“How would you know that?” said Juliet. “You have no idea what she was writing.”
“I just have a feeling that her granddaughter was sick and died, and that’s what she was doing.”
Gilda turned to Juliet. “Hey—why don’t you write a letter to your aunt Melanie?”
“No thanks,” said Juliet, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’d say.”
“You could ask her if she has something she wants to tell you.”
“Oh, good idea!” Summer exclaimed. “I’m going to write one to my cat who died. It was so sad; I had to put her to sleep.”
Juliet rolled her eyes as Summer dug around in her purse for a scrap of paper.
Gilda suddenly knew that she wanted to write a letter to her father. Maybe there was something about writing a letter to a dead person in a Chinese temple that actually gave the letter more power. She took out the small notebook she kept in her pocket and began to write quickly.
Gilda suspected that she didn’t have the right kind of paper to send to a spirit, and she obviously didn’t have a special altar in the temple for her father (who wasn’t the least bit Chinese). Still—she felt that it was worth a try.
Juliet and Summer watched as Gilda burned her letter in the small flame of a candle, just as the old woman had done.
“Who were you writing to?” Summer asked as they emerged from the temple into the bright afternoon sunlight.
“My father,” said Gilda, without further explanation.
Summer and Juliet fell silent, unsure whether to offer a sympathetic comment or simply leave Gilda alone.
“Well, I bet his spirit is reading your letter right at this moment,” said Summer, attempting to say something helpful.
“It’s worth a try,” said Gilda matter-of-factly.
Juliet observed Gilda, who seemed more subdued than usual. Juliet hadn’t realized that Gilda had lost a parent, but now she glimpsed a different side of her cousin—a hidden side that might secretly be more hurt and sad than she acted. Maybe that’s why she’s so interested in contacting the dead, Juliet thought. It’s because she lost someone, too.
15
A Disturbing Theory
Sitting on the floor in Juliet’s room, Gilda and Juliet stuffed handfuls of popcorn into their mouths while watching a true-crime television show called The Criminals Amongst Us. It was a rerun of one of Gilda’s favorite episodes: the featured criminal was a trusted doctor well loved by his community because he was one of the last physicians in the country still willing to make house calls in the middle of the night. “But they were DEADLY house calls!” the television narrator warned. “WHY were there so many unexplained deaths? WHY so many mysterious illnesses?”
Gilda already knew the outcome of the case: the “deadly doctor” killed an elderly woman by giving her a lethal dose of a drug and then forging a suicide note to cover up the crime. Because the woman’s family simply couldn’t believe that their “sweet Grandma Jones” would actually commit suicide, they kept pushing the local police to investigate further until the truth was finally revealed: the doctor was, in fact, a murderer!
As she watched the show, Gilda once again felt the ticklish sensation in her left ear. Was it a special sign that this particular episode of The Criminals Amongst Us happened to be on at just this moment? An idea that had been simmering in her mind began to boil. She stood up and began to pace back and forth.
“I think 7th Heaven is on now,” said Juliet, her mouth full of popcorn. She observed Gilda, who was still pacing. “What are you doing?”
Gilda abruptly walked over to the television and turned it off.
“Hey! It might be polite to ask the other person in the room before just turning off the television—”
“Juliet,” said Gilda, “what if—just what if—your aunt Melanie didn’t commit suicide after all?”
“But she did commit suicide.”
Gilda resumed her pacing, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Why are you walking that way?” Juliet asked. “Nobody our age walks like that.”
“Let’s consider all the facts,” said Gilda, ignoring Juliet’s comment. “First of all, we know that Melanie’s ghost has been trying to communicate with you for some reason.”
“Well, I don’t know if we can consider that a fact,” said Juliet, “but I agree it might be true.”
“Melanie’s ghost must have something she wants to explain to us,” Gilda continued, “and I know from my research that ghosts normally appear as a result of a traumatic death. The spirit wants us to fix some kind of injustice or resolve something that was left unfinished.”
