by Mary Bowers
“A seasoned pro, am I?” Taylor said with a little smirk. “I’m not sure I shouldn’t be insulted.”
Without discussing where they were going, they had started walking up the hill to the old Cadbury family cemetery. It was a quiet place with a sweeping view of the house and river, and they often sat there and talked.
“Wendy has supplied me with an interesting item for my file on Eastern European folklore. I don’t know if it’s widespread or simply a feature of her own family. Dreaming of blueberries.”
“Oh? Meaning time to make pies?”
“Meaning something bad is about to happen.”
“Really? Blueberries? I’ve never considered them sinister.”
“It’s the anomaly of the cheerful little blueberry juxtaposed against impending doom that convinces me that in her family, at least, is has validity. How else would they think of such a thing?”
She regarded him, pursing her lips. “I see what you mean. Why did she bring that up? Because you’re a paranormal researcher?”
“No. It was the impetus for her conversation with Jessamine: the one I’d wanted to know more about. She’d dreamed of blueberries and discussed it with Jessamine, then a few weeks later, Alan left her for the very woman in whom she’d confided. She found it ironic.”
Taylor shook her head sadly. “If only these omens could help us stop the bad thing from happening, instead of just bracing ourselves for them.”
“Indeed.”
They discussed the general flow of the séance, but their hearts weren’t really in it. The conversation drifted, then faded into a companionable silence. When Taylor noticed it was time for lunch and invited Ed to stay, he got up, inhaled deeply and said he had some research to do at home.
He drove away a calmer, happier person, able to think through the seating arrangements for the séance without brooding too much on the outcome.
* * * * *
Michael lay his trim form across the bed and watched Taylor prepare for her swami act.
“All black?” he asked. “Isn’t that a bit theatrical?”
“The whole thing is pure theater,” she said. “I even used that make-up I bought that turned out to be two shades too light for me but was too expensive to throw away. And look at my eyes.”
“I see that. Dead white complexion; raccoon eyes – so you can look creepy in the candlelight?”
“I would have described the look as ethereal, but whatever.”
Bastet suddenly leaped onto the bed and settled herself into the curve of Michael’s body. He began to scratch the nape of her neck. She purred loudly, watching Taylor with half-closed, emerald eyes.
“You keep a close eye on her tonight,” Taylor said, looking back at the cat. “Don’t let her get out of the house. Anybody who has a black cat needs to be especially careful about them on Halloween. There are a lot of nuts out there.”
“What’s the thing about black cats, anyway?” Michael asked idly, angling forward to look into Bastet’s face.
Taylor shrugged. “They don’t really mean bad luck. Here in America we tend to think of them as witches’ familiars, or even the witch herself in animal form, but in some parts of Europe and the Far East, they’re considered good luck. Depending on what they’re doing: crossing your path, walking away from you, walking toward you. It’s complicated. The Egyptians got it right, though,” she said, coming over to the bed and sitting down to pet the cat. “They worshipped them. At least, there was a goddess named Bastet. What do you think, Bastet – want to see the funny humans have a séance tonight? Nah, better not. There’s going to be too many sitters as it is.”
“I’m kind of glad there’s a lot of them coming,” Michael said. When Taylor looked up at him, he explained. “I wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of you going off to give a sitting to Roy Angers all by yourself, or even with Ed there. I was going to try to convince you to let me come, but now with Tiffany and Kent and even Wendy coming, well, I feel a lot better about it.”
“Really? Why? You know, now that I think of it, Detective Bruno asked me if you still had a gun, and I’m not sure he was joking.”
Michael nodded wisely. When he didn’t say anything, Taylor asked, “What’s the idea? I expect homicide detectives to be cynical, but why you?”
By way of answering, Michael said, “Ever heard of key man insurance?”
“It sounds self-explanatory.”
“It is.”
“You’ve been snooping around again.”
“Of course. Insurance agents like to golf too, you know.”
“Uh huh. And what did this golfing insurance agent who you probably won’t name say about this key man insurance?”
“If there’s a situation where the death of one specific person would put a business on the rocks, there’s usually a policy that will pay out big-time to keep the business going and pay for the search for a new chief executive. I wondered if there was such a policy on Alan Pissarro and Roy Angers. That type of policy would pay out to the business, not to a designated person, like a common life insurance policy. It wouldn’t be a part of the executive’s personal estate, but if the business could use an infusion of cash anyway . . . like I told you,” he said, paying exaggerated attention to the cat, “The Big Catch has a lot of competition these days.”
Taylor waited for the other shoe to drop, and when Michael didn’t go on, she asked. “And was there such a policy on Alan Pissarro?”
“There was. It’s probably one of the first things Detective Bruno checked out, too. It would have given Roy Angers a motive, if the business actually is doing badly, and he and Alan didn’t agree on how to fix it.”
Taylor was nodding. “What gets me is that he invited Alan’s kids to the séance. I still can’t figure out why he would do that.”
“Maybe he figured it was a good way to find out what they know about their father’s death, without asking directly.”
