The Ambitious Card (An Eli Marks Mystery) (10 page)

“Well, that’s bloody simple when you know how it’s done, isn’t it?” he said, examining the coins in a completely different light. “Fiendishly clever but absolutely simple.”

He reached for his wallet. “I’ll take it.”

I waved away his money. “This one’s on the house,” I said.

He looked up from the coins in his hand, delighted. “Brilliant,” he said.

He was still marveling at the trick and my generosity as I walked him to the door and closed it behind him. I sighed and shook my head as I walked through the shop. Potentially the only sale of the day, and I had given it away for nothing.

I returned to the back room with Harry, packaging up mail orders in silence for a long time, each of us in our own little thought bubble. Once we finished all the orders for the Screaming Dice, we turned our attention to the Card-Presto, a device I had created for keeping a deck of cards flat. It’s not a sexy item, but if you make your living doing card tricks, it can increase the lifespan of each deck of cards by a factor of five.

I thought we might close out the afternoon in silence, but then Harry began to speak.

“The reason I didn’t want to talk to the reporter was simple,” Harry said without looking up at me. “I’m still a skeptic through and through, that hasn’t changed. But for the first time in my life, I really want it to be true. I’d like to believe that there is something on the other side.”

He looked up at me. His eyes were just a bit watery.

“I finally have a reason to want to believe in all this nonsense, not to fight it,” he said, “but frankly I don’t have the strength to do either.”

He pushed the last of the orders across the worktable toward me. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit,” he said as he moved across the room and through the curtain.

I heard him slowly climbing up the stairs, and then I heard him open the apartment door and move through his kitchen and living room. Finally there was the sound of his bedroom door closing, and then all was quiet again.

Chapter 8

“Ah, the Prodigal Nephew,” Abe Ackerman said, looking up from the perpetual card game that absorbed the greater part of the Minneapolis Mystics’ time.

He’s used that same line every time he’s seen me since I moved back into my apartment above the store. And although I don’t find the line particularly funny, I give him credit because like any good performer, he makes it sound brand-new each time he says it.

In his day, Abe was a top mentalist, although he insists that The Amazing Kreskin stole most of his prime material, along with his best, and most attractive, assistant. It’s still a sore subject with Abe and a conversational minefield that is best avoided.

“Hi, Abe. Hi, guys,” I said to the group, which today numbered four. The others just glanced up from their cards and grunted a collective greeting.

I had stepped into the bar next to Chicago Magic expecting to find Uncle Harry seated in the back and he did not disappoint. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light provided by the dirty 40-watt bulbs and the illuminated beer signs that lined the walls, I’d had no trouble spotting Harry and his cronies seated at their regular table at the far end of the long, narrow room.

Nowadays we have friends, acquaintances, and Facebook buddies, but in Harry’s world you had cronies. The group has suffered some attrition in the last few years, but that’s inevitable in any group whose members’ average age is seventy-five. The club formed when they were in their teens and just on the cusp of their respective entertainment careers. Officially they call themselves The Minneapolis Mystics, but ever since I was a kid I’ve called them by the name that Aunt Alice lovingly bestowed on them: The Artful Codgers.

I put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m headed off to the memorial service,” I said. “So I’ve locked up the shop until you’re done over here.”

“I might as well be done, with the miserable cards I’ve been getting. I’m out,” Harry said, tossing his cards on the table in disgust. He looked at the current dealer, Sam Esbjornson.

“I’d accuse you of cheating, Sam,” Harry growled, “if I didn’t know for a fact that you’re the worst card man west of the Mississippi.”

“East of the Mississippi as well,” chimed in Abe. “He’s got incompetence covered, coast to coast.”

“Not to mention incontinence,” Harry added.

“Aw, stick it in your ear,” Sam grumbled as he peeked at his cards. Sam was primarily a coin magician, and his alleged inability to handle cards was a consistent source of amusement for the group. However, if you wanted to witness a perfect rendition of The Miser’s Dream—a magician producing a seemingly endless shower of coins magically from his fingertips—Sam was your man.

“Did you say memorial service?” asked Max Monarch, who like many in his age bracket was perpetually interested in who had just died or was suspected to be approaching the end. Unlike Sam, Max was a card magician, one of the best, and so all eyes were trained on him like lasers whenever it became his deal. If he did cheat, my guess is that even at his advanced age they’d never spot it.

“Yes, a memorial service,” I repeated. “No one you know,” I added, before he could raise the question.

“It’s that fake medium who was murdered,” Harry explained to the group. “And my nephew here is the prime suspect,” he added with a hint of pride in his voice.

“Is he now?” Max asked earnestly.

“Hardly the prime suspect,” I said, making my tone as jovial as possible. “Probably not even in the top ten.”

“Don’t be so humble,” Harry said. “They took him in for questioning,” he said, turning back to the group. “An interrogation, actually.”

They all nodded in appreciation at this new, juicy bit of information.

