Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  I leaned to Brenda’s ear. “What do we do now? Where do we go?”

  She answered by nodding in the direction of a pair of large double doors to our right. I followed her as she opened one and we stepped through. We were now in a larger room lighted by candles in wall sconces high on either side. As my eyes acclimated to the dimness, I saw that we were in a chapel of sorts. A makeshift altar on which two candles burned brightly took up the far end. The smell of incense was strong. I looked for pews; there weren’t any. Instead, the middle of the room had a large round table surrounded by a dozen chairs, some already occupied.

  Brenda seemed transfixed by the very act of being there. “Brenda,” I said.

  She snapped out of her reverie and looked at me as though I were a stranger.

  “Should we sit down?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  We took two vacant chairs at a side of the table that had us facing the altar. Others at the table had their heads bowed, their hands flat on the tabletop. I saw Brenda assume that position, and I did the same. With my eyes closed, and the tinkling of the wind chimes the only sound, a lovely calm came over me, as though my brain had been emptied of all clutter, leaving it free to dwell only on tranquil thoughts, pleasant thoughts, light and airy images of blue skies, green pastures and colorful birds in flight.

  But that reverie was interrupted by a pin-spot that suddenly came to life from above the table, bathing its center in white light. Then a man’s voice said, “Good evening.”

  Lucas Tremaine walked slowly toward us from the direction of the altar, his figure silhouetted against the candlelight there. He wore some sort of billowing gown that fluttered behind him as he approached. When he reached the table, I could see that his gown, more a cape actually, was purple, and covered him from neck to ankle.

  “Good evening, Dr. Tremaine,” his supplicants said reverentially, and in unison, the effect of their combined monodic voices like a Gregorian chant.

  Eleven of the twelve chairs were occupied. Before taking the remaining empty one, a large red leather chair with a high back, Tremaine placed in the center of the table an object he was carrying. It looked to me like a crystal ball of the sort fictional fortune-tellers seem always to have in front of them. The overhead pin-spot caught its glossy surface, and was reflected back in myriad colors that moved and made the luminous orb seem alive.

  “I’d like to welcome a newcomer to our group, Jessica Fletcher. I’m sure most of you know her as a famous writer of murder mysteries.”

  Those at the table glanced at me but said nothing. I didn’t know whether he’d recognized me when he arrived at the table, or if Brenda had alerted him earlier that I’d be there. Either way, I hadn’t a clue whether it was appropriate at a séance to respond, so I said nothing, nor did Tremaine seem to expect a response. He sat back and closed his eyes; his lips trembled, or he might have been chanting things to himself, his mouth silently forming the words. He opened his eyes, took in each of us at the table, then asked, “Who wishes to speak with a loved one who has crossed the divide into the next dimension?”

  People shifted in their seats; were they being polite and waiting for others to go first, or were they unsure whether they wanted to jump over the “divide,” as Tremaine called it?

  Finally, Brenda Brody spoke: “I want to speak with Russell,” she said, her voice quivering. “I need to hear from him whether he was ever unfaithful to me. There were rumors that still keep me awake at night, torture me every day. I want to ask him directly so I can find some peace.”

  I thought of the Legend of Cabot Cove and of her husband’s infidelity, which led to his ax murder and her suicide. It seemed to me that Brenda had nothing to gain and so much to lose by attempting to find out whether her husband had been faithful. Of course, it was an academic exercise, I knew. No one, including Lucas Tremaine, was going to put Brenda in touch with Russell, no matter how much she paid. I watched and listened as Tremaine went to work.

  “Please join hands,” he told us. I reached left and right and grasped the hands of the people next to me, one of them Brenda. In the ensuing silence, I stared into the crystal ball on the table; its reflected light played on everyone’s faces and the table itself. The heavy scent of incense was everywhere. The effect was mesmerizing, and I felt myself being drawn into the ball, wanting to enter it and revel in its brilliance.

  Brenda’s hand squeezed mine tightly, and her breathing became deep and labored. I found myself fighting to remain alert to what was happening. I was both witness to the scene and participant, watching it with detachment, yet feeling the emotions of the moment.

  Tremaine started talking: “The collective force of those gathered here tonight is reaching out to Russell Brody on behalf of his loyal and loving wife, Brenda . . . We are all friends who share a common soul, a mutual love for Brenda and her dearly departed husband of many years, Russell . . .”

  As he continued to call out for Russell to make an appearance, I looked around the table. I was the only one whose eyes weren’t shut tight. My companions murmured sounds that were only that—sounds, not words.

  I began to feel hot and light-headed. Tremaine’s voice had become a monotone, a drone, threatening to put me to sleep.

  “. . . we beseech you, Russell Brody, to join us. Speak with your living wife, answer the question that torments her day and night, allow her to—”

  Brenda suddenly stiffened in her chair, yanked her hand free of mine and gasped. Everyone looked to her, including me. She looked up into the pin-spot above, and her round, freckled face broke into a joyous smile.

  “Russell, Russell,” she said, lifting her arms to him. “I see you, Russell. Yes, I hear you fine. How are you? I miss you so much.”

