" Hot Heads do anything worthwhile? Especially if Crawford Buchanan is involved?" An even more dreadful eventuality occurred to her. "You mean I'm going to be filmed in this outfit? I'm going to be seen by somebody besides ghosties and goblins?"
"Now calm down. Mr. Buchanan has agreed to abide by a strict set of rules. Nobody will be photographed who doesn't want to be."
"Does that apply to any spirits who drop by?"
"The camera will be discreet, so as not to spook them. Some of the most respected mediums on the West Coast are participating; they wouldn't allow anything that didn't meet their standards."
"Promise me one thing," Temple said.
"Anything, dear, within reason."
"That I won't sit next to Crawford Buchanan under any circumstances. If I'm going to be hand-holding and knee-nudging somebody, it had better not be him."
"Of course. I'll sit on one side, and we'll find somebody completely trustworthy for the other. I know or have seen most of these psychics speak, and they are so wonderful! We can't have unhappy participants and discord at that table; the spirits would refuse to come."
"If the spirits have any smarts, they'll stay miles away from Crawford Buchanan. He just may jinx your seance."
"Oh, don't say that!"
"What? Jinx?"
"Not again! It's vital to have a completely positive attitude when attempting to reach the spirit world. The more disorder among the gathered mortals, the more likelihood that we could raise something ... not so nice."
"Really?"
"Indeed. I am simply an amateur at these things, but I know that."
"What if Houdini comes back and he doesn't like what--or who--he sees?"
"He won't come if the atmosphere isn't right."
"It won't be," Temple predicted. "If I had a chance to come back from the dead, and the condition was that Crawford Buchanan would be one of the first faces I'd see, I'd take the endless sleep."
"I hope you're wrong." Electra stood still, even her hair--despite * its fortified Bloody Mary-red hue--wilting slightly. "But Karma has been unusually agitated the past few days, and that isn't a good sign."
"What about karma?"
Electra blinked, then spoke quickly, drawing Temple down the hall to the elevators. "I said the karma seems agitated lately. Bad vibes. We must meditate on the way over so we are calm.
Can you drive and meditate, Temple?"
"In my sleep," she swore.
*************
Temple was glad she'd checked out the haunted-house site ahead of time. She knew the best place to park, not too far from the light thrown by the attraction. She knew just where to go, and which ghoul to wave her pass at.
The shapeless, rubbery vision of vivisection-in-progress eyeballed her outfit, then nodded solemn approval, shaping the huge hand into a circled thumb in the "okay" sign.
"Rhadddikkell cahstooomb, laaahhdee," it moaned as they passed.
"What did ... it say?" Electra wanted to know.
"An ancient Theban password to the Minotaur."
"Really? Have you considered where Houdini might have been all these decades, waiting for the right call back? I have an idea it could be Atlantis!"
They were forced to wait as a lump of costumed clients clogged the door.
Temple eyed Electra. "I thought you were going to finish your award-winning romance novel proposal and submit it; Sun City Sweet Pea, or whatever."
" San Antonio Sunflower. And I am."
"You sound like you've been delving more into the paranormal than the hormonal."
"Oh, pish. I've always had a psychic streak. Goes back to my uncle Titmouse."
"Uncle Titmouse?"
"That's just what we children called him. His real name was Thaddeus, and he had some major stories about the family's occult past. Besides, the paranormal romance is all the rage. I'm thinking of adding a reborn Egyptian princess to my plot."
"In San Antonio?"
"It's warm there, and they have palm trees."
"But do they have sunflowers in Egypt?"
"I don't know. Do you think it matters?"
"Obviously not. Come on, get this line moving!"
Temple's exhortation must have worked, because thirty seconds later everyone funneled into the swallowing dark.
"We're with the seance," Electra told a seven-feet-tall Frankenstein's monster just inside the door.
He lifted a four-feet-long arm and pointed to a young woman wearing a cobweb body stocking, dewed with the occasional rhine-stone and spider.
"I'll take you ladies right up," she assured them in a solicitous voice, as if they might trip on their muumuus.
Temple clumped up the stairs behind the would-be Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, as Electra, Mistress of the Lark, lifted her floral hem to keep from tripping.
Temple's watch dial glowed in the dark, so she brought it close to her face. Eleven forty-five.
In an hour and fifteen minutes it would all be over and she could race over to the Crystal Phoenix with Electra and tell them all about it.
Chapter 11
Home Alone... Not!
I am sitting in my empty condominium, lashing my tail and cursing my bowl of Free-to-be-Feline, when I feel itchy all over again.
During my street days there was never any question what feeling itchy all over meant. I had fleas all over. Now that I lead the sweet life, however, there is never a reason to itch, scratch or behave in an inelegant manner in public or in private.
So I leap up, further out of temper. Not only am I left behind and locked in, but I am infested with pests.
Then I stop, sit down and think the matter over calmly.
Where would I acquire this circus of flying fleas all of a sudden? Have I not led an exemplary life of late? Am I not a polite son, patient father and gracious, protective roommate? Who would give me fleas, the Divine Yvette? Not bloody likely.
No, what I suffer from is a flea in the ear, and this allover itch is merely a barrage of psychic nagging. So I hunch over into as tight a ball as I can make, tuck my toes under my tummy and wait.
If Karma wants my attention, she will have to cook up something a bit more spectacular than spectral itching powder.
At first I notice nothing. Then a kernel of Free-to-be-Feline pops out of my banana-split dish and rolls across the kitchen tile. This allows me to meditate upon the truly unwholesome appearance of this health food, each nugget of which resembles a dried spinach spitball. My saliva will not be found at the scene of this culinary crime, not unless I am abandoned here for days and forced to resort to actually eating the stuff, instead of batting it off the baseboards in a game of Ping-Pong.
When a second grungy-green nugget pings like corn before hitting the floor, I sit up and take notice. I did not know that Free-to-be-Feline offered snap, crackle and pop along with nauseatingly superb nutrition. Or could the stuff be self-destructing from the pressure of so much perfect balance?
Then again, this is Halloween.
Has a gremlin possessed the unprepossessing foodstuff, pitching it to and fro to unnerve me?
It would be ironic if Miss Temple had confined me to quarters for my own protection, and ended up locking me in with some anti-cat demon.
Whatever has gotten into the Free-to-be-Feline has one thing in common with me: it wants to be out. Each kernel pops higher, until the exploding beads almost hit the ceiling. I watch with my customary vigilance, but can detect no human intervention. When I gaze up at the white ceiling, though, wondering how Miss Temple Barr will like it with polka dots of Free-to-be-Feline splattered all over it, I view an eerie phenomenon.
The old-fashioned round fluorescent tube is glowing distinctly blue, or at least two spots of it are, and as I gaze the halo of light glows so bright that I blink.