by Alice Duncan
“I thought sure that was so,” she said. Mrs. Kincaid, on the other hand, was absolutely serious about this séance stuff. “You probably know some of my guests already.”
She was right about that, too. I’d done séances for a few of the other women there, and I also already knew Mr. Pinkerton and Father Frederick through other séances held at Mrs. Kincaid’s house.
This was, however, the first time I’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid’s son, Harold Larson Kincaid, since I’d grown up. He was one of the few rich men’s sons I’d met who had only three names, although two of them were last names. He seemed like a nice fellow, of middle height, sort of soft, with brown hair, hazel eyes that twinkled, and a jovial personality. He sure didn’t take after his dad, bless him.
Harold exemplified the modern male. To me, anyhow. Mind you, I didn’t really have any idea how the modern male was supposed to look except by reading the movie magazines, but even I could tell that he was dressed in a genuine, albeit casual, Palm Beach suit, complete with belt sewed on across his back and patch pockets. I imagined it was made of mohair or some other expensive fabric and that it must have set his mother back a pretty penny, unless Harold actually held a job, unlike all those lazy fellows in Mr. Fitzgerald’s books who only played at working. He was as sharp as a tack, in fact, and the sheen on him had been buffed to perfection.
“Mrs. Majesty!” His voice was high and loud, and his grin was really friendly. “It’s so good to meet you at last. Mother talks about you constantly. I seem to recall a little red-headed urchin selling blackberries at the back door a few years ago.” He shook my hand heartily.
I didn’t mind him bringing up my penniless past. What the heck; it was the truth and anyone who had lived in Pasadena for a while knew all about it. I grinned back at him. “That was me, all right. My sister Daphne and I used to pick berries and wheel them around to all the big houses in our wagon.”
He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s good that you changed professions, Mrs. Majesty. Blackberries are seasonal, but gullibility lasts forever.” He winked at me, and I knew he didn’t mean to be unkind. Nevertheless, I felt it would be prudent to take him to task.
“Why, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t know what you mean.”
He laughed. “Of course not. Here, Mrs. Majesty. Let me introduce you to someone.” He grabbed my hand and turned me around, and I darned near collapsed in a heap when, I swear to heaven, I saw Billy standing there. The impression lasted only a second, but it kicked my heart into high speed.
A soldier stood before the unlit fireplace, his back to me. He was talking to Father Frederick, and he was so tall and so slim and so jaunty, and he looked so much like Billy when I’d married him, that I felt like bursting into tears again. We Gumms are made of stern stuff, though, and I didn’t do anything so stupid.
Besides, when I looked at him harder, I realized the resemblance wasn’t as close as my first glimpse had led me to think. This man was a little taller than Billy and had shiny blond hair that curled like a girl’s. Billy’s hair was dark and straight. Also, this man looked much less rugged than Billy ever had. This guy had class. My Billy had class, too, but it was a different sort. This man would look right at home playing a violin in a symphony orchestra or dancing at a debutante ball. Billy, until the tragedy, would have been more comfortable swinging a baseball bat.
I had my nerves under control by the time we reached the man and Father Frederick. The good Father smiled at me warmly. We Gumms have always attended the First Methodist Episcopal Church on Marengo and Colorado in Pasadena, and I’ve never set foot in St. Mark’s, the Episcopal church on Washington between Los Robles and Garfield, but if all Episcopal priests are as nice as Father Frederick, I wouldn’t mind being an Episcopalian. I’d never tell my ma that, though. She thinks Episcopalians, like their Catholic kin, are idol-worshipers.
“Daisy Majesty,” Father Frederick said, taking both my hands in his and squeezing them. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. Quite spiritual.” He winked.
That’s another thing about Father Frederick: He might be a priest, but he isn’t judgmental, and he knows how to make a woman feel good about herself. It would be nice if more men, and not all of them priests, did.
Harold tipped Father Frederick a wink in his turn and turned to his friend, who wore the uniform of an Army First Lieutenant. I guess most girls are suckers for a man in uniform, but this fellow looked particularly good in his. Truth to tell, he was about the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, even including Billy, who was mighty good looking even in his wheelchair.