“Suicide is a traumatic death.”
“That’s true,” said Gilda. “But—and this is just an idea—what if Melanie’s death was not a suicide at all, but a murder? That would be REALLY traumatic! What if the message she’s trying to communicate is that someone pushed her out that window and made it look like a suicide?!”
Juliet stared at Gilda. “You’ve definitely watched too much television.”
“Have I? Or have I watched just enough television?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a sneaking suspicion that your father knows a lot more than he’s telling about your aunt’s death.”
“But that doesn’t mean that Melanie was murdered!”
“Juliet, are you aware that in most murder cases, the victim was killed by a close friend or relative: a spouse, a boyfriend or girlfriend, or even—a sibling?” Gilda had learned this on an episode of America’s Most Wanted.
Juliet regarded Gilda with a cold stare. “So you actually believe my father is a murderer?!”
“Well, it’s just a theory at the moment.”
Juliet picked up the remote and turned the television back on, dismissing Gilda’s theory with a single contemptuous gesture. “I bet you’d be pretty angry if I suddenly called your father a murderer.”
Gilda realized that Juliet was right: she hadn’t even considered the possibility that her cousin might actually feel offended by her murder theory, because the relationship between Mr. Splinter and his daughter seemed so formal and distant. Sometimes you offend people without realizing it, Gilda’s mother had warned on numerous occasions.
“I’m sorry,” Gilda offered lamely. “When I get these hunches, I just have to follow them.”
Juliet glowered at the television screen.
“But what if I’m right?” Gilda added hopefully.
Juliet didn’t reply, so Gilda simply closed the door behind her. She wondered, for a moment, if she should go back into Juliet’s room and apologize for everything she had said. But if I can’t follow my hunches where they lead me, I’ll never he a real psychic investigator, Gilda thought. One of the rules in her Psychic’s Handbook was:
Make it your policy to tell the truth you perceive—even when it’s not what people want to hear.
Of course, she had no way of being sure that her murder theory was true. Gilda decided that she had better get right to work to test her hunch.
• • •
Back in her room, Gilda opened her Master Psychic’s Handbook and turned to a chapter entitled “Automatic Writing.” “This writing technique is like being a ventriloquist for the dead,” Balthazar Frobenius commented, rather eerily. “Handwriting is simply another means of accessing a voice from beyond!” Whereas Balthazar wrote by hand, using a tablet of paper made from a very rare type of tree, Gilda used her typewriter. She decided to begin with a short note to her father, whom she hoped might function as a type of spiritual medium to help her contact Melanie.
Hi, Dad,
Hope you’re doing well in heaven or wherever you are.
I’m working on a psychic investigation right now, so help me if you can!
Okay–here goes…’.
Gilda closed her eyes and did her best to focus all of her mental energy on accessing the voice of a ghost. She typed MELANIE SPLUTTER at the top of the p
age. Then she waited and listened, her hands poised over the typewriter keyboard.
No words came to her; she perceived nothing but a prickly, late-afternoon silence. After a minute had passed, Gilda opened her eyes and stared at the round letters of her typewriter keyboard, feeling extremely disappointed.
When she turned back to her Psychic’s Handbook, her eyes rested on the “Principle of Amplification”: “Get an object that is closely connected to the person you are trying to contact,” Balthazar advised. “This will intensify your psychic link with that individual.”
Maybe that’s the problem, Gilda thought. I need something more closely connected with Melanie if I’m hoping to access her voice. This meant going back to Juliet’s bedroom and asking if she could borrow the photograph of Melanie—a prospect Gilda dreaded.
Nevertheless, Gilda took a deep breath and marched back down the long hallway toward Juliet’s bedroom. She rapped on the door.
“What do you want?” Juliet yelled, without getting up to open the door.
