I had dined with two women before, of course-most lads have-and I usually found it a pleasurable experience. To be honest, it gives one a pasha-like feeling: entertaining two from the harem, or perhaps interviewing wannabes. Male self-esteem, always in need of a lift, is given an injection of helium by the presence and flattering attention of not one but two (count 'em!) attractive ladies.
Having said all that, I must tell you from the outset that the evening was a disaster. Never have I felt so extraneous, so foreign. I began to wonder if men and women are not merely two different genders but are actually two different species.
It started when we arrived at the Cafe Istanbul. I selected a booth, Meg and Hertha preferred another, although as far as I could see the booths were identical. I expected to sit alongside Meg, with Her-tha, the third wheel, placed across the table from us. But the women insisted on dining side by side, so I sat alone, facing them.
Nothing so far to elevate a chap's dander, you say-and right you are. But it was only the beginning.
Hertha and Meg seemed to vie with each other in casting snide references to the conjunction of colors I was wearing. Even worse, the medium suggested I'd do well to ask her husband for tips on how to coordinate hues and fabrics in order to present a pleasing appearance.
"It's an idea," I said with a glassy smile, hoping the gnashing of my teeth was not audible. "And where is Frank this evening?"
My innocent question resulted in a convulsion of laughter by both, and it continued until our salad was served and the wine uncorked. I never did receive a reply to my query, though it was obvious that both my dinner partners knew the answer. Is there anything more maddening than an inside joke to which one is neither privy nor offered an explanation?
My essays at light-hearted conversation were similarly rejected. Both women remained po-faced in response to the truly hilarious tale of how Binky Watrous and I, somewhat in our cups, stole a garbage truck and drove it to Boca Raton. Nor did they seem interested in my favorite anecdote about Ferdy Attenborough, a member of the Pelican Club, who was debagged by his cronies and thrust into the ballroom during a formal dance at The Breakers.
As a matter of fact, the ladies didn't seem interested in me at all. But they spent a great deal of time whispering to each other-a shocking breach of good manners-and I recalled my uneasy feeling when I saw them sitting close and holding hands after the seance on Wednesday night. I began to get a disconcerting picture of who the third wheel really was.
Eventually that calamitous dinner came to an end, and I definitely did not suggest we go on to a nightclub for a bottle of bubbly and a spot of dancing. At the moment I felt biodegradable and ready for a New Jersey landfill.
We went back to Meg's apartment, with Hertha sitting on Meg's lap as she had before. I had no desire to linger, since it was painfully obvious that my presence was lending nothing to the festivities. And so, pleading an early morning engagement with my periodontist, I made my escape. The protests of the two women at my early departure were perfunctory, their farewells just as mechanical.
I drove away more thoughtful than angry. You may find this difficult to believe, but there are times, many of them, when my duties as chief of discreet inquiries for McNally amp; Son take precedence over the Sturm und Drang of my personal affairs.
So, in the wake of that discomfiting evening, I pondered less on the outrageous behavior of my two dining companions than on the present whereabouts and activities of Frank Gloriana. I didn't have to be Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin to deduce that Frank and Laverne Willigan had what Jamie Olson once referred to as a "rappaport."
To test my theory I decided to make a quick return trip to the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. This time I pulled into the motel area just long enough to confirm that Laverne's pink Porsche was parked outside Cabin Four.
Then I drove home, deriving some amusement from imagining Harry Willigan's reaction if he was to learn of his wife's involvement in the catnapping of Peaches. I had no intention of snitching on her, of course. It was simply not something a gentleman would do.
I arrived at my burrow to find a scrawled message slipped under the door. It was from Ursi Olson and stated that Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned early in the evening and requested I call him back.
I tried him first at police headquarters but was told he had left for the night. I then phoned him at his mobile home, and he picked up after the third ring.
"McNally," I said.
"You're home so early?" he said. "What happened-the girlfriend kick you out of bed?"
"You're close," I said. "What's happening, Al?"
"A lot. I finally got the FBI report on the Gillsworth and Willigan letters."
"Printed on the same machine?"
