by Polly Iyer
The obligatory handshakes generated the same queasiness she experienced earlier in the day, though it passed quickly. She received a particularly eerie feeling from Martin Easley, but something was off with the whole group, though she couldn’t figure out what.
“You’ve met Edward Slater,” Selene said.
Slater entered from a hallway and nodded his greetings but didn’t offer his hand to either one of them. He sat in a chair he had apparently occupied before leaving the room, because he picked up a drink off the table.
“I feel like a fifteenth wheel,” he said, “but I couldn’t resist the invitation. At least I’m not unlucky thirteen.”
“Nonsense,” Selene said. “Your perspectives always add to the conversation, and who says thirteen is unlucky? It’s my lucky number. Besides, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have the pleasure of our two guests. Silas is grateful.” She addressed Diana. “He’s an unabashed admirer ever since he saw you during one of your standing-room-only performances.”
“I’m flattered,” Diana said. “Nice to see you again, Edward.”
“Same here,” Lucier said. Slater smiled but kept his seat.
Two people shifted into chairs to open up a space for them to sit down and join the group clustered around a large coffee table. All had drinks―some wine, others with tumblers or highball glasses.
“What can Juan get for you to drink?” Selene asked, as the butler waited.
“Bourbon and water for me, please,” Lucier said, “and a Coke for Diana.”
“No,” she said. “Tonight is special. I’ll have a Scotch, on the rocks.” She detected Lucier’s frown but refused to acknowledge him. This was a special night, she thought, and she didn’t want her mind diluted by Coke, especially since the last one she drank had such a devastating effect.
The memory of yesterday surfaced. Surely she and Lucier were safe drinking in front of all these people. Not even Silas Compton would risk doing something so foolish.
She laughed inwardly at her rationalization. When Lucier finally caught her eye, she whispered, “Just tonight.” She turned back to the group and noticed Slater’s sly smile. She assumed he resisted the lure of spirits, given his history.
“You must still be recovering from your ordeal with that psychopath,” Sophia Reyes said. “I followed the whole thing. I can’t imagine going through something like that and keep my sanity.”
“I’m not sure I have,” Diana said. The room grew quiet, then they all chuckled, figuring in unison she was joking.
Fernando Reyes sat forward. “And Lieutenant―”
“Call me Ernie.”
“Okay, Ernie, how did you ever track that man down?”
“Good teamwork.”
As Lucier fielded questions about the capture of the man who wanted Diana dead, she studied the people in the room. All the women were extraordinarily beautiful and at least twenty years younger than their husbands, except for Cybele Crane, who had to be sixty but looked a couple of decades younger. She was an older version of her daughter but no less beautiful, with fine features the very rich seemed to inherit with their money. If she’d undergone cosmetic surgery, it was deftly done. Even the delicately etched lines on her face enhanced her beauty. Diana assumed the May/December couples were second marriages, as was the Comptons’.
Maia Compton appeared to be in her late-twenties or early thirties and seemed reserved, as opposed to her younger, more-outgoing sister, Dione. They complimented Diana’s act, which they saw opening night during her last engagement. Interacting politely, if unenthusiastically, with the rest of the guests, Maia and Dione eventually settled into conversation with each other.
“…and Silas reported your reading was quite on target,” Jeremy Haynesworth said.
Diana, caught in her observances, barely heard the address. “I’m sorry, I guess my mind was somewhere else.”
“I was just mentioning Silas’s evaluation of his reading.”
“What did he say about it?”
“That you told him things no one could possibly know.”
Diana turned to Compton. “Did I? I don’t recall. In fact, much of the afternoon is a blur. I intended to ask you about it.”
“That’s odd,” Compton said. “You acted fine when you were here.”
“Yes, I thought so, too,” Selene said.
“I have little recollection after getting into the limo until I woke up this morning.” A quick visual exchange among the couples added a moment of tenseness.
