But then my roving eye fell on a short section headed Veterinarian Emergency Service and listed animal clinics and hospitals open twenty-four hours a day. The roster contained only fifteen names and addresses, some as far afield as Boynton Beach. It seemed reasonable to guess that if Peaches became ill, her captors would rush her to the nearest emergency facility.
I was back in business again!
I scissored out the vital section and with my gold Mont Blanc I carefully circled the animal emergency wards in the West Palm Beach area. There were seven of them. I estimated I could visit all seven in two days, or perhaps more if I became bored with routine snooping.
Now the only problem that remained was devising a scenario that would insure cooperation at all those infirmaries for ailing faunas. I mean I couldn't just barge in, describe Peaches, and demand to know if they had treated a cat like that lately. The medicos would call the gendarmes for sure and tell them to bring a large butterfly net.
No, what I needed was an imaginary tale that would arouse interest and eager response. In other words, a twenty-four-karat scam. Here is what I came up with:
"Good morning! My name is Archibald McNally and here is my business card. I have a problem I hope you will be able to help me with. I returned from a business trip last night and found on my answering machine a message from a close friend, a lady friend, who apparently had arrived in West Palm Beach during my absence. The message was frantic. Her cat-she always travels with her beloved Peaches-had suddenly become ill and she was rushing it to an emergency animal hospital. But the poor dear was so hysterical that she neglected to inform me where she was staying or to which clinic she was taking her sick pet. I wonder if you could tell me if you have treated such an animal recently and have the address of the owner. It would help me enormously."
I would then describe Peaches.
It seemed to me a plea that would be hard to resist. Naturally I didn't know if the catnapper was male or female, but I planned to put in that bit about a "lady friend" to suggest a romantic attachment that might evoke sympathy. Emerson said all mankind love a lover-but of course he never met Fatty Arbuckle.
Anyway, that's how I spent Wednesday afternoon-driving to four animal hospitals and putting on my act. In all four the receptionist was a young woman, and I would bestow upon her my most winning 100-watt smile and launch into my spiel. The results? Nil.
But I was not discouraged. In fact, as I drove back to the beach for my ocean swim, I was delighted that my monologue had been readily accepted at all four facilities I visited. Although none of them had treated a feline of Peaches' description, all were cooperative in searching their records and sorrowful when they could not provide the assistance requested.
I had my swim and returned to my chambers to prepare for the family cocktail hour, my dinner with Meg Trumble, and the seance with the Glorianas that was to follow. I decided to dress soberly, if not somberly: navy tropical worsted suit, white shirt, maroon tie. But examining myself in the full-length mirror, I realized I looked a bit too much like a mortician, so I exchanged the maroon cravat for a silk jacquard number with a hand-painted design of oriental lilies. Much better.
Over martinis that evening, mother remarked that I looked "very smart." Father took one glance at the lilies, and a single eyebrow shot up in a conditioned reflex. But all he said was, "Gillsworth has returned. He phoned me late this afternoon."
"Is he ready to execute a new will?" I asked.
The patriarch frowned. "He said he would call me next week and set up an appointment. I would have preferred an earlier date-tomorrow, if possible- and told him so. But he said he hadn't yet decided on specific bequests and needed more time. I do believe the man was stalling, but for what purpose I cannot conceive."
"Prescott," mother said softly, "some people find it very difficult to make out a will. It can be a wrenching emotional experience."
"Nonsense," he said. "We're all going to die and it's only prudent to prepare for it. I wrote out my first holographic will at the age of nine."
I laughed. "What possessions did you have to leave at that age, father?"
"All my marbles," he declared.
A derisive comment on that admission was obvious, but I didn't have the courage to utter it.
Later, as I drove northward to Riviera Beach, the problem of Roderick Gillsworth's last will and testament was eclipsed by a more immediate quandary; to wit, where was I going to take Meg Trumble for dinner?
It had to be close enough so that we could arrive at the seance at the time dictated by Mrs. Irma Gloriana. And yet it had to be distant enough and relatively secluded so I had a fighting chance of not being seen in Meg's company by Connie Garcia or any of her corps de snitches.