"Yep. I also have, a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner and some stuff from the lab. There are more tests to be made, but things are beginning to get sorted out. We better meet."
"Fine," I said. "I have something to tell you, too. I know who swiped the cat."
"Don't tell me it was Willie Sutton."
"No," I said, laughing. "Even better. When do you want to make it?"
"Tomorrow morning at ten," he said. "At Gillsworth's house."
"Why there?"
"We're going to reenact the murder. You get to play the victim."
"My favorite role," I said. "I rehearsed this evening."
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. "See you tomorrow."
I poured myself a small marc and spent a few hours reviewing my journal, paying particular attention to the entries dealing with Laverne Willigan, her feelings about her husband, her reactions to the snatching of Peaches, and the gossip Jamie had relayed about her alleged lover.
I poured a second marc and lighted a cigarette. Absorbing alcohol and inhaling nicotine with carefree abandon, I mused on Laverne's motive for assisting in the catnapping, for I was certain she was involved up to her toasted buns. I scribbled a few notes:
1. Laverne is a sensual young woman with a jumbo appetite for the pleasures of the good life.
2. She is married to Harry, an ill-natured dolt much older than she but with the gelt to provide the aforementioned delights.
3. She meets a rakishly handsome immoralist, Frank Gloriana. He is married to the psychic, Hertha, but has no scruples about cheating on his wife, especially when the possibility of a payoff exists. (Or perhaps the medium is aware of his infidelity and couldn't care less, being as amoral as he.)
4. Laverne and Frank become intimate, enjoying each other's company with absolutely no intention of leaving their respective spouses.
5. But Frank suffers from a bad case of the shorts. (Bounced checks, etc.)
6. Question: Did Laverne or Frank dream up the idea of swiping Peaches for a good chunk of walk-ing-around money?
7. Answer: My guess is that it was Frank's scam, but Laverne merrily goes along since it causes distress to her boorish husband, he can easily afford the bite, and not to aid Frank might result in her losing him.
8. She sneaks the cat out of the Willigan home in its carrier and delivers it to Cabin Four.
9. Frank slides the ransom notes under the Willi-gans' front door.
10. Laverne returns the carrier when she learns from her sister that I have noted its absence.
11. All that remains to be done is the glomming of the ransom and the return of Peaches to her hearth.
12. Everyone lives happily ever after.
I reread these notes, and everything seemed logical to me-and so banal I wanted to weep. I went to bed reflecting that there are really no new ways to sin.
If you discover any, I wish you'd let me know.
Saturday morning brought brilliant sunshine and a resurgence of the customary McNally confidence. This high lasted all of forty-five minutes until, while lathering my chops preparatory to shaving, I received a phone call from Consuela Garcia.
"Archy," she wailed, "our orgy tonight-it's off!"
The bright new day immediately dimmed. I had consoled myself, in typical masculine fashion, that despite my rejection by Meg Trumble on Friday night, there was always Connie awaiting me on Saturday. I had envisioned a debauch so profligate that it might even include our reciting in unison the limerick beginning, "There was a young man from Rangoon." But apparently it was not to be.
"Connie," I said, voice choked with frustration, "why ever not?"
"Because," she said, "I got a call from my cousin Lola in Miami. She and Max, her husband, are driving up to Disney World and want to stop off and spend the night in my place."
"Ridiculous!"
"I know, but I've got to let them, Archy, because I spent a weekend with them at Christmastime."
I sighed. "At least we can all have dinner together, can't we?"
"Archy," she said, "Max wears Bermuda shorts with white ankle socks and laced black shoes."
"No dinner," I said firmly.
"But I want to see you," she cried. "Can't the two of us have lunch even if there's no tiddledywinks later?"
"Of course we can," I said gamely. "Meet you at the Club noonish."
"You are an admirable man," she proclaimed.
"I concur," I said.
A zingy breakfast did wonders for my morale. Being of Scandinavian origin, the Olsons had a thing for herring. Ursi kept a variety on hand, and that was my morning repast: herring in wine, in mustard sauce, in dilled cream, and one lone kipper. I wolfed all this with schwarzbrot and sweet butter. I know iced vodka is the wash of choice with a feast of herring, but it was too early in the morning; I settled for black coffee.
