by Noreen Wald
“Then what?”
“Patrick received a call from Caroline and raced up to Sutton Place. But, get this, his phone records show Caroline’s call to him came at 12:52. The 911 call was logged in at 12:57.”
“Why am I not surprised? I wonder what they chatted about before Caroline called the police.”
“And I wonder if Hemmings the hypnotist had paid Jonathan an earlier visit, say between eleven fifteen and twelve fifteen? There would have been plenty of time for him to make it back down to Murray Hill to receive Caroline’s frantic phone call.”
“But if Caroline heard the front door close at twelve forty-five or so...”
“Jake, ‘if’ is the biggest little word in the English language.”
My mother, freshly emerged from her bath and swathed in her chenille robe, but wearing full makeup—Mom’s baths were influenced by old Betty Grable movies—waltzed into the kitchen. “Jake, did you offer Ben some vanilla ice cream?”
Ben accepted a large bowl, and to my total amazement, my mother left us alone, going to get dressed for the séance.
“She’ll be back. And I don’t want to talk about this in front of her. Ben, I’m sure that Jonathan’s dead because someone at Emmie’s wake took that letter from my bag. It’s eerie. Knowing that we know a serial killer but not knowing who it is.”
“Who might have known that letter was in your bag?”
“Jesus. Well, Kate, Mrs. Madison and, possibly, Caroline could have seen the envelope from the National Enquirer on Jonathan’s desk and suspected that I’d copied it. And remember that Vera Madison almost caught me red-handed.”
“Or the killer, fearing what you’d discovered, might have rifled through your bag on a fishing trip.”
“Either way, that letter was Jonathan’s death sentence. And Kate seems to have the best—or, at least, the clearest—motive. Though I firmly believe that Vera Madison would kill on Kate’s behalf.”
“The police report from Honey Bucket is inconclusive at best. The Hansen daughter did disappear the same day the father had drowned, but while it looked suspicious, she was never an official suspect. The cause of death remained a question, but no arrest warrant was ever issued for Sarah Anne Hansen.”
“So if Kate had been blackmailed, the blackmailer, and her probable killer, had unearthed some further proof of her involvement...unless…”
“Jake, if you don’t hurry up and change, we’ll be late for Gypsy Rose’s séance.” My mother, in a soft gray linen blouse and matching linen trousers, stood in the kitchen door, dressed and ready to go. “We don’t want to keep the ghosts waiting.”
Twenty-Four
According to Gypsy Rose, the afterlife is a blast. “Being dead is divine, dear.” She believes our spirits may not reside in a traditional heaven; however, she’s certain that in the world beyond, our dreams come true. We, who have served hard time here on earth, are rewarded when we become one with the universe.
I once asked Gypsy Rose how she conversed with the dead. “Do you hear voices? Does the spirit speak directly to you? A real conversation?”
“It’s telepathy of a sort, Jake. During a channeling, I go into a kind of trance, and the soul’s thoughts will leap into my spirit guide’s mind. Then the guide borrows my body and my voice. I’m the medium, but the message comes from the spirit via my guide.”
Beats the phone company’s best rates. “Can anyone do this?”
“We all have a sixth sense, Jake; everyone has experienced déjà vu. Walking down a block or into a room, knowing that we’ve been there before, then asking ourselves if those memories came from a previous lifetime.”
“Could I contact my father?”
Cynic that I was, I also knew that some of Gypsy Rose’s encounters with the dead and many of her accurate psychic predictions had been awesome.
“Try to talk to him in a dream state. Ask about when and how he passed. Did you know that the last memory of an earth life is the first memory of a newly arrived spirit in the world beyond?”
I definitely didn’t, but took Gypsy Rose at her word. I still haven’t reached my father either by thought transference or any other method of communication, not awake nor in a dream. It’s crossed my mind to ask Gypsy Rose to contact her spirit guide, but I guess skepticism has overruled curiosity. So today would be my first official séance.
My mother is acquainted with one of Gypsy Rose’s spirit guides—Zelda Fitzgerald—and Mom has received word, indirectly, from Dad. He’s taking dancing lessons from Fred Astaire.
