Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator

by Jennifer Allison

  As Gilda considered what she hoped was a real clue in response to her questions, she had to admit that her confidence in her ability to channel Melanie’s spirit was tempered by a feeling of doubt. Am I really developing psychic skills, Gilda wondered, or am I simply making things up? She had to admit that it was a little difficult to imagine Mr. Splinter himself pushing his own sister out a window. But what if a hired hit man had done the dirty work, and he had simply been an accomplice by keeping the crime secret for all these years?

  “Trust your instincts,” Balthazar Frobenius had written.

  Gilda decided that starting the very next day, she would investigate Mr. Splinter to find out whether his accounting business had any criminal connections.

  16

  Going Undercover

  That’s the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard.” Juliet watched with obvious disapproval as Gilda calmly dumped six teaspoons of sugar into the cup of coffee that Rosa had reluctantly poured.

  “What’s so ludicrous about it?” Gilda stirred her coffee calmly. She had just finished explaining her theory about Melanie’s death.

  “For starters—everything about it is ridiculous. My father isn’t a murderer!”

  “I’m not saying that he necessarily committed the murder himself. But what if he knows who did it, but just can’t say anything? Maybe he’s afraid for your safety.”

  “It’s still pretty far-fetched.”

  “Well, my plan is to go downtown to your father’s office to see if I can find any evidence to support my theory. You can come with me and distract the receptionist, and I’ll—”

  “No way,” Juliet interrupted. “You’re on your own with this scheme.”

  “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

  “Nope.”

  Gilda stared fiercely at Juliet, trying to use mental telepathy to force her to change her mind. It didn’t work. “Well,” Gilda sighed, “will you at least show me where your father’s office is?”

  Juliet poked her half-eaten hard-boiled egg with a fork as if it had offended her in some way “I guess. But don’t blame me if you completely embarrass yourself.”

  “Juliet, if I wasted time worrying about embarrassing myself I would never get anywhere as a psychic investigator.”

  “No comment.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put on my disguise.”

  Waiting together at the bus stop, Gilda and Juliet were a strikingly mismatched pair: Juliet carried an elegant leather handbag and wore the “distressed” designer jeans that were a fashion requirement among the girls at her school. Gilda wore an elaborate disguise composed of vintage clothing purchased from obscure flea markets and garage sales.

  “So how do I look?” Gilda asked, making her voice low and hoarse in an attempt to mimic an aging smoker. “You haven’t even commented on my disguise.”

  Juliet squinted at Gilda, as if trying to shield her eyes from an unpleasant source of light. “Terrible,” she said. “You look absolutely terrible. You sound terrible, too.”

  Gilda’s wig was obviously synthetic: originally designed as a bob with flirty bangs, the hairstyle now featured brassy, disheveled clumps. Along with the wig, Gilda wore a bright shade of magenta lipstick, beige foundation makeup, a cheap set of metallic gold fingernails, a strand of fake pearls, her leopard-print jacket, an oversize purse, and a pair of stiletto pumps with pointy toes. The shoes hurt her feet, but Gilda was willing to endure the torture of her high heels because the pain forced her to walk with a pigeon-toed gait, and that was part of the disguise. Gilda had read somewhere that being recognized had as much to do with a familiar walk as it did with one’s face, body, and clothing. Before leaving the house, she had practiced slouching forward and limping slightly with each step.

  “But would you recognize me?” Gilda persisted.

  “No—I don’t think so.” Juliet wrinkled her nose as she surveyed Gilda’s attire. “I mean, if I didn’t already know it was you and I saw you on the street, I’d just assume you were one of the freaks who hangs out downtown.”

  “Then the disguise works,” said Gilda, secretly disappointed with Juliet’s unimpressed response. “I’m supposed to be a rich, eccentric woman who has some connections with organized crime.”

  Juliet snorted. “That wig looks like rats have been nesting in it.”

  “Well, this woman doesn’t waste money on her hair.”

  The bus crept up the hill toward them and groaned to a halt. Gilda put on a pair of sunglasses as she and Juliet climbed aboard.

