The cost of the psychic profile was a hundred dollars in U.S. funds, payable in advance.
I was stuffing a copy of this intriguing offer into my jacket pocket when Frank Gloriana returned. He saw at once what I was doing.
“Our new project,” he said. “What do you think?”
“It makes no promises,” I observed.
“Oh no,” he said quickly, “no promises. The profile merely analyzes and suggests directions the subject might wish to take that could possibly enrich their lives. It is a serious attempt to provide psychic counseling. I assure you it is not a bunko scheme.”
“I never thought for a moment it was.”
“We’ve just started,” he said, “but the response to newspaper and magazine ads has encouraged me to plan a direct-mail campaign. I think it could turn out to be a very successful enterprise, and that’s the reason I may need legal advice on setting up a separate business venture.” He paused and laughed: a thin, toneless ha-ha. “But you didn’t come to listen to my business problems. Hertha is available now. Follow me, please.”
He led the way through that inner portal, down a short hallway to an interior room. The door stood open, and I could see the chamber was furnished more as a residential sitting room than a commercial office. A young woman—younger than Frank Gloriana by at least five years, I guessed—rose from a high-backed mauve-and-aqua wing chair as we entered.
“Dear,” he said, “this gentleman is Archibald McNally. Mr. McNally, my wife, Hertha. I’ll leave you two alone.”
And he left us, closing the hall door softly behind him.
She floated to me and offered a hand so soft and tender I feared I might crush it in my sinewy paw.
“Mrs. Gloriana,” I said, “this is a pleasure.”
I had always imagined a medium as an older woman, heavy through the bosom and hips, with dyed and frizzled hair, caked makeup, a frowsy appearance, and perhaps the overwhelming scent of patchouli. In this case, all wrong. Hertha Gloriana was, if you will pardon the wordplay, a very rare medium indeed.
She was definitely a Pre-Raphaelite type, with a nimbus of chestnut hair, skin as white and smooth as wax, and features so classic they might have graced a coin. There was something ethereal in her beauty, I thought, and something delicate and unworldly in her manner. She moved slowly with a languid ease, and if she had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. She was so insubstantial, you see.
“Mr. McNally,” she murmured, voice low and breathy, “Frank has told me why you are here. Perhaps I can help. Perhaps. But I cannot promise. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said, trying to determine the exact shade of her eyes. Periwinkle blue, I finally decided. “I would appreciate your trying.”
“What is the cat’s name?”
“Peaches.”
“Female?”
“Yes.”
“What breed?”
“Persian, I believe.”
“Describe her, please.”
“Plump. Silver-gray with tabby markings.”
“How old?”
“I don’t really know,” I confessed. “Perhaps five years.”
“Affectionate?”
“Not really. Not with strangers.”
She nodded. “Please leave your address and phone number with my husband. If I’m able to do anything, he will contact you.”
Apparently our consultation was at an end, but she continued to stare at me. Our eyes were locked, and her gaze was so intent and unblinking that I wanted to look away but could not.
She came close. She was wearing a light floral scent. She put a hand gently on my arm. “You are troubled,” she said.
“About the cat? Well, yes. This close friend of mine is very—”
“No,” she interrupted, “not the cat. You, personally, are troubled.”
“Not really,” I said, my short laugh sounding nervous to me. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She continued to stare. “Two women, two loves,” she said. “That is troubling you.”
I wasn’t impressed; it smacked too much of a fortune teller on a carnival midway. Many men—at least many I know—are frequently involved with more than one woman. It’s hardly a unique situation, is it? Mrs. Gloriana was not demonstrating any special clairvoyant talent.
She stepped back and smiled: a tremulous smile, very vulnerable. “Do not worry,” she told me. “The problem will eventually be solved.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
“But not by you,” she added. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. McNally. I’ll do my best to get a message about Peaches.”
“Thank you,” I said and-turned away. I was at the door when I looked back. I hadn’t heard her move but she was seated again in the high-backed wing chair, regarding me gravely. I made up my mind.
“Mrs. Gloriana,” I said, “Lydia Gillsworth has told me of the meetings she attends during which you are sometimes able to contact those who are—who are—”
“Dead,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if I might possibly sit in at one of your gatherings. I find the whole concept fascinating.”
Her stare never wavered. “Very well,” she said softly. “Ask Lydia to bring you to our next session. She knows the time and place.”
“Thank you,” I said again and left her sitting there, distant and complete.
There was a middle-aged couple in the waiting room, holding hands. And Frank Gloriana was seated behind the desk, impassive and doing nothing.
“Your wife said she’d let me know if she is able to help,” I told him and handed over my card.
He glanced at it. “You wish to be billed at your office, Mr. McNally?”
All business, this lad.
“Please,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance.”
I went out into the corridor. I had a lot of impressions I needed to sort out, but there was something I wanted to do first.
When I had entered the office, Frank Gloriana had stalled me by saying the medium was busy with a client. Then, after a period of time, he reported she was now available. But I had seen no client leave the office.