My mother had always been after my father to brush up his foxtrot. I guess he’s getting ready to waltz her around the big ballroom in the sky when she arrives. I’d teased and taunted her when she’d breathlessly shared this revelation with me, so now my mother will not discuss my father’s spirit’s news bulletins with me.
However, I’ve noticed Mom’s in no hurry to leave this incarnation to whirl around heaven all day. Indeed, she’s doing everything humanly possible to hang in here, keeping her current body—host to her immortal soul—in great shape.
“How can you be such a good Catholic and still believe in reincarnation?” I’d asked.
“Religion and spirituality are not mutually exclusive, Jake. I only have one soul; it’s just been recycled through several lifetimes. Eventually, my spirit will wind up in heaven...with all the saints...and your father.”
Hell would never be an option for my mother.
Ginger, Modesty, and Too-Tall Tom had arrived before us. Saturdays usually brought bustling business to the tearoom/bookstore. But Gypsy Rose had closed up shop for Emmie’s funeral. Two tables were pushed together, a Ouija board strategically placed in their combined center. Several scented candles of varied heights and shapes were on the table and scattered about the store.
Modesty said, ‘‘Jane’s running late, but she’ll be here.”
Mrs. McMahon, still dressed in her funeral attire, including the black bonnet circa the Civil War, helped Gypsy Rose pour tea, making no effort to hide her excitement.
‘‘Milk, Jake? How about you, Maura? Isn’t this thrilling? Why, I’ve never even had my tea leaves read. Of course, we’re breaking one of the Ten Commandments—you know the one: Thou shall not put strange gods before me. It’s probably a mortal sin; I’ll just stop at Confession at St. Thomas More’s before I go home. Father will be there ’til six.”
“Let’s hope you don’t get killed by a car on your way to church, Mrs. McMahon. Remember, the road to hell is paved with intended Confessions,” I said.
“Well, if I do go there, Jake O’Hara, you’ll be right there with me.” But Mrs. McMahon didn’t sound annoyed. The idea of sin seem to stimulate her.
Dennis, seated next to his father, checked his watch. “How long do you think this will take, Jake?”
“Well, you know how it is with the dead, Dennis, they have all eternity.”
Mr. Kim chuckled. “Dennis is always in a hurry, but I don’t think he’ll leave before the show’s over.”
Gypsy Rose had changed from her Armani black to a bright tomato-red caftan and had placed an Egyptian gold amulet around her neck. She motioned me over to a quiet corner of the book section. “Jake, the energy filling this room is so powerful that even though Zelda should be able to handle any evil spirits, I don’t know what to expect. Please sit between your mother and me, I want you to be surrounded by love.”
I gave her a squeeze. “It’s your séance, Gypsy Rose, you’re in charge of place settings. I’ll sit wherever you say.”
Modesty moaned, “Oh, no.” Both Gypsy Rose and I turned to see what was wrong. Jane had arrived with Patrick Hemmings in tow. No doubt Patrick would be delivering a few messages of his own: reporting all the news straight from the world beyond to Kate Lloyd Connors in Sutton Place.
Ginger, standing across the table from me,
said, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if the spirits could tell us who done it?”
Jane caressed the Ouija board. “Shouldn’t we pull the curtains and turn out the lights?”
“You want to do this in the dark?” Mrs. McMahon shrieked.
Gypsy Rose came across silky and soothing. “Please leave the lights on. Light speeds up energy. And please relax; this room is filled with tension. My spirit guide will prevent any evil spirits from crashing our channeling. We all want to reach Emmie, and I’m sure none of us has anything to fear from her.”
Modesty, sounding like Mike Wallace interviewing a television call-in psychic, asked, “Just what’s going to happen during this channeling? How does this work? And how can you be sure that these spirits will talk?”
“Put your left brain on the back burner,” my mother said before Gypsy Rose could answer. “The world beyond believes we all drag our left brains around with us, impeding our spiritual growth. I urge you to keep an open mind. Go with the right side of your brain.” Jesus, was my mother a closet New Ager?
“Okay,” Gypsy Rose said, “here’s how it works. I’m going to close my eyes, enter a trance, and channel my spirit guide. Once I reach her, she’ll take over my body and speak to you in my voice. But I’ll be gone—that is, I won’t know or remember what happens while my guide talks to you and attempts to reach Emmie.”
