Kryzewski nodded brusquely. “So what are you doing here? Get out to the Valley, find the place, and invite yourself in. I don’t have to tell you how.” He waved indifferently. “Position yourself as a distant cousin who’s heard about the contact, as a psychic investigator—whatever the situation requires.”
Max nodded. “Pictures?”
The editor shrugged. “Psychic sessions usually don’t make for good photo ops. All mumbling and no action. But take a Minox along. If the light’s not too bad you might get a good shot of the weepy mom.”
“I’d rather interview the mermaid catcher.”
Kryzewski was conciliatory. “Let’s wait and see what we can do with the photos. Meanwhile, you can do something on Mom and the medium this afternoon. Oh, and I’ve got something for you.” He scrolled his own laptop. “Receive.”
Max turned the right end of his machine toward the head of the table. A moment later, the infrared information transfer was complete. He studied the new file.
“What’s this?”
Kryzewski made a face. He was a master of the disgusted expression and utilized them with the profligacy of a true connoisseur. “You can read it later. It’s a lead on some nut in North Malibu. But a nut with money. Monied nuts are always worth a column or two. From what I see the angle is right up your alley.” Summarily dismissing Max, he turned back to Jefferson. “Now what have you been able to come up with on that Philippine ‘spiritual surgeon’ working out of Miami? That’s right in our competitors’ backyard. Be great to steal a nice, juicy story right out from under them.”
Max tuned out much of the rest of the brainstorming session. As usual, Kryzewski was pleased with his work, and that was all that mattered. The approbation of his colleagues he could not care less about.
After making a cursory check of his desktop, fax, and in-file, he left the building and headed north. Taking the not-too-bad San Diego to the could-have-been-worse Ventura, he exited on Buena Vista Drive, having to prowl around a few back streets before he located the address that had been provided by his source.
The house was substantial, a sixties-era dichondra-fronted pseudo-ranch wood and brick sprawl in a nice old heavily treed neighborhood. It bespoke a solid upper-middle-class income—or a substantial inheritance. Parking on the street, he set the Aurora’s alarm and made his way to the gate in the waist-high chain-link fence. It was unlocked. A winding path of cobbled stepping-stones led past neatly trimmed rosebushes and explosively beautiful rhododendrons flush with California sun and imported Sierra water. A late-model blue Lexus and an older black-and-silver Mercedes were parked in the driveway.
At his touch the bell chimed and the door reluctantly opened half a foot, to reveal a gold-hued safety chain and the uncertain face of a diminutive but not unattractive woman in her mid-forties.
“Yes—can I help you?”
“Mrs. Collins?” Max employed his most boyishly sympathetic voice: sincere, with a touch of helplessness. “Mrs. Mary Beatrice Collins?”
“That’s me, yes.” Her expression squinched to match her tone. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a reporter for a magazine called the Skeptical Enquirer. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr….?”
“Crowley, ma’am. Al Crowley. I hope you don’t mind my just dropping in on you like this, but our sources have reported to us that you have actually managed to make contact with your unfortunately recently deceased loved one and …”
The door started to close. “Go away, please. I have company and…”
Max spoke quickly in hopes of keeping the door from closing. “Please, Mrs. Collins! Our magazine specializes in exposing the fraudulent and deceptive who prey on grieving individuals such as yourself. When something wonderful happens for real, as has apparently happened to you, we desperately want to share it with our readers.” He tried to see past her, but the front curtains were closed and the room beyond the entry hall only dimly lit.
The door slowed, motherly incertitude playing across the face of the woman within. “You … you’re not from one of those awful tabloid newspapers, the kind you see at all the supermarket checkout stands?”
Max was properly aghast. “Absolutely not, Mrs. Collins! The Skeptical Enquirer prides itself on the objectivity and fairness of its reports. I am here at the behest of another to do my best to validate whatever experience you believe you have been having. At,” he hastened to add, “no charge. And of course nothing will appear in print without your express consent and signed permission.”