I finally decided on a Middle Eastern restaurant on 45th Street not far from an area known as Man-gonia Park. It was a very small bistro, only six booths, but I had been there once before and thought the food superb, if you liked grape leaves. However, it did have one drawback: it had no bar; only beer and wine were served. But, paraphrasing the Good Book, I consoled myself with the thought that man doth not live by vodka alone.
Meg was ready when I arrived, which was a pleasant surprise. Another was her appearance. She wore a short-sleeved dress of silk crepe divided into two panels of solid color, fuchsia and orange. Sounds awful, I know, but it looked great. It had a jewel neckline, but her only accessories were gold seahorse earrings. Meg still had most of her Florida tan, and she looked so slender, vibrant, and healthy that I immediately resolved to lose weight, grow muscles, and drink nothing but seltzer on the rocks.
I whisked her to the Cafe Istanbul, assuring her that although it might appear funky, it had become the in place for discriminating gourmets. That wasn't a big lie, just a slight exaggeration to increase her enjoyment of dining in a joint that had nothing but belly dance music on the jukebox.
It turned out that Meg was fascinated by the place and relaxed her vegetarian discipline sufficiently to order moussaka. I had rotisseried lamb on curried rice. We shared a big salad that was mostly black olives that really were the pits and pickled cauliflower buds. I also ordered a half-bottle of chilled retsina. Meg tried one small sip, then opted for a Coke, so I was forced, forced, to drink the entire bottle myself.
It was over the honey-drenched baklava that I finally got around to the seance we were about to attend.
"I didn't know you and your sister were interested in spiritualism," I said as casually as I could.
"Laverne more than me," Meg said. "She's into all that stuff. I think she's had her horoscope done by a dozen astrologers, and she always sleeps with a crystal under her pillow."
"I wonder if she knows Hertha Gloriana, the medium we're going to visit tonight."
"I've never heard her mention the name, but that's understandable. Harry goes into orbit if anyone brings up the subject of parapsychology. He thinks it's all a great big swindle. Do you, Archy?"
The direct question troubled me. "I just don't know," I confessed. "That's one of the reasons I'm looking forward to the session tonight. Meg, do you believe it's possible to communicate with ghosts?"
"Of course," she said promptly. "I went to a seance once and talked to my grandmother. I never knew her; she's been dead for fifty years. But her spirit knew things about our family that were true and that the medium couldn't possibly have known."
"Did your grandmother's spirit tell you where she was?"
"In Heaven," Meg said simply, and I finished the retsina.
We arrived at the Glorianas' residence ten minutes before the appointed hour. The family was assembled in that rather shoddy living room, and I introduced Meg. The greetings of Irma and Frank were courteous enough, although not heavy on the cordiality. But Hertha welcomed Meg warmly, held her hand a moment while gazing deeply into her eyes.
"An Aries," she said. "Aren't you?"
"Why, yes," Meg said. "How did you know?"
Hertha only smiled and turned to me. "And h
ow are you tonight, Pisces?" she asked.
She was right again. But of course she could easily have researched my birthday. In all modesty, I must admit my vital statistics are listed in a thin booklet titled: Palm Beach's Most Eligible Bachelors. And I could guess how she knew Meg's natal date.
Hertha was wearing a long, flowing gown of lavender georgette which I thought more suitable for a garden party than a seance. Irma Gloriana wore a black, wide-shouldered pantsuit with a mannish shirt and paisley ascot. Son Frank, that fop, flaunted a double-breasted Burberry blazer in white wool with gold buttons. He made me look like an IRS auditor, damn him.
No refreshments were offered, and no preparatory instructions or explanations given. We all moved into a dimly lighted dining room. There, leaves had been removed from an oval oak table, converting it to a round that accommodated the five of us comfortably. The chairs were straightbacked, the seats thinly padded.
I was placed between Irma and Frank. He held Hertha's left hand while Meg grasped her right. From the top of the table, moving clockwise, we were Hertha, Frank, Archy, Irma, Meg. An odd seating arrangement, I thought: the two men side-by-side, and the three women. But perhaps there was a reason for it.
