Paradise Island

by Mary Bowers

  She stomped across the veranda and went around the corner to the south side, coming back with a large, beautiful black cat who hung from her mistress’s arms like a dead weight, gazing with sleepy eyes.

  Taylor sat down and held the cat in her lap. Bastet promptly went to sleep.

  “See?” Taylor said. “She’s not worried. So we shouldn’t be worried either, right?”

  Michael watched, covering his mouth with his left hand, icy blue eyes alight.

  As Michael tightened the hand that covered his mouth, Ed addressed the cat very formally.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he began. “The cat form you inhabit no doubt luxuriates in the warmth of the sun. This won’t take long. It involves two suspicious deaths – that of a local businessman and his much younger wife. He died in a struggle over a gun – with the wife – and she, later, drowned herself. Some have interpreted her (presumed) suicide as an admission of guilt.”

  The cat opened intensely green eyes and began to watch him.

  “I actually met the woman – when she was alive, that is – and she claimed innocence.” In detail and in much more even tones than the ones he’d used on Michael and Taylor, he went through his last few days again while the cat watched him, for all the world as if she were listening.

  When he finished, the cat turned and looked up at Taylor, blinked her eyes slowly, turned back to her sleeping posture but did not close her eyes, and gazed off in an abstracted way.

  Ed looked at Taylor, looked at the cat, then looked at Taylor again. Finally, addressing the cat, he said, “Any conclusions?”

  Suddenly Bastet leaped from Taylor’s lap, startling them all, and arched her back, stabbing her tail in the air in a classic fright pose.

  Even Taylor caught her breath.

  Then, settling with a shiver, the animal lifted her head and walked sedately back toward the corner leading to the south side of the veranda, leaving a breathless silence behind her.

  Ed swiveled his head to Taylor and said, “What does that mean?”

  Something pithy about the cat just wanting to go back to sleep sprang to Taylor’s mind, but she didn’t say it. She had stuck Roy Angers’s business card in her capris pocket, and leaning back slightly she took it out, looking at it a moment.

  “I don’t know about that cat, but the other ones out in the shelter could always use an infusion of cash,” she said. “I guess I’d better get this over with.” She looked across Ed to Michael, holding up the card. “This is Alan Pissarro’s business partner in that bar, The Big Catch.”

  Michael nodded. “Good place. I don’t go there much anymore.”

  “As I remember it, the place is always jammed,” she said, “so I think it must be doing well. I’m trying to decide what kind of a fee I can stick him for. You think he’s rich?”

  Michael considered. “The Big Catch has been there for almost thirty years. Back when it opened, they practically had a monopoly. There’s a lot more competition now. Restaurants seem to be opening like flowers in the spring, up in St. Augustine, and a good proportion of them are sports bars. I wouldn’t assume the place is doing as well as it once was.”

  “The going fee for séances is around a hundred dollars,” Ed told her. “Usually the sitters split the cost. That wouldn’t include fortune-telling, of course; that’s a different thing altogether, though people often get them confused. There’s a per-person, add-on fee for that.”

  “A hundred dollars isn’t going to cut it,” she said grimly, “and if business is bad, it’s not my problem.” She dialed the number on the card, spoke briefly and decisively with Roy Angers, then ended the call, satisfied.

  “I’m impressed,” Ed said. “Of course, what a medium can charge is flexible, depending on his or her reputation.”

  Michael added, “You may have just set a new highwater mark in the séance marketplace. Bravo.”

  “And if he wants his palm read,” Taylor said, “it’ll be another thousand, take it or leave it. He’s lucky I didn’t add an upcharge for doing it on Halloween night. After all, I could’ve been at a party instead. Good thing our usual Halloween fundraisers are a week or two in advance, or he would’ve been S.O.L.”

  “‘S.O.L?’” Ed asked innocently.

  Quickly Michael told him, “Surely out of luck.”

  “Ah. I’ll have to remember that one,” Ed said.

  Suddenly Taylor sat up and looked worried. “You’ve got your crew there, right? They won’t want to film the séance, will they? Let me put it this way – Teddy Force and his psychic dog will not be there, understood? And neither will your producer, your videographer or your soundman.”

