The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

by Otto Penzler

  The weird stuff started about six weeks ago and showed no signs of stopping or even letting up. It was, in fact, getting worse. Actually, it might have been going on for a while before he noticed. He first became aware of the spooky undertones one night after dinner when he sat down on the sofa, on the end by the three-way lamp, to catch up on the latest Architectural Digest. On the table, under the lamp, was a pile of books. The title of the top book was Psychic Experiences Through the Ages. What the hell was Nelda doing with a book like that? He took the second book off the pile. Early Spiritualism. The third book, Psychical Research. And the fourth, Telepathy in Everyday Life. Beneath that book was a bunch of brochures and pamphlets on clairvoyance, extrasensory perception, precognition, and altered states of consciousness.

  ‘Jehovah’sJaguar, Nelda! Where’d you get this stuff?”

  She looked up briefly from her Queen Anne chair by the fireplace. “The library.” Then she was buried again in the book she held, the title of which was Hypnosis and Dream Telepathy.

  “Why’re you reading this junk?”

  She looked up again, the epitome of patience. “I don’t think it’s junk, Hugh. They were all written by experts in their field.” “Whatever. Why’re you reading it?”

  She lowered the book again. “A couple of the girls think I may have ESP or something like it, and I thought if I read up on the subject, I could find out for sure.”

  “So now you’re going to start telling fortunes?”

  “Hardly.” She gave him a condescending smile. “Some rather . . . odd things have been happening lately, and I confess I’ve been a bit shaken by them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, at a recent bridge game, it occurred to me suddenly that I knew every card that was going to be played before it was played.

  When I realized that, I also sensed that I knew what cards were in the other three hands even before the bidding began. Of course, with an advantage like that, I mopped up that afternoon.”

  He laughed, first uproariously, then derisively. “I’ll take you with me to my next poker game.”

  “It isn’t funny, Hugh. It’s a little . . . frightening.” She paused, then said, “The next thing that happened was a lunch a couple of days later. Ruth and Barb and I were to meet at The Tea Kettle. Ruth arrived at the same time, and I said to her — I don’t know where I got the idea — ‘Barb isn’t coming. She’s going to phone and tell the hostess to tell us she’s ill.’ Sure enough, we had no sooner sat down than the hostess came over and said, ‘Mrs. Long just called and said to tell you she’s not feeling well and can’t make it today.’”

  He couldn’t think of a word to say. He just looked at her, wondering if his very practical, down-to-earth wife had all of a sudden run mad.

  He had planned to go to Sonja’s that night. After all, he hadn’t seen her for three days. But something about the seriousness of Nelda’s expression, her tone of voice, made him decide to stay home. It was easy enough to get away when he wanted to. All he had to say was, “We’re having some problems with the Grandy building,” or, “That new house on May Avenue, well, the owner has changed his mind about the shape of the deck, so I’ve got to have it done by tomorrow.” And he’d be off for a few hours of bliss with Sonja. Nelda was gullible as hell. She never suspected anything. But tonight — he didn’t know why — he thought he’d better not go.

  “Anything else?” he asked. “Or is that the sum total of your psychic experiences?”

  “Are you making fun of me?” A small frown furrowed her forehead.

  “No, of course not. I’m just curious.”

  There ’ve been some little things that made me wonder, but nothing as significant as the two I told you about. The thing is, these experiences, as you call them, are happening more often, and each time I get a stronger premonition.” She stopped suddenly and looked toward the telephone on the end table. “Like right now. The phone is going to ring.”

  He waited. A minute, two minutes, three minutes. Nothing happened. And then the phone rang.

  “Don’t bother to answer it,” she said. “It’s a wrong number.”

  An act of Congress could not have prevented him from picking up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Has Jimmy come in yet?” asked a gruff voice.

  He held the phone away from him, looking at it as though it were a hissing viper, then he barked into it, “Wrong number! ”

  She continued with her reading without looking up and without saying “I told you so,” for which he would have been grateful had he not been so befuddled. What the hell was going on here? Had the woman suddenly become possessed with some kind of strange powers? Ditch-water dull Nelda, whom he could read like a child’s primer? It couldn’t be.

  “Has something happened to you, something strange?” he asked. “I mean — do you feel, er, different? Headache or . .. anything?” “Not at all. I feel the same as I always have.”

  He couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so he just sat staring at her, going over in his mind the horrendous difference it could make in his life if his wife really had suddenly become a seer into the future. But, of course, he didn’t believe in that stuff and his first thought had been correct. It was just a fad, a phase she was going through, reading all those crazy books. She’d get tired of it soon enough and go back to being ditch-water dull Nelda whose every move and sentence he could anticipate. And that made him psychic in his own right, didn’t it?

  But that didn’t explain the telephone business. How had she known?