Hertha looked around the circle slowly with that intent, unblinking gaze of hers. And she spoke slowly, too, in her low, breathy voice.
"Please, everyone," she said, "clasp hands tightly. Close your eyes and turn your thoughts to Xatyl, the Mayan shaman who is my channel to the hereafter. With all your spiritual strength try to will Xatyl to appear to me."
At first, eyes firmly shut, all I was conscious of was Frank's muscular handclasp and the softer, warmer, moister hand of his mother. But then I tried to think of Xatyl. I had no idea of what a Mayan shaman looked like-certainly not like any member of the Pelican Club-so I concentrated on the name, silently repeating Xatyl, Xatyl, Xatyl, like a mantra.
I thought five soundless minutes must have passed before I heard Hertha speak again in a voice that had become a flat drone.
"Xatyl appears," she reported. "Dimly. From the mists. Greetings, Xatyl, from your supplicants."
The next words I heard were a shock. Not their meaning as much as the tone in which they were uttered. It was the frail, cracked voice of an old man, a worn voice that quavered and sometimes paused weakly.
"Greetings from the beyond," Xatyl said. "I bring you love from a high priest of the Mayan people."
I opened my eyes to stare at Hertha. The words were issuing from her mouth, no doubt of it, but I could scarcely believe that ancient, tremulous voice was hers. I shut my eyes again, grateful for the handholds of Irma and Frank to anchor me to reality.
"Who wishes to contact one of the departed?" Hertha asked in her normal voice.
"I do," Meg Trumble said at once. "I would like to speak to my father, John Trumble, who passed on eight years ago."
"I have heard," the Xatyl voice said. "Be patient, my child."
We waited in silence several long moments. I must tell you honestly that I didn't know what to make of all this. But I confess I was moved by what was going on and had absolutely no inclination to laugh.
"Meg," a man said, "is it you?"
Now the voice was virile, almost booming, and I opened my eyes just wide enough to see that the words were being spoken by Hertha.
I heard Meg's sudden, sharp intake of breath. "Yes, dad," she said, "I am here. Are you all right?"
"I am contented since mother joined me last year. Now we are together again as we had prayed. Meg, are you still doing your exercises?"
"Oh yes, dad," she said with a sobbing laugh. "I'm still at it. How is your arthritis?"
"There is no pain here, daughter," John Trumble said. "We are free of your world's suffering. Have you married, Meg?"
"No, father, not yet."
"You must marry," he said gently. "Your mother and I want you to be as happy as we were and are. I must go now, Meg. If you need me, I am here, I am here."
The voice trailed away, and I could hear Meg's quiet weeping.
"Please," Hertha whispered, "do not let our psychic power weaken. Clasp hands firmly and think only of the other world."
There was silence a few moments, then I heard again the trembling voice of Xatyl.
"There is one among you who is deeply troubled," he said. "Let him speak out now."
"Yes," I said impulsively, hiding behind my closed eyes. "My name is Archibald McNally. I wish to contact Lydia Gillsworth, a friend. She passed over a few days ago." "I will summon her," Xatyl said. "Be patient, my son."
Once again we waited several minutes. I found myself gripping the hands of Irma and Frank so tightly that my fingers ached, and I was conscious of hyperventilating.
"Archy?" a woman's voice asked. "Is that you?"
After I heard my name I opened my eyes to verify that it was Hertha speaking, but I swear, I swear it was Lydia Gillsworth's sweet, peaceful voice. So dulcet.
"It is I, Lydia," I found myself saying, almost choking on the words. "Are you well?"
"Oh yes, Archy," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "It is as I told you it would be. Have you read the books I loaned you?"
"Some. Not all."
"You must read all of them, dear. The truth is there, Archy."
"Lydia," I said, eager to ask the question, "you must tell me another truth: Who killed you?"
There was no answer. Just silence. I tried again.
"Please tell me," I implored. "I can never rest until I know. Who murdered you, Lydia?"
What happened next shocked and galvanized us.
"Caprice!" Lydia Gillsworth's voice shrieked. "Caprice!"