That was understandable if there was another exit from the Gloriana suite. Psychiatrists frequently have such an arrangement to protect the privacy of their analysands. I mean, it would be a bit off-putting, would it not, to enter a shrink’s office and bump into your spouse, lover, or boss coming out.
So, before I pushed the elevator button, I roamed the fourth-floor corridor looking for another doorway to the Gloriana offices. There was none. Which probably meant that Hertha had not been busy with another client when I arrived.
There were several innocent explanations. Frank Gloriana’s prevarication might mean nothing.
Or it might mean something.
Chapter 5
ON MY WAY BACK to the McNally Building I stopped at Harry Willigan’s office. He was in his usual vile mood, and I wondered if he got his disposition from Peaches or if the cat had learned how to be nasty from her master.
He demanded to know what progress I was making in the search for his beloved pet. Very little, I told him, but my investigation would be aided if he’d let me have a photocopy of the ransom note.
“What the hell for?” he screamed at me.
I explained as patiently as I could that I wanted the letter analyzed by an expert. The vocabulary and grammar might enable the specialist to make some shrewd guesses as to the education, occupation, nationality, and social status of the writer. That wasn’t total kaka, of course; there are analysts who can glean such information from the language of a document.
Finally, Willigan had his receptionist make a photocopy for me. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket along with the Gloriana flier. Then I left as quickly as I could, with Willigan shouting obscene threats of the mayhem he’d wreak if he ever got his hands on those effing catnappers. I believed him.
/> Back in my office, I found a message on my desk asking me to call Connie Garcia as soon as possible.
“Archy,” she wailed, “about tonight—Lady Horowitz wants me to come back here after dinner and go over the budget for the Fourth of July shindig with her.”
“Aw,” I said, “that’s too bad. Want to postpone our date?”
“No,” she said definitely. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Instead of driving to Lantana for chili, we’ll grab a bite at the Pelican Club and you can get me back here by eight-thirty or so. Okay?”
“Sure,” I said, much relieved that I wouldn’t have to incinerate my uvula two nights in a row. “But I guess that means no fun and games later. I’m disappointed.”
“Me, too,” she confessed. “It’s been so long that every time I sneeze, dust comes out my ears.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” I said.
Long pause. Then, suspiciously:
“You haven’t been making nice-nice with that Meg Trumble, have you, Archy?”
“Who?”
She sighed. “Now it’s coming out your ears, and it’s not dust. If I discover you’ve been cheating, you know what’ll happen to you, don’t you?”
“I’ll be singing soprano?”
“You’ve got it, son,” she said. “See you tonight.”
She hung up, and I sat there a few minutes remembering that her Latin temper was not to be trifled with. Once, during our initial liaison, she had caught me dining with another young lady and had dumped a bowl of linguine Bolognese on my head. Took me a week of shampoos to get rid of all those damned chicken livers.
It was a dangerous game I was playing, I reflected mournfully, and wondered if a vow of celibacy might be the answer. But then I recalled Hertha Gloriana’s prediction: my problem would eventually be solved, and not by me. A welcome thought. I had enough bad habits without adding chastity.
I took the Gloriana flier from my pocket and reread it. Mommy didn’t raise her boy to be an idiot, and my first reaction was that the offer of individualized psychic profiles was a scoundrelly con game. I figured the Glorianas had printed up a standard profile they mailed back to all the suckers, similar to those canned horoscopes you can buy at newsstands.
But, despite my cynicism, I found it hard to believe Hertha Gloriana was an out-and-out swindler. Husband Frank—the business manager—could be a flimflam artist capable of cutting a shady deal. But not Hertha, not that soft, vulnerable waif. Her eyes were too blue. How’s that for logical deduction?
But there was a way I could test Hertha’s bona fides, and I resolved to launch my mini-plot that evening. I was certain Connie Garcia would cooperate. She’d think it was a hoot.
Musing about the Glorianas and the apparently thriving business they owned, I realized how little I knew about parapsychology. I decided it was time I learned more about what I was investigating. I phoned Lydia Gillsworth. It was then almost noon.
“Oh, Archy,” she said after an exchange of cordial greetings, “I do hope this isn’t about that stupid letter I received.”
“Not at all,” I said, lying valiantly. “This call includes a confession and a request. I was so interested in what you told me about Hertha Gloriana the other day that I went to see her this morning. I used your name shamelessly. I hope you don’t object.”
“Of course not. Isn’t she a remarkable woman?”
“She is that,” I said. “And lovely.”
“Careful, Archy,” Mrs. Gillsworth said, laughing. “Hertha is happily married, and Frank carries a gun.”
That shook me. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“He says it’s just a precaution. Sometimes they have to deal with irrational or deeply disturbed people.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “The lunatic fringe.”
“Exactly,” she said. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you consult Hertha?”
I told her my loopy story about the close friend whose beloved cat was missing and how I had asked Mrs. Gloriana to visualize the pet’s present whereabouts. Lydia didn’t think my request unusual at all.
“I’m sure Hertha will be able to help,” she said. “She’s very good at locating lost things. She told Laverne Willigan where to find her pearl earrings.”
