So I sit down to watch the evening's entertainment, even as the Little Light That Could hovers at the window to watch me. I am forgotten now that fresh phenomena threaten.
So it is with much bemusement that I watch the assembled physics stiffen and groan and twitch and sigh... and totally ignore the fascinating phenomena that show up in answer to their actions.
At first it looks like the fog has coagulated in the ceiling corner like a phantom icicle, but then I see stars glimmering through the bright white radiance and then I see a belt buckle the size of a pizza pan, and then I see a familiar, fuzzy face... and Elvis in his glitziest white jumpsuit slides down the corner of the wall like a fireman on a pole. Hey, the King still is as limber as ever, even if he has not lost an ounce in the Afterlife. And he gives me a big wink before lip-syncing a totally silent number. I think it is "Cat, Help! Falling in Love With You," but I am not a big lip-reader, and although I knew Elvis was into strange things, I did not think cross-species romance was one of them.
I look to see if the gathered experts can do a better job of translating the silent song lyrics, but they are ail staring elsewhere, oblivious. I look at Elvis, who gives me this shrug and his cute little sneery smile, then melts into the fog.
Meanwhile, my human companions are out to lunch, except there is not even food on their table. Talk about being twelve cards short of a full tarot deck!
So I clean my whiskers, Elvis's sideburns having reminded me that grooming is the mark of a gentleman, and while I am so engaged, I catch something else out of the corner of my eye.
This is a tall, portly old gent wearing a tweedy Norfolk jacket and a checked cap. He is adjusting one of the lighting sconces by looking at it and waggling his bushy white eyebrows.
Naturally, it goes faint and bright in turn, almost like one of those semaphores they used to signal people with over long distances in olden times, but do you think the assembled sensitives would notice a laser beam on their own birthday cake? No.
They are fussing at each other about how nothing is happening, and yes, the fog is interesting but what does it do?
The old dude, who is rather pale despite the plethora of plaids in his attire, pulls out a pipe and eyes me hopefully, like I should recognize him, or light his fire or something. I do not approve of smoking, so am about to do nothing of the kind, but--what do you know--the light of my life (I am being sarcastic here)--floats through the window-glass and ends up hovering over the old guy's pipe, which gives off a ghostly contrail of smoke that merges with the ubiquitous fog.
Apparently Beyond is not big on fire hazards.
The old squire's eyes light up for a moment too, until you would swear he was alive, then he starts the disappearing act, and for just a moment I think I know who he is. The name starts with d as in "detective," and if he would stay just a few seconds longer, I would make the connection and be home free. But he does not, and I do not, and life is like that, and sometimes even death is like that.
It is a pretty sad room in Vegas, however, when the dead present provide more entertainment than the living present. And I include those of my acquaintance in this judgment.
I am nothing if not impartial, and right now I would not declare my lot with the sad excuses for extrasensory perception gathered here tonight.
A few more prestigious personas from the past lend their presence to the gathering, unobserved by anyone but me. Mae West is looking as pneumatic as ever, and pale becomes her. It takes me a while to figure out who the lanky lady in the leather jacket is, and by the time I am ready to shout "Hey, Amelia, where on earth did you bow out?" she is fading away too, from lack of attention.
I tell you, it is enough to make a cat cry, to see all these newsworthy folks pass through without so much as a flicker of notice from the living. I am wondering if I can make a deal with some human with vision, and we could provide prognostications from the past, complete with the signature of the visiting ghost, when suddenly all hullabaloo breaks loose and the seance folks are looking lively.
This must be good. I look where they are looking so lively, and I see the fog has amassed in my former landing zone, the fireplace. Well, it is a lot of fog and there is a form sort of quivering on it like an out-of-focus vacation slide on a sheet posing as a screen. I can almost see a person in the vague design of light and dark, but it is nothing like the camera-ready sharp-focus of the famous folks I have been viewing in solitary splendor tonight.