  To Gilda’s surprise, people on the crowded bus took little notice of her unusual clothing. Back in Michigan, people would have stared like Cub Scouts in the girls’ locker room if I got on the bus wearing this getup, Gilda thought.

  Gilda and Juliet found a seat together. “So,” said Juliet as the bus inched its way up a steep hill, “what, exactly, are you planning to do once you get to my father’s office?”

  Gilda opened a tiny powder compact, peered in the mirror, and rubbed off some lipstick that had collected on her teeth. “I need to figure out whether Splinter & Associates is open to helping clients who are involved in organized crime, so I’m going in there disguised as a potential client who wants to hide some money from the government.”

  “I sincerely doubt you’re going to discover anything.” Juliet wasn’t quite sure why she was even willing to help Gilda find her way to her father’s office. Was it the nagging feeling that since her father was so secretive, there just might be some kernel of truth in Gilda’s far-fetched ideas? Besides, ever since Gilda has been around, Juliet had felt different. At least something interesting was happening for a change.

  The bus reached the busy financial district of the city. “This is our stop,” said Juliet.

  Wind blasted between tall buildings, and Gilda had to hold her wig down with one hand to keep it from flying away like a large, blond pigeon. Juliet led the way through crowds of people: tourists, office workers on their lunch breaks, homeless people wearing layers of clothing, merchants selling jewelry in the street, a sinewy contortionist who had attracted a small crowd of spectators.

  Juliet stopped in front of a tall office building. “My father’s office is on the fifth floor.”

  Gilda felt a stab of stage fright at the idea of actually walking into the building to carry out her risky scheme. “Well,” she said, “I guess this is it.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  “Don’t rush me.” Gilda tried to steady her nerves and put herself in the mind-set of an undercover detective.

  “I knew you’d chicken out.”

  “Well, you were wrong.” Gilda adjusted her wig. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the building, breezily passed the security guards, and boarded the elevator.

  At the entrance to Splinter & Associates, Gilda faced an imposing reception desk where a woman looked up at her with a quizzical, annoyed expression.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Splinter,” said Gilda, willing herself to act confident and reminding herself to disguise her voice.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes,” Gilda lied.

  “Your name?”

  Gilda suddenly realized that despite all the attention she had given to her disguise, she had completely forgotten to invent a false name for herself.

  “My name is … Sophia. It’s Sophia Lasagna.”

  “What an unusual name,” said the receptionist, looking at her appointment calendar. “I think I would have remembered that one! I’m sorry; I don’t see your name here.”

  “That’s impossible!” Gilda did her best to convey genuine outrage. “There must be some mistake! I told my assistant to make the appointment for today. I simply must speak with Mr. Splinter immediately!”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Lasagna, but Mr. Splinter is very busy—”

  “Perhaps you could ask him to squeeze me in. I have a lot of money that needs accounting!” Gi
lda realized that there was something idiotic about her last comment, but the receptionist had already picked up the phone to call Mr. Splinter, so perhaps she hadn’t noticed.

  “Mr. Splinter, I have Sophia Lasagna here who says she needs to speak with you urgently.”

  The receptionist hung up the phone and regarded Gilda primly. “You’re in luck. He just had a lunch cancellation, so he’s willing to see you.”

  “I should hope so,” said Gilda.

  “This is unusually lucky, you know. Mr. Splinter keeps a very tight schedule.”

  “As do I.”

  The receptionist looked grim. She was obviously irritated that Gilda had succeeded in getting an appointment. “His office is down the hallway to your left.”

  There were no decorations of any sort in Mr. Splinter’s office—just gleaming white surfaces under fluorescent lights. Gilda immediately wished that the atmosphere were darker and more mysterious: she was confident that she could carry off her disguise in a dim, smoky restaurant, but harsh office lighting was another matter. She decided to leave her sunglasses on to prevent Mr. Splinter from recognizing her eyes.

  As Gilda walked in, Mr. Splinter was busy writing something in a leather day planner. Sitting in his work environment, he looked grayer than usual.

