by Alice Duncan
And then something happened that had never happened before in all the years I’d been conducting séances and dealing with tarot cards, Ouija boards, crystal balls, and all things spiritual.
Rolly’s voice faded, I felt a sudden rush of energy surge through me, and a voice entirely different from Rolly’s came out of my mouth. I couldn’t help it. It frightened me almost to death.
It said, “Mother, please don’t grieve for me. I know you miss me, but you need to take care of yourself.”
A collective gasp went up from my audience. I’d have joined in, but my body was being used by something else at the moment.
Mrs. Hastings almost shrieked. “Eddie! It’s Eddie! Oh, Eddie, what happened to you?”
“Shhh,” said several other people gathered round. I heard Mrs. Bissel whisper, “You need to keep still, Laura. Mrs. Majesty can’t be disturbed during her séance, or she may suffer severe consequences.”
Those consequences were, as I’d told most of my clients at one time or another, the possibility that I might get stuck between this world and the next if anyone had a fit and disrupted a séance. That night, however, I was as shocked—not to mention aghast, horrified, and rattled—as everyone else present. What was going on? Unfortunately for me, Rolly was as fake as I was, so he couldn’t tell me. And I had no control over my body, vocal chords, or anything else of a personal nature. It was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to me.
I felt the voice emerge again. Against my will and to my utter horror. “I was murdered. And don’t know who did it. If you want me to rest easily on this side of life, find out who killed me on that side of it.”
And then, although I always fake a swoon at the end of a séance, for the first time in my entire life, I fainted.
I have no idea what happened then. The next thing I remember was when I was jolted into consciousness by the sharp smell of ammonia salts being held under my nose. After I jerked awake, I discovered I’d been deposited on a sofa in Mrs. Bissel’s living room. I tried to sit up, confused and still shocked by what had taken place in the lady’s breakfast room.
“Be still, Daisy. Don’t sit up too suddenly. You might swoon off again.”
The voice was that of Harold. I thanked my lucky stars he’d decided to come to my séance that evening. Clutching his hand and staring into his eyes, I whispered, “D-did what I think happened actually happen, Harold?”
“Yes, it did.” He sounded severe. “I must say, Daisy, while you generally provide a good deal of entertainment and drama during an average evening, you might have gone too far this time. Mrs. Hastings is in hysterics. So is Mother, although that’s nothing unusual.”
“But, Harold, I didn’t plan it!” I said, wanting to wail but remembering myself in time to whisper. “I had no idea that was going to happen!”
His eyes crinkled to narrow slits. “You didn’t?”
“No! It was the strangest sensation I’ve ever felt. I swear, I—I think Eddie Hastings took over my body for a minute. Or something. That sounds crazy. Oh, Lord, Harold, what have I done?” I envisioned my cozy career slipping downhill faster than Spike snatching food from the air when I threw it for him. “I swear, I don’t know what went on in there. It was like I was . . . was . . . possessed by . . . Oh, I don’t know!”
“It sounded to me as though you were possessed by Eddie Hastings, which doesn’t make any sense at all.” After another moment or two, Harold, still frowning, said, “I believe you. But what a hell of a turn of events. Good God, do you think you actually were visited by the soul of a murdered man, and that the man was Eddie?”
Other people began gathering around me, and I couldn’t speak frankly anymore. God forbid anyone besides Harold realize I was a counterfeit spiritualist medium. At least I had been one. At that moment, I wasn’t sure what I was. I feared the word “lunatic” might hit the mark. I moaned, genuinely groggy and distressed, and Harold helped me sit up on the sofa.
“Daisy! Are you all right? My sweet heaven, do you think it’s true?”
I gazed up at Mrs. Bissel, who’d asked the question, and shook my head slowly, trying to clear away the fuzz. “I—I don’t know.” Giving myself a hard mental wallop, and knowing I had to reestablish my spiritualist act soon or lose it forever, I said, “I’ve never received a message like that before. I—I guess Rolly thought we should hear the truth from Mr. Hastings himself. Or . . . or . . .” I ran out of words.
Mrs. Bissel clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes went wide with dismay. “Oh, my goodness. Poor Laura.”