Selene glanced at her husband. “I hate to bring this up as a possible reason, but you had a few drinks before and after the reading. Scotch, wasn’t it, Silas?”
“Yes, scotch,” Compton said. “I fixed them myself. Quite a few, in fact.”
“Three or four, and you downed them as if you the world was ending, and this would be your last chance for a drink. I remarked to Silas after you left that you possessed an amazing tolerance for such a tiny person.”
Selene’s account of yesterday left Diana breathless, and she struggled to maintain her composure.
Liar.
She wanted to defend herself but chose not to give anything away. Yet. “Well then, that must have been what happened. After my near catastrophe a while back, I drank a little too much, then quit until I was sure I had a handle on it. I guess I started back too soon.”
“You blacked out,” Phillip Crane said. “I remember a few of those from my younger days, don’t you, Cybele?”
“I’m loath to confirm that,” Cybele said. “I finally made him cut down.” A chorus went up among the men admitting to those wild days when they were young.
“Now, at my age,” Crane said, “I have two drinks, and that’s quite enough.”
Diana debated pursuing the line the conversation had taken and decided to forge ahead. “I did have a rather unusual dream, however, and when I awoke, I became rather ill. Result of the scotch, I imagine.”
“Tell us about the dream,” Sophia Reyes said.
Diana caught a warning eye from Lucier but acted once more like she didn’t see him. “It was very strange. Either the room was going around or I lay on a revolving platform, naked. The room was bathed in red light and people congregated around me, staring, touching me. I couldn’t see their faces because they wore masks.” She watched the couples fidget as she spoke. Martin Easley looked especially uncomfortable, focusing his attention on Lucier. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and he wiped it away with a handkerchief. Edward Slater’s slow shake of his head sent a warning, but she ignored him too.
Everyone in the room reacted. How many sets of eyes leered down on me? Ten? Twelve?
“What an odd dream,” Rhea Haynesworth said. “But then I suppose a lot of your insights appear in dreams, don’t they? Like that television show where the psychic always wakes up with some premonition or vision or whatever they’re called.”
“Actually, no. If you’ve ever seen one of my shows, you’d know that my insights materialize through contact with an article from the person I’m reading or the person himself. Sometimes an unsolicited impression develops, something so invasive it’s impossible to ignore, but that’s rare.”
“That’s how you did my reading,” Compton said. “We sat at that table over there, and you took my hands in yours. You made me take off my wedding ring and close it in my hand.”
The thudding beat of Diana’s heart increased until it was so loud in her ears she feared everyone heard. That’s how she read a private client. How did he know that if she hadn’t read him? Of course. She’d mentioned her method in dozens of articles over the years. He probably read it.
Silas Compton probably knew everything about her.
Fernando Reyes interrupted her thoughts. “Do you think your dream was one of those? I mean, you didn’t have something in your hand when you were sleeping, did you?”
She could hardly get out the words. “I―I did wonder what the dream meant,” Diana sputtered. “It sounds otherworldly, do
esn’t it? More like a scenario from The Exorcist or Rosemary’s Baby.” A few of them exchanged glances. Diana almost questioned whether she’d translated an ordinary nightmare into an imagined interpretation. Then she remembered the sickness and the black bile.
“Are you implying your dream contained satanic overtones?” Selene asked.
Right out in the open. She looked at Selene. Calm, self-assured, smiling. She was goading Diana, and it pissed her off. But then she was goading the group. She didn’t meet his gaze but felt Lucier’s stare bore into her. “I don’t know what the dream meant. I guess my overindulgence yesterday affected me more than I thought.”
“Or maybe―” Selene stopped.
“What?”
“Well, our driver mentioned you were so unsteady he walked you to your door.”
“Well, that does it then.” Diana tapped her knee. “I was sloshed. Serves me right for drinking so much. No wonder I had a nightmare.”
