Betsy appeared in the doorway, breathless with excitement. She was pushing seventy, but tell that to her coal-black hair, worn in a severely angled bob. She wore the black sheath dress and matching jacket she’d bought for Harvey’s funeral fourteen years earlier. It was her séance outfit, meant somehow to entice her husband’s ghost to pull up a chair and take a load off.
“Jane!” she said. “Prince Phineas Windex is here!”
“Who?”
Martin swept past her into the room. “I am Prince Phanaeus Vindex,” he corrected her, in a bizarre accent that was equal parts Eastern European and hillbilly—Boris Karloff meets Dolly Parton. Dialect coach Burke Fletcher would have thrown up his hands in defeat. The prince wore an enormous, multicolored turban, embellished with gold tassels.
I groaned. “What on earth—”
“Madam,” he said, lifting Betsy’s hand, “it will be my incalculable pleasure to open a door to the spirit world for you this evening.” Bending low, he brushed his lips against the back of her hand, her cue to giggle like a besotted schoolgirl. “I will serve as translator, if you will, interpreting and clarifying communication between the numinous realm of our departed loved ones and our own earth-bound existence. This I will accomplish thanks to my highly attuned psychic abilities, while you two lovely ladies support my efforts with your innate feminine energy.”
Oh, brother. “Um, Betsy,” I said, “we’re going to need a small bowl of water. And let me ask you, did Harvey ever wear jewelry of any kind?”
“He had a diamond pinky ring,” she said. “He wore it all the time.”
“An object that personally significant might help to draw him to us,” I said. “Do you still have it?”
“Of course. It’s in my little safe upstairs. It might take me a few minutes.”
“That okay,” I said. “No rush.”
Once my client was out of earshot, I got in Martin’s face. “What do you think you’re doing? This was not part of the plan. That ridiculous accent, and, and...” I gestured toward the turban, which suddenly looked disturbingly familiar. My eyes narrowed. “Is that Irene’s wall hanging? From the dining room?”
He abandoned the accent. “Looks better on me, don’t you think?”
Irene had brought the antique silk tapestry back from Morocco about fifteen years earlier. Since then, it had hung undisturbed in her dining room, which, of course, was now my dining room. And since Martin lets himself into my place anytime he feels like it, Irene’s exquisite wall hanging was now perched atop his noggin.
My attention had been so fixated on the turban, I only belatedly noticed the rest of his costume: black silk pajamas and a red velvet smoking jacket.
“Hugh Hefner’s ghost called,” I said. “He wants his outfit back.”
The padre adjusted the lapels of the jacket, which appeared vintage. “You don’t recognize this?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“It belonged to my grandfather,” he said. “It wasn’t doing anyone any good in that trunk in your attic. And I know he would’ve wanted me to have it.”
If Arthur McAuliffe, Irene’s husband and Martin’s paternal grandfather, was indeed the jacket’s original owner, then I had to agree with the padre. Arthur and his first wife, Anne, had adored their grandson, once they learned of his existence eleven years after his birth. That’s how long their middle son, Hugh, a married deacon, managed to keep his bastard son a secret.
A few years later, Irene set her sights on Arthur, broke up his marriage to Anne, ended up inheriting Anne’s dream house, and—because Irene was big on adding insult to injury—bequeathed it to a poodle upon her death. Martin was understandably bitter about the whole thing.
The padre eyed my gray skirt suit. “A little underdressed, no?” As if I were the one dressed inappropriately. As if he weren’t well aware that this boring gray suit was my all-purpose Death Diva uniform.
“What’s with the prince thing?” I asked. “Do I even want to know what that stupid name means?”
“Probably not.” He lifted the cigar and sniffed it. “Sounds real aristocratic, though, don’t you think? Our client was impressed, and that’s what matters. This is just the thing to complete my outfit. What do you think?” He clamped the cigar between his teeth and struck a pose.
