Murder by Candlelight (18 page)

"This is Jamie Stewart," Susan said,
introducing the newcomer to Rachel. "We met at work. Jamie had come
in to check on a policy and we fell to talking. But I think I
already told you that."

Susan was
still
nervous. Even
though she babbled on sometimes, she rarely repeated herself. "And
this is June Douglas. June works just across the aisle from me, but
in the claims department."

"Hi," June said.

"Hello."

"And this is Z."
Remembering to act the gentleman, Z lumbered to his feet. "That
is," Susan rushed to explain, "Bob Zapolska, my ...." Susan stopped
suddenly. What
was
Z to her, she was asking herself. More than a boyfriend. Less
than a fiancee.

"Ah," Jamie said. "I'd know you
anywhere."

"What?" Z's heart was
racing.

"I've seen you in bed ... that is, in
my dreams. ... Susan described you so perfectly."

"Oh."

Z sagged back on his end of the
divan.

"Now that everybody knows everybody,"
Susan said, smiling crookedly, "what do we do?"

"Perhaps we should get to
know one another a little
better
," Jamie suggested, crossing
to sit down beside Z, Susan following her, sitting on the divan's
other end.

Jamie wiggling to settle herself, she
was ready to begin the con.

"We are going to have an experience
shared by few," said Jamie, stating the obvious. "I would not go so
far as to say it will be frightening. On the other hand, it may be
... strange. People who know each other seem to ...." Jamie didn't
finish that thought.

"May I have a little wine?" Jamie
asked, noticing that Rachel was filling her glass again.

"Of course," Susan said. "Anyone
else?"

This time, June and Z
raised their hands as high as old-time banktellers staring down the
barrels of the James boys' colts. The nearer the seance, the
thirstier
everybody
got.

While Susan was out of the
room to get more glasses, Z avoided looking at Jamie, but couldn't
help but smile at the other women ... to assure them he was there
to keep them safe. He only wished somebody would protect
him
from
Jamie
.

Back in the room, Susan gave glasses
to Z and Jamie.

With Rachel reluctantly relinquishing
exclusive possession of the wine bottle, June, Z, and Jamie
extended their glasses in turn, Susan pouring, Susan burbling a
little wine in her own glass before putting the bottle on the
coffee table and sitting down.

The five of them were now grouped
around the low table, the wine bottle and "sadly neglected" snack
plate the table's centerpiece.

Following Rachel's practiced example,
Z belted down his wine; felt the glow of it in his throat;
immediately took the pledge. (D.J. Jewell had taught him that after
two drinks, a Diet Coke enthusiast turns into a wino.)

Looking around, Z noticed everyone but
Jamie had also finished off their drinks, bottled courage better
than none at all.

"I know I'm here tonight as spiritual
leader," Jamie started, "but I'm just a normal person. In the
winter, I'm a teacher. In a girl's school in Kansas City, Kansas.
Psychology." Sober-faced, the other woman nodded. "You're all
working at an insurance company. In fact, the only one of us here
who is at all ... strange ... is Mr. Zapolska."

As if on cue, the women swung their
heads to look at Z, their stare trapping Z like a bottled insect
caught by a bug-collecting child. "Not many private detectives
around," Jamie finished, explaining what she'd meant by Z being the
"strange" one of the group.

"Z does other things as well," Susan
said, trying to come to Z's defense without making it look like she
was ashamed of his profession. "He's also a security
installer."

The two insurance ladies nodded. June,
because that's what she did. Rachel, because she was having trouble
holding up her head, Rachel's sailor hat slipped to the side, the
hat also a little "tipsy."

"So," Jamie said, leaning forward,
setting her mostly-full glass on the table, the ghost hunter all
business now that the pleasantries were over. "Let me tell you what
we'll be experiencing tonight.

"First, since it's on everyone's mind,
let me talk to you about psychic fraud." Jamie paused, as if
feeling her way. "It's the simple truth that all kinds of people
make their living cheating the public, swindlers in the business
community putting the likes of gypsy fortunetellers, palm readers,
astrologers, and numerologists to shame. You'll find rip-off
artists everywhere: from gold-plated bank presidents who made
fortunes raiding S and Ls, to the little guy who 'fudges' on his
income tax." Susan smiled disarmingly. "The old adage, 'Don't
believe anything you hear and only half of what you see,' is as
good today as it was when someone thought it up.

"For instance -- getting
back to what's called the supernatural -- I know a contortionist
who's doing very well financially in the faith healing business.
For reasons unknown to me, there are people obsessed with the
notion that one of their legs is shorter than the other. So much so
that 'growing' people's legs has become a stock-in-trade of
religious 'healers.' This man I know works miracles that 'lengthen'
legs. He's more impressive than most because he can lengthen
his
own
legs,
becoming as much as two inches taller right before your eyes. He
does this by using his back muscles to stretch apart the bones of
his spine.

"In the same vein, there was an
old-time medium who used to grease up, then swallow, yards of
cheesecloth. In that way, be able to vomit out 'ghosts' when she
needed them.

"Given the lengths to which some
people will go to fool the public, I can understand why you might
think I'm here to do the same. Right now, you believe what you'll
be seeing tonight is trickery. It's natural to feel that way.
Particularly when trying to explain away ... unusual ...
phenomena.

"In my defense," Jamie waved her hand
airily, "let me say that I didn't offer my services: Susan asked me
to come. Not because she'd seen an ad I'd put in the newspaper. Not
because she'd heard I give 'readings.' Which I don't. Not because I
was on TV's public access channel, a guest on the 'Psychic Voyages'
show. We just happened to meet when I went into the insurance
company."