Much refreshed and happy I had been blessed with a robust gut, I tooled the Miata southward to meet Sergeant Al. It was a splendid day, clear and soft. If you're going to reenact a murder, that was the weather for it. The glory of sun, sea, and sky made homicide seem a lark. No one could possibly die on a day like that.
Rogoff was waiting for me in the flowered sitting room of the Gillsworth manse. I thought his meaty face was sagging with weariness, and I made sympathetic noises about his strenuous labors and obvious lack of sufficient sleep.
He shrugged. "Comes with the territory," he growled. "How to be a successful cop: Work your ass off, be patient, and pray that you're lucky. You smell of fish. What did you have for breakfast?"
"Herring."
"I shouldn't complain," he said. "I had a hot pastrami sandwich and a kosher dill. Tell me about the crazy cat."
We sat in facing armchairs, and I recited all the evidence leading to my conclusion that Laverne Willigan and Frank Gloriana had conspired in the catnapping.
Al listened intently and grinned when I finished. "Yeah," he said, "I'll buy it: the two of them making nice-nice and cooking up a plot to swipe the old coot's pet for fifty grand. I love it, just love it. You figure the cat is still out at the motel?"
"There's a cat in Cabin Four," I said. "I heard it mewing. I can't swear it's Peaches, but I'd make book on it."
He thought a moment. Then: "It might make our job easier when push comes to shove. That Cabin Four sounds like the combat center of everything that's going down. Otto Gloriana is staying there, and that's where you saw Gillsworth's Bentley and Laverne's Porsche."
"And heard the cat," I reminded him. "And also, the lady in the office said Otto drove off with a woman who could be Irma."
"Probably was."
"You want to raid the place, Al?"
"Not yet," he said. "The cat isn't as important as the homicides. I'd hate to tip our hand and send all the cockroaches scurrying back in the woodwork. But I think I'll put an undercover guy in one of the other cabins, just to keep an eye on things."
"All right," I said, "you play it your way. Now tell me about the FBI report."
He took out his notebook and flipped pages until he got to the section he wanted. Then he paused to light a cigar. I waited patiently until he had it drawing to his satisfaction. Then he started reading.
"The machine is a Smith Corona PWP 10 °C personal word processor with pica type. Paper is South-worth DeLuxe Four Star. Smith Corona ribbon used throughout. All letters written on same machine, probably by same operator."
"Interesting," I said, "but what good is it? What do we do with it?"
He smiled at me. "Archy, you've got to start thinking like a cop. I just had a rookie assigned to me. What I'll do is have the guy go through the Yellow Pages and make a list of all the companies in the area that sell and service office machines. He hits every one of them and makes his own list of those that handle the Smith Corona PWP 10 °C. Then he gets the names and addresses of customers who have bought that machine or had it serviced. It's a lot of legwork, I admit, but it's got to be done, and I think it'll pay off."
I thought a moment. "That's one way of doing it," I said. "The hard way."
Al looked at me, a little miffed. "Oh?" he said. "And what's the easy way, sherlock?"
"Give your rookie a twenty-minute crash course on word processors. Tell him to get a business card from a legitimate company. Send him to call on Frank Gloriana at their office on Clematis Street. The rookie is wearing civvies. He tries to sell Frank a Smith Corona PWP 10 °C. I'm betting Frank will say, 'Sorry, we've already got one.' "
The sergeant burst out laughing and slapped his thigh. "What a scamster you are!" he said. "Thank God you're on our side or you'd end up owning Florida. Yeah, that's a great swindle, and we'll try it before the rookie starts pounding the pavement. You really think the letters are coming out of the Glorianas' office?"
"A good bet," I said. "There are some doors up there leading to closed-off rooms I didn't see. It's worth a go."
"It sure is," Rogoff said. "Thanks for the suggestion."
"You're quite welcome," I said. "Al, are you serious about reenacting the murder?"