  “Yes, have a seat please; be right with you,” he said without even looking in Gilda’s direction.

  Gilda sat down, crossed her legs, and adjusted her wig.

  When Mr. Splinter finally glanced up, he seemed startled. He frowned at Gilda, who felt a wave of panic: Did he recognize her?

  The truth was that although Gilda had succeeded in making herself largely unrecognizable, she had not quite managed to avoid looking as if she were wearing a deliberate disguise. For one thing, she was still wearing her dark sunglasses.

  In an effort to obscure Mr. Splinter’s view of her face, Gilda opened her large purse and began to rummage through the contents. Inside, she discovered a package of Virginia Slims that she had removed from one of her mother’s hiding places shortly before leaving Michigan. Trying to stay in character as Mr. Splinter scrutinized her, Gilda took the package out of her purse and attempted to extract a cigarette from the box with a shaking hand. In the process of fumbling through her purse, one of Gilda’s false nails fell off and lay at her feet accusingly.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Lasagna, smoking isn’t allowed here,” said Mr. Splinter.

  “Oh dear,” said Gilda, feigning a hacking cough. “I can’t go more than fifteen minutes without my ciggies!”

  “So what can I help you with, Ms. Lasagna?” Mr. Splinter asked, already opening another client file and flipping through its contents impatiently. “My receptionist said you needed some urgent assistance.”

  “I’ll get right to the point,” said Gilda, still holding an unlit cigarette. “I’m interested in tax evasion.”

  Mr. Splinter raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What I mean is that I don’t want to pay taxes. I have money—a lot of money. I have money that needs to be ‘swept under the rug,’ so to speak. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Mr. Splinter?”

  Mr. Splinter leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I think you’ve come to the wrong place, Ms. Lasagna.”

  “Are you sure?” Gilda pressed. “That’s not the word on the street.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Word is—you’ve helped some pretty shady characters ‘cook the books.”’ As Gilda gestured nervously, the cigarette flipped out of her fingers and landed on Mr. Splinter’s desk.

  Mr. Splinter picked up the cigarette with the disgusted gesture one might use to pick up a night crawler. He dropped it into his wastebasket. “Listen,” he said, “none of my clients are criminals, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Of course not,” said Gilda. “They’re simply ‘in the business.”’

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Ever hear of a little organization called the Mafia?”

  The expression on Mr. Splinter’s face changed, as if he had just realized that he might be having a conversation with an individual who was completely insane. “Are you saying that you’re connected with the Mafia, Ms. Lasagna?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a client in need of some very special tax assistance.”

  “Ms. Lasagna, I think this conversation is over,” said Mr. Splinter. “I’m trying to run a serious business here, and I don’t know where on earth you got the idea that I’m running some sort of tax-evasion program for the Mafia.”

  “We have ways of convincing people to help us, you know.”

  “Good day, Ms. Lasagna.”

  Perceiving that she wasn’t getting anywhere, Gilda sighed and stood up to leave. At just that moment, Summer entered Mr. Splinter’s office. “Hey, Lester—want me to pick up a coffee from Starbucks for you? Oh, hi there, Gilda! A little early for Halloween, isn’t it?”

  Panicked, Gilda sought a quick escape, but Summer was blocking the doorway.

  “Gilda?!” Mr. Splinter looked shocked.

  “That is Gilda, isn’t it?” Summer asked. “Sure it is! I’d recognize that freckled button nose anywhere—right, kiddo?”

  It was over. Gilda slowly removed her dark glasses and sank down into her chair, trying not to meet Mr. Splinter’s cold, silvery gaze.

  Mr. Splinter couldn’t help but feel nearly as annoyed with himself as he was with Gilda. How could he have failed to recognize a thirteen-year-old in his office? Perhaps his ex-wife had been right years ago: “You never really see the people around you,” she had said on more than one occasion.

  “Summer,” said Mr. Splinter, “will you excuse Gilda and me for a moment?”

  “Okay,” said Summer, giving Gilda a sympathetic wink and closing the door behind her.