“Del,” said Harold, “look who I have here.”
The man named Del smiled at me. His smile was enough to make a good girl think bad thoughts.
“Mrs. Desdemona Majesty, please allow me to present my best friend, former Lieutenant Delroy Crowe Farrington. Del works at my father’s bank.” Another three-named rich man, only this time all three were last names. “Del, this is Mrs. Desdemona Majesty. She’ll be conducting Mother’s séance this evening.” Harold put his hand up to frame his mouth, as if he were imparting a big secret, and said to me, “Mother asked Del to wear his uniform tonight. She thought poor Bartholomew might be lured from beyond the grave more freely if he sensed another soldier present.”
Unable to do anything more cogent at the moment, I blinked and said, “Uh . . .”
Lieutenant Farrington took my hand and bowed over it. Just like a duke or a prince or something. I swallowed. Never, in my whole life, had I seen anything to rival him in looks or manners. “How do you do?” His voice was smooth and rich. I thought I detected a southern accent, but I’m no expert on such things.
Although I felt unusually tongue-tied I managed to say, “Very well, thank you,” as he lifted my hand and brushed it with his lips. Pasadena, California, wasn’t overflowing with hand-kissers, and I have to admit that my thundering heart stumbled a tad.
“You have a wonderful name, ma’am.”
After gulping—I’m usually pretty self-possessed because it goes with the job, but this guy was something else again—I said, “Thank you.” I almost added that I’d chosen the name myself, but decided not to. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Lieutenant Farrington couldn’t possibly have grown up in Pasadena, or I’d have known about him. Even though the rich kids didn’t play with my type, we knew what went on in town, and this fellow was new, or all the girls in Pasadena would have been talking about him long before this.
“Um,” I added, interested because of the Billy connection, “were you a soldier in the War?”
He grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. Thank God, I didn’t have to go farther afield than Cleveland, Ohio, during my term of service.”
I nodded, agreeing with him that his service had been fortunate, and wishing Billy’s could have been thus.
Luckily, Harold took over and guided the conversation away from the recent tragedy. “Daisy is a real master—or is it mistress? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Daisy is truly a master of the mystical arts, Del. You’ll love getting to know her.”
I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I didn’t even know Harold Kincaid; how the heck was I supposed to get to know Lieutenant Delroy Farrington? I murmured, “Nonsense,” because I thought I should.
“Just look at her!” Harold continued, flinging an arm out as if he were presenting me at a bathing-beauty pageant. “Isn’t she simply perfect?”
“Harry, you’re disconcerting the lady,” Mr. Farrington said, laughing.
“Not at all,” I said. Rather, I kind of stammered. Okay, it’s embarrassing, but the fact is that I wasn’t even twenty years old, and I still liked to look at, and be looked at by, handsome men. I know I was a married woman, and I know I shouldn’t even have noticed men like Lieutenant Delroy Farrington, but who could help it? Since Lieutenant Farrington still had hold of my hand, I shook his, recalling rather late that I was supposed to be meeting him, not gawking at him.
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Harold laughed, too. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Mrs. Majesty. I’m honestly impressed by your demeanor and elegance. If I were to dress a medium for a moving picture, I’d dress her just like you.”
“Thank you. I think.” In spite of myself, I was beginning to enjoy these attentions, probably because there was nothing malicious in Harold’s attitude, and he wasn’t being flirty, as some men were even when they knew I was married. Rather, it was as if he were complementing me on how well I’d created my mediumistic persona. I appreciated his appreciation.
Both men laughed again. “Harry’s impossible, Mrs. Majesty, but he works in the pictures, so he’s constantly thinking of things in terms of costuming and so forth.”
“I didn’t know that.” I looked upon Harold with more interest. “Your work must be fascinating, Mr. Kincaid.”
“It is, but I’m sure it’s not nearly as fascinating as yours.”
