Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator

by Jennifer Allison

  “Come on,” said Juliet as she boarded the bus. “Everybody cares what other people think!”

  “Not me. People who don’t like me now will probably be asking for my autograph in the future.”

  “Must be nice to be so confident in yourself,” said Juliet under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gilda and Juliet found seats in the back of the bus. This time, Gilda noticed that people viewed her with mild curiosity.

  “By the way,” said Juliet, “your wig is falling off.”

  Gilda pulled off the wig, which aroused yet more interest from the people around her. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, “after your father recognized me, I had to tell him that I was playing a game of Truth or Dare and that my disguise was all your idea.” Gilda spoke quickly, as if the speed of her words might make them sound more agreeable to Juliet. She knew that she had to warn Juliet about her impulsive lie, because Mr. Splinter would almost certainly mention something to Juliet about the supposed game of Truth or Dare.

  “You’d better be kidding me,” said Juliet.

  “Unfortunately, I’m totally serious.”

  Juliet curled her upper lip in an expression of exasperation and disdain. “Then I guess I’ll just have to explain to him that I had nothing to do with your dumb game.”

  “Come on, Juliet—I’ll be in so much trouble if you tell him. What if your dad tells my mom? I’ll probably be sent home tomorrow.”

  “Too bad.” Juliet turned away from Gilda and pretended to be very engrossed in the scenery out the window.

  Gilda stared very intently at the side of Juliet’s head, once again trying to use the power of her own thought waves to change Juliet’s mind. “If I leave,” she said, “I bet you’ll never find out what really happened to your aunt.”

  Juliet shrugged.

  “You’ll have to spend the whole summer alone in a haunted house,” Gilda added.

  “So? I’ve already spent most of my time alone in that house!”

  Gilda had to admit that Juliet had a point. She attempted another angle of persuasion. “Then at least consider your father’s feelings,” she said. “You should have seen his face light up when I told him what a great sense of humor you have!”

  “I suppose you’re attempting to be ironic,” said Juliet.

  “Well, if you can’t take a compliment, it’s not my fault.”

  Juliet rolled her eyes, but Gilda noticed that she also blushed slightly. She won’t get me in trouble, Gilda thought. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she doesn’t want me to leave.

  17

  The Psychic Pendulum

  Searching through her Psychic’s Handbook for another investigative technique, Gilda turned to a chapter entitled “The Mysteries of the Pendulum.” Balthazar Frobenius wrote:

  Of all the psychic methods I’ve used, the pendulum is perhaps the most efficacious technique for “reading” objects connected with an individual. I’ve found numerous missing persons and also located the bodies of murder victims this way.

  This sounds promising, Gilda thought.

  Balthazar explained that his pendulum had been a gift from his grandmother, who was also a psychic. It was made of a rare crystal sphere that hung from “a very old piece of twine.” The author claimed that the twine had been used to hang an innocent man during the nineteenth century. Using this object, Balthazar was able to “detect wrongful deaths.” When dangled over a street map of Detroit, for example, Balthazar’s pendulum helped him pinpoint the exact location of a body hidden in a Dumpster. When it was waved over the photograph of a missing person, hidden symbols emerged, providing clues that revealed whether the individual was alive or dead, and where he or she might be found.

  Gilda also owned a pendulum, but hers had been created rather hastily from an enormous blue jawbreaker—an “Everlasting Gobstopper”—that her father had once given to her. The jawbreaker had been affixed to a lengthy piece of pink yarn that Gilda had swiped from the knitting basket of Grandmother McDoogle. Since psychic pendulums were supposed to detect things that were “wrong,” Gilda had attempted to use hers to detect errors in her math homework on several occasions. The results had been disappointing.

  Gilda searched through her luggage until she located her pendulum stuffed inside a sock in the corner of the suitcase. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she dangled the Everlasting Gobstopper over the photograph of Juliet’s aunt. The goal, Balthazar Frobenius said, was to allow the pendulum to respond to “unconscious psychic vibrations” that reveal psychic information. “Do your best to avoid forcing it to swing one way or another,” he advised.