  “Whatever you say,” Ed said. “Will you be wanting me?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about Dobbs?”

  She considered. “If he’s not in jail, yes. He was living in Alan Pissarro’s house. He may even have killed his widow, though I can’t imagine why. She was paying him, right? She was his golden goose, if not his sugar mama.”

  “Do you think Mr. Angers will agree?” Ed asked. “He doesn’t seem to like Dobbs.”

  “Who cares? I’m the medium, remember? I can have whoever I want. If he squawks, I’ll tell him I can’t possibly contact the spirit world on Halloween without the help of at least two paranormal experts, ‘Summerland’ being so active on that one special day of the year. If he keeps it up, I’ll threaten to tack on a Halloween premium. That’ll shut him up. And I think I’m going to have a spirit guide, too. I’ve been taking notes from Purity.”

  “Taylor,” Ed warned, “you’re becoming altogether too flippant about this. You’re tinkering in matters that are beyond you. It’s not a game.”

  “It is to me,” she said. “A game with a thousand-dollar prize. Who should my spirit guide be? Let me think. Purity’s got a little girl, an old man, and an Indian princess. That mix just seems so – what’s the word? – generic. I think I want somebody really cool, like Cleopatra.”

  “Taylor!” Ed said, extremely worried now.

  “No, a queen might be too hard to handle, and Bastet probably won’t appreciate the competition from her home turf, Ancient Egypt. Who knows? Maybe she had a fight with Cleopatra back in the day.”

  Even Michael was starting to look at Taylor with concern now. She noticed, and pulled herself in a little.

  Then she got an odd look on her face. A pensive look, as if she were listening to something but couldn’t quite make it out. “A man,” she said softly. “A young man. A musician. A troubadour. Traveling Medieval England from castle to castle, singing his ballads and love songs for lords and ladies, kings and queens. Long hair and misty eyes and sensitive lips. No beard. He sings. He sings so beautifully the angels cry. He died young.”

  “Taylor, what are you talking about?” Michael said.

  She looked at him, startled. “I’m just making somebody up. Somebody to be my spirit guide. I like him. A romantic young man, killed by a jealous lord, or even a king. A king whose daughter had fallen in love with him and wanted to run away with him, a lowly troubadour with a ravishing voice. The king’s daughter – or maybe even his wife, the queen! – fell in love with him, and so, he was doomed.”

  “Taylor?” Michael and Ed were giving one another worried looks now, then staring at her.

  “Julian Smeaton. His name is Julian Smeaton. He died for love. Murdered . . . unjust . . . horrible.”

  They sat quietly for a while, the men staring at Taylor who gazed out over the river looking tragic.

  Then, suddenly, she stood up and took a deep breath, seeming refreshed. Even pleased with herself.

  “Have you had anything to eat today, Ed?” she asked.

  “Toast. And later I’m having Banana Delight.”

  They gave a quick start, then laughed, and the tension broke. Ed stood up beside Taylor, saying, “And if I’m going to get any of it, I’d better get back to the Pissarro house. I want to thank you, Taylor. I was beginning to feel lost. You alwa
ys ground me. I promised Bruno I’d go back and report in.”

  “Okay, I’ll get my purse.”

  Michael did a double-take. “You’re going?” He got up and stood close to her. “I thought you didn’t want to get involved in this.”

  “I’m already involved,” she said with a little shrug. “I’m giving a séance, remember? All good mediums make sure they do their homework before they go into their trances. Besides, I haven’t seen Porter in a long time. Don’t worry. I’m not going to step in something here. I’m earning a donation for the shelter, that’s all.”

  Michael didn’t seem to feel any better about it.

  Chapter 13

  Teddy Force was surprised and glad to see Taylor, and he came forward, all hands, teeth and happy-talk, trying to grab her for a kiss on the lips. She blocked him with a forearm, said, “Hello Teddy,” and went on into Jessamine Pissarro’s kitchen, where the crew had spread out across the breakfast bar with tablet devices and junk food all over the place and a dry-erase board set up on an easel back by the range top.

  Porter came rolling across the floor in a waddling charge and tried to climb Taylor’s leg, also wanting a kiss. Teddy had missed getting one; Porter got about twenty. Taylor crouched down and nuzzled him, then sat right down on the floor with a bump and started to play with him.