Handclasps were loosened, four of us rose, stared at Hertha. She was still seated, head thrown back, bare throat straining. And she continued to scream, "Caprice! Caprice! Caprice!" But now it was her voice, not Lydia's.
Meg Trumble got to her first, held her arms, spoke soothing words. We all clustered around, and gradually those piercing screams diminished. Hertha
opened her eyes, looked about wildly. She was ashen, shivering uncontrollably.
Frank left hastily and came back in a moment with a shot glass of what appeared to be brandy. Meg took it from him and held it gently to the medium's lips. Hertha took a small sip, coughed, stared at us and her surroundings as if finally realizing where she was. She took the glass from Meg's fingers and gulped greedily.
We stayed in the dining room until Hertha's color had returned and she was able to stand, somewhat shakily. She gave us a small, apologetic smile, and then we all moved back to the living room.
Frank had the decency to bring us ponies of brandy, and since Meg wouldn't touch hers, I had a double-and needed it. I sat in one corner with Irma and Frank. Across the room, on the couch, Meg Trumble comforted the medium, her muscled arm around the other woman's shoulders. She spoke to her and stroked her hair.
"What on earth happened?" I asked Irma.
She shrugged. "Hertha heard or saw something that terrified her. And she became hysterical. It's happened a few times before. I told you she is a very sensitive and vulnerable spirit."
"Caprice," Frank said, looking at me. "That's what she was screaming. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. McNally?"
I shook my head. "A caprice is a whim, an unplanned action. Perhaps Lydia Gillsworth was trying to tell us that the killer acted on a sudden impulse, and her murder was totally unpremeditated."
"Yes," Irma said, "I'm sure that was it."
"I'm sorry now that I asked the question," I said.
"I didn't mean to frighten Hertha. But I did inform you that I intended to ask."
"No one blames you," Irma said. "There are many things in this world and the next that are beyond our understanding."
Hamlet said it better, but I didn't remind her of that. "You're so right, Mrs. Gloriana," I said.
She nodded. "Did you bring your credit card, Mr. McNally?"
I handed it over; she and Frank left the room
to prepare my bill. I remained seated, finishing Meg's brandy and watching the two women on the couch. Hertha seemed fully recovered now. She and Meg were close together, holding hands and giggling like schoolgirls. I found it a bit off-putting.
Irma returned with my bill. I signed it, reclaimed my plastic, and took my receipt.
"I'm sorry the seance ended the way it did," she said. "But I would not call it a total failure, would you?"
"Far from it," I said. "Meg was able to speak to her father and I made contact with Mrs. Gillsworth. I'm perfectly satisfied."
"Good," she said. "Then perhaps you'd like to arrange another private session."
"Of course I would. Let me check my schedule and speak to Meg about a date that will be suitable for her. You'll be here all summer?"
"Oh yes. We have many activities to keep us busy."
"Then you'll be hearing from me."
"When?" she asked.
A demon saleswoman, this one.
"Soon," I said, stood up, and motioned to Meg.
I shook hands with all the Glorianas before we left. Meg did the same, but then Hertha embraced her, kissed her on the lips, clung to her a moment. In gratitude for Meg's sympathetic ministrations. No doubt.
On the drive back to Riviera Beach Meg was so voluble that I could scarcely believe this was the same woman who had been so reticent on our first ride together.
"What a wonderful medium she is, Archy," she burbled. "So gifted. She knew so many things about me. And it was so great to talk to dad. Wasn't it incredible to hear all those voices coming from her? And guess what: I told her I hope to become a personal trainer, and she insisted on being my first client. Isn't that marvelous
"Yes."
"And she's going to do my horoscope-for free! It must be scary having the talent to see into the beyond. She said she usually refuses to predict the future, but after she does my horoscope she'll tell me what she sees ahead for me. Isn't that fantastic? "
I didn't want to rain on her parade, so I neither voiced my doubts nor cautioned her against relying on the predictions of a seer. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to tell her my own reactions to what we had just experienced. Being essentially without faith myself, I think it rather infra dig to mock the faith of others.
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