  Suspended from Gilda’s fingers, the makeshift pendulum swung steadily back and forth over Melanie’s image. Gilda regarded this as an encouraging sign: “Circular motion means the person is alive, whereas side-to-side swinging means that he or she is dead,” the Psychic’s Handbook said. As the pendulum swung side to side in a straight line, Gilda examined the photograph of Juliet’s aunt Melanie more closely.

  The image seemed darker, moodier than it had before. Melanie stood at the edge of a seaside cliff: her silky white scarf billowed behind her, and she seemed fascinated by something in the distance. Behind Melanie, there were the shadows of trees shrouded by mist. In the distance, a lone, sharp church steeple pierced the fog like a sword.

  As the pendulum swung back and forth hypnotically, Gilda’s eyes were drawn to the texture of the porous, mossy cliff upon which Melanie stood. In the slippery, stone contours Gilda thought she detected a face—a face with chiseled features, a narrow mouth, and watchful eyes. Was it possible, or was she imagining things?

  She felt certain that she saw Mr. Splinter’s face peering out of the photograph.

  “Mr. Splinter would like to have dinner with you and Juliet at eight o’clock,” said Rosa, peering into Gilda’s bedroom.

  “Really?” said Gilda excitedly, quickly hiding the pendulum and the photograph beneath a pillow. “That’s great!”

  “Why so happy?” Rosa asked.

  “Oh, no reason.” Gilda’s enthusiasm about dining with Mr. Splinter was linked to the occasion it provided to ask him a few more questions. Perhaps, in a more relaxed setting, she could actually get him to reveal some information.

  “I suppose I should get dressed for dinner,” said Gilda.

  Rosa shrugged. “What’s wrong with the clothes you’re wearing?”

  “Doesn’t Mr. Splinter expect the ladies of the house to dress for dinner?” Gilda had read about “dressing for dinner” in novels, and the Splinter mansion struck her as exactly the sort of place where one should descend the staircase wearing an evening gown.

  “I don’t see any ladies around here,” Rosa joked.

  “Very funny.”

  “Dinner will be served at eight,” Rosa said. “I have to cook now.”

  For a moment, Gilda actually considered wearing the vintage evening gown that was stuffed into her suitcase, but she changed her mind in favor of her plaid sundress.

  A plan was percolating in Gilda’s mind: she would lull Mr. Splinter into relaxed conversation with her demure sundress and friendly, girlish chatter. Then, right when his guard was down, she would use one of the oldest tricks in the book—the element of surprise. Gilda knew that detectives sometimes inserted unexpected questions and probing insinuations into casual conversations. This made the criminal suspect nervous, tricking him into revealing himself unintentionally.

  Gilda dabbed on some bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss and what she hoped was an innocent-looking smile. On her way out the door, she hesitated for a moment, then went back and slipped the photograph of Melanie into a pocket of her dress.

  In the parlor, Gilda found Mr. Splinter sitting in a leather armchair sipping a martini. Juliet reclined on a velvet sofa, twirling a lock of her hair. Gilda noticed that Juliet had made no effort whatsoever to dress for dinner: she wore the same jeans that she had worn all day, and her
hair looked stringy and uncombed.

  “I didn’t see anything I liked at Saks,” Juliet was saying to her father.

  Mr. Splinter stood up with a gesture of formal politeness as Gilda entered the room. “Good evening, Gilda,” he said.

  “Good evening,” said Gilda, wondering why using good manners always felt so very odd to her. She suspected that it was because her own family never did anything in a formal way. Gilda and Stephen usually ate dinner in front of the television, and the Joyces often conversed by yelling at one another from various rooms in the house. In fact, it was only on rare occasions that they were able to sit down together to have a conversation or a meal.

  “Nice to see you out of costume,” said Mr. Splinter.

  “And you as well,” said Gilda, realizing too late that Mr. Splinter’s comment had been a joke.

