Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator

by Jennifer Allison

  “You took Rosa’s keys?”

  “Rosa was so surprised to see me downstairs asking for breakfast, she started talking to herself in Spanish, and she didn’t even notice when I grabbed her keys. She’s in there making pancakes or something right now, so we have some time to go see if any of these will open the tower!”

  “You really think your father would let Rosa have a key to the tower?”

  Juliet shrugged. “This key ring is supposed to hold all the keys to the entire house, and besides, everyone knows that Rosa wouldn’t go in there even if she did have a key.”

  “Let’s try it,” said Gilda.

  Juliet led Gilda through the small garden behind the house, where an overgrowth of lilacs and rosebushes nearly concealed a brick path.

  “But what if your father sees us back here?” Gilda asked, untangling a thorny branch from her hair. “He seemed pretty strict when he told me to stay away from the tower this morning.”

  “You can’t see this part of the garden from his office window,” said Juliet nonchalantly. “Besides, I think he avoids looking at anything behind the house. He certainly doesn’t seem to care that the garden is so overgrown.”

  “When they reached the center of the garden, Gilda saw the empty marble pool with a large statue of an angel at the center.

  “This is supposed to be a fountain, but the water hasn’t been turned on in ages,” Juliet explained.

  Gilda peered up at the house—three floors, then the attic. There was the tower: the lower half was almost completely concealed by lilac bushes and several trees, but when she looked up, she saw that it peaked like the Gothic turret of a castle, its pointy roof a bit higher than the rest of the house.

  The windows of the tower were covered with boards, and its walls were cloaked in the creeping vines and flowers of wisteria. Peeking through the vines was something bronze—a glimpse of a rusted doorknob.

  “Well, let’s see if any of those keys unlocks the door,” said Gilda.

  It was difficult to find the rusted lock on the door within the tangled vines—vines that seemed to want to protect the entrance to the tower like thorns around a sleeping kingdom.

  Juliet stood guard just in case her father or Rosa decided to come outside unexpectedly while Gilda hurriedly tried every key on the ring. There were keys of every shape and size—old rusty keys that looked like they had been made a hundred years ago, and tiny keys that must have been used for locked jewelry boxes and desk drawers.

  “Any luck?” Juliet whispered.

  Gilda shook her head. None of the keys worked.

  Standing in front of the tower door, Gilda suddenly felt cold. Once again, she had the distinct feeling that the house was observing her. She gazed up at the tower looming above, then turned to look behind her, where, just beyond the angel fountain, the hill plunged down at a steep incline. She imagined a woman falling from the upper window, then crashing down—down into the tropical plants with pointed leaves and low-growing shrubs that covered the hillside. For a moment, Gilda wondered if Mr. Splinter’s decision to keep the tower locked might make some sense: perhaps it was wrong to open it after something so terrible had happened.

  “I feel like somebody’s watching us,” said Juliet. “Maybe we should go.”

  “Someone is,” said Gilda, who had just noticed a shadow creeping out from under a rosebush into the sunlight.

  It was the gray cat.

  “That’s Phantom,” said Juliet. “He’s lived with my father since before I was born; we don’t even know how old he is.”

  The cat jumped up on the edge of the fountain and walked toward Juliet on tiptoe, moving as stealthily as a dark cloud.

  Purring, Phantom jumped down into the empty fountain, curled up, and blinked lazily at the two girls, as if inviting them to join him for a nap.

  “Rosa’s probably made breakfast by now,” said Juliet. “We should go.”

  Back in the house, Rosa thrust an enormous burrito in front of Juliet’s nose. “You sit down and eat now!”

  “Okay, okay!” said Juliet, who began to pick at a corner of the burrito daintily with a fork.

  Rosa handed the telephone to Gilda. “Your mother, she has just called.”

  “Hello? Mom?”

  “Hey, sunshine! How’s San Francisco?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Having fun?”

  “Sure.”

  “Behaving yourself?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Gilda, I want you to have fun, but just keep in mind what we talked about before you left, okay?”

  “What did we talk about? Leprechauns? Sundresses?”

  “No—I don’t want you to ask too many prying questions, okay? I know you’re curious about Lester, but please remember that he’s a very private person, and it was very generous of him to let you visit.”

  “When do I ever ask prying questions?” Did her mother have ESP, or had Mr. Splinter called to complain about the questions she had asked that morning?

  “Frequently. You frequently ask rude questions about personal subjects.”

  “Name one.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Gilda Joyce. All I know is that I’ve heard you blurt out some very personal questions to people you hardly know when they aren’t expecting it.”

  Gilda rolled her eyes. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but fine.”

  “Please be considerate of others, Gilda. And please don’t go wandering in bad neighborhoods, okay?”

  “Well, I was just about to put on my bikini and go visit all the bad neighborhoods, so that kind of ruins my plans.”

  “Very funny, Gilda. How’s the weather?”

  “Foggy.”

  “It’s sunny here—very hot. Your brother’s a little jealous of your trip, you know, so I’ll tell him that at least he has sunnier weather here in Michigan!”

  “No—I want him to be jealous!”

  “Honestly, Gilda!” Mrs. Joyce sighed. “I have to go to work now. Miss you!”