Poor Laura, indeed. I felt like a louse for putting a grieving mother through additional pain. But I had. It was my fault those words had come from my mouth, even though they’d come without my permission—or my volition, for that matter. “May I see her? Perhaps I can . . . soothe her. Or something.” Lame, Daisy Majesty. Very lame. But I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes. I know she’d like that. Perhaps you can speak with her and . . . well, I don’t know. But she does want to speak with you.”
She did? Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of that. Nevertheless, Mrs. Hastings’ present state of misery was my fault, and the least I could do was talk to the poor woman.
“Can you stand, Daisy?” asked Harold, sounding honestly concerned, which I appreciated.
“Yes.” I put a foot on the carpeted floor and re-thought my answer. “Or . . . maybe you can help me, Harold? Just hold on to me so I won’t fall. I feel quite woozy still.”
“Small wonder,” he muttered under his breath.
I wanted to scream at him that I hadn’t planned Eddie Hastings’ interruption of my usually flawless performance, but I managed to control myself. As he tenderly helped me to my feet, I managed to mumble, “I truly, truly don’t know how it happened, Harold. I hope you believe that, because I feel crummy enough without thinking my best friend believes me to be a spiteful wretch.”
“I’d never think that, Daisy. You sure gave us all a turn, though.”
“I think I gave myself a worse one.”
“Wait until you see Mrs. Hastings.”
“Oh, Lord.” I felt tears building in my eyes and had to blink fast a few times to keep them contained. I was pretty sure Mrs. Hastings wouldn’t appreciate me crying all over her right after I’d flung her dead son’s murder at her feet. Murder. Murder. What in the world—or out of it—had prompted me to say that?
Only I hadn’t said it. Something else had. As incredible as it sounds, I was truly beginning to believe Edward Hastings had thrust himself into my séance that night. Lord, Lord, Lord. If anything like that ever happened again, I’d be too scared to continue with my profession. But it was too soon to think about my future. Right now, I needed to help Mrs. Hastings. If I could.
Harold led me to another sofa in the living room—I did mention that the living room was gigantic, didn’t I? Well, if I didn’t, it was. Several of the séance ladies had gathered around the sofa upon which Mrs. Hastings lay, but when they saw me coming, they all backed away, staring at me as if I were either an angel or a devil. Probably the latter.
Mrs. Bissel, who had lowered her bulk to her cousin’s sofa and now held her hand, spoke to her gently. “Here’s Mrs. Majesty, Laura. She wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Hastings, surprising me a bit, since I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone who’d told me my son had been murdered. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Majesty!”
Now she was thanking me? Good heavens. But I had my nerves under control by that time, and I knelt beside her, putting on the soberest expression in my repertoire. I’d even thought of something to say, believe it or not.
“Mrs. Hastings, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened during the séance. Sometimes the spirits—”
“No, no!” she cried, and fairly forcefully, too, for a woman who had seemed to be prostrate. “It was Eddie. I recognized his voice. And I knew there was something wrong about his death. I knew it! You’ve only
confirmed the truth for me.”
I had? Sweet Lord have mercy, as my aunt was wont to say.
Suddenly Mrs. Hastings sat up, almost upending Mrs. Bissel. She grabbed my right hand and held it tightly. “But you must discover the villain who killed my Eddie!” she said, sending the faint glimmer of relief that had barely begun to bloom in my heart flying out of it again. “Mrs. Pinkerton told me you have a friend who’s a police detective. You must tell him about Eddie. The police weren’t interested at the time. They—well, everyone, really—chalked his death up to suicide.”
I suffered yet another jolt. She wanted me to find her son’s killer and/or enlist Sam? Sam Rotondo, who might or might not love me, but who never believed anything I said? Oh, Lord.
“But I know Eddie wouldn’t have killed himself,” Mrs. Hastings continued. “Please. Please, Mrs. Majesty! Please help me. If you could only enlist the help of your friend on the police force.”
Blast Mrs. Pinkerton to heck and back! She would go and blab to this woman about Sam Rotondo, wouldn’t she? As if Sam would ever take anything I learned at a séance seriously. Was the woman mad?
