She shook her head. They sat. Wallace Tammerlane, however, moved to stand by the ornate fireplace, and leaned against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. Cheney couldn’t see a single strand of gray in the inky black hair on his head. He wondered if he dyed it. When he’d met the man yesterday he’d thought he was about fifty, but now, he looked to be about a decade older. He looked tired, but still his dark eyes seemed almost terrifyingly alive and focused. What did those eyes see that he couldn’t see? Ghosts? Dead people? Aunt Marge’s lost wedding ring?
He was focusing those eyes on Cheney’s face, as if memorizing what he saw, and looking deeper. It was a creepy feeling, Cheney thought, and a bit frightening because the man acted as if he knew about hidden things, things burrowed deep inside Cheney that even he didn’t know about or remember.
He was dressed all in white this morning, in sharp contrast to his black-clad butler. He had the look of a European aristocrat, lean and long and ineffably bored, except for those eyes. “What is it you wish to know, Agent Stone?”
“What’s your butler’s name?”
“My what? Oh, Ogden. His name is Ogden Poe, always compares himself to Edgar. He’s always fancied wearing black. I, however, have to pay the cleaning bills.”
“Seems to me that keeping white clean would cost much more,” Cheney said. “How long has Ogden Poe been in your employ?”
Wallace Tammerlane shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe fifteen years. I don’t understand that question, Agent Stone. You will appreciate, as Julia already does, that my time isn’t my own. I have a client coming in twelve minutes. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me what you thought of Dr. August Ransom.”
“He was a great man, a compassionate man. He helped scores of people throughout his life.”
“You believe he was a legitimate medium?”
Wallace Tammerlane didn’t move a muscle. A faint sneer appeared. “This is an outrage, an insult. How can you ask such a thing? Haven’t you assured him of August’s integrity, Julia?”
“He’s a skeptic, Wallace, as everyone should be. No one should automatically buy what every psychic is selling.”
“Listen to me, Agent Stone, skeptic or not, August was one of the greatest psychic mediums of our time. Why, I cannot tell you how many grateful people he’s connected to loved ones who’ve passed over. He was revered by thousands. I admired him, respected him, as did everyone else I know.”
“Well, not exactly everyone, Wallace,” Julia said. “Someone murdered him, after all, and it wasn’t me.”
“Of course not, Julia, but I’m convinced, I’ve always been convinced, that his killer was an outsider, someone jealous of him, someone who took offense at one of his consultations, and this blighted individual held a grudge, wanted revenge.”
Cheney said, “Why would a person hold a grudge against him for telling them that their loved one was happy or content, or whatever they are in the ether?”
“You mock what you don’t understand, Agent Stone. Not unexpected, I suppose, given who and what you are. August also occasionally helped people who called with an illness.”
“You mean he gave them medical advice?” Wallace Tammerlane nodded. “I didn’t realize Dr. Ransom had a medical degree.”
“He didn’t,” Julia said. “August said that sometimes he could hear a person’s voice and visualize what was happening in his body. Then he said he simply knew whether the person was very sick. He’d suggest medicines and treatments, or send the client to a doctor, but he often knew, he said, whether that was right for the patient.”
Wallace Tammerlane said, “Yes, that’s it exactly. It’s the same with me, sometimes.”
“So you’re saying, Mr. Tammerlane, that he might have missed a diagnosis and this led to his murder, for revenge?”
“Perhaps.”
Cheney said, “Did Dr. Ransom ever connect you to any of your dead relatives, Mr. Tammerlane?”
“No, I never asked him to. Truth is, they’re a paltry lot, every single one of them except my grandfather. He robbed banks and died in his bed at the age of eighty-three. Why would I want to hear that they’re happy? Actually, I don’t much care if they’re happy or not.”
Cheney said, “From what I understand, the psychic line always seems to be that all dead loved ones are at peace and happy, no matter what they did in life.”
“Not necessarily,” Wallace said. “You have nine minutes, Agent Cheney.”
“Do you think your wife Beatrice is at peace now, and happy?” If he’d shot him in the gut, Wallace Tammerlane couldn’t have been more shaken. He lurched forward, nearly falling. “How dare you say anything at all about my wife?”
Julia rose quickly to go to him. “Agent Stone didn’t mean it to come out that harshly, Wallace. But he’s an FBI agent, and he’s got to question you about your wife’s death. Surely you understand.” Julia touched his arm, to calm him. “I know it came as a shock, but he’s only doing his job. Please tell him about Beatrice.”
Wallace looked down at her thin white hand. His mouth was tight. “You’re saying, Julia, that August told you about that horrible time in Spain and you repeated it to Agent Stone?”
“Yes, of course she told me,” Cheney said. “I told her it was critical that she tell me every single thing about all of you. Don’t blame her. Now, did August Ransom find proof you’d shoved your wife off that aqueduct in Segovia? Threaten to expose you?”
Wallace shook off Julia’s hand, shoved away from the mantelpiece. “I won’t listen to this. Julia, how could you?”
“I’m sorry, Wallace. Agent Stone, surely you’re not being fair.”
Cheney shrugged, looked down at his fingernails.
Wallace shouted, “That’s it! I want you to leave now, Agent Stone. Julia, you can stay, but not him. I’m going to call my lawyer, and yon can talk to him from now on.”
Cheney said, “Tell me, Mr. Tammerlane. As a renowned psychic medium, do you ever speak to your dead wife?”
CHAPTER 27
Wallace Tammerlane was breathing hard and fast; anger reddened his cheeks, nearly reached his eyes. Cheney waited patiently. Finally, Wallace drew in a deep breath. He got himself together. Julia held her breath, watching the man she’d always liked, a man she knew liked her and had honestly admired her husband. She’d never been certain if he was a legitimate psychic or simply a great showman, if he was also a legitimate medium or one of those despicable individuals who claimed to speak to your dead father and tore out your heart. When she’d asked August, he’d evaded her, said only that belief in someone was based on indefinable things, that we each had to decide for ourselves, which meant nothing. She touched his arm again.
Wallace said finally, calmer now, at least on the surface, “No, I do not speak to my wife. I have never tried to speak to Beatrice. She killed herself, that is all. She was an unstable woman, on medications, which she many times forgot to take. Her suicide was the result. It was a horribly painful time for me, Agent Stone.”
Cheney nodded. “Your real name is Actis Hollyrod?”
“Yes. My parents were sadistic and insane to name me that. I had my name legally changed when I turned eighteen. I changed it to something more suited to my actual self.”
“You knew your actual self at eighteen?”
“Naturally. I knew I had a precious gift from the time I was seven years old, a gift that demanded I use it to help others, to provide healing and comfort to those in grief. I try to provide counsel and hope that will also assist me along my own path to spiritual awareness.”
“Mr. Tammerlane, you’re speaking of The Bliss?”
“No. One must strive for spiritual awareness during the few years allowed us on this earth. The Bliss is what is after you pass from this world. I do not use that term. The Bliss is one that August adopted many years ago, and many younger mediums have embraced it. I think it sounds pretentious, rather too much like a bit of New Age feel-good nonsense. Sorry, Julia. However, August felt comfortable with it, as do others.”