  I strained to see what she was seeing and hear what she was hearing, but I was unsuccessful. All I could do was what the others were doing—watch Brenda and wait for something else to happen.

  Brenda conversed with her dead husband for a minute or two, as though they were seated in their kitchen, chatting over a cup of coffee: “Are you taking care of yourself, Russell? Do you have what you need? Have you met any of our friends yet?”

  Then she closed her eyes, moaned and said, “He’s leaving me, he’s fading. Russell, Russell, please tell me, were you ever unfaithful when we were married?”

  She shuddered, then slumped back in her chair, and when she lifted her head, her face was glowing. “He was faithful to me.” She turned to Tremaine. “Oh, Dr. Tremaine, you are wonderful. How can I ever thank you?”

  “It warms my heart to be able to play a role in uniting you with Russell,” he said in soft, measured tones.

  Tremaine then looked at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, is there a question you’d like to ask Frank?”

  “How do you know my dead husband’s name?” I asked, my voice betraying the shock of hearing Frank’s name come from Tremaine.

  “I know a lot of things, Mrs. Fletcher. Would you like to talk to Frank? I believe I can help you do that.”

  I was dizzy from the incense, and had had enough of this nonsense. Brenda’s assurances from Russell were surely wish fulfillment, and I no longer wanted to participate in this charade. I stood. “No, thank you,” I said, straightening my skirt.

  “The séance isn’t over,” Brenda said.

  “Please go on without me,” I said. “Is there a phone, Mr. Tremaine?”

  “Of course.”

  He got up and excused himself, then went with me to his office off the lobby. He snapped on the overhead light and pointed to the phone. “Be my guest,” he said pleasantly. “Need a taxi?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “You really hate me, don’t you?”

  “No, Mr. Tremaine, I don’t hate you, but I think it’s unconscionable that you take money from these people who are grieving. How much will Brenda pay you tonight for allegedly putting her in touch with her husband?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

 
“Not a bad payday for a night’s work, if everyone in there elects to make contact with a deceased loved one.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, you’re an intelligent woman. I’m sure in researching your many novels you’ve done some looking into the human mind and human behavior.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “You are aware, of course, of the potency of suggestion with certain people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Some people are more suggestible than others. They’re the ones who are more easily hypnotized. Mrs. Brody is one of those people.”

  “Are you admitting she didn’t have a conversation with her husband, that she was hypnotized in some way, was a victim of the power of suggestion, your suggestion?”

  “All I’m saying, Mrs. Fletcher, is that whether she actually did talk to him or not tonight, she’ll sleep a lot better from now on, believing he didn’t cheat on her during their long marriage. I’d say I’ve done a very nice thing tonight for her. At two hundred bucks, it’s a medical bargain.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but—excuse me, I will use the phone.”

  I dialed Seth Hazlitt’s number.

  “Did I wake you?” I asked when he answered sleepily.

  “Just dozing in the chair, Jessica.”

  “Seth, would you be a dear and pick me up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Out on the old quarry road, at the building Lucas Tremaine uses.”

  “What? What are you doing there with that madman?”

  “I’ll explain it when I see you. I’m quite safe. There are ten other people with me.”

  Tremaine laughed from behind me.

  “Sit tight, Jessica,” Seth said. “I’ll be there in a couple ’a minutes.”

  “Of course you’re safe,” Tremaine said after I’d hung up. “I’m really quite harmless, unless you think I murdered that crazy lady out at the Marshall place.”

  “Crazy?” I said. “She might have been a little odd, but I saw nothing to indicate she was mentally unbalanced—‘crazy,’ as you put it.”

  “You may be a sophisticated woman, Mrs. Fletcher, and a successful writer of best-selling books, but there’s a great deal you evidently don’t understand.”

  “I won’t deny that,” I said. “I assume you’re referring to the world you inhabit, the so-called spirit world.”

  “Exactly. It exists, Mrs. Fletcher, as surely as we exist in this tangible world. Are you one of those people who has to touch, see and feel something before you can accept it?”

  “Yes, except I also am open enough not to summarily dismiss what other people believe, even though it’s not part of my experience.”

  He clapped his hands. “Aha,” he said. “I’m making progress. Matilda Swift was not of this world, you know. Can you accept that?”

  “No.”

  I remembered back to seeing Matilda’s image in Richard Koser’s photographs, ethereal and blurred, as though surrounded by a force beyond the ability of the camera to record.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “Most people would respond as you do. That’s why the world needs people like me. I have an insight into those like Matilda Swift. I understand them because I am one with them.”

  I wanted to say “rubbish” but didn’t. Instead, I ignored his comment and idly picked up a small device next to the phone. It was a narrow silver tube with an opening on one end and a ring at the other.

  “Please don’t feel you have to stay here with me,” I said. “My ride will be along in a minute.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “What’s that?” I pointed to a wire leading out the top of a window. As Tremaine looked to where I pointed, I pocketed the silver tube.

  “It’s a public address system that I’ve set up for outdoor meetings in the spring.”

  “For when your followers can no longer squeeze around a table?”