  “He’s fat,” she said suddenly, looking up at Teddy. “You’re feeding him too much. And what the hell is this on his face? Is that whipped cream?”

  “Banana Delight,” Teddy said. “He loved it. We all did.”

  “Where’s mine?” Ed said. “I’ve been looking forward to it, and suddenly I’m starving. I love it too.”

  There was a guilty silence.

  “We didn’t know where you’d gone or when you were coming back,” a short, slim, dark young woman said, coming forward. “I swear, Ed, I would’ve saved you a piece if I’d known.” She stuck her right hand down to Taylor, who was still sitting on the floor, and said, “I’m Carly. I’m the ringmaster of this circus. Heard a lot about you.”

  Taylor told Carly she had her deepest sympathies; she’d been around Haunt or Hoax? shoots before, and even one for Teddy’s previous reality show, The Realm of the Shadows. “Remind me to tell you about that debacle some time,” she added.

  Carly rolled her eyes knowingly. “And this is our soundman, Elliott Billington, and our videographer, Wyatt Wayne.”

  “We’ve met before,” Taylor said. “Hi guys.”

  “Don’t hold it against us,” the big ponytailed man, Wyatt, said, grinning. “We’re just a couple of working stiffs. We follow the magic; we’re not responsible for it.”

  Taylor grinned back at him, then said, “And where is The Marvelous Dobbs? I haven’t met him yet.”

  “The cop is out on the lanai with him,” Elliott answered. “Hopefully he’s giving him the third degree. Are you really going to let him get on-camera, Teddy? He’s a pushy little brat.”

  “Not a chance,” Teddy said, posing himself on a tallboy chair with one leg extended and the other one bent and latched onto the foot support of the chair. Taylor thought he had lost a little weight, but he was still bulging with muscles and flashing the misty green eyes. His thick black hair was just a bit too long, as usual, and negligent locks of it decorated his forehead. Taylor suddenly realized that at Teddy’s age, there should have been a little gray up there, but she didn’t see any. He was attempting to lock eyes with her in an intimate, man-to-woman way. He couldn’t help himself. If he was breathing, he was flirting, and always, he was posing.

  “So we credit him as an advisor on the shoot?” Carly asked. “He did bring us the project. He can at least get screen credit as a consultant.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Teddy said. “Screen credit may involve a paycheck, and as you keep reminding me, the budget is tight. Let the kid work himself up in the business like the rest of us.”

  “He is a pretty little thing,” Carly said in a singsong voice. “He might attract the little girls to the show – you know, appeal to another demographic? Ed’s got the grannies and the nerds, and you’ve got the wannabes and the moms. Dobbs could get us a few teeny-boppers.”

  Taylor noticed that Elliott and Wyatt quietly retracted themselves and began to concentrate on their tablets. Either Carly didn’t realize she was puncturing Teddy’s ego or she didn’t care. She was all business, and she was making a good point.

  Teddy was glaring. “We don’t need him,” he snapped. “We’ve got a good dynamic balance as it is: me, Ed and Porter. Dobbs doesn’t fit. Besides, he’s inexperienced. Go ahead and give him screen credit if you insist, but keep him out of the frame, Wyatt, no matter how hard he tries to get in.”

  Wyatt acknowledged this with a lift of the chin, then went back to his tablet.

  “We’ll be having a séance,” Ed said. Unnoticed by anybody, he’d gone into the kitchen and hunted around for something to eat. What he’d said got their attention, and they all turned towards him while he stood in front of the refrigerator eating an ice cream bar.

  “Led by who?” Elliott asked. “That Purity girl? She keeps popping the registers on me; it messes up my levels.”

  Ed pointed with the ice cream bar. “Taylor. She’s doing it.”

  Teddy gazed at her intimately and his voice became warm. “You won’t have any problems with her, Elliott; she has a beautiful voice.”

  “Not that it matters,” Taylor said, standing up to her full 5’10”. “This is going to be a private séance. No cameras, and no gate-crashers.”

  “Wait, is it going to be about all this?” Carly said, gesturing around the Pissarro house.