"Sure I'm serious. Look, we picked up some odds and ends of physical evidence. None of them are heavy by themselves, but taken together they add up to a possible homicide planned to look like a suicide. I'll explain as we go along. Now I want you to go back to the kitchen. I'll go outside and pretend I'm the perp. You try to act like you think Gillsworth did in the few minutes before his death."
I went to the kitchen, which still showed blackened scars from the grease fire. In a moment I heard the front doorbell ring. I paused a moment and then returned to the entrance. I peered through the judas window. The sergeant was standing there. I opened the door.
"All right," Rogoff said, "the victim probably does the same thing: glances through the window, sees someone he knows, and lets him in."
"Him?" I said. "Not a woman? Or maybe two people?"
"Possible," he said. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. "Now the perp is inside but doesn't know Gillsworth has left a pan of oil heating on the range. And before the victim can tell him, the killer does this …"
He leveled a forefinger at me thumb up, other fingers clenched.
"Why the gun?" I asked him.
"Because the killer wants to get Gillsworth into the bathtub so he can fake a suicide. A polite invitation just isn't going to do it. Now put your hands in the air and turn around."
I followed orders. In a few seconds I felt a light slap on the back of my skull.
"What was that?" I asked.
"The guy-or lady if you insist-slugs Gillsworth on the back of the noggin. The docs found it: a forcible blow caused by the famous blunt instrument. Could have been a gun butt. Heavy enough to render the victim unconscious. Now fall backward. Don't worry; I'll catch you."
Somewhat nervously I toppled. Al caught me under the arms.
"My God," he said, "what do you weigh?"
"One-seventy."
"Bullshit."
"Well, maybe a little more."
"Yeah, twenty pounds more," he said. "Gillsworth weighed about one-fifty."
"That figures," I said. "He was a scrawny bird."
"And a lot easier to drag than you," Al said, moving backward down the corridor toward the bathroom, pulling me along with him.
"We know it was done like this," the sergeant said, "because the victim's heels made furrows in the carpet. Photographed and the fibers analyzed. And guess what we found in the parallel tracks."
"What?"
"Cat hairs."
"Oh-oh. The motel."
"You got it. So we wept upstairs and vacuumed Gillsworth's other clothes and shoes. More cat hair. He must have spent a lot of time in Cabin Four. The hair was silver-gray."
"Peaches," I said. "Definitely."
He made no comment, trying not to huff and puff as he dragged me past the poet's den and through the door of the bathroom.
"Okay," he said, "you can stand up now. I'm not going to put you in the tub; it hasn't been washed out yet." He assisted me to my feet and glanced at his watch. "Less than three minutes from front door to bathroom. Then I figure the killer tugged Gillsworth over the edge of the tub and let him fall. That's when the victim cracked his head on the rim. He had two separate and distinct wounds on the back of his skull: one from the gun butt, the other made when he was dumped in the tub and smashed his head. You can still see the mark on the rim."
I stood erect and gazed down into the tub. Blood had dried and caked on the bottom and inner surfaces of the walls.
"Was the drain closed?" I asked.
"No," Rogoff said. "But Gillsworth was wearing a crazy jacket. The tail blocked the drain enough so the blood didn't run out freely. Now the victim is lying in the tub, face up, unconscious. The killer takes a single-fedge razor blade and slashes both his wrists."
"In the wrong direction?"
"Correct. And drops the blade on the bath mat to make it look like Gillsworth had let it fall there."
"Any prints on the blade?"
"Nothing usable."
"Where did it come from? Did Gillsworth shave with single-edge blades?"
"Ah-ha," Rogoff said. "The beauty part. I wanted to make sure this wasn't a burglary-homicide, so I called Marita to come over and check out the house. She said nothing was missing. She also said they had no single-edge blades; Gillsworth used an electric shaver. We found it in the upstairs bathroom. So the killer brought the blade with him. Which means the fake suicide was planned. It would make a nice headline: 'Heartbroken Poet Takes Own Life After Tragic Death of Beloved Wife.' "
"Uh-huh," I said. "And your mention of Marita reminds me of something. The last time you and I met in this house-that was right after Lydia Gillsworth was killed-I saw Marita drive up. What was she doing here?"