  Rosa appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Something to drink for you?” she asked Gilda.

  “I’ll have a sidecar.” Gilda wasn’t sure what a sidecar contained, but she had always wanted to ask for one; it sounded like an appropriate cocktail for an attractive young sleuth.

  “Coming right up,” said Rosa, in a serious voice that made Gilda wonder if she was actually going to go make one.

  “Nothing like a sidecar at the end of a long day,” said Mr. Splinter in a surprisingly jovial tone of voice.

  Rosa returned with a Coke. “Here is your sidecar,” she said.

  “So what grade are you in, Gilda?” Mr. Splinter asked.

  “I’ll be in ninth grade next year,” said Gilda, immediately wishing that they could get back to the more interesting subject of sidecars.

  “Oh, just like Juliet!” Mr. Splinter glanced at his daughter, who looked as if she was trying to appear as bored as possible.

  Gilda already knew what Mr. Splinter’s next question would be.

  “Do you like school?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Gilda. “Without education, where would we be?”

  Mr. Splinter raised his eyebrows in surprise; this was an unexpected comment from a thirteen-year-old. “That’s what I keep telling Juliet! Just pick a direction, work hard, don’t lose sight of your goal—get good grades, of course—and the world’s your oyster.”

  Juliet was now examining a lock of her hair with furious intensity—as if she had just realized for the first time that she actually had hair growing out of her head. With her knees tucked up to her chest, she also seemed to be trying to make herself as small as possible.

  “I agree completely,” said Gilda, relieved to find any subject that Mr. Splinter wanted to talk about so enthusiastically. Perhaps his martini was loosening him up. “So many young people today squander their opportunities,” Gilda continued, “but personally, I will do just about anything to achieve my goals.”

  Juliet glared at Gilda from behind her hair.

  “That’s admirable,” said Mr. Splinter. “And what’s your favorite subject at school?”

  “It’s accounting,” said Gilda, trying a little too hard to get Mr. Splinter on her side.

  “I doubt they teach accounting at your school,” Juliet blurted.

  “How would you know?” Gilda retorted, losing her poise.

  “Well, I think that’s wonderful,” said Mr. Splinter tactfully. “I assume you enjoy math?”

  “Can’t get enough,” said Gilda, lying with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Just give me a trigonometry problem and a bag of Chee·tos, and I’m in heaven!”

  Mr. Splinter’s mouth twitched as if he wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure whether it would be rude to do so.

  “Oh, please,” said Juliet.

  “I’m serious,” Gilda continued, thinking that now might be the time to steer the conversation toward the subject of criminal activity, since she had Mr. Splinter’s full attention. “I think accounting is just fascinating.”

  “I’m probably one of the few people who will agree with you on that subject,” said Mr. Splinter.

  Gilda leaned forward eagerly. “And you must meet so many interesting people in your accounting firm.”

  “I do meet all types.” Mr. Splinter seemed bewildered but extremely pleased by Gilda’s apparent interest in his profession.

  “I imagine some of your clients tell you some pretty juicy secrets.”

  Mr. Splinter frowned. “Well, I don’t know how ‘juicy’ their secrets are. Sometimes there are situations that require some tact.”

  “You mean, situations that need to be covered up?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Splinter looked as if he had lost track of the actual topic of conversation. Gilda scrutinized him closely, watching for what her Psychic’s Handbook called “the telltale signs of lying and concealment: twitching hands, touching of the face, clenched fists, fleeting facial expressions that last only a split second but which betray a person’s true feelings or intentions.” So far, Mr. Splinter looked more confused than guilty.

  “I mean,” Gilda continued, “I’m sure there’s been at least one situation where you had to compromise your own morals in order to help a client.”

  “Gilda, why don’t you just shut up for once?”

  Both Gilda and Mr. Splinter turned to stare at Juliet.

  Gilda tried to feign innocence. “I’m sorry, Juliet—did I say something that offended you?”

  “Why don’t you just cut the crap, Gilda.”