In fact, the old English-squire dude comes blazing back by the wall sconce, puffing on his ectoplasmic pipe until smoke signals practically scream his presence, but no one notices. He looks happy, though, and makes fists as if to say "Yes! Yes!"
As the murmur of "Houdini" comes from the live ones around the table, I cannot help rooting for this long-dead dude myself. I always root for the underdog (only in that instance), as I always like to watch a good comeback. And if this Houdini dude came back, that would be world-class news. Not up to Amelia or Elvis, you understand, but one cannot have everything.
So I even get my ears perked up, and I am anticipating something spectacular, but instead I get more fog. This fog floats around the table like a waiter looking for a tip, giving every psychic a big charge as it nears each seat.
I think my little doll will get lines on her pert little face; she is frowning so hard during this performance. And she is right: an animated fog-sheet is not worth the price of admission. If only she were a kindred soul and could see what I see, like the old dude against the wall jumping up and down and mouthing "Houdini" right along with the chanting psychics. Doyly, that is his name. I believe that he had something to do with a British opera company called the D'Oily Carte. The British always aspire to French phrases when it comes to culture and cooking.
Anyway, old Doyly is having an out-of-the-body heart attack right in front of everybody, and all they can do is stare at this circular clump of fog, which strikes me as mighty suspicious.
Then suddenly something is thrown down hard on the smooth wood tabletop.
Everybody screams, and even I jump, because the object comes rolling right for me, nothing of human construction being purely level, I* jump too, because I do not know if the object will explode or something, but it is as dead as a dud dumdum, which is what it is, sort of.
Anyway, I know a bullet when I see one, and I gently pat and spin it for a 3-D examination.
At this someone waxes hysterical--I think it is the doll with the spasmodic eyelids--and the long-haired dude springs up to wrest the bullet away from me like I was playing with it or something. I hate to be underestimated. I was trying to calculate the caliber, but it is an older piece of ammunition, and hard to categorize. I would have to sleep on it (via an arms encyclopedia) to be sure.
Anyway, the fog has made the rounds back to the fireplace and is drifting away like smoke. I see that Doyly is long gone; not so. Karma, unfortunately.
Now the knickknacks on the wall start flying around, but I am not too alarmed, having dodged my share of hurled objects in my time. But the seance crowd is more than somewhat shook up. Even Miss Temple Barr looks a little pale as she tries to attend to the lady on her left, who has apparently fainted during the knife-throwing act.
So I look closer and I see that "fainted" is something more fatal.
Karma's little light is buzzing like a hyperactive mosquito back at the window, and the dumdums at the table are standing and frowning.
I understand immediately that this is a job for Lieutenant Molina of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. So does my little doll, for she gets a very wan and woebegone expression on her face, seeing as she was sitting next to and holding hands with the victim.
The bright side is that Crawford Buchanan was pinching pinkies with the victim's other hand, so who is to say he is not the likeliest suspect.
The other people around the table are turning up their headlights and beginning to realize that the hat-head was done in.
And they are beginni
ng to say that Houdini did it.
I do not know. I would not know Houdini if he dove off the Circle Ritz roof into a teacup. I can definitely say, however, that Elvis Presley, Mae West, Amelia Earhart and the English Doyly dude did not do it. Too bad I am not allowed to testify.
Chapter 16
Postmortem
"At least Lieutenant Molina didn't get the case."
Temple sat on her living room sofa at six in the morning, Midnight Louie on her lap. Or on Electra's muumuu's lap.
Electra herself sat at the sofa's other end, patting vaguely at her scarlet hair. "Days like these, I thank God I'm self-employed. You can take a nice nap, dear."
"I don't think so. Since Molina's not on the case, how am I going to find out how the poor . . .
victim was killed?"
"Do you really need to know?"
"Don't you want to know if a ghost did it, or not?"
"No. I have always regarded ghosts as friendly spirits. Oh, perhaps a touch misunderstood, at their worst. I do not believe that anyone who has embraced the afterlife would wish ill on the living."