Al gave me a look. "You don't miss much, do you? Well, after his wife was murdered, I asked Roderick to check out the house and see if anything was missing. He did and said nothing was gone as far as he could tell. But I called in Marita to double-check, figuring a housekeeper would know better whether or not anything was missing."
"And was it?"
"Yeah," Al said, staring at me. "A pair of latex gloves. Marita kept them under the sink to use when she scoured pots."
"Latex gloves," I repeated. "Lovely. The final prints on the walking stick that killed Lydia were made with latex gloves, weren't they?"
"That's right."
I took a deep breath. "How do you compute it, Al?"
"I don't," he said, almost angrily. "It makes absolutely no sense that a stranger breaks into the house and goes looking for latex gloves before he kills. I've got that mystery on hold. But meanwhile, what do you think of my scenario on Gillsworth's murder and the faked suicide?"
"Plausible," I said. "There's only one thing wrong with it."
"What's that?"
"You've provided a believable exegesis on how it happened, but you haven't said a word about why."
"Why?" he said disgustedly. "Why does a chicken cross the road?"
"For the same reason a fireman wears red suspenders," I said. "Let's get the hell out of here, Al. A bloody bathtub is not the most fitting dessert for a herring breakfast."
But he said he wanted to stay, and mumbled something about taking additional measurements. I didn't believe that. Al Rogoff, despite his cop's practicality, is something of a romantic. I reckoned that he wanted to wander through that doomed house for a while, reflect on the two sanguinary murders that had happened within its walls, try to absorb the aura of the place, listen for ghosts, and perhaps conceive a reason for the seemingly senseless killings.
All I wanted was blue sky, hot sunshine, and un-contaminated air to breathe. Evil has a scent all its own, not only sickening but frightening.
I drove directly to the Pelican Club. I was a bit early for my date with Connie Garcia, but having spent the morning impersonating a corpse, I was badly in need of a transfusion. I was certain a frozen daiquiri would bring roses back to the McNally cheeks.
The luncheon crowd had not yet assembled, but Simon Pettibone was on duty behind the bar, reading Barron's through his Ben Franklin glasses. He put the financial pages aside long enough to mix my drink, an ambrosial concoction with just a wee bit of Cointreau added.
Mr. Pettibone went back to his stock indices, and I nursed my plasma, savoring the quiet, cool, dim ambience of my favorite watering hole. A few members wandered in, but it was a pleasant Saturday afternoon and most Pelicanites were in pools or the ocean, on fairways and courts, or perhaps astride a polo pony out at Wellington. Life is undoubtedly unfair and one would be a fool not to enjoy one's good fortune.
Connie showed up a few minutes after noon. She was wearing stone-washed denim overalls atop a tie-dyed T-shirt. Her long black hair was gathered with a yellow ribbon, and there were leather strap sandals on her bare feet. She looked-oh, maybe sixteen years old, and I told her she might have to show her ID to get a drink.
We went back to the empty dining area, and a yawning Priscilla showed us to our favorite corner table. Connie ordered a white zin and I had a repeat of my daiquiri.
"Sorry about tonight, Archy," she said, "but there was just no way I could turn Lola and Max away; they are family."
"No problem," I said. "After they've gone, we'll make up for lost time."
She reached across the table to clasp my hand. "Promise?" she said.
"I swear by Zeus," I said. "And a McNally does not take an oath to Zeus lightly."
"Who's Zeus?" she asked.
"A Greek who owns a luncheonette up near Jupiter," I said.
I was spared further explanation when Pris brought our drinks and rattled off the specials of the day. Connie and I both opted for the mixed seafood salad (scallops, shrimp, Florida lobster) with a loaf of garlic toast.
"I've got news for you," Connie said after we ordered, "and you're not going to like it."
"You're pregnant?"
"No, dammit," she said. "I'd love to have kids, wouldn't you?"
"I can't," I said. "Being of the male gender."
"You know what I mean," she said, laughing. "Anyway, the bad news is this: I was turned down by that medium."