“Um . . . I . . . Well . . .” Fumbling for words doesn’t half describe the state I was in by that time. First a real, honest-to-God spirit had burst into one of my séances like those dratted coppers when they’d raided the speakeasy, and now this woman actually wanted me to tell Sam about what the spirit had said to me.
“Please, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Um . . . Actually, Mrs. Hastings, I don’t know that Detective Rotondo would believe me if I told him your son had visited our séance.”
She looked stricken, and I could have kicked myself. Thank God for Harold.
“She’s right, Mrs. Hastings. I know Detective Rotondo, too, and he’s a true skeptic if ever there was one.”
“But . . . but we must do something!” cried the poor woman. “I can’t leave Eddie just . . . just floating there on the Other Side with no rest. My God, he’d be like one of those wandering spirits in A Christmas Carol! You simply have to figure out a way to tell him about Eddie, Mrs. Majesty. Or perhaps you could, Mr. Kincaid! You knew my Eddie, and you know that detective. Surely he’d listen to you!”
Harold and I exchanged a couple of wary glances. Sam? Listen to Harold? That was only slightly more fantastic than thinking Sam would listen to me about Edward Hastings having told me of his murder during a séance.
“Um . . .” said Harold.
“Er . . .” said I.
“I know you can do it, Daisy!” came a voice from my back. Naturally, it was the voice of Mrs. Pinkerton, my biggest fan and most troublesome client. “You can do anything! Why, you’ve done wonders for me. And I know others have benefited so much from your work. Surely you can help bring poor Eddie’s killer to justice!”
How like her to have stopped suffering from hysterics at that particular moment, blast the woman!
“Well, but it’s the police, you see. They don’t often give spiritualist mediums much credit for anything, you know,” I said, hedging for all I was worth.
“But I thought they called in psychics all the time for police work,” said Mrs. Pinkerton.
Psychics? Heaven help us. Not in good old Pasadena. “Um, perhaps some police forces use psychics, but I doubt that Sam Rotondo would ever use one.” Even if whatever it was I’d said during the séance had come to me through some otherworldly being that had taken over my body. I shivered, remembering.
“Well, don’t tell him you heard it at a séance, then!” said Mrs. Pinkerton.
“Um . . . I . . .” I mulled her words over in my fuzzy brain for a second or two before I came to a startling conclusion.
By God, it was, perhaps, the first time in her entire life Mrs. Pinkerton had ever made any sense.
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
I considered how to approach Sam Rotondo with the startling news that Edward Hastings had been murdered, mulling it over for the rest of that evening and through the night. Because I couldn’t sleep, I tossed and turned for what seemed like forever—upsetting Spike so much, he finally jumped off the bed and sought a calmer place to sleep—and continued to think about it all the following morning.
But I was left to reflect on my problem all by my lonesome the next day, which was Sunday. My family, naturally knowing nothing of what had taken place at the previous evening’s séance, got up, dressed, and ate Sunday breakfast as usual, and then walked to the Methodist-Episcopal Church, North, on the corner of Marengo and Colorado Boulevard. I brooded alone, since I couldn’t tell a soul what had happened.
During the choir’s anthem, I sang the alto part of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” attempting with every word and note to erase Edward Hastings’ voice from my brain. That didn’t work, so I tried harder as we all gathered in Fellowship Hall to have cookies and coffee. Still no luck.
My family and I walked home, where we partook of one of Aunt Vi’s delicious dinners. Then I went to my room, ostensibly to rest. My family was happy to let me, since they knew the séance had gone on until long past midnight. Fortunately for me, Sam Rotondo didn’t pay a call on the family that day, because I still had no idea how to approach him with the news that Edward Hastings was a murder victim. He’d laugh his head off. Or get mad at me. Probably both.
Anyhow, we had a light supper of sandwiches and then went to bed, where I commenced tossing and turning some more. Exhaustion must have claimed me at some point during that night because Spike didn’t desert me.
Then came Monday.