“You won’t remember?” Ginger asked.
“All of you can fill me in.”
“So, should we join hands and close our eyes?” Modesty, a stickler for details, wanted to know.
“No,” Gypsy Rose said. “The spirits like it lively. Talk to each other, and when my guide arrives, treat her as you’d treat me. Ask her anything. She’s your conduit to Emmie’s guide and to Emmie herself in the world beyond.”
“Who exactly is your guide, Gypsy Rose?” Dennis sounded jaded. “Just who will we be chatting with while you’re off only God knows where?”
He did not faze Gypsy Rose in the least. “I have three guides at the moment. The one who’s most likely to show up this afternoon is Zelda Fitzgerald.”
“For God’s sake, who are your other guides?” Ginger asked. “Mata Hari and Mother Teresa?”
“You can ask to speak to Gray Feather, an Apache brave who once scalped three hundred Union soldiers and is now a Master, or to Lady Eleanor.”
Patrick spoke up for the first time. “Who’s Lady Eleanor?”
“A lady-in-waiting to Catherine Howard…”
My mother jumped in. “Henry the VIII’s fifth wife. You know, he had her beheaded. His wife, that is—not Lady Eleanor.”
I hadn’t been aware that my mother knew Gypsy Rose’s other guides or—for that matter—that she had two other guides. All this fascinated me, and looking round the room, reading the faces, their expressions ranging from amusement to amazement, they all seemed as intrigued as I was.
“What’s a Master?” Modesty asked, surprising me. I knew she’d attended several New Age retreats.
“A teacher in the spirit world,” Jane, who’d covered New Age wisdom in her how-to books, answered. “Didn’t you read Many Lives, Many Masters?”
“I write, I don’t read,” Modesty said. “The truth is that I don’t have time to read nonfiction.” With her gothic novel-in-progress, by today’s count at fifteen hundred-plus pages, I believed her.
“Not a charwoman among them,” Ginger said. “I guess with our spirit guides as with our previous incarnations, only interesting lives need apply.”
“That’s not true.” Jane banged the table and a candle, perching precariously between her table and the one abutting it, almost fell through the crack. “Patrick suffered as a leper in one previous incarnation...isn’t that right, Patrick?”
“We’re here to channel Gypsy Rose’s guide and, hopefully, one of Emmie’s. Barbara may put in a word. My past lives are not the issue.” Patrick sounded pragmatic and professional. The way Jane used to sound before she’d become so enamored of Patrick’s parts therapy.
Dennis glanced at his watch, again, and said, “I suggest we get started.”
Mrs. McMahon, making the sign of the cross, said, “Hell yes.”
Gypsy Rose folded her hands in front of her—I focused on her well-manicured fingernails, the exact shade of her caftan. Next, she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Then, although I didn’t know it, Gypsy Rose turned her body over to Zelda Fitzgerald.
The ghostwriters, Dennis, Mr. Kim, Patrick, Mrs. McMahon, and my mother talked to, and over, each other. Continuous chatter. Nervous and noisy. “Look!” Modesty shouted. “Gypsy Rose’s dropped her jaw.”
I became a convert. Gypsy Rose’s carriage was always picture perfect. If she were still in her body, her chin would never fall to her chest. With an open mouth, yet.
Suddenly, her head raised; her eyes, wide-open, sparkled, and an impish grin seemed to lift her features. “Gypsy Rose?” Ginger asked.
“This is Zelda. Did someone wish to speak to me?” The group, dumbstruck, stared at her. Gypsy Rose’s voice had taken on a youthful, flirtatious quality, with just a hint of southern accent. “Well, ladies and gentleman, I’m waiting.”
“Zelda…” I sounded tinny, like an old phonograph record.
“Yes,” Zelda said, her voice clear as a bell. “I’ve come at Gypsy Rose’s request, and I’m delighted to act as your liaison with the spirit world, but I do have a date with the Murphys, so can we please begin?”
“We’re trying to reach Emmie. Can you help us, Zelda?”