"Ever heard of demons and devils?"
Electra shook an adamant head. "No. The agency was human."
"What was all that yelling about it being Houdini for sure when that bullet hit the table?"
"The professor explained that to me while we were waiting for the police. As a boy, when he was wandering far from home for a few years, Houdini was shot somehow. He never explained, but all his life he carried the bullet in the palm of his hand."
"Why? Why not have it removed?"
"Perhaps it was safer to leave it in place."
"Perhaps. We should hold another seance and interrogate Houdini instead of gawking at him as if he were a walking White Sale advertisement."
"You don't believe that manifestation was Houdini."
Temple stroked Midnight Louie's satiny ears. He blinked contentment. "And how did Louie get out of this place, and get to the haunted house?"
"You're not suggesting that Louie--?"
"I'm not suggesting anything, except that while we searched after eternal truths we missed a lot of what happened last night."
Louie gave a burst of loud purr, then stretched to knead his front paws on Temple's thigh, still upholstered in the floral muumuu.
She shuddered in recollection as she eyed her thigh. "I never realized muumuus were so suspicious. That search by the woman officer in the haunted-house kitchen--"
"I had to do it too, dear. Everyone did. Face it, anybody participating in a seance is likely to be suspected of concealing some trickery, at least by the police."
"Were they looking for a weapon? I didn't get that impression. I don't think they know yet what killed Edwina Mayfair."
"Natural causes," Electra said with the authority of a justice of the peace. "Trust me. Wild Blue Pike and Eightball O'Rourke say that the bloody battle-ax only nicked her shoulder. I'm sure the poor thing's heart overheated at all the excitement. The police will have red faces by tomorrow morning, and you'll have missed the Crystal Ball for nothing."
"Oh, thanks for calling the Phoenix and explaining why I wasn't there while I was being ...
examined in the kitchen."
"I never did see what you were wearing. Or the Midnight Louie shoes."
"Kind of moot." Temple pulled a pair of individual shoe bags from her tote bag. "You should have seen the going-over these got from the authorities. You'd think I was smuggling Austrian crystals."
"Off with the muumuu. Let Mama see."
Temple was happy to stand and shrug out of the enveloping cotton tent for the last time.
She had worn a black stretch-velvet ankle-length dress, all the better to show off the shoes.
"Very classic, but... well. You certainly couldn't conceal much in that dress."
"So the police intimated. At least I'm cleared of fiddling with the seance."
"I'm not sure that any of us are. This unfortunate death throws the results into question.
What a pity! This was such an outstanding manifestation. It's not Houdini's fault that someone should collapse at his first big show in seventy years. This might scare him away for good."
"You really think it was Houdini in that cloud of obfuscation?"
"Oh, yes, dear. I have seen photographs of the man. The hunched posture, the nearly bare body to prove no tricks, the chains and locks. Absolutely prime-time Houdini. And then the bullet."
"I suppose he has no use for it now," Temple said slowly. "Still, that figure could have been projected."
"That's what all ghostly phenomena are, projections of the living essence of death."
"I mean photographically projected."
Electra looked hurt. "Oh, ye of little faith. How or who? Why?"
"Any one of the psychics might have wanted to boost his or her reputation. You can bet this will be the lead story on tonight's Hot Heads, with panting teasers run at commercial breaks all day. And then there's the local angle: the haunted-house organizers might have rigged their effects to go a bit berserk for the Hot Heads camera, and now that someone's dead, they're not about to admit it."
"Speaking of hotheads, that Buchanan character was pretty antsy to get out of there."
Electra's eyes narrowed. "Either the nose of a newshound heading for a deadline ... or the spur of guilt."
Temple leaned back against the sofa, scratching Louie's tummy. "Even I hadn't thought of that. What a spectacular way to be rid of Crawford Buchanan forever! Could he have killed somebody merely to raise his ratings? Yes. Did he? I'm not so sure."
