frowning.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Frederick Douglass. He was an Abolitionist.’ Honeycutt studied the statues ahead. ‘Actually, I think they’re all Abolitionists.’

  ‘The Psychics’ Guild was founded by Abolitionists,’ said Carole.

  Honeycutt glanced down at his Confederate uniform then back at Carole. ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to wear this uniform tonight?’

  ‘It’s fine, Daniel,’ said Carole. ‘That uniform fits in with the history of the Guild. Don’t worry, it’s okay.’

  Honeycutt didn’t seem convinced, but then neither did Carole.

  It was too late to do anything about it, so we just moved back into the gaily-festooned mob winding their excited way up into the moonlit hills above.

  ‘How does the Abolition movement fit with the Psychics’ Guild?’ I asked.

  ‘Many of the Abolitionists were religious as well as political radicals. That’s why J. Edgar Hoover hates the Guild … and he keeps trying to have the festival banned. Hoover calls it Red Christmas. He says the Festival of the Shades is a communist celebration.’

  Honeycutt’s ears pricked up at the FBI director’s name.

  ‘Hoover considers the abolition of slavery a communist act?’ I said, eyebrows raised.

  I exchanged a glance with Honeycutt — J. Edgar Hoover was not a popular figure with the NTA marshals.

  In the early 1960s, when the fledgling NTA had been carving out a new place in the US government, J. Edgar Hoover had deliberately sabotaged it. As head of the FBI and the uncrowned king of the American justice and security services, he’d realised that a new authority with access to time travel could put him out of business.

  ‘That sounds just like Hoover,’ muttered Honeycutt. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that paper-shuffling son-of-a-bitch.’

  When the NTA had first started operating it’d been a law enforcement, as well as an intelligence-gathering, agency. Their field operatives had been US marshals drawn from the Department of Justice. J. Edgar Hoover had played on the fears of some politicians and blackmailed others to make sure Congress cut back the new organisation’s powers and purview.

  The NTA marshals had never forgiven him for it … Or the FBI.

  ‘Daniel.’ Carole raised a thin brow. ‘I didn’t realise J. Edgar was so unpopular in France?’

  Honeycutt just smiled, using all his dimples. While Carole stared at them, fascinated, he said, ‘So tell me, Carole, why does this Hoover person despise your lovely festival?’

  His French accent had become as thick as molasses.

  Behind her back I gave Honeycutt the finger down the throat sign.

  He grinned at me.

  ‘Because Merlin Jones was a socialist long before he became a spiritualist. He started a commune in upstate New York, just outside of Albany.’

  ‘So why did he become a spiritualist?’ I asked. It was a strange mix, surely?

  ‘Because of what the local landowners did to him. They attacked the commune … many died, the rest fled. His wife and children burnt to death in the fire …’

  ‘Oh God no,’ I groaned.

  ‘It gets worse. The local authorities, who also had it in for him, found Merlin comatose in the ashes of his house. When he didn’t die they had him committed to Mohawk Falls Lunatic Asylum. And that … they all thought … was the end of Merlin Jones.’ She shook her platinum-blonde head. ‘It was just the beginning … In May 1839, a hundred years ago tonight, the eight-year-old boy who shared his filthy cell died after being beaten by a drunken guard. The boy had been abandoned to the
asylum as a baby because he’d been born deaf and blind. Merlin said the boy’s pure soul rose up and healed him, the child’s gift to his only friend. That night Merlin Jones came back to full health and sanity … right in the middle of a Victorian lunatic asylum.’

  ‘And just how did he make it out of there?’ replied Honeycutt with well-camouflaged sarcasm. He wasn’t buying any of it.

  ‘Merlin Jones talked his way out. As well as being healed, Merlin now had the ability to communicate with the dead. He converted the asylum superintendent to his cause by channelling his dead wife. Apparently she didn’t like the way her husband was living — the drinking, the loose women, etc. The superintendent was shocked and impressed but eager to get rid of him.’

  ‘But why is J. Edgar Hoover griping about the festival,’ I said, ‘if it’s just to commemorate Merlin Jones’ religious awakening?’

  ‘Because after he got out of the asylum Merlin set up the Psychics’ Guild in the middle of one of New York City’s worst slums. During the day he helped the poor and at night Merlin collected funds and supporters through lectures on his new belief system.’

  ‘So he combined the two systems — socialism and spiritualism?’ I said. It sounded weird to me.

  ‘And he was very successful. You’ve got to imagine what an amazing story it was back then,’ replied Carole, excited. ‘First Merlin Jones was a political miscreant, then he was locked up in an insane asylum, broken at the deaths of his little ones … Now here he was, bigger and better than ever, with a supernatural talent that’d enabled him to talk his way out of hell. But the clincher was that he’d finish his political lectures by giving the audience messages from their loved ones.’

  ‘Really?’ Honeycutt gave me a cynical glance. ‘So if Jones did so well in New York why is the Guild here … in California?’

  She shrugged. ‘Merlin was a fire-eater … always had been. He trod on too many well-shod New York toes, so they shifted here in 1855 and started another commune in what is now called Glendale.’