“Well …” What she feared wrestled with what she had been told. “It might be nice to have an expert present. I don’t see how it could hurt anything.”
“Nothing whatsoever, Mrs. Collins. I promise only to observe and not to interfere with the proceedings in any way. Surely you can sympathize with the need to insure scientific accuracy in such matters, and to promote the truth of such a remarkable assertion?”
“Yes, yes.” Whether convinced of the veracity of his claim or too tired to argue he could not say, but she conceded, and a hand reached up to unfasten the security chain. “Please come in, Mr. Crowley.”
The house was upper-class San Fernando Valley, as old and comfortable as a favorite easy chair. Family portraits lined the hallway wall, and the furniture was relentlessly ranch contemporary. She led him through the living room, past the homey kitchen, and into a sunken den located at the back of the house. The drapes there had been closed tight and secured in the middle with clothespins to block out as much of the light as possible.
In the center of the room, facing a large fireplace of distressed brick, was a round oak table encircled by four matching chairs. It was original oak, Max saw as he stepped down into the room, and not one of those veneered and laminated mass-produced reproductions. A simple silver candlestick stood in the center of the table, the tall white taper it held flickering energetically. Its light was barely sufficient to cast shadows in the darkened room.
In a tall chair on the far side of the table, her back to the fireplace, sat a voluptuous woman who might have been thirty-five—or ten years older. Given the subdued light and aggravated makeup, it was hard to tell. She wore a simple silk dress emblazoned with flowers, an entire thrift store’s supply of cheap copper and silver bangles, and a silk scarf over her long hair. Her eyes refocused from something off in the distance to acknowledge the arrival of hostess and guest. The start of recognition Max experienced on seeing her face when her eyes came up was instantly reciprocated.
Their fidgety, anxious host performed introductions. “Madame Tarashikov, this is Mr. Al Crowley, from the Skeptical Enquirer magazine. Mr. Crowley, Madame Tarashikov.”
With great deliberation, Max walked over and lifted the woman’s hand off the table, kissing the back of it firmly. “Madame Tarashikov, it’s always a pleasure to meet a true master of the otherworldly.”
The kindly Mrs. Collins was taken aback. “You—you know Madame Tarashikov?”
“I know of her. She has quite a reputation.” What sort of reputation he was not about to say.
Madame Tarashikov, alias Ms. Billie Joe Heppleworth, originally of Topeka, Kansas, but late of Beverly Hills, California, and points equally transcendental, relaxed as soon as she saw that her visitor was not going to expose her. Greatly relieved, she turned solemnly to their hostess. Her accent was distinctively Midwestern. Midwestern East Europe.
“Ve should begin as zoon as possible, Mrs. Collins. I discern that the auguries are propitious, and ve dare not vaste time.”
“Yes, yes, of course! I’ll be right back.” Their breathless hostess vanished in the direction of the kitchen.
As soon as she was out of the room, Max leaned forward in his chair. “So now you’re a genuine, gosh-darn-for-real medium, hmmm? Okay, I keep an open mind and I’m always willing to be convinced. Let’s hear you spell ‘propitious.’”
Heppleworth-Tarashikov raised a hand to shush him. “Shut th
e fuck up, Maxwell! I’ve got a real thing going here.” Straining to see past him, she glanced nervously toward the doorway that led to the rest of the house. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t.” He sat back in the hard wooden chair. “One of my sources just fed me this story about a dead kid’s mom and a medium. I had no idea it was you until I walked into the room.”
Madame H-T sighed resignedly. “All right, what do you want? How much? For a change, I can afford it.” She jerked a finger in the direction of the distant, unseen kitchen. “The old broad’s the best mark I’ve hit on in six months. Got real money. Her late husband left her plenty.”
“So she’s lost her husband and her son.” Max was making notes as they talked. He looked up from the pad and grinned thinly. “You really are an unscrupulous bitch, Billie.”
She sniffed, unperturbed and unimpressed. “And who the fuck are you—Walter Cronkite? What do you want?”
“How about a date?” He leered openly at the tight dress.