She caught Lucier scanning the room. Maybe he wouldn’t chew her out for bringing this up after all. She worked the group the same way she worked an audience. Throwing tidbits at them, reading their responses, measuring their body language. Did he see something she missed, because she received nothing from anyone in the room except Slater? He sat cross-legged trying to appear relaxed, but he was as tense and coiled as she now felt, and he fixed on her the steely stare of his blue-gray eyes.
Silas and Selene were lying through their teeth. She would never request a scotch before a reading and would never get drunk after one. Never. Diana passed out before returning home, and they knew it. Worse, one of them had taken her home, told her to lock the door, and go to bed. She wanted to tell them that, scream it, but for once, she curbed her candor. She’d gone too far already.
The butler brought Diana and Lucier their drinks. “Maybe I shouldn’t have this after all,” she said. “What do you say, darling? Should I?”
“I’ll make sure you don’t overdo it.” He held up his glass. “A toast. To good company and interesting conversation.”
They all raised their glasses. She noticed Selene nodding toward Lucier. The smile she beamed at him was more than from a hostess to a guest. It said, here I am, come get me. Even before this blatant come-on, something about the woman made Diana want to smack her well-chiseled face. Was it because Lucier smiled back?
She reminded herself this was all part of their strategy to befriend the enemy. Then she thought―whose strategy? Befriending the enemy worked both ways.
At the dining table, Selene conveniently seated Lucier next to her, and they engaged in animated discussion. Diana held the seat of honor to Compton’s right, with one of his daughters on her right, and Compton’s mother-in-law, Cybele Crane, a woman his own age, to his left. Polite conversation ensued throughout dinner.
And what a dinner. Compton had lured a renowned New Orleans chef from a famous restaurant into his employ, so the cuisine reflected what one would expect from the kitchen of a man in wealth’s stratosphere: crawfish bisque followed by pan-seared scallops and grouper with champagne sauce, with an appropriate wine accompanying each course.
Dinner guests paired off. Compton, his fascination with the famous well documented, monopolized Diana while Selene applied her abundant charms to Lucier. One would have to be blind and deaf not to see and hear her compliment his heroic exploits in the capture of a killer, and a man would have to have one foot in the grave not to react to her fawning over his every witticism. Lucier responded like the very living, breathing, virile man he was.
Damn him.
Diana finished her wine, and the attending waiter refilled her glass. Her face flushed with annoyance. Why, Lucier barely looked at her all evening, but then Silas Compton never relinquished her for a second. The Comptons were carrying out a planned divide-and-conquer strategy. Slater spoke in hushed tones to Sophia Reyes, his eyes shifting toward Selene and Lucier, then in Diana’s direction. Their gazes met, and she interpreted his apparent amusement at Diana’s forced restraint. She covered her wineglass when the server offered a refill.
After dessert, the party retired to the main living room. At the other end of the room, Lucier fell into deep conversation with the queen witch, as Diana silently began referring to Selene. Diana latched on to Compton’s arm, and a slight wave of dizziness hit her. Then poof! It was gone. What was it about his touch that rendered her lightheaded?
“Come,” he said. “I want to show you my art collection. Oh, don’t worry about your man. Selene will take good care of him.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. She shook off her uneasiness and joined Compton, arms linked.
“I couldn’t help overhearing, Silas,” Slater said. “You’ve promised to show me your art collection, and so far I haven’t seen it. Mind if I tag along?”
A flash of irritation sparked Compton’s eyes, but being the good host, said, “Of course not, Edward.”
Slater offered an almost imperceptible nod in Diana’s direction. She breathed a sigh of relief, glad he’d forced his way into their company.
Compton led the way through his house, pointing out the museum-worthy collection of two Picassos and one each Miró, Kandinsky, Cezanne and Van Gogh. A few paintings by artists with names Diana didn’t recognize covered the walls throughout. A small Degas pastel of a horse race caught her eye.
“Degas is one of my favorites,” she said.
Compton moved closer to Diana. “I bet you’ll like the next one then.”
He led her to a framed pastel sketch of ballerinas hanging above a small settee in a sitting room off the main hall. From the feminine décor, Diana assumed the room was Selene’s private domain.