Gilda cautiously cracked open the door and found Juliet still sitting in the same position on her bed, watching an episode of 7th Heaven. Juliet glanced in Gilda’s direction and then quickly turned back to the television. Despite the unfriendly reception, Gilda thought she detected a glimmer of hope in Juliet’s face.
“I was wondering if I could borrow that photograph you showed me—the picture of your aunt Melanie.”
“What for?”
“I’m doing some automatic writing.”
“You can’t write on that photograph.”
“I wasn’t going to write on it; automatic writing is just a way of channeling a spirit. It helps to have an object connected with the person you’re trying to contact.”
“Why should I help you incriminate my father?”
“Juliet, I’m not trying to incriminate anyone; I’m just trying to figure out what happened to your aunt.”
Juliet sighed. “You know,” she said, making a rather big production of standing up and rummaging under her bed to find the jewelry box, “between the two of us, you’d think that you were the one who lived in California.”
“Because I’m the cool one?”
“No, because of all your talk of channeling and spirits and everything,” said Juliet, holding out the small photograph for Gilda.
“Don’t forget that you’re the one who’s actually seen a real ghost,” said Gilda, closing the door behind her.
After Gilda left with the photograph, Juliet tried to recall the vision of the face she had seen at the top of the staircase. Why had she felt so certain that she was looking at her dead aunt Melanie?
Don’t forget that you’re the one who’s actually seen a real ghost…’.
Juliet chewed her lower lip for a moment, then stood up, turned off the television, and surveyed the contents of her bedroom as if she were searching for something that had been hidden among someone else’s belongings. On impulse, she opened the bottom drawer of a dresser that contained a wealth of neatly folded Ralph Lauren T-shirts. Buried beneath her clothes, Juliet found a pile of papers—sketches of kids and teachers at school she had doodled while she was supposed to be paying attention in class. There were also a few unflattering caricatures of her stepsisters with giant biceps and toothy grins. Why do I keep these dumb things? she wondered.
Juliet frowned when she came to the last sketch in the pile—a drawing she had created with crayons when she was a very young girl. A stick-figure child gazed out of the picture with oversize blue eyes. Filling the entire sky, an enormous angel composed of a triangle-shaped gown and two awkward, waxy blue wings reached down with a clawlike hand to touch the stick figure’s balloon head. Juliet had no memory of actually creating the drawing, but something about it now seemed both significant and disturbing.
She stuffed the drawing back under her T-shirts, then rummaged through a desk drawer until she found a piece of paper and a pencil. Sitting down on the floor and leaning against the foot of her bed, she tried to recall her vision of Melanie’s ghost. She began to sketch a gaunt face that closely resembled her own.
• • •
Back in her room, Gilda looked at the seaside photo of pale, ethereal Melanie. It almost looks like a picture of a ghost, she thought. She closed her eyes and began to type.
MELANIE: WHAT DO YOU WANT TO TELL US?
Juliet is my niece. I am Lester’s sister. I have blond hair.
The response felt forced, and it was disappointedly obvious—hardly information requiring psychic skills. But at least it was a start. Gilda typed another, more probing question:
HOW DID YOU DIE?
I’m not dead!
The immediate response seemed to come from Gilda’s fingers rather than her mind—”a sign that you may have made contact,” her Psychic’s Handbook had explained.
Gilda was so surprised, she sat back and stared, awestruck, at the letters she had just typed. It was hard to know what to make of this. Was it possible that Melanie was actually alive but missing—or hidden somewhere?
Gilda pictured a frail, prematurely aging woman locked inside the tower like a medieval princess, her ankles bound by iron chains. Every now and then, Mr. Splinter would stick some bread crusts and water through a crack under the door. Perhaps he would occasionally leave a bit of roast turkey with gravy or some chocolate cake—just far enough out of reach to cruelly taunt his starving victim.
Gilda found this idea intriguingly horrible, but then she felt silly when she remembered one of Balthazar Frobenius’s rules: “Don’t ever use the word dead when communicating with a spirit,” he advised. “The spirit probably does not think of herself as dead! Instead, use the phrase pass over to the other side.”