“I think you need to switch to a pipe, Hef. And leave the props alone.” I plucked the cigar from his mouth and replaced it on the purloined ashtray. “I know I’m going to hate myself for asking, but how did you come up with that name?”
“Phanaeus vindex is the scientific name for the noble dung beetle,” he said. “Are you hating yourself yet?”
“Whatever possessed me to involve you in this assignment? You do remember what we discussed, right, Padre? This is going to be a straight-up, by-the-book séance. No funny stuff, no trickery, no Harvey. Betsy gets the good-faith effort I promised her, and we get the thousand bucks we earned. Period.”
“Okay, I’ve been thinking about that.”
“No.”
“Hear me out.” He peeked through the doorway to make sure we weren’t about to be interrupted. “I came up with some great ideas, Jane. Got my timing down and everything. This’ll work or my name isn’t Prince Phanaeus Vindex.”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “End of discussion.”
“I brought everything I’ll need, and you can’t even tell.” He spread his arms, making me wonder what he’d concealed beneath Grandpa Arthur’s loose-fitting smoking jacket. “Don’t you even want to know—”
“We’ve been over this,” I said. “We are not going to take advantage of our gullible, grieving client.”
“Is it taking advantage to give her what she wants more than anything in the world?” he asked. “Betsy has spent years trying to connect with her dead husband.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and spent tons of cash on it, too.”
“So what’s another twenty grand?”
Normally I found the padre’s impish smile pretty darn irresistible, but now, in conjunction with the outlandish getup? Suffice it to say, I resisted.
“She’s rich,” he added. “She’ll never miss it.”
“Let me be perfectly clear, Martin.” My expression was as serious as he’d ever seen it. “If you pull something during this séance, I will lose all respect for you.”
His face fell, a clear indication that I’d hit him where it hurts. Which should have cheered me, since it meant he valued my good opinion and hated the thought of disappointing me.
Oh, who am I kidding? It did cheer me, though I took pains to maintain my stern expression.
“I wasn’t really going to do it,” he griped.
“I know.” I patted his velvet-clad arm. “You’re better than that.” This particular armor-piercing round found its target, judging by the padre’s pitiful moan.
What’s that you say? I was having altogether too much fun at Martin’s expense? Are you seriously suggesting he didn’t have it coming?
Betsy’s approaching footfalls put an end to our little tête–à–tête. “Here we are,” she said. “A bowl of water and Harvey’s ring.”
I thanked her and set both items on the table, along with a small cloth sack I extracted from my purse. Since electronic devices can interfere with psychic energy or some such baloney, I made certain all cell phones had been deposited outside the room, then lit the candles and turned off the lights. Candlelight reflected off the crystal ball and the big, showy diamond in Harvey’s gold pinky ring.
Next I lit a stick of incense (a “magick resin blend,” heavy on the balderdash) and invited Betsy and Prince Dung Beetle to help me cleanse the space by circling the room clockwise and letting the fragrant smoke infiltrate all corners.
After I tucked the incense into its little holder, the three of us sat and held hands, creating an unbroken circle around the table. The padre was to my left, Betsy to my right. We took several slow, deep breaths, which would have been more relaxing if I hadn’t been t
rying to stifle an incense-induced sneeze.
I’d coached Martin on his role, and I could only hope he’d taken the rest of my instructions more seriously than he had the “don’t cheat the client” part.
“We will begin with a group chant,” he intoned, in that preposterous accent, “meant to center my metaphysical energy and to invite Harvey to join us here this evening. Listen carefully to the following words and repeat them with me. ‘Dear Dead Harvey, we have gifts for you, although it’s stuff you used to own, so not really gift gifts, but anyway, follow the light down to us—or up, no judgment—and let us know what’s on your mind.’”
Needless to say, this so-called chant bore little resemblance to the one I’d hammered into his head. Betsy seemed a mite confused, but she obediently repeated his words in unison with the two of us.
“Are you here with us, Harvey?” he said. “Are you trying to reach us? Give us a sign. Try moving something on the table, just a little, so we know you’re here. Maybe give the water in that bowl a little jiggle.”