“I don’t know about that. My husband and I saw The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari last month, and it gave both of us the creeps for days afterwards. It was much scarier than anything I do.”
“Lord, I hope so.” Father Frederick crossed himself, but I think he was making a little joke.
Mrs. Kincaid rapped on a table to get everyone’s attention then, so we had to stop conversing. I wanted to find out more about the pictures, since they were about the only refuge I had in those days. Even with Billy accompanying me I could get lost in a good, engrossing moving picture. I saw Birth of a Nation six times when it played at the Crown Theater.
I’d have loved to talk to Harold about Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford and a lot of other actors and actresses, but I guessed I wouldn’t have a chance now. And, since we didn’t exactly run in the same circles, my chances of talking to him after tonight were minimal. It looked as though I’d have to keep reading the movie magazines.
Conversation ceased so fast at the sound of Mrs. Kincaid’s rap that my ears rang, and everyone in the room turned to look at her. I noticed expressions of mingled interest, fear, and amusement on many faces, which was typical. People pretended not to take my work seriously, but almost all of them weren’t quite sure about it.
“Everyone who’s attending the séance, let’s move to the dining room. It isn’t wise for Mrs. Majesty to communicate with the living too much before a séance, she tells me, because she has to maintain the spiritual aura she’s fostered during her prior meditations.”
“That’s rich,” murmured Harold at my side. “I’m terribly impressed, Mrs. Majesty.”
I decided I’d better not thank him again, because people had turned around and were now staring at me. Instead, I nodded graciously at Mrs. Kincaid and slathered on the mystical aura, knowing my black clothes, pale skin, and dark red hair added to the overall impression of ghostliness.
When Mrs. Kincaid spoke again, I started searching for Mrs. Lilley in the room. She was standing against a far wall and looked as if she wished she could disappear. I felt really bad for her and vowed that I’d help her if I could.
A few people started moving to the drawing room door, so I turned to Harold and Mr. Farrington. “I must leave now. It’s been a pleasure meeting both of you.”
Mr. Farrington shook my hand like the gentleman he was. Harold pumped it as if he were trying to get water to spout. Father Frederick, who never attended my séances, smiled one of his sweet smiles at me.
Harold said, “I intend to cultivate your acquaintance, Mrs. Majesty. You’re too precious to lose.”
Whatever that meant. But it gave me something to think about as I wafted to the door and down the hall.
# # #
I always entered the séance room before my guests because I needed to make sure everything was set up the way I wanted it. Not that there was much more to set up than the cranberry lamp, but I liked to settle in; get myself in the mood, if you know what I mean. Maybe this quiet time might be considered meditation. I don’t know, but I needed it, especially since I hated conducting séances in this room. I preferred to hold them in the drawing room, but that room was full of people tonight.
The dining room bothered me, perhaps because it had a musician’s gallery hanging out over the table. I know it sounds silly coming from a medium, but the darned gallery spooked me. I always had the feeling someone was lurking up there, and the feeling gave me shivers. I did think that somebody like Mary Roberts Rinehart might use a gallery like that in one of her books. She could have a body fall out of it during a séance, for instance.
Never mind. My imagination carries me away sometimes.
Be that as it may, I wasn’t going to give up a paying job just because the ambience in which I had to do it made my spine tingle. A Gumm knows better. Therefore, after I made sure the lamp was low enough and the chairs were the proper distance apart, I removed my hat and my black gloves—according to my spiel, you need a flesh-on-flesh connection if you expected to communicate with the spirits—and went to the door and opened it. I always ushered folks in to let them know who was in charge. I was, after all, not quite twenty; I needed all the help I could get in the being-in-charge department.
Good old Featherstone stood on the other side of the open door. Now he never had any trouble looking as though he were in charge, even when he wasn’t. He stood there, as stiff as stone, with his nose and chin in the air as if he didn’t care to look at the people he worked for, and ushered all the ladies and gents into the room. He was a master of his art, old Featherstone. I admired him tremendously.
