Seance on a Summer's Night

by Seance on a Summer's Night [MM] (retail) (epub)

  “With a what?” I asked.

  Roma pointed at my aunt, who held up the black glove with a guilty air.

  “Wait a minute,” Seamus said, looking from Aunt H. to Roma. “That’s not mine.”

  “From the first, you planned to break the circle,” Roma said.

  “Look, I don’t deny I broke the circle.” Seamus was speaking to Aunt H., not Roma. “Strange things have happened in this house lately. I thought I saw someone standing behind the table, and I did leave my chair. But that’s not my glove.”

  “How would a glove pass as a fake hand?” I asked Roma.

  Roma pushed to her feet, and Liana and my aunt went to support her on either side. She glared at Seamus. “I’ve seen such tricks before. You’re not the first nonbeliever I’ve encountered.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She wasn’t listening—though I was, and I believed him. Seamus seemed genuinely bewildered.

  “I could understand and sympathize with honest skepticism. I have no fear of sincere, bona fide investigation.” Roma’s voice wobbled. “I’ve cooperated in several studies conducted by the American Society for Psychical Research, the results of which have been published in their journal. I’d be happy to share those articles with you.”

  “I’d like to see them,” I said.

  Aunt H. shot me a reproving look. Roma pretended I hadn’t spoken.

  “But this.” She had to stop and compose herself. “This kind of cold, deliberate deception is intolerable. You intended to trick and trap me with that ridiculous prop. Me.”

  Seamus’s mouth opened to protest, but she rushed on. “Your behavior is not only a personal affront, it’s an insult to my entire family and my calling.” A pulse began to beat at her right temple. “I won’t tolerate it.”

  “I sincerely apologize for breaking the circle,” Seamus said. “But that’s the extent of my crime. That glove isn’t mine. I didn’t bring any kind of prop.”

  Roma ignored him, turning to Aunt H. “I will not conduct another session in this house if Mr. Cassidy attends.”

  “I understand,” Aunt H. said.

  Without another word, Roma turned and left the room. Liana made a sound of pain, sank into her chair, and put her face in her hands.

  Tarrant followed Roma from the room. He had recovered from his earlier shock. In fact, I thought he was smiling. Certainly, he looked smug.

  Aunt H. said, “Why on earth would you pull such a ridiculous stunt, Cassidy?”

  “Mrs. Hyde, I swear I didn’t deliberately disrupt the séance.”

  “Are you saying you dropped the glove by accident?”

  “No! I’m saying that glove doesn’t belong to me.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interjected. “How the hell would that pass as a fake hand? It’s not stuffed. As far as I can tell, it’s just an ordinary leather driving glove.”

  Aunt H. followed my gaze to the glove she still clutched. As she stared at the glove, her expression altered. She shoved the limp leather fingers into the pocket of her trousers. “Anyway,” she said briskly, “what’s done is done. Let’s not belabor the matter.”

  At this abrupt change, Seamus and I glanced at each other.

  “I don’t think it’s belaboring the matter to allow Cassidy to defend himself,” I said. “May I see the glove?”

  “No,” Aunt H. snapped.

  “No?”

  She threw me a harassed look.

  Unexpectedly, Liana came back to life. She lifted her head and sat up straight, staring at Seamus. “Whether you intended to disrupt the session or not, your behavior was dangerous, irresponsible,” she told him. “You could have killed Roma! You very well may have severed the tie between Ogden and the rest of us forever with your reckless, disrespectful actions.” She turned to Aunt H. “He must go, Halcyone. You can’t allow him to stay on after this.”

  “Okay, let’s all take a deep breath,” I began as Seamus’s eyes widened with alarm.

  Seamus said, “Mrs. Hyde, you can’t fire me for something I didn’t do. Please—”

  Aunt H. shut him up with a glance. She wrapped her arm around Liana’s shoulders, helping her to her feet.

  “Hush now, Liana. Don’t upset yourself. Everything is all right. Let’s have a nice, quiet cup of tea.” She gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret and guided Liana, who had resumed whimpering, from the room.