  “Not really,” Taylor said. “Alan Pissarro’s business partner wants to get in touch with him. I don’t think he’s interested in how he died, or even that he’s still around. He’s got business questions for him.”

  Carly’s form coalesced into a fighting stance. “If it’s about the haunting we’re investigating, we need that séance. We haven’t had one since Purity got the Indian princess to drag up the old guy who died at the Corona Castle, and that was an epic fail. He just kept saying he wanted everybody to stay out of his tunnel to the wine cellar; it was supposed to have been a secret.”

  “I’m sorry,” Taylor said firmly. “This is going to be a closed séance involving personal matters. My client wouldn’t consider it. Besides, I’m the medium; I have the final say. I couldn’t possibly concentrate with a production crew knocking around in the shadows. Ed,” she said before Carly could argue, “didn’t you say Detective Bruno wanted to talk to us?”

  “I promised to return, and that man always wants to talk,” Ed said. He was down to the bare wooden stick now, and he threw it out. “Let’s go out to the lanai. We’ll risk interrupting.”

  They went out together, leaving a thick silence behind them.

  * * * * *

  When they were on the other side of the lanai door, Taylor abruptly stopped. Her face had become rigid.

  Ed looked at her and realized she was listening to the moving waters. There were no voices; if Dobbs and Bruno were still there, they had stopped talking when the door alarm had peeped.

  “You feel it too,” Ed said quietly, coming back a step to stand close to her.

  Her face still looked stony, as if she were bracing for something.

  “It’s alive,” Ed continued, looking above and around. “There’s a life force here. I’m not sure it’s even those who once lived here. It seems as if the house itself has a consciousness.”

  Taylor stared at him. She remained stubbornly mute, but her gaze was intense.

  “I felt it the very first time,” Ed said conversationally. “It’s even stronger now. I wonder if the house is aware of you. It’s immersive, out here by the water, but it’s in the house, too, once you’re tuned into it. I think we’re going to have very interesting results from the séance,” he added.

  “Mark,” she said.

  Ed blinked. “What did
you say?”

  “His name is Mark. I named him Julian, because I like that name, but his name is really Mark.”

  “Mark who? Oh!” He suddenly realized what she was talking about.

  “The spirit guide I made up,” Taylor said. “My troubadour. I think I’ll call him Mark Smeaton, though the name Mark doesn’t sound very Medieval. But it seems right to me. I don’t know why. Funny name, Smeaton. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. It just popped into my head. I should try to come up with something a little . . . heavier, but Mark Smeaton it is, and that’s who he’s going to stay.” Then she shook herself. “I don’t know why I’m wasting so much time on this. It doesn’t matter what I call my imaginary spirit guide, right?”

  Ed nodded, quietly resolving to Google the name Mark Smeaton as soon as he got a chance.

  “Don’t be shy,” they heard Bruno call from just beyond a jutting corner of the house, where the wrought iron table and chairs were. They turned to see him standing up just at the corner, looking at them. “Come on over and have a seat.”

  When Taylor came forward enough, she saw a good-looking young man sitting at the table, looking nervous, and on the other side of him was Detective Stetson, Bruno’s partner. Bruno must have called him once he was sure Marvin Sterling Dobbs was at the house.

  Taylor and Ed let themselves down onto the gorgeously scrolled, work-of-art chairs that were only just bearable for sitting. Thick cushions with a pattern of tropical leaves made a buffer for the actual seat bottoms, but the chair backs were formed out of curly iron spikes that jabbed the human spine in all the wrong places. Taylor sat down adjacent to Stetson and immediately squirmed.

  “Hi my name is Dobbs I’m working with Ed,” the good-looking young man blurted.

  Startled, Taylor looked at him and he abruptly lunged over the table to shake her hand. Blinking, she complied, saying, “Taylor.”

  “I know,” he gushed. “I read all about you in Ed’s book.”

  “Uh huh.”

  When they were all settled, Bruno managed to get Dobbs’s attention and stared at him until the smile he’d pulled up for Taylor faded away. Bruno watched him until he squirmed, then said, “Anything to add, Mr. Dobbs? No? Okay, you can go.”