I suspect that if I had been wearing dentures they might have popped out at that moment. I know my jaw flopped open and I stared about wildly to make certain the world was still there.
“And where were the earrings?” I asked hoarsely.
“Behind her dresser drawer. They had caught on the inside molding.”
“I know Mrs. Willigan,” I said as casually as I could. “Her husband is a client of ours. Does Laverne attend those séances Mrs. Gloriana holds?”
“Oh yes, she never misses a session.”
I didn’t want to push it any farther.
“That’s another part of my confession, Mrs. Gillsworth,” I said. “I asked Hertha if I might sit in on one of your meetings. She said I could, and have you bring me to the next gathering.”
“Of course,” she said. “As a matter of fact, there’s one tonight at seven o’clock.”
“Ah, what a shame,” I said. “I have a dinner date I dare not break. Well, I’ll make certain I’m at the next one, with your kind assistance. And now the request: I’d like to learn more about spiritualism, and I wondered if you had any books on the subject you’d be willing to lend me. Return guaranteed. I’m especially intrigued about the possibility of contacting those who have, uh, departed this life for existence on another plane.”
“Oh, Archy, I have a whole library of books on the subject. You’ll find them fascinating, I’m sure. Suppose I select three or four that will give you the basic information on our beliefs.”
“I’d certainly appreciate that. When may I pick them up?”
“Let me see... I have a little shopping to do, but I should be back around two o’clock. Can you stop by then?”
“Love to. Thank you so much for all your help, Mrs. Gillsworth.”
I drove home for lunch and found I had the McNally manse to myself. Mother and the Olsons had departed on a shopping safari to replenish our larder, but a note left on the kitchen table informed me that a Caesar salad, heavy on the garlic, had been prepared for my pleasure and was chilling in the fridge.
I had a glass of California chablis with the salad and popped a few fresh strawberries for dessert. Then I trudged upstairs to my digs, donned my reading specs, and placed the photocopy of Peaches’ ransom note next to the poison-pen letter sent to Lydia Gillsworth. I compared them carefully, and to my inexpert eye they definitely appeared to have been composed on the same machine.
Even more telling, both documents included the word “horrendous.” That is not an adjective commonly used in written communications. What could I think but that both letters had quite likely been written by the same person? It was not hard evidence, I admit, but I was more convinced than ever that the catnapping and the threats against Mrs. Gillsworth were somehow connected.
I started to scrawl notes in my journal about the morning encounter with Hertha and Frank Gloriana, but I tossed my gold Mont Blanc aside, unable to concentrate.
What was confounding me was Laverne Willigan’s apparent interest in spiritualism. She always seemed to me such a physical woman, whose main enthusiasms were chocolate eclairs, tanning her hide, and amassing expensive baubles. It came as a shock to hear she attended séances.
It was obvious I had misjudged Laverne; she was more than a featherbrain with a zoftig bod. It made me wonder if my opinions of other actors in this drama were similarly in error. Perhaps Harry Willigan, beneath his bluster, was a devotee of macramé, and Frank Gloriana a keen student of the bass lute. Anything, I concluded glumly, was possible.
But my sour mood dissipated as I drove southward to my meeting with Lydia Gillsworth. Now there was a woman who harbored no hidden passions or guilts; I was ready to swear to that. She was complete and without
artifice.
She was waiting for me in a sitting room that was an aquarium of light. She had just purchased several twig baskets of dried flowers, and their presence made the room seem like a country garden. She took such an innocent joy in the hydrangea, pepper-berries, and love-in-a-mist that her pleasure was infectious. I requested and received a pink strawflower to place in the buttonhole of my Technicolor jacket.
She had three books ready for me, neatly stacked in a small Saks shopping bag.
“Now, Archy,” she said, “you must promise to read these slowly and completely.”
“I promise,” I vowed.
“Your first reaction,” she went on, “will be laughter. You’ll say to yourself, ‘What nonsense this is!’ But if you open your mind and heart to these ideas you’ll find yourself wondering if the whole concept might not be true. Do try to wonder, Archy.”
“I shall.”
“You must not think about spiritualism in a logical manner,” she said severely. “It is not a philosophy; it is a faith. So don’t try to analyze. Just let the belief enter into you and see if it doesn’t answer a lot of questions you’ve always asked.”
She was so sincere and earnest that I was more impressed by her than by her words. Mr. Webster defines “nice” as, among other things, “well-bred, virtuous, respectable.” Lydia Gillsworth was all of that, I thought, and observing her eager efforts to set me on the right path, I felt great affection for her.
Among the zillion problems I’ve never been able to solve is whether there can ever be a true friendship between a man and a woman if sexual attraction is totally lacking. I’m just not sure. But at that moment, in Mrs. Gillsworth’s sunlit country garden, listening to her quiet voice and gazing into her limpid eyes, I did feel a kinship that I believed came near to love.
I thanked her for the books and rose to leave. She came close and held me by the shoulders. She gave me a smile of surpassing warmth.
“Be prepared, Archy,” she said, almost mischievously. “These books may change your life.”
“Any change would be an improvement,” I said, and she laughed and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
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