We sat very still for a full minute, staring at the bowl, and would you believe it? Nada. Bupkes. Zilch.
I know. Amazing, right?
“Or how about this, Harvey?” Martin said. “Try making a sound. Tap the table or something.”
Crickets.
No problem, I’d come prepared for a little downtime. “We can release one another’s hands now,” I said. Reaching for the small cloth sack, I untied its drawstring and emptied the contents—a complete set of one hundred wooden Scrabble tiles—onto the tablecloth in front of Martin.
Now Betsy really looked confused. “We’re going to play Scrabble?”
“Not exactly,” Martin said. He pulled one of the candles closer so we could all make out the letters printed on the tiles and busied himself turning them right side up. First he arranged some of them to spell out YES, NO, and MAYBE, forming a triangle with the three words. He arranged the rest in several rows in alphabetical order, giving each tile its own space. He used just one of each letter, replacing the spares in the sack.
I produced a little pendulum from my pocket, essentially an upside-down teardrop carved from pale moonstone. It was about two inches long and hung from a slim chain ending in a bead. You wouldn’t believe the variety of pendulums offered by the occult shop. Or maybe you would. It was all new to me.
I handed the little device to the padre. “Betsy, I assume you’re familiar with Ouija boards. You’ve probably come across them in séances.”
“Oh yes, they’re very popular with mediums,” she said. “I wanted so badly to believe it was Harvey pushing that little gizmo around the board, spelling out messages from beyond. I’m ashamed by how easily they fooled me.”
“Well, that’s all behind you,” I assured her, hoping it was true. “I did bring a Ouija board, and we could use it if you want, but I think it’s time for a different approach, don’t you? You told me Harvey’s favorite game was Scrabble. It occurred to me he might be more inclined to communicate with Scrabble tiles.”
Martin suspended the pendulum over the tiles. “We’re hoping he’ll answer our questions by pointing to various words and letters with this.” He demonstrated by swinging the pendulum.
Betsy gasped. “That’s brilliant!”
I wondered how brilliant she’d consider it when her husband’s ghost declined to do any pointing. I reminded myself that when it came to this particular séance, it truly was the effort that counted, rather than the results.
“Harvey,” Martin said, “if you’re here, please move the pendulum. Just give it a little nudge.”
We waited. The thing just hung there.
The padre’s princely accent never wavered as he said, “Harvey, your loving wife Betsy wants you to know how much she misses you and wants to connect with you. She selected these gifts because she knew how much they meant to you.” He lifted the ring. “I understand you wore this every day. Pretty spiffy.” He set it down and wagged the cigar. “Been a while since you had one of these, huh, buddy? You must miss it.” The can of beer came next. “Bet you could put away a few of these in your time, am I right?”
He set down the beer and reached for the bag of pork rinds, only to recoil the instant his fingers touched it. Betsy and I were instantly alert.
“What?” I said.
“It’s nothing. A little static electricity.”
The room suddenly felt warmer, making me wish I’d removed my suit jacket before commencing the séance. Could it be a hot flash? Could they be starting already? The icing on the childless, middle-aged cake.
Not to be defeated by a bag of pork rinds, Martin snatched it up and held it aloft. “Your favorite snack, huh, Harvey? Did you— Whoa!” He dropped the bag.
“More static electricity?” I asked.
“No, it uh... it moved.”
“The bag?” Betsy’s eyes were round.
Belatedly he remembered his phony-baloney accent. “Like someone was trying to grab it.”
I sent Martin a pointed look, but his attention wasn’t on me. He was staring nervously at the bag of pork rinds.
I was more hurt than angry. He’d lied to me. Yessed me. Well, I’d deal with him later. In the meantime, I needed to wrest control of this séance before Betsy got her hopes too high.
“Here, let me.” I lifted the bag and tore open the top of it, the better to entice the late Harvey van Heel. In the next instant, the bag flew out of my hand, scattering the crunchy, lightweight snacks all over the table.