"What!?"
She nodded. "I got a letter from Hertha Gloriana, a very cold letter. She said it was obvious to her that the person I described doesn't actually exist, and therefore she could not provide a psychic profile and was returning my check. She also told me not to apply again unless I told her the truth."
"I'll be damned."
"Archy, how did she know my letter was a phony? There was nothing in it that might tip her off it was a scam."
I shook my head. "I can't figure how she knew. But what's even more puzzling is that she returned your money. If the Glorianas have a swindle going, as I thought, Hertha would have cobbled up a fictitious profile and cashed your check."
"Perhaps she really is clairvoyant and knew at once that my letter was a trick."
"Perhaps."
Our lunch was served, and we talked of other things as we devoured our salads. Connie gave me a long account of her trials and tribulations in planning Lady Horowitz's Fourth of July bash, but I hardly listened; I couldn't stop brooding about Her-tha's reaction to the fake letter. How did she know?
Connie didn't want any dessert and said she had to get back to her houseguests. I told her I was going to loll around the Club awhile and would phone her on Sunday. I escorted her out to her little Subaru.
"Thanks for the lunch, Archy," she said, "and I'm sorry I depressed you with the bad news about the medium's letter."
"You didn't depress me."
"Sure I did. You've hardly said a word since I told you, and when Archy McNally doesn't chatter, he's depressed."
"I think I'm more mystified than anything else. Connie, you don't happen to have that letter you received from the Glorianas, do you?"
"Yep," she said, fishing in the hip pocket of her overalls. "I'm glad you reminded me; I thought you might want it for your files. Don't forget to call me tomorrow, sweet."
She handed me a folded envelope, kissed my cheek, and hopped into her dinky car. I waved as she drove away. Then I unfolded the envelope, took out the letter, and read it in the bright sunlight. It was coldly phrased and stated pretty much what Connie had already told me. There were no surprises.
But what shocked was that it had an even right-hand margin and had obviously been written on the same word processor as the Gillsworth letters and Peaches' ransom notes.
I went back into the Pelican Club and used the public phone in the rear of the bar area. I called Al Rogoff but he wasn't in his office, and they refused to tell me where he was. On a hunch, I then phoned Roderick Gillsworth's home and got results.
"Sergeant Rogoff," he said.
"McNally," I said. "You're still there? What on earth are you doing?"
"Reading poetry."
"Gillsworth's? Awful dreck, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Al said. "Erotic stuff."
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "Gillsworth's poetry is about as erotic as the Corn Laws of England. Which book of his are you reading?"
"I'm not reading a book. I'm going through unpublished poems I found in a locked drawer in his desk. I picked the lock. A piece of cheese. Inside was a file of finished poems. They're dated and all appear to have been written in the past six months or so. And I'm telling you they're hot stuff."
I was flabbergasted. "I don't dig that at all," I told Al. "I've dipped into some of his published things, and believe me they're dull, dull, dull."
"Well, the stuff I've been reading is steamy enough to add a new chapter to Psychopathia Sexu-alis. Maybe he decided to change his style."
"Maybe," I said. "We can talk about that later. Right now I've got something more important."
I told him how the Glorianas were selling psychic profiles by mail, how I tried to prove it a scam by having Consuela Garcia send in a trumped-up letter from a nonexistent woman, how Hertha rejected the fake application, and how her missive was identical in format to the Gillsworth-Willigan letters.
"That does it," Rogoff said decisively. "I'll send the rookie to the Glorianas' office to see if he can confirm that they own a Smith Corona word processor. And instead of one undercover cop, I'll plant a couple, man and woman, out at the Jo-Jean Motel and put round-the-clock surveillance on Cabin Four. And if the brass will give me the warm bodies, I'll stake out the Glorianas' apartment."
"That should do it," I said. "Al, Frank Gloriana carries a gun. Lydia Gillsworth told me."
"Thanks for the tip. Tell me, Archy, how do you figure the medium knew the letter you sent her was a phony?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."
I went back to the bar to sign the tab for lunch.