  “Juliet!” Mr. Splinter snapped at his daughter with the voice one might use to yell at a muddy dog that had just trotted across a white carpet. “That’s no way to speak to a guest.”

  “But Dad, she knows why I said it.”

  “Gilda, I apologize on my daughter’s behalf.”

  “That’s okay.” Gilda felt uncomfortable that Mr. Splinter was taking her side against his daughter, but she nevertheless took the opportunity to tease Juliet with a patronizing smile. “Juliet didn’t get her nap today, so she’s probably a little cranky.”

  “That’s the last straw!” Juliet pushed her hair from her eyes impatiently. “Dad, if you haven’t noticed, Gilda has some pretty funny ideas about you.”

  “Oh? What sort of ideas?”

  Now it was Gilda’s turn to send a glare in Juliet’s direction. What was Juliet doing? This was going to ruin her entire plan.

  “For one thing, Gilda thinks you’re connected with the Mafia or something,” Juliet continued, glancing nervously in Gilda’s direction.

  To Gilda’s annoyance, Mr. Splinter’s face broke into a shy grin. He let out a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “Most of my colleagues assume that I would never do anything so daring as eat sushi, let alone get involved in organized crime.”

  Oh, he’s clever, Gilda thought. He’s a better liar than I am.

  “See?” Juliet turned to Gilda. “I told you it was a dumb idea.”

  “The Godfather has always been one of my favorite movies,” Mr. Splinter said to Gilda, “so I must admit that I’m almost flattered. But what in the world would make you imagine such a thing about me?”

  Gilda turned red. She had prepared herself for the possibility of getting in some kind of trouble, but she had not expected to be a source of amusement for Mr. Splinter. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her dress and touched the picture of Melanie. Remembering the eerie image of Mr. Splinter’s face she had perceived while using the pendulum, Gilda gathered her courage and decided to seize the moment—to provoke Mr. Splinter into revealing the true cause of his sister’s death.

  With one swift, bold movement, Gilda pulled the photograph of Melanie from her pocket and placed it on the coffee table directly in front of Mr. Splinter.

  It was as if Gilda had released a toxic agent into the atmosphere: the air in the room turned instantly brittle. Juliet gasped, and Mr. Splinter’s face grew pale at the sight of the black-and-white image of Melanie. The look on his face must be what writers mean when they say someone “blanched,” Gilda thought.

  “To be honest,” said Gilda, doi
ng her best to respond to Mr. Splinter’s question with a detective’s false nonchalance, “I’m a little bit psychic, and when I saw this picture, there was something about it that gave me a strange feeling.” Gilda scrutinized Mr. Splinter closely as she spoke. “I guess you could say it gave me some funny ideas.”

  Mr. Splinter attempted to put his drink down on a coaster, but his hand shook, causing his martini to slosh upon the carpet. He covered his mouth with his other hand, as if he were overcome by a wave of nausea. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gilda,” he said.

  Taken aback for a moment by the emotion that cracked the stony elegance of Mr. Splinter’s face, Gilda felt almost guilty about revealing the picture of his deceased sister. On the other hand, she also noticed Mr. Splinter’s hand sneakily covering his mouth as he spoke—”a possible sign that someone is hiding something,” according to her Psychic’s Handbook.

  Collecting himself, Mr. Splinter stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “I realize you girls have been having some fun at my expense today, but this is where my sense of humor comes to an end. Juliet, I don’t know where you and Gilda found this picture, but I think you know that I do not wish to speak of your aunt Melanie!”

  “Why are you blaming me?! Gilda’s the one—”

  “I’m sure Gilda wouldn’t have found this picture without your help,” snapped Mr. Splinter. “And Gilda—I’m afraid I’ll have to call your mother and arrange for your visit to come to an end if there are any further high jinks.”

  The palpable tension in the room combined with Mr. Splinter’s prim use of the word high jinks made Gilda want to giggle nervously. She struggled, unsuccessfully, to stifle the urge.