  It had taken him hours to get to sleep that night, but by the next morning he was ready to pooh-pooh the whole psychic business. If you played bridge with the same people week after week, year after year, you could tell by looking at their expressions what kind of cards they were holding, just as he could tell by the expressions, or lack thereof, on the faces of the members of his poker club. And it was a safe enough guess that Barbara Long wouldn’t show up for a lunch date: That hypochondriac canceled half her social engagements because of some imaginary illness. As for the phone, what the hell? They never got any calls at night anyway, so if the phone rang, there was a ninety-five percent chance it was a wrong number.

  Nelda was getting ideas from all that crap she was reading. She’d lose interest pretty soon and go back to fashion magazines and the beautiful people, whoever the hell they were.

  He scrutinized himself in the mirror extra carefully while shaving. Had it been that long since he’d checked, or had his hairline receded a bit more overnight? And was that puffiness under his eyes the beginning of bags? He worked out at the gym once a week in an effort to keep a flat stomach, but there was nothing the gym could do about eyes and hair. He couldn’t afford to let himself go in any way, not if he wanted to keep Sonja. She was a beaut: statuesque brunette, heart-shaped face with sexy, pouty lips, skin that almost glowed in the dark, and she was fifteen years younger than he. He’d already invested a fortune in her: all that jewelry, lingerie, champagne, and room-service dinners (he couldn’t afford to take her out and be seen by someone who knew him; it would jeopardize his partnership). So he paid her rent in the hotel suite on the twelfth floor, and he hoped that he was the only one who visited her there. Had to be, he kept telling himself, because she was always available for him, even on the spur of the moment.

  Tonight he would see her for sure. Nelda could predict ringing phones, sick friends, card games, or the end of civilization as we know it; his own prediction was that he’d have one hell of a night with Sonja.

  It was about a week, possibly ten days, later that he had to go home unexpectedly in the middle of the morning. He’d left plumbing estimates for the Grandy building in a folder on the bureau, just walked right out that morning without seeing it. The house was quiet when he entered — no TV or radio talk shows or CDs playing golden oldies — and his first thought was that Nelda wasn’t home, but then he remembered seeing her car in the driveway.

  He found her sitting at h
er little antique desk in a corner of the living room. She was studying something, her concentration so great that she did not even hear him as he approached. As he bent over her, he saw what she was studying so intently. A sheet of white paper, completely blank.

  “What . . .’’he began, but at the sound of his voice, she started violently, let out a little scream, and turned in her chair.

  “Good Lord, Hugh, what are you doing home now? You just about scared me into apoplexy.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “I forgot that folder on the bureau. Had to come back for it. What are you doing?” he added, although it was perfectly obvious she wasn’t doing a damn thing.

  “I — I was just thinking.” She had a guilty look about her, as though she had been caught doing something underhanded. “About what?”

  She hesitated a second or two, then, looking down at the Oriental rug as though counting figures in the design, said, “It’s gotten worse, Hugh. Much more prevalent.”

  He really didn’t have time to stand there and jaw with her about the trivialities of her life. “What are you talking about, Nelda?” “The ESP . . . clairvoyance, or whatever you want to call it.”

  He didn’t want to call it anything; he’d prefer to ignore it, forget it altogether. She was still reading those stupid books all the time, and he’d certainly done a good job of ignoring that. “What now?” he asked with as much civility as he could manage. “You see something written on that blank paper?”

  She nodded, then shook her head. “Not really, but when I first saw this piece of paper, it came to me that I’m going to get a letter today from someone I haven’t heard from in years. Someone I’d completely forgotten about. When you came in, I was trying to figure out who it could be.”

  He laughed at her. “Why waste time? Just wait till the postman comes and you will know.” He laughed again. “It’s just your imagination working overtime because of those lunatic books you read. You’re turning into a real loony tune, you know that?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He went up to the bedroom, got his folder, and went back down to the living-room door. “I may be a little late coming in tonight,” he told her. “There’s a dinner meeting, followed by some business. May be eleven or after before it breaks up.”

  She didn’t look around, just nodded.

  As he was getting in his car, he saw the postman’s red, white, and blue jeep turn the corner. Ha! He would wait for the mail, take it to her, and convince her that this ESP she thought she had was nothing but pure, unadulterated rubbish.

  He took the handful of mail from the postman, and without even looking through it, rushed back into the house and dropped it on the desk in front of her. “There,” he said, “show me the letter from your long-lost friend, or whoever.”

  She went through the mail slowly: bills, advertisements, an envelope of coupons, and a letter addressed to her in a strange, circular handwriting. She looked up at him, a somewhat frightened expression on her face, then opened the letter. He leaned over her shoulder and read as she did:

  Dear Nelda,

  It’s been years, and you probably don’t even remember me, but we were acquainted in college (I hesitate to say friends, because we didn’t see that much of each other). My husband and I have just moved here from Kansas City, and I would like very much to see you again and get reacquainted. We don’t know any people here yet except those Jack works with. I would appreciate it so much if you would call me sometime.

  Sincerely,

  Nita Conway Delahan

  There was a P.S. which gave the phone number.

  He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Had his average, dull, ordinary wife really become possessed of some kind of psychic powers? Impossible! He didn’t believe it for a minute. And yet. . . What else could explain the strange goings-on?