  As the door swung shut behind them, Seamus muttered, “Well, that could have gone better.”

  “Oh, do you think so?”

  He glanced at me and scowled. “I didn’t drop that glove. And that’s all it was. A glove. You saw it yourself. That was no fake hand.”

  “I know.”

  “What kind of moronic trick would that be anyway? You’d need two fake hands to pull it off in this setting, and I kind of think the people on either side of me would notice if I got up from the table and left them each holding a stuffed glove.”

  I snorted in amusement at the image that conjured. “I agree. Do you think Roma was pretending to believe you tried to sabotage the séance?”

  He hesitated. “She didn’t fake that faint. She had some kind of reaction to the circle being broken, and I’d swear it was genuine.”

  “Yeah.” I thought back to Roma’s dramatic collapse. “And when she recovered, she was genuinely furious at the sight of that glove.”

  “Yes.” He scratched absently at his stubby beard. “I assumed she’d be a fraud, but…”

  “Now you think she’s the real deal?” I had the same mixed feelings about Roma. I wanted to believe she was faking, but I wasn’t sure.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I guess it’s possible.” He added reluctantly, “I think it’s possible she’s actually unaware of what’s going on while in a trance. Maybe Lord Rekhmire is some aspect of her subconscious. Maybe she’s got a split personality which emerges during the séance.”

  “Maybe,” I said noncommittally.

  He studied me. “You searched this room from top to bottom. I watched you do it. You didn’t find anything. If she’s faking, how does she do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Seamus said, “Sometimes a medium will conceal a wad of treated gauze in her mouth, or a bag of luminous dust on her person, dispersing it in the dark. There are all kinds of tricks. But I couldn’t find anything.”

  I was astonished—and impressed. “You patted her down while you were delivering first-aid?”

  He squared his jaw as though bracing for more censure. “I did.”

  I beamed at him. “Well done!”

  Seamus’s answering smile was cautious.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” I said.

  His brows rose in inquiry.

  “Why did Roma instantly assume that glove was a fake hand?” I asked.

  “She knows you’re a skeptic. She’s clearly encountered resistance, even hostility in her sessions.”

  “Right. She jumped to the conclusion that glove was a fake hand and part of a scheme to discredit her.”

  “So?”

  “And yet anyone who really looked at it could see it was no such thing. It was an empty glove. An ordinary driving glove. Aunt H. saw it the minute I pointed it out.” And she’d been horrified.

  Why? Because she’d recognized the glove?

  Seamus frowned. “I’m still not following.”

  “I don’t know that many guys in California who wear driving gloves. But you know who did? Ogden. Ogden wore driving gloves all the time. No doubt he was wearing driving gloves the day he died.”

  Seamus stared at me. I could see him connecting the dots. “Why did Roma assume it was a trick?” he suggested.

  “Exactly. If she’s genuinely psychic, why did Roma instantly conclude that glove was a trap set for her? Why didn’t she consider the possibility it was another manifestation? There’ve been plenty of them. So how did Roma know it wasn’t another sign from Ogden?”

  Chapter T
hirteen

  Somehow, despite never leaving the house, Liana managed to catch a chill the morning after the wrecked séance, and by lunchtime had taken to her bed.

  That should have provided a much needed reprieve for the rest of us, but being Liana, she decided her time had come and informed Aunt H. that the “curse had come upon her,” to quote the Lady of Shalott and proceeded to spend a couple of hours lying in bed, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling, and waiting for the angels—or more precisely, Ogden—to claim her.

  Naturally, that frightened the wits out of Aunt H., who, disregarding Liana’s express wishes, phoned for the doctor.

  I remembered Dr. Tighe from days gone by. He had been our family physician for as long as I could remember, and though he was clearly past retirement age, he remained tall and vigorous. His hair was white now, but his face was somehow still youthful. He had a wide mouth and grave dark eyes that I knew from experience could light with amusement or crinkle with unexpected mischief. He was not looking amused or mischievous that day, however.

