You Might As Well Die (18 page)

“It’s
mistress
,” Viola said, “not
lady
.”

She’s no lady, that’s for sure,
Dorothy thought.

“‘Mattress’?” Houdini asked crankily.

“Not
mattress
,” Viola enunciated carefully, still in her calm voice.
“Mistress.”

“‘Mischief’? No, no. Mischief Night was last night, was it not? Tonight is Halloween night.” He turned to Dorothy. “Isn’t that right, Master Timothy?”

“Right you are, sir. It’s Halloween night,” Dorothy said in her best imitation of an adolescent boy’s voice. She didn’t care whether she was convincing or not. What the hell? This was starting to be kind of fun.

The narrow-faced man got tired of all this fluster. He stood up and waved his wife to stand. “The spirits won’t speak with so much distraction,” he said peevishly. “Here, old man, take my seat.” He and his wife moved down to the end of the table and grumpily sat down in the last empty chairs.

“Much obliged, my good fellow,” Houdini wheezed. He hobbled around the table and lowered himself carefully into the seat next to Viola. Dorothy plunked down in the seat on Viola’s other side.

Clever,
Dorothy thought, admiring Houdini’s ploy. Now they were each positioned to hold one of Viola’s hands. The woman could pull no wool over Houdini’s eyes now.

“Quiet, please. Let’s begin,” Viola said in that gentle tone. Dorothy wondered if Viola’s lullaby voice and the dimness of the room might put her to sleep.

But Houdini made her immediately dismiss such a thought. He didn’t quiet down at all. In fact, he spoke up, introducing himself to the others as Henry Hossenfuss and Dorothy as his faithful valet, Timothy. Dorothy nodded but said nothing. The fish-faced husband was annoyed by the delay and grudgingly admitted to being Mr. Tibbet and wife. They were true believers, Dorothy surmised. They probably went to séances with the frequency that other middle-aged married couples went to the movies.

The slick young man and his even younger girlfriend introduced themselves as Sylvester and Cissy. Dorothy figured they were there for a lark, some not-so-cheap thrills. Sylvester’s idea, for sure, Dorothy thought. He probably brought her to this event just to put a scare into her, show her that he was unafraid, console her afterward and, likely as not, take advantage of her while she was at a weak moment. That creeping hand again.

“Now let us begin,” Viola said, still with that calm voice.
Where did she pick up this Gypsy act?
Dorothy wondered. From the mother, perhaps.

Viola nodded to the old blond battleship, who now stood at the parlor door. The woman switched off the single overhead bulb, which left only the flickering glow of the candle on the table. Then the lady left, closing the door behind her.

Even in the dimness, Dorothy could tell Houdini was somewhat surprised by the candlelight. Fraudulent mediums used the cover of total darkness to hide their tricks, he had said.
Well,
Houdini’s expression seemed to say to her,
now we’ll see what she’s up to.

Viola intoned, “We create a circle of spiritual energy by holding hands. Please, hold each other’s hands.”

Dorothy had a moment of panic when Viola’s other hand reached for hers. Dorothy had the soft, thin hands of an indolent, adult female writer, not the grubby, rough hands of a hardworking young errand boy. However, Viola encircled Dorothy’s hand in hers and didn’t seem to notice.

But on the other hand—literally—Sylvester gave Dorothy a curious look. He knew a girl’s hand when he held one, Dorothy figured.

Viola closed her eyes and spoke up toward the ceiling. She was going into her trance. “We now call upon the departed spirit of Ernest MacGuffin.”

They waited a long, silent moment in the gloom. But there was no response.

“Ernest MacGuffin,” Viola spoke, “when you flung your body into the river, you committed your soul to an immortal no-man’s-land, trapped between this life and the next. Visit us now. Unburden your suffering among willing listeners. Enlighten us with your visions of the great beyond.”

Dorothy looked at the candlelit faces around the table. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbet both had their eyes shut tight, as though anticipating some glorious rapture, or some hideous terror, or both. Next to Dorothy, Sylvester had his leering eyes locked on Cissy. The young girl had the half-wondrous, half-anxious look of someone riding up that first incline of a roller coaster.

Next to Cissy, Houdini appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep. Dorothy wondered if he actually might.