  “Well,” said Mr. Splinter, folding his hands and facing Gilda with what he hoped was an authoritative demeanor, “I suppose you think this was a hilarious prank.”

  “Not really.” Gilda stared at her metallic gold fingernails. She had dropped the smoker’s voice and now felt that she was playing a more familiar role—the part of the kid sitting in the school principal’s office, waiting to be reprimanded.

  “Care to explain yourself?” Mr. Splinter asked.

  What could she say? Obviously, Gilda couldn’t admit that her disguise had been part of an attempt to secretly investigate Mr. Splinter’s business practices. She also couldn’t tell him of her suspicions that his sister was murdered and that he himself might have been responsible in some way.

  “It was just a game,” Gilda said. For once, she felt unable to come up with a more creative fib at the spur of the moment.

  “A game? This is a place of business, Gilda.”

  “I know. It was just a silly game of Truth or Dare, and I got a dare to put on a disguise and come in here with a crazy story. I’m sorry.”

  “I think I’ll need to speak with your mother about this.”

  “Okay, but just so you know—the whole thing was Juliet’s idea.” Gilda immediately felt terrible. It was one thing to deceive Juliet’s father, but pinning the blame on Juliet herself was far worse than one of Gilda’s whimsical, spontaneous lies. I’m a horrible person, she thought. Juliet will hate me now, and he’s probably going to send me home anyway.

  But to Gilda’s surprise, Mr. Splinter’s face actually brightened at the suggestion that Juliet was behind the scheme. “Really?” he said. “I’ve never known Juliet to do something like this. I mean, I’m glad to hear that the two of you are having some fun—I really am—but I just don’t think it’s appropriate to come into my office and waste my time.”

  “I completely agree,” said Gilda.

  “Time is money in business,” Mr. Splinter added.

  “I think Juliet just thought you might need a laugh because you’ve been working so hard. You know, a little joke.”

  “She did?” The hope in Mr. Splinter’s voice
was undeniable. He obviously liked the idea that his daughter had thought of brightening his day. “I mean, I don’t approve, but I admit I’m glad to hear that she’s having some fun for a change. I know Juliet has had a difficult time lately.” For a moment, Mr. Splinter looked at Gilda with a more open expression that usual—something close to appreciation.

  “Oh, Juliet is a barrel of laughs once you get to know her,” said Gilda, warming to her audience.

  Mr. Splinter hesitated. “I’ll let this slide this time, but I trust that you girls can find some other ways of entertaining yourselves from now on?”

  “Absolutely,” said Gilda. “It won’t happen again.”

  Gilda left Mr. Splinter’s office feeling relieved. She couldn’t believe her luck; one of the lamest excuses she had ever concocted had actually succeeded not only in getting her off the hook but in making Mr. Splinter feel happy.

  On the other hand, she felt a little deflated by her failure to find any evidence whatsoever to support her Mafia cover-up theory about Melanie’s death. Perhaps her automatic writing had been wrong; was it possible that she had misjudged Mr. Splinter? If so, then why his secrecy about the tower?

  Gilda found Juliet outside Mr. Splinter’s office building, propped on her crutches like a sullen scarecrow. “He recognized you, didn’t he?” she said.

  “Well, yes,” Gilda admitted, “but only after Summer saw me and called me by name. You’d be surprised how close I came to pulling it off!”

  The two girls made their way down the crowded street toward the bus stop. “But you have to admit that your Mafia murder theory is crazy,” said Juliet.

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t,” said Gilda. “I’ll need to do a little more investigative work before tossing the whole theory out the window.”

  The city bus pulled up to the curb with a belch of exhaust. A crowd of people climbed aboard, but Juliet remained motionless, staring at Gilda. “You are so weird, you know that? Do kids at your school think you’re weird?”

  “No.” Gilda thought that Juliet had no business talking, since her status as the resident of a haunted house rendered her well outside the norm. “Kids at my school think I’m fabulous.” In truth, Gilda was aware of a group of girls who had made it clear that they regarded her as strange, but since she found this particular clique tedious, she had decided their opinion didn’t count. “I don’t really care what other people think of me anyway,” she added.