Betsy’s eyes were now huge. “Did you do that on purpose, Jane?”
“Um, no. The bag slipped from my fingers. Sorry.”
That was my story and I was sticking to it. It certainly hadn’t been yanked out of my grasp, even if that’s what it felt like. Because I was the only one touching it, so that was impossible. Right?
The look Martin gave me probably appeared entirely neutral to our client, but I could tell my excuse hadn’t fooled him.
I was wondering how to get this thing back on track when the silence was interrupted by a soft sound, like someone sniffing a few times. I looked at my companions. They looked at me. Okay, it was the heating system. That had to be what we heard.
The padre took up the pendulum once more and held it over the little Scrabble tiles. “Harvey, we sense your presence here with us this evening.”
Dang! I wish he hadn’t said that. Betsy looked so excited, so hopeful. How to backpedal and let her down easy?
She looked around the room. “Harvey! Speak to me, sweetheart. Are you happy on the other side?”
The pendulum abruptly jerked back and forth a few times, as if someone were batting it around. Martin stiffened, then gave me a barely perceptible shake of the head, as if to say, I didn’t do that.
We heard another sound then, a gentle scraping, and watched in astonishment as a couple of the pork rinds bounced a little on the tablecloth.
How the heck was Martin doing that? Because it was the only explanation. Whatever tricks he literally had up his sleeve, he’d decided to put into action, despite his seeming change of heart.
The water in the bowl started to move. It wasn’t the subtle quiver we were supposed to be on the lookout for, but a series of small, rhythmic splashes that left the tablecloth damp, and the three of us staring in openmouthed astonishment.
If Harvey was indeed messing with all this stuff, then I have to say, he was a pretty clumsy ghost. I wondered if he’d been that way in life.
I gave myself a mental whack. Harvey isn’t here. Ghosts aren’t real. Jeez, Jane.
Enough was enough. I held out my hand to the padre, who seemed downright relieved to relinquish the pendulum.
I suspended it over the yes/no/maybe tiles. “Beloved spirit,” I said, “if you really are here with us, please answer Betsy’s question. Are you happy where you are now?”
Nothing happened at first, and I was on the verge of abandoning the whole Scrabble thing when a subtle tingling sen
sation shimmered through me from head to toe. No doubt it was the result of nerves, as was the abrupt feeling that I was no longer alone. I’m not referring to Martin and Betsy. It was as if some other entity had chosen that moment to invade my personal space in a big way.
I swallowed hard. This is what happens, I told myself, when a rational, clear-thinking individual messes around with this occult claptrap. It had a way of infecting your brain and turning you dopey. I was determined to resist it, as much for my client’s sake as my own.
Just then, the pendulum began to move, swinging in the direction of the yes tiles.
“He’s happy!” Betsy crowed. “Harvey's happy on the other side.”
So much for taking control of the séance.
Could my breaths have moved the little pendulum? My random muscle twitches? Could the thing be that sensitive? I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath, then another. After a few moments I felt centered, but that weird tingle never left. Then someone licked my left cheek.
My eyes snapped open. “Padre! I mean, Prince! What do you think you’re doing?” My hand flew to my cheek, which felt dry and unlicked.
Martin looked surprised. “What?”
“You know darn well what.”
Betsy said, “Prince Windex didn’t move a muscle, Jane. He’s been sitting still this whole time. What happened?”
I didn’t want to say, because why would the ghost of her deceased spouse lick my cheek? And if it was Harvey, had his breath been so stinky in life? That more than anything convinced me the cheek licker couldn’t have been Martin.
I took a deep breath, held the pendulum as steady as I could manage, and asked, “Beloved spirit, are you Harvey van Heel?”
NO.
Betsy gasped. “That can’t be right.”
I said, “Who are you? What’s your name?”
The pendulum swung toward the S tile. We watched as it moved on to Y, then L.
Preserving Peaches Page 17