"Mr. Pettibone," I said abruptly, "do you believe in ghosts?"
He stared at me a moment through his square specs. "Why, yes, Mr. McNally," he said finally. "As a matter of fact, I do."
"Surely not the Halloween variety," I said. "The kind who wear white sheets and go 'Whooo! Whooo!' "
"Well, perhaps not those," he admitted. "But I do believe some of the departed return as spirits and are able to communicate with the living."
I had always considered the Pelican Club's major-domo to be the most practical and realistic of men, so it was startling to learn he accepted the existence of disembodied beings. "Have you ever spoken to the spirit of a deceased person?" I asked him.
"I have indeed, Mr. McNally," he said readily. "As you know, I am an active investor in the stock market. On several occasions the spirit of Mr. Bernard Baruch, the successful financier, has appeared to me. We meet on a park bench and he gives me advice on which stocks to buy and what to sell."
"And do you follow the ghost's advice?"
"Frequently."
"Do you win or lose?"
"Invariably I profit. But Mr. Baruch's spirit has a tendency to sell too soon."
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Pettibone," I said gravely and left him a handsome tip.
I drove home, garaged the Miata, and entered the house through the kitchen. Ursi and Jamie Olson were both working on a rack of lamb dinner we were to have that evening. They looked up as I came in.
"Ursi," I said without preamble, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"I do, Mister Archy," she said at once. "I frequently speak to my dear departed mother. She's very happy."
"Uh-huh," I said and turned to Jamie. "And how about you?" I asked. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Some," he said.
That evening during the family cocktail hour I asked my mother the same question.
"Oh my, yes," she said airily. "I have never seen them myself, but I have been told by people whose opinion I respect that spirits do exist. Mercedes Blair's husband died last year, you know, and she says that ever since he passed, their house has been haunted by his ghost. She knows because she always finds the toilet seat up. No matter how many times she puts the cover down, she always finds the seat up when she returns. She says it must be her dead husband's spirit."
I looked to my father. His hirsute eyebrows were jiggling up and down, a sure sign that he was stifling his mirth. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle and measured.
"Mother," he said, "I would not accept the testimony of Mrs. Blair as proof positive of the existence of disembodied spirits. It's similar to saying, 'I saw a ghost last night. It ran down the alley and jumped over a fence. And if you don't believe me, there's the fence.' "
I asked: "Then you don't believe the spirits of the departed return to earth and communicate with the living?"
He answered carefully. "I think when people report seeing a ghost or talking to a spirit, they sincerely believe they are telling the truth. But I suggest what they are actually reporting is a dream, a fantasy, and the spirit they allegedly see is a memory, a very intense memory, of a loved one who is deceased."
"But what if the spirit they claim to see is a historical character, someone they couldn't possibly have known?"
"Then they are talking rubbish," my father said forthrightly. "Utter and complete rubbish."
I retired to my lair after dinner to add entries to my journal, which was beginning to rival the girth of War and Peace, and to sort out the day's confused impressions.
I consider myself a fairly lucid chap. Oh, I admit I might exhibit a few moments of pure lunacy now and then, but generally the McNally hooves are solidly planted on terra firma. But now I was faced with a mystery that baffled me. How did Hertha Gloriana know Connie's letter was a hoax? And how was the medium, speaking in the voice of Lydia Gillsworth, able to shriek "Caprice!" and identify a clue that had already intrigued Sgt. Al Rogoff?
It was possible that Hertha had a genuine psychic gift. But if you admitted the existence of such a specialized talent, then you had to allow that the actuality of spirits was also conceivable, communication with the dead tenable, and all the other phenomena of the psi factor similarly capable of realization, including ESP, psychokinesis, telepathy, precognition, and perhaps, eventually, discussing the International Monetary Fund with dolphins.
That afternoon I had discovered that several perfectly normal citizens believed in ghosts and by extension, I supposed, in other manifestations of the supernatural. Could they be right and my father's cogent disbelief wrong?
I went to bed that night and with my eyes firmly shut I willed with all my strength for the appearance of Carole Lombard's ghost.
She never showed up.