Temple stood, leaving an abandoned Midnight Louie frowning on the sofa cushion.
"There's only one thing to do, Electra: get better acquainted with the psychics. They're staying on for a while, aren't they?"
"With a huge psychic fair at the Oasis running the entire weekend, I doubt any will skip town before Monday."
Temple smiled nostalgically. "I can see Lieutenant Molina now, growling that this mob of suspects who are only in town for a five-day stay are murder."
"That detective team, Watts and Sacker, seemed pretty laid-back."
"Maybe. But if whatever was fatal to Edwina Mayfair turns out to be murderous, you can bet that will change. Meanwhile, when does the psychic fair open?"
Electra checked her watch. "At noon today, Friday. It's not the thirteenth, is it?"
"Not unless the spirits have rearranged the calendar. Today is November first, All Saints'
Day."
"Better take a nap; I'll get you at eleven."
"You're game?"
"Of course. Someone at the fair may have insight into who did whatever was done."
Temple saw Electra out, wondering if her landlady would still be a redhead by midday.
She grabbed a bagel on her way to the bedroom, deposited the Midnight Louie shoes in their own drawer when she got there, shrugged out of the dress, pantyhose and bra, put on her purple fuzzies and burrowed under the unmade covers.
A few moments later she felt the bed bounce. Louie was ready for a catnap too, and well he should be, after his adventures of the wee hours.
It felt strange and rather decadent to be going to sleep for the night at a time when she was normally waking up. But she fell asleep too fast to think about anything. When she woke up, the doorbell was chiming and a dream-shadow of a big black cat with emerald eyes and a ruby collar was slinking back into never-never land.
Temple reached for her glasses, saw the bedside clock read twelve-fifteen and lurched up to answer the bell.
Electra was standing there, her hair a banana-yellow, her face an ashen blank slate of sobriety.
"Temple. I just heard the noon news. Hang on to your heartbeat."
"It was murder!"
"No, they don't know that yet, or don't say they know yet."
"Then what's the shock?"
"It wasn't a lady."
"The newscaster was no lady?"
"N
o, the victim! Your hand-holding partner wasn't a woman."
"What was it, then?" Temple blinked, still sleepy.
"A man!"
"A man?"
"Named Gandolph."
Temple frowned and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "That name sounds familiar--"
"Of course. It's the name of the wizard in The Lord of the Rings fantasy trilogy. Only they spelled it wrong on the TV screen. G-a-n-d-o-l-p-h, as if he were German or something. It should be G-a-n-d-a-l-f, you know?"
"No, I don't know. I've never read this Lord of the Rings. Has it got something to do with matrimony?"
"You've never read The Lord of the Rings? But you must have; everybody has."
"Not me." Temple scratched her chin and yawned. "Even though 'Gandolph' does sound familiar. What's the rest of her ... his name?"
"Doesn't have a rest."
"Just G-a-n-d-o-l-p-h?"
"That's right. But, say, doesn't it worry you more that you held hands for almost an hour with a phony medium? A fake? A transvestite?"
"Not at all." Temple felt her eyes screw themselves into focus.
"Wait a minute! I was all worried about Crawford Buchanan playing footsie with me, and instead I had a strange guy in drag nudging and patting my knee! I don't know if I'm sorry he's dead."
"Hush, dear! The recently departed can sometimes hear the harsh judgment of the living."
"Good!" Temple shouted. "What a dirty trick! And I thought the poor dead lady had a hair-loss problem. All that whispered motherly consolation was a sham, you louse! Why don't you go out and get your kicks on Route Sixty-six ... in the middle of the road where they can run you over."
"Temple, he's already dead."
"Not enough for me! That shows you what kind of flakes these so-called psychics are."
"Please, you can't judge all by one."
"I sure can. And why did you wake me up, anyway?"
Cat with an Emerald Eye Page 12