So far, Jamie was giving
an impressive performance: a con artist never more sincere than
when setting up the mark. Z wasn't taken in, in part because he had
the advantage of knowing
exactly
why Susan and Jamie "happened to
meet."

"I'm not charging
anything," Jamie said, waving off the mere thought of financial
remuneration. "Nor am I going to ask for a 'donation' at the end of
the evening. Susan told me she has a problem that might -- and let
me stress the word
might
-- be a ... presence ... in the apartment. I'm
here as a friend, to see if there's anything I can do about that.
Which is why
you
are here, as Susan's friends -- to help if you
can."

They all nodded. Except Z.
So far, so good, was what Z was thinking. It looked like, whatever
her game, Jamie was going to play this ghost business straight. As
straight as you could
play
ghost business.

"Some so called spiritualists work
with partners," Jamie explained. "With all the lights off, the
medium's accomplice -- dressed in black, face and hands also
blacked-out -- can wander about without being detected. In the old
days, they used burnt cork to blacken skin. Today, there are
water-soluble products that are easier to wash off. Anyway, the
'invisible' partner supplies the tricks of the trade. Touching up
cheesecloth with luminous paint was an old-time favorite, then
sliding the fluttering 'ghost' along on wires. Or, everyone knowing
that the presence of ghosts in a house makes 'cold spots,' taking a
pitcher filled with dry ice and pouring refrigerated air over
people seated around the table, the shock of chilly air sliding
down their necks able to convince even bright people that a ghost
has just passed by."

Jamie picked up her glass and took a
small sip of wine.

"And you can forget what you've heard
about table rappings. A hundred years ago, two sisters in New
England started the spiritualist craze. The Fox sisters. It all
began with the girls playing 'ghostly' pranks on their religious
mother.

"And speaking of religion,
there's lots of talk in the Bible about spirits, witches, people
being raised from the dead," Jamie expounded. "Making religious
people
particularly
vulnerable to supernatural trickery.

"Getting back to the Fox sisters, they
started by making bumping sounds on their upstairs bedroom floor.
Sometimes by rolling apples.

"The mother confiding her fears of
"ghostly noises" to friends, people were soon whispering about the
strange goings-on at the Fox house, rumor adding that the girls
could get in touch with the dead. People began to come over; would
sit around the table in the dark, folks eager to believe the girls
could put them in touch with dear, dead Uncle George; pry out of
George's spirit where he'd hid ... the family jewels." The women
laughed at Jamie's little joke.

Z wasn't laughing.

Z was sweating.

"After that," Jamie continued, waving
her glass, "turban-wrapped mediums came out of the woodwork to hold
'sittings,' these so-called spiritualists advertising themselves as
being able to communicate with the 'other' world.

"Psychics, first pretending to put
themselves in trances, summoned 'spirit guides' -- sometimes
Indians, sometimes children -- who 'spoke' through the medium's
mouth or answered yes and no questions by 'rapping' on the
table.

"Table-rapping could be
pretty impressive. Particularly since it was standard procedure to
instruct everyone seated at the table to keep their hands in plain
view. Sometimes, palms down on the table. Occasionally, holding
each other's hands to form a 'spirit ring.' A confederate of the
medium usually did the rapping. In elaborate setups, the shill
would be in a false compartment built into the floor below the
table. All the accomplice had to do was push open a trap drawer and
bang the underside of the table with a stick." Jamie shook her
head. "There were a lot of ways to get the desired effect. As for
the Fox sisters, one of them admitted late in life that
their
table rappings
came as a result of the girls being able to crack the knuckles of
their toes.

"So much for spirits from beyond the
grave," Jamie said, dismissing the whole subject. "Particularly
those who rap out messages like Rex the Wonder Horse counting with
his hoof." Jamie chuckled, as did the others. "One thing I'd like
to establish at the outset is that there's no one working with me.
Is that right?"

"Right," Susan assured the
others.

"And I can say that, too." This, from
little Rachel. "Susan showed me her apartment before everybody else
came tonight. The closets and everything. And nobody's here but
us." She hiccuped prettily, covering her mouth in exaggerated
atonement.

Rachel's last lucid moment, was Z's
guess.

On the other hand, "truth"
being in the wine, as the old saying went, Z believed her. Anyway,
the Jamie that
Z
knew was so proud of her occult skills you couldn't
force
her to use a
cohort.

"One thing that does
happen at seances," Jamie cautioned, "is that the table itself
sometimes ... moves. And believe me, when that occurs, no one is
more surprised than the fakes who've stacked the deck! The trouble
is that there's no good explanation for the table-moving phenomena.
I'm not the world's greatest expert in these matters. All I know is
that there is a possibility of table movement if a poltergeist is
present. Which, from what Susan's told me, is what I suspect is
wrong in this apartment." Jamie took another, thoughtful sip of
wine, the ghost hunter's spiel captivating the others. "I wish I
could explain more fully. But I can't." Again, a sip. Again, that
introspective look. "Let me put it another way. When we leave this
evening to go our separate ways, each of us will put our car key in
the steering column and twist, fully expecting that movement to
start the engine. If, before we could turn the key, each of us had
to explain the process by which rotating the key starts the motor,
not too many people would be going
anywhere
tonight.

"The facts are, we do many
things without understanding the process -- just because doing
those things ...
works
. In like manner ... things ... may happen tonight that I
won't be able to explain. Which doesn't mean the experiences are
phony. Only that no one understands them."

"What can we do to help?" Susan. Being
... helpful.