“Or just shake the tree and see what falls out. You know, when he remarried, Alan Pissarro brought his new bride to Roy Angers’s neighborhood and moved in right next door to him. He wouldn’t have done that if they hadn’t been really good friends, after all those years.”
Michael nodded agreement. “Angers had to be involved in that. He’d hardly be oblivious to the fact that an old friend was buying the lot right next door to his. He must have instigated it.”
“So they were still friends at that time, at least.”
“I don’t know. There could be lots of reason he’d want Alan to be more accessible to him, and not all those reasons are necessarily good ones.”
Taylor thought it over, then shook her head. “If he’s a murderer, he’d want things to settle down now; he wouldn’t be shaking things up, and he sure as heck wouldn’t be getting the Pissarro children involved. They’re his new business partners. You said they inherited their father’s share of The Big Catch. He must suspect them of something. But if he wasn’t absolutely sure, he’d hardly go to the cops and risk alienating them for good. This must be an upside-down-and-backwards way of getting everybody talking. Whatever he wants, he was willing to pay $1,000 for it, even though he’s got Wendy helping with the bill now. Heck, maybe he’s a true believer after all.”
“And true believers can rationalize anything.” Michael inhaled sharply. “Maybe I should come with you tonight.”
“Are you kidding? There’s going to be a whole gang there as it is. He’s not going to try anything in front of everybody, and if he was going to do something awful, why do it to me?”
Michael gazed with icy blue eyes. “I wasn’t thinking of you being in danger.”
“Oh. Then . . . who?”
“I wish I knew. Bruno asked about my gun?”
“This has gone far enough,” Taylor said, getting up suddenly, “and if I don’t get my Madame Arcati costume on, I’m going to be late.”
Michael was standing now. “I mean it, Taylor. I think I should come. You could stash me in a hallway somewhere an
d nobody would even have to know I was there. I’ll sneak around back and you can make some excuse to go out to the lanai and then let me in.”
She studied him a minute. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“You’re bringing your gun?”
He regarded her silently.
Through her consternation, Taylor noticed the cat, Bastet, standing at the end of the bed, staring at her exactly the same way Michael was.
“Well, why not,” she said, capitulating suddenly. “Let’s all go together, holding hands and skipping.”
“Taylor,” Michael said calmly, “I’m beginning to agree with Ed. You’re not taking this seriously enough.”
“Only you don’t mean it the same way Ed does, do you? You’re talking about real world things, not just calling down the ghosts to do tricks for us.”
He answered with a shift of his head.
At the end of the bed, Bastet shifted her head in exactly the same way.
“And you want to come too,” she said to the cat. “Fine. Roy’s bringing in reinforcements; why shouldn’t I? May as well give them their money’s worth. You can be my witchy familiar, Bastet. Act mysterious. Arch your back and stare at things. Hiss. And for goodness’ sake, don’t curl up in the middle of the table and fall asleep. You’ll ruin my act.”
Chapter 18
On the way to Paradise Island, Michael and Taylor had a minor tiff over some strands of greenish beads she’d thrown on over her long black dress. The dress was a super-cheapie in suffocating polyester, the kind of fabric that clings to the bulges and ignores the curves. She looked awful in it and she knew it, but most of the time when she wore it she was sitting down behind a crystal ball in a darkened tent, so it didn’t matter. She kept it for the times she needed to fill in as a fortune-teller at the annual Halloween fundraiser, and the beads were a resale store find that hadn’t looked like such a great find after all once she’d gotten them home. She’d hung them on the same hanger as the dress so she wouldn’t forget she had them. Otherwise, she never wore them.
Michael thought they were overkill. Actually, he hadn’t said it in words; he’d given the beads The Look, which was infinitely worse. Then he had said, “Are you going to wear that necklace?”
She huffed at him and took them off, making it a grand gesture. Then, as he drove to Paradise Island, she wanted them back, only she’d left them at home, and now she felt incomplete without them. So she was mad at him.
One thing about Michael: he wasn’t subject to mood swings. When conflict swirled around him, he kept a cool head. When he did that around other people, Taylor was proud of him. When he did it to her, it just made her even madder.
So they drove most of the way in silence. Even Bastet was quiet, in the back of the SUV in her pet carrier.
At one point, out of the blue, Taylor blurted, “And what was wrong with bringing the crystal ball?”
“It’s not that kind of a gig,” he’d said gently, and she’d retreated back into her black clouds.
When they arrived at the Pissarro house and saw all the cars in the driveway and even in the street, Taylor forgot about being mad at Michael, stepped out of the SUV and glared at the house.
“Did somebody break out a kegger in there?” she asked the house itself.
Every light inside seemed to be on, there were four cars in the driveway, another one was parked on the street with a decorated van behind it, and the front door was standing wide open. Taylor looked through the fancy foyer into the back, living area of the house, and saw people moving around.
“The reality show crew is running around in there,” she said grimly. “And that’s their van. This is going to be one hell of a short séance.”
Michael leaned in as she lifted the cat carrier out of the cargo bay and whispered, “One thousand dollars.”
“Oh, shut up,” she groused, slamming the cargo bay door.
She marched up to the house ready for war.