“I’ve got a nephew, been arrested plenty, let me tell you. Every other day, he’s in or out of jail,” Abe said.

“For jaywalking, most likely, and other petty offenses,” Harry said, waving it away with his hand. “This is serious business. A capital crime.”

“So, you’re a suspect and you’re going to his memorial service? What’s the sense in that?” Max asked, and the others all made grunts of agreement. “Seems a bit on the crazy side, if you ask me.”

“Of course he has to go,” Harry said, raising his voice above the general hubbub of the group. “How else can he get a handle on the other suspects and clear his name? That doesn’t happen if you’re just sitting at home on your tush…a person has got to burn a little shoe leather when you’re the top suspect in a murder.”

This comment miraculously turned the direction of the argument, with everyone now agreeing that attending the memorial service was, after all, the most prudent course of action.

“The actual murderer always turns up at the funeral,” Sam said definitively. “I’ve seen it happen a hundred times. On TV.”

“Yes, you just keep your eyes peeled and you’ll nail him, clear as day,” Abe agreed.

“But you keep on your toes, Buster,” Max added. “How many times has the prime suspect ended up being the second victim?”

“You’re right. Ninety-nine percent of the time that happens,” Sam agreed. “It catches me by surprise every time.” He looked up at me. “You be careful, Buster. I mean, what’s the point of clearing your name if you just end up dead?”

I patted him on the shoulder. “You make a good point,” I said, trying my best to not sound patronizing. “So, let me make sure that I understand how I should approach this…I need to keep my eyes peeled for the actual killer.” I looked around the table and received expressions of agreement all around. “But at the same time, make sure I’m not the next victim. Is that it?”

“Bingo,” Abe said. “And, if you have time, you should also try to get yourself laid.”

They were all still laughing when I left.

The memorial was held at a church that stretched the term nondenominational to its breaking point. Sitting high on a hill overlooking Lake Harriet, and nestled in a funky little neighborhood of high-income, well-intentioned liberals, vegans and soccer moms, the silver-domed church had evidently gone through multiple incarnations over the years. Currently it was stripped of all vestiges of Christianity inside and out, with the obvious exception of two impressively large stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Jesus and his disciples.

Although I had no trouble finding a parking space, I was surprised to find that the main floor was packed when I arrived. Informed that there was no seating available downstairs, I was directed upstairs to the small two-row balcony that overlooked the sanctuary.

That someone as universally loathed and repellant as Grey could command a sell-out crowd for his final send-off struck me as a hopeful sign for anyone who has worried about the attendance numbers at their own memorial service. It certainly made me feel better about my own funereal expectations.

The leader of the service—an exceedingly calm and painfully soft-spoken man in his early forties—was dressed in khakis and a turtleneck and sported long brown hair and a beard. I don’t know if he was consciously trying to look like Jesus in the stained-glass windows, so as to justify the windows’ continued existence, but the resemblance was uncanny.

He was in the midst of a guided meditation as I made my way down the length of the balcony to the one remaining seat, a wobbly folding chair that had seen better days.

It was tough getting past the others seated in the row, as most had their eyes closed and some were rocking back and forth to the melodious sound of the leader’s words that echoed through the church’s surprisingly up-to-date sound system.

“You’re on the river of love,” he said in a voice like warm caramel. “Floating in the flow, in the moment, in the now. You are embraced, enveloped, and encased in love.”

Once seated, I scanned the room below me, taking advantage of the fact that most people were in full meditation mode, with their eyes closed. Based on the few recognizable faces I spotted, the local psychic community was out in full force.

Although they may not have liked Grey in life, they were certainly coming together as a group behind the idea of his passing.

I inspected the crowd again and recognized a face—or, to be more accurate, given the angle I was at—the side of a face, some hair, a nose and a right ear that looked familiar. I was pretty certain that it was Megan and I strained to get a better view without toppling over the railing. If the railing was in the same shaky condition as my chair, I realized that I would be wise to not put any weight against it.

I peered as best I could from the relative safety of my seat and my suspicion was confirmed in the worst possible manner.

The person next to my potential Megan chose that moment to adjust his position in the pew and I recognized him as Pete, her soon-to-be ex-husband.

I swore under my breath, but apparently not far enough under for the woman seated next to me. Her eyes snapped open like a window shade with an overactive spring and she raised an accusing eyebrow in my direction.

I settled back in my seat and put on my best look of repose. Once her eyes were closed again, I continued my long-distance scrutiny. It certainly looked like Megan and it was absolutely Pete. I couldn’t tell for sure from this distance, but they might have even been holding hands.

I didn’t like the looks of that at all.

“Thank you, everyone,” the leader said, speaking softly into a microphone on a stand at the center of the altar. “And now, in conclusion, we will celebrate Grey’s life with affirmations of his spirit. We’ll open the floor to any of you who desire to step forward and express your feelings for Grey, for his energy, and for the tranquility of his spirit in the next world.