  “You, too.”

  “Love you!”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye, sweetie!”

  “Bye!”

  Gilda hung up the phone and caught Juliet staring at her intently. “She’s so irritating,” Gilda said, trying to sound like someone who had little need of phone calls from her mother.

  “At least your mom asks you how you’re doing. Whenever my mother calls me, she spends the whole time talking about sales-and-earnings reports or the new car she just bought. Then, after she’s talked about herself for ages, she’ll say, ‘Got any boyfriends yet, Juliet?”’

  “Just tell her you’re dating one of your teachers at school,” Gilda suggested. “That’ll shut her up!”

  Juliet let out a strange yelp of laughter.

  “I’m serious,” said Gilda. “My grandmother used to ask that question every time she saw me, but after I told her I was having an affair with the school principal, she got the point and stopped bringing up the subject.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Did, too,” said Gilda. “I mean, it’s none of her business.”

  Juliet smiled. “Maybe I’ll try that one next time my mother calls.”

  “Juliet’s coming with us to Chinatown,” Gilda announced as Summer emerged from Mr. Splinter’s office.

  “You’re kidding!” Summer forced a smile.

  “My ankle doesn’t hurt as much now,” said Juliet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can almost walk using just one crutch.”

  “She’s been faking the whole time, anyway,” said Gilda.

  “I have not been faking,” said Juliet.

  “Well, this will be fun,” said Summer, trying to sound cheerful. “As long as Juliet will be okay, walking with the crutches and everything. Let’s go!”

  14

  Chinatown

  On the crowded cable bus that lumbered down San Francisco’s sloping hills, Gilda stare
d at three elderly Chinese women whose faces were as puffy and lined as old apples. They gazed wearily through the windows behind Gilda at the elaborate “painted lady” houses. Soon the bus became extremely crowded, and the driver yelled grumpily at a long line of people who wanted to climb aboard: “I take no more people on this bus. No more people!”

  “Ugh,” said Juliet, glaring at an old man who accidentally kicked her ankle as he staggered past her, attempting to find a seat. “Now I remember why I hate riding the bus.”

  “I like riding the bus,” said Gilda, who enjoyed all kinds of crowds, since they provided opportunities for observing strange people at close range. She was torn between wanting to listen to the conversation in Chinese between the old women (which she couldn’t understand) and listening to Summer, who talked more than anyone Gilda had ever met. With Summer, there was no need to ask prying personal questions: unlike most people Gilda knew, Summer was a transparent window, revealing everything about herself. Summer explained that she had grown up in Marin County, just across the bay, and that she was currently dating a college student who spoke fluent French and worked in a pastry shop. Deep down, Summer wanted to be a hairdresser, “but that would mean being on my feet all day, you know?” She was currently attending community college part-time to learn accounting, and she had worked for Lester Splinter’s accounting firm for almost a year. Then Summer explained how, shortly after she had first begun working for him, she had made the mistake of attempting to fix Lester up on a date with a very attractive older woman who owned the apartment building in which Summer lived.

  Gilda’s ears perked up at this piece of information.

  Juliet looked horrified. “You did what?!”

  “As you can probably imagine, that led to a totally embarrassing moment,” said Summer.

  Gilda pictured Mr. Splinter and a mysterious woman with white hair meeting each other in a restaurant and holding hands across the table. To Gilda, Mr. Splinter seemed ancient—way too old for dates. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Well, first of all, Lester said, ‘Thank you very much, Summer, but my personal life is not your concern.”’

  Juliet snorted. “My father on a date. That’s a laugh!”

  “But your father is a fairly attractive man for his age, don’t you think?”

  Gilda and Juliet wrinkled their noses. Neither would have used the word attractive to describe Juliet’s father.

  “I mean,” Summer continued, “it’s been ages since Lester got divorced, and I think it’s kind of sad that he hasn’t found a companion to share his life with.”

  “What about me?” Juliet demanded. “He has someone to share his life with—his daughter.”

  “Oh, I meant an adult companion,” said Summer patiently, as if attempting to make something clear to a very small child.

  “She meant that he needs someone pleasant to share his life with,” Gilda joked.

  Summer giggled, but quickly clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “I knew I should have stayed at home,” said Juliet. Secretly, she admired Gilda’s ability to make cutting remarks in a deadpan voice that somehow didn’t make you want to hate her for the rest of the day. It was different from the more hurtful put-downs she had sometimes endured from her stepsisters during her childhood: they had called her names like “Miss Anorexia” and “albino” when she went to the beach. Gilda is blunt, but she isn’t mean-spirited, Juliet thought.

  Gilda was thinking that Mr. Splinter’s apparent lack of a social life only confirmed her suspicion that he was hiding something. Maybe he avoids having a real girlfriend because she might discover his secret, she thought.

  “What about your mom, Gilda?” Summer asked, attempting to change the subject.

  “My mom? What about her?”

  “Well, you told me she’s a single parent too, right? Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Of course not!” said Gilda, appalled that Summer would ask such a question. “She’s practically forty!”

  “That’s not old, silly,” said Summer.