* * * * *
With so many people milling around inside, they decided having Michael hide in the bushes and sneak in later was silly. Everybody and their crazy uncle seemed to be in there.
When Taylor came marching down the hall, her long black dress rippling around her, looking like a Winged Victory that had re-grown her head, she presented an awesome sight, and several of the men shied back.
She came to a halt at the end of the hall, just before the large open space with the kitchen and bar on the right and a large sitting room on the left. The silent gathering stared back at her, and she took them in, one by one.
There was an attractive young woman, (had to be Tiffany Pissarro), two men about the same age, (one resembled Tiffany, one didn’t, so the former was Kent and the latter was an unknown; he didn’t look important), the Haunt or Hoax? mob, complete with Teddy-the-star, a distracted Porter, and a teary-looking Edson Darby-Deaver. His electronics were his lucky charms, in Taylor’s opinion, and he was fooling around with them at what looked like a breakfast table, back behind the kitchen. Rounding out the group was that juicy piece of beefcake, The Marvelous Dobbs, who was hanging over the table beside Ed, fascinated.
There were five seconds of silence, and then the reality show’s producer, Carly Nicholson sailed forward to greet them.
“Hey, Taylor,” she said in a chummy way.
“Hey yourself. Or let me put it this way. Hello and good-bye. This is going to be a closed circle, a private séance, not a Hollywood production.”
Carly gave a bark of laughter, then lowered her voice. “Don’t make me cry; Hollywood’s got nothing to do with this outfit.”
“It’s all my fault,” Ed said, coming forward like a man. “She asked me who your client was, and . . . I told her. I even pointed next door and told her where he lived,” he added, wallowing in it.
“Roy’s kind of a stingy guy,” Carly said. “He groused about your fee, and being deeply interested in promoting the cause of paranormal research, I offered to kick in a couple hundred dollars. I would have offered to go halves with him, but we’re pretty advanced in our shooting schedule, and we’ve had various unplanned expenses along the way. Did Teddy ever mention a girl named Sulky to you?”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Taylor snapped, fuming, but already realizing she’d been outmaneuvered.
Ed stood quailing before her, and when she transferred her glare from Carly to him, he looked like he was preparing to drop and grovel.
“I don’t blame you, Ed.”
“Oh, thank you,” he quavered, and he retreated to the breakfast table and tried to look busy with something.
“I blame you,” she said, looking at the very composed Carly. “And my client.”
“Everybody always blames me for everything,” Carly said tragically. “I wait until I’m alone in bed at night before I cry about it.”
Behind Taylor, Michael let a chuckle escape him.
Taylor turned bodily and stared at him, but he gazed back innocently and blinked his blue eyes.
“Let me introduce you to the ones you don’t know,” Carly said, boldly taking Taylor by the arm.
With the rigidity of an outraged queen, Taylor gazed down at the hand on her elbow, but allowed herself to be guided into the sitting room.
As soon as her gaze alighted upon an older woman, Taylor walked away from Carly and said, “Nice beads. Can I borrow them for the séance?”
The woman with the long strands of beads looped around her neck looked more startled than offended.
Taylor decided she should probably fabricate some brand-new old-world superstition about wearing something belonging to one of the table-sitters, but right then she just didn’t care about being plausible. She just wanted those beads. They were very much like the greenish ones she’d left at home, only they were a different color, kind of neutral and marbled. Having a long rope of beads hanging around her neck again after leaving the others at home would show Michael a thing or two.
“I�
��m Taylor Verone,” she said belatedly, as if that explained everything.
“Wendy Pissarro.”
Like Taylor, Wendy was wearing a black dress, only cocktail-party length and very flattering. If Taylor didn’t know better she would have thought Wendy was going to be the spirit medium tonight.
“My beads?” Wendy asked, putting a hand on them. “Why do you want them?”
Taylor tried again to dredge up the old-world superstition that had never existed, but she was temporarily flat out of baloney. After a moment, Wendy saved her the trouble.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, lifting them over her head and handing them to Taylor. “I think you should wear them tonight. They were my grandmother’s. They’re agate. Agate brings strength. That’s why I wore them tonight. But they’re also a shield against bad dreams. I think that’s why my grandmother left them to me. She believed in dreams. Is it like a dream, when you go into a trance?”
Taylor was suddenly moved. And ashamed. She was used to people coming to séances for entertainment, and here was someone who had come out of need.
This small, dark woman wasn’t what Taylor had expected at all. Ed had described her as feisty, and determined to get her way. Instead, Wendy looked vulnerable, thin and worried, and completely out of place in the midst of this group.
Taylors protective instincts welled up. “If they give you confidence,” she said gently, “you should keep them.”
“No, you were right. You should wear them. Maybe they’ll keep something bad from coming through.”
Taylor realized this woman was facing the séance with all the courage she could muster. Waiting all day for it must have worn her out.
“After all, the first thing you did was ask for them,” Wendy said, musing. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? You just had a sudden impulse. I could see that. When you saw me, you zeroed right in on my necklace. I believe everything happens for a reason, especially the things that happen out of the blue. Maybe there’s a reason why you were made to suddenly ask for them. Just take them.”