  “Good to see you home again, Artemus,” he greeted me. “You’re exactly what’s needed in this house right now.”

  Personally, I suspected a handsome, eligible psychiatrist would be of more use than a gay theater critic, but I said all the usual things, and then Dr. Tighe and my aunt vanished upstairs to visit Liana on her deathbed.

  Half an hour later they returned downstairs, and Dr. Tighe pronounced a nonlethal case of flu. He prescribed aspirin, rest, plenty of fluids—and handed Aunt H. a large bottle of vitamins.

  “These are for you, Hallie. You need them more than she does,” he said grimly. “I’ve never seen you look so peaked.”

  Aunt H. looked pained but took the bottle of vitamins without demur.

  “What you both need is a complete change of scenery,” Dr. Tighe added. “This moping about the house is doing nobody any good.” To me, he said, “You take my advice. Book them a cruise this afternoon. Send them somewhere warm and bright and cheerful. Provence. Tuscany. Best thing for them.”

  “Sounds great to me,” I said. The Riviera was more Liana’s style, but I knew I had as much chance of persuading her to visit the moon as the Riviera, let alone Tuscany.

  Aunt H. smiled faintly and patted Dr. Tighe’s arm. “Thank you so much, Ed. I’m relieved to know it’s nothing serious.”

  “I didn’t say it was nothing serious,” Dr. Tighe retorted. “This morbid fixation of Liana’s is unhealthy in the extreme. And in my experience, liable to be contagious. If she refuses to take my advice about getting away for a few weeks, I want to know. I can recommend a good specialist.”

  “What do you think about having her committed?” I asked. “As a means of intervention.”

  Aunt H. gasped, but Dr. Tighe seemed to think I was kidding, and laughed heartily. “There’s that sense of humor!” he said. “That’s what you need more of around here.” He instructed Aunt H. to give him a call if Liana’s condition turned “bronchial,” and was on his way with a brisk and cheery goodbye.

  “Artie!” Aunt H. exclaimed as the door closed behind the doctor. “You can’t say things like that, even in jest.”

  “Who’s jesting? He said she needed a change of scenery. I’m sure we could find some nice, trendy sanatorium with a spa and a singles’ juice bar.”

  Aunt H. winced and cast an uneasy glance at the staircase. Following her gaze, I added, “Don’t worry, we’d hear the stairs squeak if she was creeping down here to listen in.”

  Aunt H. winced again. “It’s not like you to be so unkind, dearest.”

  “I’m reaching my breaking point,” I said.

  As I put it into words, I recognized the truth of it. After the events of the previous evening, I wasn’t just worried; I was scared—and starting to feel desperate. I’d never seen Aunt H. look so wan and colorless. The lines I’d noticed first on my arrival had grooved themselves more deeply across her forehead and around her mouth. After a brief reprieve, the strained look had returned to her eyes.

  “If you don’t want to try to talk her into checking into a mental-health facility, then let me book that trip Dr. Tighe was talking about. Today. Now. You’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “With or without Liana.”

  “I can’t just leave.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No,” she said wearily. “Not after last night. It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “What does that mean? You mean because you found Ogden’s driving glove?”

  I could see by her startled expression, I had guessed right.

  “Tarrant dropped that glove,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Tarrant was the one sitting closest to where the glove was found.”

  “Did you see him drop the glove?” She looked momentarily hopeful.

  “No,” I admitted. “It was too dark to see anything clearly, but I’ve been thinking about it since last night. I spoke to Seamus—er, Cassidy—after you left us, and I believe him when he swears he had nothing to do with that glove being found in that room.”

  “No, I know,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize at first…”

  “Roma was genuinely furious, so it wasn’t her. It wasn’t you or me. It might have been Liana, but it’s more likely Tarrant is the culprit. He had a smirky look on his face when he walked Roma out last night.”