“I’d rather cough up a kickback. Besides, I’m too experienced and too much for you, Max my boy. You wouldn’t survive.” But she returned his slippery smile. “It’s the story you want, isn’t it? Just leave it to me. I’ll pour it on like molasses. You’ll get a good one.”
“You read my mind. How appropriate.” Anxious footsteps signaled the return of their hostess, and he lowered his voice. “But I’d still like that date.”
Her smile widened, her tone a blend of disgust and admiration. “The Fates do not foretell it in your future, you nasty little shit.”
He chuckled. “Well, that’s sure as hell proof of nothing.”
They adopted an air of mock solemnity as Mrs. Collins returned.
The séance itself was very straightforward and convincing. The room was not adulterated with hackneyed howling, nor did the curtains blow forcefully inward, but at Tarashikov’s invocation the single candlestick levitated impressively, hovering above the center of the table while bobbing slightly. Their thoroughly enthralled hostess uttered a squeal of delight when a deep male voice seemed to emanate from the vicinity of the flame.
There followed a five-minute question-and-answer-session during which Tarashikov prompted appropriate queries from the tearful Mrs. Collins while the flame supplied sufficiently nebulous answers. The blatant absence of definitude, so transparent to an uninvolved outsider, made no difference. By the end of the encounter, at which time Tarashikov pronounced the relevant spirits “exhausted,” their hostess had her head in her hands and was bawling unashamedly, convinced she had just spent five minutes conversing with her recently deceased son. Max could not make out the figure on the check that Collins handed the medium, but from the half smile that made Tarashikov’s face twitch he knew it must be more than adequate.
“And you, Mr. Crowley.” Collins wiped the crust of dried tears from her cheeks with a cotton handkerchief. “What do you have to say about what you have just seen and heard? What will you write in your Skeptical magazine now?”
Glancing over at Tarashikov, he saw her watching him closely, trying hard not to appear too interested. It was a struggle, but he kept a straight face as he replied.
“A most impressive demonstration, Mrs. Collins. It certainly gives one something to think about. Why, if I were in your position I would take every opportunity to utilize the extraordinary talents of Ms. Tarashikov to the fullest. Cabalistic perception like hers doesn’t come along very often. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it before.” On the other side of the table, the comely medium smiled softly as she expertly snuffed the candle.
“You can be assured that I will. Skeptics!” Haughty, dignified, and flush with success, their hostess escorted both of them to the door.
“Same time next week then, Mrs. Collins?” Tarashikov’s faux empathetic smile bordered on the artlessly predatory.
“Of course, Madame.” Her face was shining, her enthusiasm unbounded. “To be able to hear my dear Eric again, after the accident…” Choked, she took the medium’s free hand in both of hers and squeezed thankfully.
Tarashikov gently but firmly disengaged her fingers. “Rest assured that I am at your service, Mrs. Collins. And if I am not available because I am helping another poor soul in distress, please do not forget to fax me, or leave a message with my answering service.”
A last parting handshake and they fled the house and its tearful but satisfied owner. Max escorted the medium to her parked car, enjoying the sway of her hips as they walked the short distance together.
“You need an answering service? I thought the spirits would take messages for you.”
She snorted derisively. “Sometimes even the spirits refuse to work overtime. On such occasions a little technological supplementation may be called for.” Grabbing his shoulder, she squeezed hard, the nails digging slightly into his flesh. “Thanks for backing me up in there.”
He shrugged. “Hey, if it works out I might get a small continuing series out of this.”
She leaned close and whispered. “You might also, as you said, get ‘the opportunity to utilize the extraordinary talents of Ms. Tarashikov to the fullest.’”
He eyed her in surprise, then smiled broadly. “I’ve got a candlestick of my own you can manipulate. Speaking of which”—he indicated the one that was poking out of the oversized handbag she was carrying—“how’d you manage the levitation? That was well done. I didn’t see any wires.”