“Ernest MacGuffin,” Viola said softly again. “We call upon you with sincerity and faith and hope. Visit us now. Show us a sign.”

Then—Dorothy almost couldn’t believe her eyes—the candle sputtered. Not merely a flicker—the flame almost snuffed itself out.

Dorothy glanced at Viola to see if she had surreptitiously blown on the flame. But Viola’s expression was as shocked as every other face at the table.

Dorothy started to feel uneasy. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But something here was not right. Not right at all. There was something amoral, even wicked, about this whole business. This was no fun, after all.

Not for the first time, Dorothy felt guilty and despicable. MacGuffin had put his suicide note in her purse, and she had been unable to save him. Now here she was, participating in this séance tomfoolery. She felt as though she had been caught doing cartwheels over Ernie’s grave.

“Ernest MacGuffin.” Viola’s voice was nearly a whispering moan. “Speak to us.” Then her body seemed to stiffen.

“Speak to us,” Mr. Tibbet pleaded, rocking slightly back and forth, his eyes shut tight.

Dorothy felt sick to her stomach. She just wanted to get up and leave.

Then a voice—Ernie’s voice!—filled the room. “I’m here.”

Dorothy went cold. Her first thought was to get up and run. But she was frozen in her chair.

Her next thought was,
Where the hell is Benchley when I really need him?

L
ucy Goosey watched Benchley vigilantly. But Benchley sat motionless. He was afraid she would break his arm if he even so much as raised his hand to scratch his nose.

“Bidder N has the first bid at five hundred,” the auctioneer said in his smooth, articulate voice. “Do I hear six hundred?”

At the edge of the auctioneer’s platform, Benchley spotted MacGuffin’s agent and lawyer, Abraham Snath, who stood poised like a smiling fox at the door of a chicken coop.

A small light flashed on the control panel in front of the auctioneer. “Six hundred for a new bidder, Bidder D. Thank you, Bidder D. Do I have seven hundred?”

Benchley followed the auctioneer’s glance into the audience. Was that his boss, Crowninshield, down there? Benchley could see only the back of the bidder’s head. But the man turned to make a comment to someone sitting next to him. Yes, it was Crownie! The lovable old dear had saved Benchley by outbidding him. And he didn’t even know he’d done it.

The bidding continued, back and forth between Crowninshield and some other bidder. Eventually, Crowninshield won the auction to the tune of eighteen hundred dollars. Benchley wondered what Crowninshield would even do with such a painting. His wife wouldn’t let him hang the garish thing in their living room. Perhaps Crownie would put it up in the office. Benchley and Dorothy could throw darts at it. Benchley smiled. Yes, that would be fun.

A waiter came by with a silver tray filled with champagne glasses. Benchley nodded his thanks to the waiter and reached for a glass.

Lucy grasped his wrist with a silk-gloved hand. “We got out of that one. But don’t make a screwball bid like that again.”

Benchley’s smile withered. He glanced at the waiter, who tried to appear as though he hadn’t seen or heard Lucy.

“The wife,” Benchley muttered to him. “She holds the purse strings even tighter than she holds my wrist.”

Lucy released her grip. Benchley picked up two champagne glasses and smiled appreciatively to the waiter, who nodded and moved away. He handed one glass to Lucy.

“A toast,” he said. “May the road rise up to meet you and the wind be always up your skirt.” He clinked his glass with hers.

They were momentarily distracted as the next painting came up for bid. It was one of MacGuffin’s abstract works. The starting bid was one thousand dollars.

“I don’t know much about fine art, but I know it when I see it,” Benchley said. “And I’m not seeing it.”

He took a gulp and winced.

“It’s not that bad,” Lucy said, studying the painting.

“Yes, it is!” Benchley sputtered, holding up his glass. “It’s cream soda! What a dirty trick.”

Lucy sniffed her glass, shrugged and set it down. “This ain’t a back-alley speakeasy. It’s a hoity-toity Fifth Avenue auction house. Serving champagne is against the law.”

“Then let’s leave this hoity-toity auction house and find a back-alley speakeasy.”

She folded her arms and stared straight ahead. Benchley didn’t exactly know how to respond to this, or whether he should respond at all. Dorothy Parker never gave him the silent treatment. This was no fun without her. He would much rather go to a back-alley speakeasy, with or without Lucy.