Gilda attempted another question:
MELANIE: HOW DID YOU PASS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE?
WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU III THE TOWER?
Gilda waited for a response. For a moment, she heard nothing but a heavy gust of wind that caused loose boards on the house to creak.
“Is anybody there?” she asked, her fingers still poised over the typewriter keyboard. She thought she heard a soft thump.
I sense a presence! Gilda thought.
Gilda peeked through half-closed eyelids and nearly fell off her chair when she discovered a pair of yellow eyes peering back at her.
Phantom, Juliet’s smoke-colored cat, had entered the room and jumped up onto the desk with scarcely a sound. Like an enormous furry owl, he was perched right next to Gilda’s typewriter and quietly observed her with his sleepy eyes. There’s something uncanny about the way this cat always seems to appear unexpectedly, like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, Gilda thought. The cat stretched his mouth wide open in a massive yawn, as if he were a boa constrictor about to ingest a large animal.
Gilda sneezed, causing Phantom to jump down from the table and exit the room, his tail twitching with disdain.
Gilda sighed and again turned back to her Psychic’s Handbook to see if Balthazar Frobenius had any other ideas.
Many inexperienced psychics have difficulty sufficiently clearing their minds in order to “hear” the spirit voices that call out to them. These individuals may find more success with an ancient divination technique using the written word. When a text with strong magical vibrations is opened randomly in response to a specific question, the first word that appears to the seeker is a message that must be interpreted: it may be an omen of events yet to happen in the future or a clue to explain a secret of the past. The ancients used this psychic technique by turning to the works of Homer or Virgil, whereas Christians in the Middle Ages flipped through the pages of the Bible. Of course, the accuracy of this method is linked to the interpretive abilities of the psychic who uses it.
Gilda thought this method sounded appealingly simple. Instead of using writing, perhaps Melanie’s spirit could more easily send her a clue through the words in a book!
Gilda couldn’t remember seeing a Bible or any books by Homer
or Virgil in the Splinter mansion, but she did remember noticing a dusty, clothbound dictionary stashed in the bottom drawer of the writing desk.
Deciding that the dictionary was “magical” enough, Gilda lifted the heavy book out of the drawer, brushed away some dust bunnies, placed her hands on its cover, and closed her eyes.
“Melanie,” she asked again, “what happened to you in the tower?”
Keeping her eyes tightly shut, Gilda thrust open the dictionary and then jabbed her finger at a page.
Her finger pointed to the word maffle, which meant “to cause to become confused or baffled.” Gilda was delighted by this word, but she was yet more intrigued by the word just below her finger—the word Mafia:
Mafia n 1. a secret organization of criminals who control illegal activities, often using violence to achieve goals; of Italian origin, but also active in the United States. 2. any of various similar criminal organizations.
Gilda leaned back and chewed a lock of her hair as she contemplated the significance of this clue. If only Mr. Splinter were Italian! Gilda knew that he was nothing like the Mafia bosses she had seen on television.
Then she remembered an episode of The Criminals Amongst Us in which a Mafia boss had found an accountant to help him conceal illegal sources of income. With a new burst of energy, Gilda began to type:
HYPOTHESIS:
A group of organized criminals (the Mafia!) hired Mr. Splinter to help them cheat on their taxes. They probably paid him thousands of dollars to help keep their illegal income a secret and the government off their backs.
But Melanie became suspicious of her brother’s expensive tastes and his paranoid behavior. She started snooping around and soon discovered what Lester was up to. When she threatened to blow the whistle on the operation, the Mafia bosses forced Mr. Splinter to get rid of his sister and make her murder look like an accident…’.
Here was an intriguing motive to support her murder theory! What if Melanie was silenced because she discovered that Mr. Splinter was involved in some sort of criminal activity?
Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator Page 11