  He didn’t say anything in return, but his face changed. At first, I thought he’d become angry. Then I realized he was going into some sort of a self-induced trance. His eyes rolled high into his head, revealing mostly white beneath them, and he wrapped his arms about himself and shuddered.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He held up a hand. “Shh.”

  I watched as he squeezed his eyes shut tight, opened them, trained them on me and said, “The Legend is coming, Jessica Fletcher. You may not believe, but she will be here. I see . . . I see roses, hundreds of roses on a long brick wall . . . She has . . . she has answers for why Matilda Swift was killed . . . she will appear . . . appear . . . two nights from now . . . ”

  He slowly sank to the floor on his knees. He was silent for a long time.

  “Mr. Tremaine, are you—?”

  He looked up at me and grinned, then stood and brushed off his purple robe. “Sorry,” he said, “but sometimes visions come to me at the strangest times.”

  Headlights entering the parking area came through the window.

  “Looks like your ride is here,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “looks like it.”

  I wanted to ask him questions, but was also eager to leave. Seth was on his way to the front door when I came out.

  “You all right, Jessica?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, Seth. Just fine.”

  We got in the car and Seth started to back out onto the old quarry road. As he did, his headlights illuminated the window to Tremaine’s office, where I’d just been. Tremaine stood at the window, waving like someone saying good-bye to a departing family member after a pleasant Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Suppose you’d like to tell me why you came out here this evenin’, Jessica?” Seth said as we drove toward town.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll trade you a cup of tea for the benefit of your undivided attention.”

  Seth turned and raised his bushy eyebrows. “I take it you have somethin’ to run by me.”

  “I certainly do,” I said. “I certainly do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sat with Seth in my kitchen until almost midnight, telling him what had occurred at Lucas Tremaine’s séance, and laying out conclusions I’d reached about a number of things, including Matilda Swift’s murder. Among many traits I love about Seth Hazlitt is that he’s such a patient listener. His only interruption was to help himself to more tea, and to pose insightful questions that helped keep my thinking on track.

  “. . . and so there has to be a connection between Matilda Swift’s murder and Tony Scott’s death a year ago,” I said. “It happened at the same cottage they’d both lived in for a period of time. It turns out that Jeremy, Tony Scott’s son, is Matilda Swift’s beneficiary to the tune of a half-million dollars because she’s his aunt, Tony’s sister.”

  “Which would provide the young Mr. Scott with a motive to see his aunt dead,” Seth said.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “provided he knew she was his aunt and that he was the beneficiary of her life insurance. He’s never given any indication to me that he knew who Matilda was.”

  “But what about Tony’s death, Jessica? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “That was the official ruling, but my understanding is that the insurance company hasn’t paid off because it still considers the fire suspicious. I intend to follow up on that today with Dick Mann.”

  Seth grunted and ran his hand over his chin. “This business about the trademark application on that insulatin’ cloth Tony’d been working on when he died. You say a trademark had never been issued because the material was still being tested.”

  “According to what Richard printed out from the trademark office’s Web site. I’m more interested in this company that applied for the trademark, Nutmeg Associates.”

  “I’d say your fertile mind has been workin’ overtime.”

  “I suppose it has, Seth, but I can’t turn it off. I just know I’m right, although there are a few missing pieces to the puzzle I’d feel better having in place.”

 
“And you’ll keep nosing around until they are, I’m sure,” he said, smiling. “I’d say you’ve got yourself a busy day ahead.”

  “You’re right, which means I’d better get to bed.”

  “A word of advice?”

  “Does that surprise me?” I asked, laughing.

  “Shouldn’t. Jessica, there’s been a brutal murder in Cabot Cove, and the perpetrator of that murder hasn’t been apprehended. Which means, of course, that if that individual knows you’re getting close to identifying him, or her, he or she is likely to become a little upset—with you.”

  “I’ve thought of that.”

  “My advice is to make sure Mort Metzger is involved every step of the way. You may write best-selling murder mysteries, and you may have found yourself solving real murders over the years—too many for my comfort, I might add—but you aren’t prepared, or equipped, to protect yourself from a real murderer.”

  “Good suggestion, Seth,” I said, “I’ll catch up with Mort in the morning—it’s already morning, isn’t it?—and tell him what I’ve told you, fill him in on my plans.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Jessica. Think I’ll take myself home now.”

  Sleep was out of the question, and I didn’t try to force it. I dressed for bed, but instead of heading for the bedroom, I settled in the library, where I seem to do my best thinking. I’d turned the heat down when I left the house, and now it was cold, so I built a fire in the fireplace; the heat it generated, coupled with the warm orange glow of the flames, dissipated the room’s chill.

  Now comfortable, I concentrated on what had been going through my mind all day and into the evening.

  The puzzle I’d mentioned to Seth took visual shape on my desktop, as though an actual jigsaw puzzle were there. Each piece represented something I’d learned since the murder of Matilda Swift on Halloween night at Paul Marshall’s estate. Most of the puzzle was starting to fit together—Erica, Paul, Jeremy, Tremaine, Robert Wandowski—but there were two pieces missing. My visualization wrote names on those two pieces—Artie Sack, the gardener, and Warren Wilson, Marshall-Scott Clothing’s vice president.