  That night when he went to his dinner meeting (with Sonja), he was still trying to find some logical explanation.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Sonja complained after she had rolled the room-service dinner trolley out into the hall. “You haven’t spoken a dozen words since you came in. I ordered your favorite meal, your favorite wine, and I’m wearing the negligee you brought me last week. You haven’t commented on anything or even noticed anything.”

  He knew if there was anything Sonja couldn’t stand, it was being ignored. He’d had some disappointing evenings — she had sent him home after about thirty minutes — when she’d been convinced she did not have his absolute and unconditional attention.

  “My dear, beautiful girl,” he said quickly, pulling her down beside him on the small flowered-chintz sofa, “forgive me if I sometimes take all this perfection for granted. You see, I’ve come to expect nothing less from you. The way you look, the things you do . . . you are the ideal in everyway.”

  The words were so far removed from his usual pattern of conversation or compliments that he felt he was speaking a foreign tongue. It was almost funny, a joke, but it seemed to satisfy, even please her, for she smiled and snuggled closer to him. “Problems at work?” she asked. That, too, was unusual, because they always talked about her, not him.

  “No, nothing like that,” he said, and then he decided to tell her. “Nelda has been acting ... I don’t know . . . sort of strange lately. Well, not strange, maybe, but bizarre things have been happening.”

  “She’s found out about us?”

  “Oh, no. No way that could happen. I’m too careful.” And then he told her about the phone call and the letter and about all the books Nelda had been reading.

  Anything Sonja didn’t understand was dismissed with a little shrug and a change of subject. As was this. “All those crazy books,” she said. “That would send anybody around the bend. How do you like my new perfume? Do I smell like Elizabeth Taylor?”

  “I don’t know how Elizabeth Taylor smells,” he said, laughing, and from then on, they had an exemplary evening.

  It was almost eleven-thirty when he went home. He expected to find Nelda fast asleep in her twin bed, possibly with the bedside lamp still on and one of those nutty books lying open beside her. What he found was Nelda sitting up in bed, her fingers pressed against her temples, her eyes closed.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You got a headache or something?”

  She opened her eyes slowly and looked around as though coming out of a trance or regaining consciousness after a coma. He almost expected her to say, “Where am I?”

  For a long time she didn’t say anything, and then: “Hugh, I have been seeing the oddest thing: a series of pictures in my mind, all in still-life.”

  “Nelda, what the hell are you talking about?”

  He sat down on his bed and removed his shoes. Kee-rist, he hoped she wasn’t going to start her loony-tune business now. He was wiped out. Sonja had had the agility of an Olympic gymnast tonight. He smiled, remembering.

  “I was trying to read,” she said, “but these pictures kept flashing across my mind. Then, I’m not sure what happened, but I seemed to go outside myself. Maybe it was an altered state of consciousness. The pictures became much clearer. Much.”

  He’d be damned if he’d ask her what kind of pictures. He didn’t even want to know.

  She told him anyway. “I saw a room. It was like a hotel room, a suite, maybe, but it was furnished better than the average hotel room. There were some pictures, family pictures I suppose, on a table, and there was a little sofa or love seat with flowered upholstery, and you were sitting there. You were by yourself, but your mouth was moving as though you were talking to someone. That picture faded and another came on — exactly as though it were being shown on a screen — and you were not alone anymore. There was a woman sitting beside you on the sofa, a very pretty dark-haired woman. Hugh, am I going crazy, or is it.. . is it the ESP again?”

  He was staring at her, his mind in turmoil. “What — what are you talking about?” His voice came out scarcely above a whisper.

  “I’m not sure. I saw it so clearl
y, but I’m not sure what it was I was seeing. Where was your meeting tonight?”

  “At the Baxter Hotel. We met in the suite of a visiting architect.” He thought it best to get at least a remnant of truth in his answer.

  “That explains it then.” She let out a sigh of relief. “I was seeing the meeting. But I wonder why I didn’t see more than just two people.”

  He didn’t answer; he couldn’t.

  She plumped her pillow several times and lay down. When he came out of the bathroom, she was either asleep or pretending to be.

  But it was nearly dawn before he closed his eyes.

  The first thing he did when he got to his office that morning was to call Sonja and tell her she would have to move from the Baxter to the Cromley on the other side of town.

  “In your dreams, buster,” she said, furious at having been awakened and even more furious at being told she would have to leave her deluxe digs. “I’m not going to some second-rate fleabag.”

  “The Cromley is a first-class apartment hotel, and I’ll see that you have as much space there as you have at the Baxter. I’ll make the arrangements this morning and you can move this afternoon.” He hung up before she could protest further.

  He didn’t have a clue what had happened to Nelda or what was going on in her mind, but obviously she didn’t know (or hadn’t seen pictures) of his intimate moments with Sonja. It seemed to be a good idea to move Sonja farther away from Nelda (maybe proximity had something to do with the pictures she saw) before Nelda caught on.