“There aren’t any wires. I told you, there are times when a little technology is in order. Even a professional medium needs to keep abreast of the latest developments.” Pulling out the candlestick, she upended it to show him where the base was screwed tight to the shaft.
“There’s a small but powerful magnet inside and a bigger battery-powered electromagnet in my purse.”
“Which was under the table,” he filled in.
“Right. This ring,” and she indicated one of the many bulky rings that decorated her long fingers, “holds the on-off switch. Makes it easy to raise and lower the candlestick. These new magnets are very precise. You can really keep control.”
“That’s fresh. How about the dead kid’s voice?”
“Tiny speaker inside the top of the candlestick.” They were approaching her fittingly sepulchral Mercedes and she nodded in its direction. “George, my assistant, is in the trunk. Don’t worry—he’s in there with air-conditioning and a cooler of cold drinks in addition to the base unit for the candlestick. Staying in the trunk keeps him out of sight and forestalls any awkward questions from the mark … from the customer. We found out by accident that it also adds a nice reverb to the voice. George is very versatile. If the spirit I’m contacting is female, he does a nice falsetto.” Her smile widened. “There are a lot of unemployed actors in this town. If George moves on to bigger and better things, I can always find a replacement.”
“And the questions and answers are kept general enough to satisfy the suckers,” he said.
“Please.” She eyed him distastefully. “The bereaved supplicants. That’s been standard operating procedure in the business for hundreds of years.” She disengaged the Mercedes’ alarm and opened the driver’s-side door. The thick, heady aroma of new-car leather drifted out.
“And it doesn’t bother you that you’re preying on the susceptibilities of ordinary people who are drowning in their own misery?”
She all but laughed out loud. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone who works for the vampire rag you do. I’ve always felt that if they’re stupid enough to fall for this old-fashioned traditional hokum, then if I don’t take their money someone else will. Besides, I give great séance and my clients always feel better afterward. That’s more than you can say for anyone unfortunate enough to be the subject of one of your scabrous stories. I like to think of what I do as therapy.” She squeezed his hand. “Give me a call, Max. I owe you a session.” Favoring him with a last, appreciative smile, she turned and slipped behind
the wheel.
He nodded agreeably. “You bet I will. I’ve got one hell of a spirit you can call up.”
Waving a final farewell, he followed the Mercedes with his eyes as it backed out of the driveway and turned south. A glance at the sky showed that it was getting late. Time to head back home. As for the story itself, there was plenty of time to do that. He could type it up after dinner. It wouldn’t take long, and he could add suitable embellishments in the morning, before heading out to follow up on Kryzewski’s tip.
On the other hand, he mused as he walked back to his own car, if he could do the follow-up tonight it would save him a drive tomorrow. That would allow him to do both stories in the morning and then take the afternoon off. Not far beyond the front window of his apartment, the beach beckoned. The cool Pacific and the first scantily clad sand bunnies of the season were calling to him.
The true nutcases were often the most accessible, the most eager to discuss their obsessions. From the notes Kryzewski had supplied, this Barrington Boles character certainly sounded as if he qualified. If he could get in to see him tonight, Max thought, and get enough notes to put together a story, then he would not have to deal with him tomorrow.
He was already out in the Valley. If he could find a halfway quiet coffee shop he could rough out the Boy-Killed-in-Car-Crash-Speaks-to-Bereaved-Mom story while he was having dinner. Then shoot out to Malibu after rush hour and do the Boles interview, polish both in the morning, and take the rest of the day off. Maybe two, if the Boles lead turned out to be really worthwhile.
Feeling very good about himself, he slid into the Aurora, started the engine, and headed off in search of sustenance and silence.
Having previously written several dozen stories of the medium-contacts-dead-loved-one variety, he had no difficulty embroidering the encounter he had just witnessed to the point where it was sufficiently florid and outrageous to fit the needs of the Investigator. The plebeians who purchased the paper as they waited in line for their groceries to be scanned and totaled lapped up this sort of saccharine pabulum like mother’s milk. It fed their need to believe in everything from maternal love to a kind and beneficent afterlife.
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