“And,” he added with a tone that sounded a bit too upbeat for the proceedings, “your affirmations of Grey will be supported, musically, by harpist, full-body healer, medical intuitive, and aura photographer, Arianna Dupree.”

With that introduction, a large, dramatically dressed middle-aged woman stepped out of the congregation and toward the harp, which was situated off to one side of the altar. She wore a bright, multi-colored caftan and on her head sat a turban that looked distinctly African, although the woman herself couldn’t have been more white. She settled her bulky form behind the harp and the large instrument seemed to disappear into the folds of her caftan.

Even from the balcony I was amazed at the delicate sounds she produced from the instrument with her large, doughy fingers.

The leader took a seat, Arianna continued to play, and we all waited for the first mourner to step forward and present their tribute to Grey.

The tranquil sound of the harp and an occasional light cough were the only sounds in the church for several moments. After a few more moments with no volunteers stepping forward, people began to fidget nervously in their seats. The sound of their rustling was misinterpreted by others as the sound of someone getting up to speak.

People craned their necks and peered around, and one or two popped halfway up out of their seats like prairie dogs to see who was taking the plunge. But the truth was, no one was stepping forward.

Arianna moved gracefully from one tuneless song to the next and still we sat, waiting for someone—anyone—to break the silence, which had gone past uncomfortable and was now well into the realm of sort of creepy.

Then, from my vantage point high above, I saw a lithe figure rise and move down a pew, gently stepping past congregants who shoved their legs aside as best they could within the tight quarters of the bench.

As soon as she hit the aisle, I recognized her. It was Nova, Grey’s assistant.

She was dressed all in black, as she had been at the show, but this outfit was a lighter, more casual version of her show attire. She stepped into the aisle and moved silently toward the altar and the microphone.

The leader, seated off to one side, gestured toward her, as if to say, “Yes, I believe you’re next. Go right ahead, dear.”

Nova stepped gingerly up to the microphone and barely looked at the crowd, her long dark hair surrounding her face. She cleared her throat and then stepped back for a moment, looking like she was about to reconsider the notion of being up there. Then she stepped forward and began to speak softly. Her low volume was not an issue, though, as everyone was leaning forward in rapt anticipation.

“Grey was a son of a bitch,” she said in a surprisingly girlish voice. This statement produced an audible gasp from the group—it didn’t appear to come from any one person, but rather from the entire group en masse.

“He was hurtful and hateful and I for one am glad he’s dead.” She stepped back from the microphone, seemingly finished, and then stepped forward one more time. “Plus he was bad in bed.”

With that final statement, Nova gave a quick nod and moved away from the microphone. With her head lowered, she glided back down the aisle to her pew. Everyone made room for her to pass and in a matter of moments she was back in her seat and the church was once again quiet, with the exception of Arianna’s monotonous plucking on the harp.

The leader looked around the church hopefully, as I’m sure Nova’s speech was not, in his mind, the ideal closing act. No one else stepped forward, so he finally got up and returned to the microphone.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling in Nova’s direction, “for sharing your feelings. And for those of you who enjoyed Arianna’s performance on the harp, she wanted me to remind you that her CDs are available out in our lobby, at her shop, Akashic Records, and at the Akashic Records website. And finally, before we conclude, I want to remind you that a reception will take place, starting immediately, just down the street, at the home of Dr. Maurice Bitterman.”

That name rang a bell with me. A few years back there had been a football player with the Minnesota Vikings named Maurice Bitterman. There had been a lot of confusion during his arrival in the Twin Cities, because he insisted that his first name be pronounced using the British pronunciation, Morris.

It seemed unlikely that there would be two identically-named men in the same city, but it seemed just as unlikely that a former Viking defensive end would be attending Grey’s funeral.

On the main floor people began to get up and shuffle toward the exit. The folks in the balcony were filing out even more slowly, so I stood and watched the crowd below as they made their way out of the sanctuary, trying to see if there was anyone large enough to be a former football player. As they walked down the main aisle, it was now abundantly clear that the woman I thought might be Megan was, in fact, Megan. And Pete was Pete.

I was just stepping back to get clear of their line of sight when Pete spotted me. A big smile washed across his face and he waved up to me, then turned to Megan and pointed me out to her. It was too late for me to step out of sight, so I waved wanly at them.

Pete used some rough sign language to indicate that we should meet outside the building. I bobbed my head in agreement, trying to appear happy about it. From that distance, it might have even looked convincing.

Although I felt like I was stalling, and in many ways I was, it really did take a long time to get out of that skinny balcony and down the narrow, twisty steps to the church’s foyer. By the time I made my way down, most of the crowd had exited the church and the remaining attendees were standing in conversational groups of two and three right outside the front door on the concrete steps leading to the sidewalk. I quickly scanned the groups before I spotted Pete and Megan standing on the sidewalk, talking to a small, bird-like woman. Once again Pete noticed me before I could duck out of view. He gave me an enthusiastic wave and I waved back as I headed down the steps toward them.