McNally's Secret (36 page)
“Not exactly,” she said, seemingly gratified by my interest. “They’re orchestrated by our psychic adviser and held in her home. Mrs. Gloriana. A wonderful woman. So sensitive.”
“That
is
fascinating,” I said, and it
was
because I now had a name. “Is she a medium? A seer?”
“
Not
a seer,” Lydia said definitely. “Hertha doesn’t attempt to predict the future or tell your fortune or any claptrap like that. But I suppose you might call her a medium. We prefer to think of her as a channel, our means of communication to the great beyond.”
She spoke so simply and sincerely that I had no inclination to snicker. I am something of an infidel myself but I never scorn belief. If you are convinced the earth is flat, that’s okay with me as long as it gives you comfort.
“And this is Mrs. Gloriana’s profession?” I asked. “I mean, she does it for a living?”
“Oh yes. But don’t get the idea that it’s some kind of a con game. Hertha is licensed and bonded.”
“But she does charge for her services?” I said gently.
“Of course she does,” Mrs. Gillsworth said. “And why shouldn’t she, since her talents are so special. But her fees are quite reasonable and she takes credit cards.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And these meetings—sort of like séances, are they?”
“Well...” she said hesitantly, “somewhat. But there are no blobs of protoplasm floating in space or weird noises. We meet in a well-lighted room, sit in a circle around a table, and hold hands. To increase our psychic power, you see. Then Mrs. Gloriana tries to communicate with the other world. Her contact is a Mayan shaman who passed over hundreds of years ago. His name is Xatyl. Through him, Hertha attempts to reach people her clients wish to question. Sometimes they are famous people but usually they are relatives. I’ve spoken to my great-grandmother many times.”
“And communication with the, ah, deceased is made through Xatyl via Mrs. Gloriana?”
“Not always,” Lydia said sharply. “The contact fails as often as it succeeds. Sometimes the departed person requested is not available, or the line of communication is too faint to produce results because our combined psychic power that particular night is simply not strong enough to allow Mrs. Gloriana to get through to Xatyl.”
“Incredible,” I said, shaking my head, “and positively entrancing. Does Mrs. Gloriana provide private, uh, consultations?”
“Of course she does. But she’ll warn you that the chances of a successful contact are less for an individual than for a group. Because the psychic power is usually not sufficient, you see. A gathering of believers with linked hands generates much more energy than one person.”
That seemed reasonable to me. If you accepted the original premise, it even sounded
logical.
“Tell me something else,” I said, “and this is just idle curiosity on my part, but has your husband ever attended the meetings with Mrs. Gloriana?”
“Oh, Rod came to three or four,” she said lightly, “but then he just drifted away. He never scoffed, but he never accepted the concept wholeheartedly. Rod’s interests are more intellectual than spiritual. And he’s uncomfortable in groups. He needs solitude to create.”
“I can appreciate that,” I said. “He has his work to do, and very important work it is, too.” I stood up. “Mrs. Gillsworth, I thank you for your time and hospitality.”
“You intend to continue your investigation?”
I nodded. “I can’t promise success, but I must try.”
“I haven’t been much help, have I?”
“I’m sure you’ve provided all the information you possibly can.”
“And you promise not to take this ridiculous matter to the police? It’s really of no consequence.”
I made no reply. She conducted me back through the house, then suddenly stopped and put a hand on my arm.
“Wait just a moment, Archy,” she said. “I must show you something I brought back from Rhode Island for Rod’s collection. I found it at a country shop near Woonsocket.”
Roderick Gillsworth collected antique canes and walking sticks. In fact, collecting was an absolute frenzy in Palm Beach, and the more outré the collectibles, the stronger the passion. I myself had succumbed to the madness and was buying up every crystal shotglass I could find. The star of my collection was an etched Lalique jigger.
I had seen Gillsworth’s collection before, and he had some beauts, including several sword canes, one that concealed a dagger, a walking stick that held a half-pint of whiskey, and a formal evening stick which, when one peered through a small hole in the handle, revealed a tiny photo of a billowy maiden wearing nothing but long black stockings and a coy smile.
The cane Lydia had brought her husband from Rhode Island was a polished, tapered cone of ash topped with a heavy head of sterling silver in the shape of a unicorn. It really was an impressive piece, probably about two hundred years old, and I longed to know what it cost—but didn’t ask, of course.
I complimented Mrs. Gillsworth on her purchase and thanked her again for the pink lemonade. But I was not to escape so easily. She brought me that Eyelash begonia intended for my mother. I thought it should have been called a Godzilla begonia but thanked Lydia once again and lugged it out to the Miata. I drove home slowly, mulling over everything I had just learned. I am an amateur muller. I get that from my father, who is a world-class muller and has been known to ponder for two minutes trying to decide whether or not to salt a radish.
Mother was still absent when I arrived home so I left the monstrous plant on her workbench in the potting shed. I had plenty of time for my ocean swim before the family cocktail hour. It was while plowing through the murky sea that I had an idea which was absolutely bonkers. What if Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth had written the poison-pen letter herself and mailed it to herself?
I could think of several possible motives. (1) She wished to elicit sympathy from friends. (2) She wanted attention from her husband, who apparently spent most of his time cuddling with his muse. (3) She yearned for a little drama in a life that had become hopelessly humdrum. (4) She herself was around the bend and was now subject to irrational impulses.
A case could be made for suspecting Lydia as the culprit, but it fell apart when I remembered the similarly printed ransom note delivered to the Willigans. I doubted if Mrs. Gillsworth even
knew
the Willigans, and it was absurd to believe her guilty of swiping their cat.
I showered and dressed carefully for my date with Meg Trumble. I was in a Bulldog Drummond mood and wore total black: raw silk jacket, jeans, turtleneck, socks, and loafers. My father took one look, elevated an eyebrow, and commented, “You look like a shadow.” But of course his taste in male attire is stultified. He thinks my tasseled loafers are twee. I think of him as the Prince of Wingtips.
“We sipped our martinis, and mother told us how delighted she was with Lydia Gillsworth’s gift. The pater asked offhandedly if I had made any progress with the “Gillsworth matter,” and I said I had not.
“And the Willigans’ missing cat?” he added.
“Negative,” I said, and was tempted to tell him I was convinced the two cases were connected. But I didn’t, fearing he might have me certified.
We finished our drinks, and my parents went downstairs to dine. I went out to the Miata and sat long enough to smoke my third English Oval of the day, knowing that in Meg Trumble’s company I would have to forgo nicotine.
Then I drove down to the Willigans’ home, ruminating on where I could take Meg for dinner. It had to be someplace so distant that my presence with another woman might escape the notice of Consuela Garcia’s corps of informants. I finally decided to make the journey to Fort Lauderdale.
I was familiar with W. Scott’s warning about tangled webs. But I wasn’t really practicing to deceive Connie.
Was I?
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1992 by The Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc.
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-9823-7
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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