Mrs. Kincaid stood beside her sister, holding Mrs. Lilley by the hand. Poor Mrs. Lilley looked as if she’d have rather been anywhere and doing pretty much anything other than this. I took pity on her.
Smiling courteously, as usual, I extended a hand to her. “Please come in, Mrs. Lilley. I assure you, this won’t be difficult.”
Reluctantly, the woman entered the room. She didn’t return my smile, but I didn’t hold that against her. I felt too sorry for her for that.
“Where would you like me to sit?” Her voice was low and it sounded as reluctant as she appeared.
“Beside me, if you please,” I answered, sitting at the head of the table and waving at the chair to my left.
She walked slowly to the chair I’d indicated and sank into it with a sigh. Her every movement seemed to be carried out with difficulty, as if it were hard for her to come up with the strength to exist, much less move. I patted her hand and gave her a soothing smile, hoping to impart some of my strength to her.
Mrs. Kincaid sat at my right. The darned gallery loomed over all of us like the wing of an enormous black bat. I saw Harold and Lieutenant Farrington enter the room. They sat together opposite me. Harold grinned like an imp, although Lieutenant Farrington appeared sober enough. Good thing. It would be terrible if I burst out laughing when I was supposed to be summoning the dead. It was also a good thing that the light was so low I wouldn’t have Lieutenant Farrington’s gorgeous face to ignore. It was difficult enough to maintain my air of mystery and mastery with Featherstone standing beside the door, looking superior.
After everyone had settled into their chairs, which always took a while, although I don’t know why, Featherstone shut the door and I scanned my audience. Mrs. Walsh was there; her husband had made a fortune manufacturing chewing gum. The Walshes lived in an estate an acre or two down the street from the Kincaids and had a huge orange grove behind their house. It smelled really good on Orange Grove Boulevard in the springtime. I’d done two séances for Mrs. Walsh that had gone quite well. There were a couple of new faces, and I hoped they’d be impressed enough to hire me, too. Every time I did a séance, I picked up new customers. It was one of the benefits of my line of work.
When chit-chat ceased, which happened after everyone realized I was being silent and staring at them—it always unsettled them—I spoke in my cultured, low, séance voice. “I’m going to ask Featherstone to turn the electrical lights off now.” I nodded at the butler, who only acknowledged m
y request by carrying it out. He didn’t even glance at me. I always got the impression Featherstone didn’t admire me as much as I admired him.
The room went black. It was only after folks got used to the decreased level of light that the red lamp made an impression.
“Everyone please take hands,” I instructed, keeping my voice soft and as mysterious as possible. “We are going to attempt to communicate with Mrs. Lilley’s son this evening.” Because I felt so sorry for her, I squeezed her hand lightly. I don’t know for sure, but I think she appreciated the gesture, because she returned the pressure.
Somebody sighed and somebody else coughed. Things like that always happened. Stray noises had stopped bothering me about seven years before. I didn’t pay any attention to them any longer.
“In order to communicate with the spirits, I will have to go into a trance-like state. If the spirits are happy with us, my control will join us soon. I will need absolute silence in the meantime.”
It was stuff and nonsense, of course. They could have chattered away like magpies and it wouldn’t have made any difference, because it was all a sham. I’d come to understand that people needed the trappings that went along with the séance, though, so I always strove to give them a good show.
A few shuffles of a few feet constituted silence according to these séance attendees. I could tell the group was receptive and that they were eager for me to commune with their ghosts. Sometimes you could sense a skeptic in the group, but this time everything seemed fine and dandy. The red lamp did its part in mesmerizing people. After a little while of thinking about spirits and staring at the red lamp, almost anyone could conjure up a ghost if he tried hard enough. I moved my act along by slumping slightly in my chair after a few minutes of maintaining relative quiet in the room.
Mrs. Kincaid, who had been through this before and knew what my slump presaged, tightened her hold on my right hand. It hurt a little, but since I was supposed to be falling under the influence of Rolly—Raleigh—whoever he was—I didn’t flinch. On my left, Mrs. Lilley’s hand fluttered slightly, as if she were unsure what was going on.