  “Oh, Artie. Do you honestly not see the truth?” my aunt said, and the gentleness in her voice alarmed me more than anything had yet.

  “If by ‘the truth,’ you mean do I not see that Ogden has returned from the grave, then correct. I honestly do not see, and do not believe, that Ogden is haunting this house.”

  “But you’ve heard him yourself. You’ve seen him. You can’t pretend you weren’t shaken by the first séance you attended. I know you too well, my dear.”

  “I’ve seen and heard something. I’m not prepared to believe it’s Ogden.”

  “Then what is it?” Aunt H. asked as though she were humoring me.

  “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t figured it out. But I will.”

  “What if I told you—” She stopped.

  “What if you told me what?” I demanded.

  She bit her lip. Shook her head. Her eyes were dark and…haunted. I felt the hair on my scalp prickle.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  She just stared at me with those wide, worried eyes.

  “That you’re somehow…” I couldn’t finish it.

  Aunt H. whispered, “I believe I am perhaps responsible—” She swallowed.

  “No. Bullshit,” I broke in, startling us both. “Bull. Shit.”

  “Artie. Your language.” Aunt H. sounded a little more like her old self.

  “I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. Seriously? You’re trying to tell me you sabotaged Ogden’s car?”

  “No, of course not. But…”

  When she trailed off, I said, “Let me guess. You had an argument with him the day he died, and you feel somehow responsible—although if anyone should know Ogden loved himself way too much to commit suicide, it ought to be you.”

  She was silent. And studying her, I felt uneasy.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  She hesitated. “Um, yes,” she said finally—and unconvincingly.

  “Did you argue the day he died?”

  “Yes. I suppose so,” Aunt H. replied.

  I was truly perplexed. I’d been so sure I had the reason for Aunt H.’s guilty conscience figured out. Now I was less confident.

  “What did you argue about?”

  She sighed wearily. “The same things we always argued about.”

  I was silent. I hadn’t realized they’d reached the stage of regularly scheduled arguments.

  I asked tentatively, “Do you think he killed himself?”

  “No.” Aunt H. said it with complete certainty. “I don’t believe that.” Her gaze flicked to mine. “But he could have been upset, distracted.
He always drove far too fast, and the cliff road is dangerous. Especially dangerous in bad weather.”

  “But that would still be an accident,” I said. “You can’t take that on yourself. People argue all the time. Married people argue all the time. So I’ve been led to believe.”

  “Edwin and I never argued.” I don’t think she intended to say it aloud, because she looked immediately uncomfortable.

  “Okay, but still. You argued, then Ogden ended up having a fatal accident. I can see you might feel bad. Feel a little guilty. But Ogden always drove like a maniac. That wreck could have happened regardless.”

  “Yes.”

  I studied her face. Her expression was closed. No. More…cloistered. She was keeping secrets, and whatever those secrets were, they were intensely painful.

  “I don’t understand, darling,” I said. “Do you…think it wasn’t an accident?”

  I could see by her expression I had somehow guessed correctly. She put her hands up as though about to physically push me back, although of course she made no such move.

  “I hope it was an accident,” she said. “But I believe—know—that either way, I’m in part responsible.”

  I opened my mouth, but she spoke over me. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter, Artie. I believe Ogden has returned, and I believe he has cause for…” She struggled to get the word out steadily. “Grievance.”

  She didn’t mean grievance, though. I knew that much. She meant revenge.

  * * * * *

  Roma Loveridge lived in a white stucco two-story bungalow on a quiet, shaded street in Old Town. A white picket fence surrounded a charming rose garden. A cobblestone walk led past a blue birdhouse that perfectly matched the blue shutters and blue front door of the bungalow. It all looked so normal and pleasant, I half suspected I had the wrong Loveridge residence—until I spotted the black brass sign hanging next to the front porch steps.

  Roma Loveridge, Spiritualist. Readings by Appointment Only.

  I had phoned ahead, so Roma was expecting me, but I don’t think it was with any great pleasure. She opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, and gazed out unsmilingly at me.