“Who’s this Zelda, anyway?” Mrs. McMahon asked. “Gypsy Rose didn’t go away, she’s still here.”
“No, ma’am. I assure you, Gypsy Rose Liebowitz is gone. Zelda Fitzgerald is in residence.” A spirited answer from Zelda, but delivered with great charm.
Dennis asked, “How’s Scott?”
“Working on a comeback.”
“A new book?” Ginger asked.
“A new incarnation. Now could we please discuss whose spirit you all want to reach?”
“Emmie Rogers,” I said. “A ghost. She was murdered here in New York, a week ago yesterday. Hit over the head with Crime and Punishment.”
“We prefer ‘spirit’ to ‘ghost’ in the world beyond, Jake.”
“No, no. Emmie was a ghostwriter. You know, she’d write the book, but someone else’s name would appear on the cover as author.”
“Not for Fyodor. He worked alone. Frankly, he’s as deadly as his body of work.” Zelda winked at me.
“I love Dostoevsky,” Modesty said.
Zelda ignored Modesty and asked, “Now, please, where and when was Emmie born?”
“Jackson Heights, Queens. Thirty-three years ago.”
“Did you know East Egg was really Great Neck? Long Island, but bordering Queens.”
I said, “Yeah. Well, Queens has changed a lot since The Great Gatsby.”
Zelda raised Gypsy Rose’s arms over her head, as if reaching for the sky. “Emmie, is that what you called her?”
“Yes!” A chorus of voices answered Zelda.
“Well, Emmie’s guide is here. I’m turning Gypsy Rose’s body over to her. Good luck to you all. I have to skiddoo now.”
In a split second, the sparkle left Gypsy Rose’s eyes and her body stiffened. “I am Emmie’s spirit guide. How may I assist you?” The voice sounded starchy, low-pitched, and British. “Please forgive me, I have not introduced myself. My name is Emily Bronte.”
Twenty-Five
Emily Bronte’s guest appearance turned the séance into chaos and its participants into literary groupies. The ghostwriters behaved like crazed Grateful Dead fans, stepping all over each other’s lines, trying to chat up Miss Bronte.
“Jesus Christ!” Modesty shouted.
“No. He’s my spirit guide,” Dennis said.
“
Shut up,” I said to Dennis—then to Emily Bronte, “Thank you for coming. My name is Jake O’Hara.”
“I am not familiar with the name, Jake. But American spirits are so sprightly, Miss O’Hara, it is a pleasure to meet a live one.”
“Have you met our friend, Emmie Rogers—er, that is, her spirit—since she passed over?”
“Indeed. She’s right here beside me, aren’t you, Emmie?”
Ginger let out a loud gasp, followed by Mrs. McMahon’s, “Holy Mother of God, protect us!”
Modesty persisted, “Miss Bronte, can you take a moment or two to discuss Cathy’s deathbed scene in relation to the wind howling on the moors?”
“Modesty, put a lid on it, and let Jake do the talking.” Jane was furious. “This isn’t English Lit 101.”
Ignoring them, I asked, “Miss Bronte, will Emmie talk to us?”
“Miss Rogers is such a recent arrival that she is somewhat disoriented. If you will permit me, I shall speak for her as her thoughts flow through me.”
Dennis said, “Well, I have a few questions for Emmie.”
“Sir, I would prefer to address Miss O’Hara. And that is Miss Rogers’ request as well.”
“Dennis, Miss Bronte’s not in the witness chair.” His father scolded him as I gave Dennis a dirty look and resumed my conversation with our dead author.
“How do we begin, Miss Bronte?”
“You have a Ouija board on the table. Miss Emily Rogers would be comfortable with you and your mother, Mrs. O’Hara, using the planchette to reveal the truth.” Jane clutched Patrick’s arm; he caught my glance and, with his other hand, gave me a thumbs up. Why did I allow that man to grate me? “We are ready, Miss O’Hara. You may ask your question,” Miss Bronte said.
My mother placed a shaky hand on the planchette, a small wooden pointed platform on casters, and gave me a weak smile. I put my hand across from hers, my faith in God, and posed my question. “Please know that we miss you and we love you. We want to know, who killed you, Emmie?”