Aunt Vi had left us one of her delectable breakfast casseroles before she’d gone to work at the Pinkerton mansion to create more delicious meals for them. Ma had already eaten and gone to her job at the Hotel Marengo, so it was only Pa and me—and Spike, who lived in hope of a dropped morsel—at the table. Pa had the Pasadena Star News open in front of him, and I ate what little I could in silence as I considered the Edward Hastings affair.
Staring blankly out the kitchen window as I thought, I heard the paper crinkle. Pa said, “What’s the matter, Daisy? You seem a little down in the dumps this morning.”
A little. That was putting it mildly. I glanced at my father, not quite knowing what to say. “Um . . .”
His brow furrowed with concern. Pa, an unusually perceptive man, laid his newspaper aside. “All right, Daisy. Give. What’s troubling you? You were well when you left for that séance. Did something happen there? Would it help you to talk about it? I don’t want to butt in, but—”
“No! No, you’re not butting in.” I’d never, ever accuse my father of being meddlesome. But . . . Oh, Lord.
“Well, if you ever want to talk about it—”
He reached again for the paper, and I cried, “No! No, please. I do want to talk about it.” Didn’t I? Oh, heck, I didn’t know. Then, reading the love in his blue eyes—eyes I’d inherited—I decided to take the plunge and tell him the truth.
Sucking in about a gallon of air to sustain me through the coming ordeal, I said, “I swear, Pa, a spirit actually spoke through me Saturday night at the séance.”
“Eh?”
“It’s true, Pa. A spirit spoke through me and told everyone at the séance that he’d been murdered. It was awful.”
Pa’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “Um, Daisy, do you mean . . . ?”
His skepticism was too much for me, and I kind of folded up, pushed my plate aside, and laid my head in my arms. Spike whimpered, and I threw him a bite of potato from my portion of the casserole.
“I swear, Pa, it’s the truth. It was the most ghastly experience of my life—well, except for when Billy died. I’ve always, until last night, thought all spiritualists and their mumbo-jumbo were hogwash. Piffle. Nonsense. I put on a show for people and try to make them feel better if they’ve lost a loved one. But on Saturday night . . .”
“Yes?” He sounded genuinely interested and, better, no longer scornful or doubtful.
I lif
ted my head and almost shouted, “Edward Hastings, the late son of Mrs. Bissel’s cousin, showed up while I was doing my Rolly routine and told everyone there that he’d been murdered!” Lowering my voice to a whisper, I added, “Pa, I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you kidding me, Daisy? Because if you are—”
“No! No! Good Lord, Pa, do you think I’d joke about something like that? It was ghastly, I tell you.” The tears I’d held in check the night of the séance and all day Sunday started leaking from my eyes. “It was horrible! All of a sudden, it was as if someone or something took possession of me. I felt this . . . oh, I don’t know. It was like an electrical shock. And then this voice I’d never heard before in my entire life came out of my mouth!” I pointed at the orifice as if to verify my words. “Harold heard it. Everyone heard it! Mrs. Hastings said it was the voice of her dead son, and Harold said it sounded exactly like Edward Hastings. They knew each other, you see.”
“Good God.”
Grabbing a handkerchief from the old blue day dress I’d donned that morning, I wiped my eyes. “Yes. Good God, indeed. And now I don’t know what to do.”
Pa sat there, staring at me, and didn’t say a word.
Feeling compelled, I went on, “Mrs. Pinkerton had to open her yap and say that I knew a police detective. And then Mrs. Hastings begged me to tell the coppers her son had been murdered or, failing that, to find out who killed her son myself.” I gazed at my father and went on in a pleading—I hate to say it, but perhaps it was even a little whiny—voice, “Sam would never believe me if I told him what happened.”
“No, I don’t suppose he would.”
“But you do, don’t you, Pa? Please tell me I’m not going crazy!”
He gave a sharp shake of his head. “You’re not going crazy, sweetheart.”
“There were witnesses, Pa. Lots of them. They all heard that voice come out of me. I didn’t have any control over it. And I’ve never even met Edward Hastings, so I sure as heck wasn’t imitating his voice or anything. I couldn’t, since I didn’t know what he sounded like.”