  Gilda felt that the idea of her mother going on a date—or even being considered attractive by any man—was ludicrous. Still, she had to admit that she had not yet considered this question: Would her mother be going on dates soon? Her father had been gone for more than two years. Would she eventually have to get used to an entirely new father living in her house? Gilda pictured herself pretending to laugh at her new stepfather’s jokes at the breakfast table. The jokes wouldn’t be funny, but she would have to pretend to laugh. The new father would wear ugly ties and aftershave that smelled like old cheese, but she would have to tell him that he looked nice and smelled pleasant, even though she secretly hated him. Stephen would never go along with it; he would almost certainly run away. Gilda decided that she was lucky that her mother hadn’t started dating anyone yet. On the other hand, what if her new stepfather turned out to be rich? What if her mother married a doctor or a lawyer or something? After all, it wouldn’t be so bad to have a swimming pool and vacations to Disney World…’.

  “Come on, Gilda,” said Summer, interrupting Gilda’s reverie. “We’re here!”

  The streets of Chinatown seemed to shout and dance with red-and-green flags and signs waving both American brands and Chinese characters. The air bloomed with the smell of woody, pungent spices and dried mushrooms from the restaurants and open markets. In the shop windows, Gilda glimpsed bananas hanging from ceilings, giant silver fish on ice in display windows, butchers slicing chicken and pork, jars of unusual candies. On the crowded sidewalks, small elderly people moved slowly under awnings, maneuvering carefully around crates of tangerines and cabbages and lingering in front of displays of dead piglets and dragon masks. After the brooding silence of the Splinter mansion, the pulse of Chinatown was almost overwhelming. All the elements of life seemed intermingled in a lively stew—past and present, old and young, reality and fantasy, life and death.

  Gilda suddenly wished that her father were alive so that he could be there with her to see it all. He’d probably buy something bizarre here, Gilda thought, giant melons or fish heads or something—and then he’d tell me they were magic.

  Juliet and Gilda followed Summer into a series of whimsical, chaotic shops crammed with hand-carved bamboo figurines and silk kites and jade jewelry and copies of ancient paintings.

  “Hey,” said Juliet, “my armpits are killing me from these crutches.”

  “Then let’s take a break,” said Summer. “I’ll get us a snack.” She walked up to a small outdoor counter and bought spring rolls, and they sat down at a table on the sidewalk to eat.

  Gilda watched what appeared to be the oldest woman in the world crossing the street. It seemed to take her an hour; the light changed at least twice before she made it from one corner to the other. Cars darted around her as she moved with tiny, shuffling baby steps, using a cane. It probably takes her an entire day to do a single errand, Gilda thought.

  “Look, Juliet,” she said. “There’s someone who’s even slower than you.”

  “You’re hilarious,” said Juliet drily, “you know that?”

  “Don’t you just love people-watching?” said Summer.

  “It’s one of my favorite things,” said Gilda.

  “People are just so interesting,” Summer gushed.

  Gilda suddenly felt inexplicably sad as she watched the woman reach the curb and begin to turn the corner to head slowly down the sidewalk. She watched her approach the entranceway of a building. “Where do you think that old lady is going?” she asked.

  “That’s a Chinese temple,” said Summer.

  The old lady made her way inside the building.

  Then Gilda noticed the familiar ticklish sensation in her ear. “Let’s follow her,” she said impulsively.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Juliet. “Why would we want to do that?”

  “Just to see what she’s up to,” said Gilda. “And I want to see what’s inside that temple.”
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  When Summer, Juliet, and Gilda entered the silence of the worship space, they immediately felt awkward. Their loud curiosity was out of place in the contemplative environment.

  The temple was empty except for the old woman they had followed; she lit some incense in front of a small altar that was adorned with the picture of a young girl.

  “That must be one of her dead relatives,” Summer whispered.

  The woman took a piece of paper and a fountain pen from her bag. With painstaking slowness, she began to draw Chinese characters.

  “What’s she writing?” Gilda whispered.

  Summer shrugged. “Maybe it’s a message to that little girl.”

  Then Gilda remembered that Wendy Choy had once told her that Mrs. Choy believed it was possible to send messages—and even money—to dead people. Maybe the Chinese had a knack for getting letters delivered to the dead. It was worth a try, at any rate. Gilda started walking toward the old woman.

  “Gilda!” Summer whispered loudly. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to find out what she’s writing.”

  “You can’t disturb someone in a church or temple or whatever just because you’re curious,” Juliet whispered frantically. “Don’t you have any manners?”

  “I’m just going to ask her what she’s writing!” Gilda blurted this in a regular speaking voice that echoed through the temple. The woman looked behind her, but decided that the trio must be tourists and turned back to her pen and paper. When she had finished writing, she burned her paper in a flame and lowered her head to pray.

  Juliet and Summer pretended to examine the ornate sculpture of a Chinese goddess as the woman exited the temple with excruciating slowness, but Gilda stared directly at her.

  “Excuse me,” said Gilda, “what were you writing?”

  The woman shook her head as if to say, No, no; I can’t help you.

  “I don’t think she speaks English,” said Summer.

  “I think she was writing a letter to her granddaughter,” said Gilda, after the woman had left.