“Yes, it’s beautiful.” Diana examined the loose sketchy quality of Degas’ later works, as his eyes failed. She’d viewed collections in museums around the world where she performed, but seeing this private collection provided an extra thrill.
“Degas is one of my favorites too,” Slater said. “Though I prefer his horse scenes.”
“A difficult choice,” Compton said. He concentrated his tour on the first floor, by-passing the stairways to the upper and lower levels and making no excuses for doing so.
“Are there more treasures in the rest of the house?” she asked.
“A few less valuable pieces. The crown jewels are on the main floor. Only people who interest me are invited to my home, Diana, and I’m quite selective when extending invitations. Maybe I’ll include a codicil in my will to show the collection as an exhibit, but I’m not quite ready to die, so I choose not to project such negative vibes.”
“It’s a beautiful collection,” Diana said.
“I’m blessed to be able to afford it. As you may know, I acquired my wealth the old-fashioned way: I worked my ass off.”
Diana smiled at the comment that brought to mind an old TV commercial. “I’m honored you’re allowing me to see them. After all, we’ve just met.”
“You’re special,” he said.
Compton’s touch on Diana’s arm gave her the willies, almost as if he were trying to hypnotize her. She moved closer to the pastel, freeing herself from his hold.
“I came from a poor family in a restrictive Catholic environment,” he continued, “but I questioned the dogma when I became more exposed to the outside world. I’m always seeking answers to questions that have no definitive answers.”
“Some things have no answers,” she said. “I speak from personal experience.”
“True. That’s what so challenging about the fascination with mysticism Edward and I share. We’ve spent many evenings of deep philosophical conversations. He mentioned you have similar curiosities.”
Was Compton feeling her out, and if so, in what capacity? She’d been right. He liked living on the edge; otherwise, why would he risk exposure? Because he thought himself above everyone, with no boundaries, able to pursue whatever he wished.
Diana decided to play his game. He wanted to determine if she’d be amenable to his
dark philosophy. She glanced at Slater, now expressionless. A slight doubt crept over her, like a fleeting cloud obscuring the sun. Am I playing the game with one person…or two?
“When I was younger,” she said, “I became interested in the occult. Certain things are almost a rite of passage in the young―reincarnation, preoccupation with death, belief or disbelief in God. Maybe that’s why I was so sensitive to the goings-on in your house on Parkside Avenue, Mr. Compton.” She walked farther into the room, taking in the expensive accessories, searching for anything to shed light on the Comptons’ dark side. She saw nothing. “When I saw the symbols on the wall, I felt the connection. My childhood was out of the ordinary, but I still went through the stages of curious exploration. The occult seemed like the next step.”
“What do you mean? The next step to where?” Slater asked, his face bright with interest.
“Obviously, I possessed a gift apart from the perceptual or intellectual, with direct access beyond the external world, a subjective force, if you will. I wanted to explore it more thoroughly.” She couldn’t decipher what she saw in Compton’s face―curiosity, anger, or was it smugness?
“What happened?” Compton asked.
“I found the study interesting but never a path into the spiritual world beyond. No witches or magic. No resurrections. Most discoveries fell into the realm of hoaxes―charlatans sucking their poor marks into paying a small fortune to see their dead husband or child, phony séances. No, Mr. Compton, I’m afraid there is no other side. At least no portal I can enter.”
Compton’s face froze into a smile, disturbed only by a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Slater’s furrowed brow now sent a clear warning.
“So you believe the occult is hogwash,” Compton probed. “That there is no dark force?”
He’s forcing a response. How far can I go before I push his warning buttons?
“Oh, there is a force, something unexplainable. I’m a perfect example of that. And, yes, sometimes it is dark. Times in my past I’ve been burdened with feelings so black I couldn’t breathe. But is it the work of Satan? I hardly think so. One must believe in Satan, and I don’t. Do you, Mr. Compton?”