But then again, Mrs. Parker needed him to get one of these paintings. And he usually did just about anything to please Mrs. Parker.

He turned his attention to the bidding on the abstract painting. The bidding price was rising quickly. It was thirteen hundred, then fourteen hundred, then fifteen hundred. Maybe he had misjudged this painting, he thought. Maybe it was worth something after all. These other bidders certainly seemed to think so. And they ought to know because they must have done this before. They must know how much such a thing could be worth—

“Sixteen hundred for Bidder N,” the auctioneer said in their direction. “Thank you, Bidder N. Do I have seventeen hundred?”

Benchley found himself with his finger on the green button. Without looking, he felt Lucy clutch at his shoulder. Her breath in his ear was hot.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed. “You’re using Mickey Finn’s money! Do you know what will happen to you if you squander Mickey’s money? Do you know what will happen to
me
if I let you squander—”

“Seventeen hundred for Bidder B,” the auctioneer said. “Do I have eighteen hundred? Thank you, Bidder K. Eighteen hundred.”

She exhaled in relief. “We have to find something to cover that button so you can’t bid willy-nilly. Then I want you to sit on your hands.”

Benchley nodded. He gulped his cream soda. Then he turned the glass upside down and set it over the green button, like a little dripping dome.

After a moment, Lucy spoke softly. “Listen, you have to use your head, or you’ll lose your head. Mickey will see to that.”

Benchley appreciated that she was speaking more reasonably. “I just can’t help myself. They’re going like hotcakes and I don’t want to miss out. Mrs. Parker would be so disappointed if I came back empty-handed.”

“They want you to feel that pressure. That’s how they jack up the bids.” Lucy looked up at the chandelier, as though taking the whole place in. “See, an auction house has the deck stacked against you. They have all the key information. They know the original price of the painting. They know the current estimate of the painting’s value. And of course they have their reserve price—”

“Reserve price?”

“The reserve price is their minimum asking price, but they keep it secret. If no one bids as high as the reserve price, they won’t sell it.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“No, sir, it’s not, because they don’t tell you what the reserve price is. The auctioneer won’t say, ‘Sorry; we haven’t reached our reserve price, so we’re taking this painting off the stage.’ Instead, the auctioneer acts like somebody made a bid in order to make other bidders interested.”

Benchley turned to her in disbelief. “They wouldn’t do that. That’s dishonest.”

“Yeah, it
is
dishonest. Unfortunately, it’s all perfectly legal. Every auction house does it, big and small.”

“How do you know all this?

Lucy hesitated. “I also once dated a wealthy art collector, right before I was with Mickey.”

“Oh, is the man here?” Benchley looked around the enormous room.

“Who?”

“The wealthy art collector. Wouldn’t he be at a function such as this?”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh,” Benchley said. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Was it sudden?”

“It sure was,” Lucy said with a wry grimace. “I suddenly met Mickey, and then the wealthy art collector suddenly met the sidewalk, starting from his penthouse window.”

Benchley gulped. “A very quick breakup.”

 

Dorothy stared at Mistress Viola. The woman’s eyes had rolled back—only the whites were showing. Her lips trembled as the hollow sound of MacGuffin’s voice again filled the room.

“This is Ernie MacGuffin speaking through the mouth of this—this beautiful young woman. Hear me, and heed my warnings.”

Sylvester’s hand was clammy. Dorothy looked at him. His face had turned pasty white. His shark’s smile was long gone. He stared at his girlfriend for reassurance. Cissy, on the other hand, looked like a kid at a birthday party, happily expectant to see what surprise would happen next.

Next to Cissy, Mr. Tibbet’s whole body quaked with excitement, a kind of religious fervor. “Spirit of MacGuffin, what do you see in the ethereal void?”

Viola’s lips moved as MacGuffin’s voice said, “The ether—the etherea—uh . . . What did you say?”

“The Great Beyond, spirit,” Tibbet nearly yelled. “Tell us what you see. Tell us where you are.”

“I am floating up on the clouds.” Viola’s mouth moved only slightly, not always in sync with Ernie’s voice.

Did the words come from Viola’s mouth—or elsewhere? The Great Beyond? In the dim, flickering candlelight, Dorothy couldn’t be sure.