"Well, any friend of Charles is welcome in my home." She stood to one side, inviting Mallory to pass through the door. As they walked into the brighter light of the living room, Edith Candle failed all of Mallory's expectations for a stock-swindler. She was small in stature. Her head was disproportionately large, and a neat bun gathered at the nape of her neck. The lace collar of her wildly out-of-date dress disappeared under three chins. Her hands were knots of arthritis, and she wore glasses with thick lenses which made her eyes into expectant blue saucers.
Mallory was being pulled into the room by the gentle touch of a warm pudgy white hand on her arm. "Sit down, – dear. I'll put on the coffee pot. Or would you rather have wine?"
"Coffee is fine, thanks."
She had learned enough from Charles to know the antique furniture was not a collection of cheap knock-offs. The room also housed a clutter of pricey bric-a-brac, porcelain figurines and silver candy dishes, frilly lampshades, small clusters of photographs on each broad window-sill, everything designed to catch and trap dust, yet nothing did. The air smelled of pine scent and furniture wax, all the sensory cues of Helen Markowitz, world's foremost homemaker. Another familiar aroma was emanating from the kitchen, lingering after-dinner traces of pot roast from a thousand Sunday dinners and Monday-morning lunch boxes.
"Who was she?"
Mallory spun on the woman suddenly and startled Edith Candle backward a step to collide with a chair and set it to rocking. The old woman adjusted her balance and her glasses. The chair continued to rock as though inhabited.
"There are memories of a woman here, aren't there?" The old woman sat down on the couch and automatically readjusted a doily on the padded arm. "There's certainly nothing in this room to say a man lived here. Was it your mother you were thinking of?"
"I never knew my mother."
"You breathed deep. There are no flowers in the air, only the smell of a good cleaning. And you approved the order of things. That was in your face. Apparently, you were raised right. Someone loved you. Who was she?"
"Helen. You say was. How did you know she was dead?"
"You were looking at a memory."
Oh Christ. So this is where Charles got it from.
"Yes, dear," she was saying when they were seated in the spacious kitchen and sipping their coffee. Edith Candle pushed a plate of brownies across the table. "His parents used to visit quite often when Charles was a child. Did you know his mother gave birth at the outrageous age of fifty-six? The Butlers were lovely people. Max and I took care of little Charles when his parents attended university conferences out of town. I used to take him to the park and watch him make false starts with the other children. He was always so hopeful and always being crushed to death. His IQ alone was enough to set him apart, but then his appearance didn't help. He was born with that nose, you know. The only newborn I ever saw with a big nose. I also spent a lot of time with him when he was doing post-doc research. He used me as a test subject. I used to be a psychic, you know."
"I know. We're working on a case with a fake medium now."
There was a humorous glint in the woman's eye at the drop of the word fake.
"Oh well, you came to the right person. I probably know every scam there is. But you should be a bit more open-minded. Charles can tell you that some of them have genuine gifts, an aptitude for reading souls. What I read in yours, my dear, is pain… killer pain."
Two cups of coffee later, Edith Candle was opening the door at the end of the hallway. Mallory followed the old woman onto the small platform which joined the wrought-iron staircase in the progress of its winding. The railing spiraled down and around in a pattern of stark white walls and black metal. Spindle shadows slanted against the rounding stairwell, and naked light bulbs radiated from the doors of the lower platforms leading to each level of the building.
Mallory descended the stairs in the wake of Edith Candle's foray into the world beyond her five rooms. They walked down and around the circling stairs, passing the doors marked for the second and first floors, on down to the basement level and the last door. This had to be the only door without a lock in all of New York City. She put out one hand to gently restrain the old woman. She was aware of the heavy gun in her shoulder holster as she pushed through the door and into the darkness. One hand felt along the wall left of the door, seeking and rinding the light switch. It didn't work.
"There's a flashlight on top of the fuse box, dear," said the old woman behind her.
Mallory opened the door wide to admit more light from the stairwell. A fuse box was mounted on the wall to the left of the door frame. She reached up and touched the flashlight on the top of the box. It lit up at the press of the button and she turned it on the fuse box. All the fuses were good. She tested a fuse connection, turning the glass knob.
"It's not a fuse, dear," said Edith, blinking up at her. "That light switch hasn't worked since Max and I bought the building. It was a mystery to three generations of electricians." She took the flashlight from Mallory. "If I recall, there's another light by that wall. Yes, there." She picked her way across the floor, skirting boxes and trunks, to an old standing lamp with a frilled shade. She turned the switch and it lit a small area of the cellar with a soft warm glow. "I know where there's a much brighter lamp," she said, smiling. "Follow me."
Mallory walked behind her as shadows loomed up on all sides, in a makeshift corridor of shipping trunks piled high with boxes and crates. Old furniture sat under dust covers, and at the end of the aisle, a headless tailor's dummy stood off on its own.
"All of Max's illusions are down here," said Edith. "We built this storage room. It takes up half the basement." She fitted a key into a lock and the wall began to accordion, panels shifting, opening onto a cavernous space, illuminated only by the light from the wide window at the sidewalk level and above her head. The source of the light was a first-floor window on the other side of the air shaft. There was light enough to see the quick movement of a rat among the garbage cans lined up near the glass. At the basement level, Mallory could make out the edges of crates and a tall section screen standing on three panels.
"It's been a long time since I was down here," said Edith, walking in ahead of Mallory and touching a globe which came to light and glowed dully. Within the small radiant circle of this lamp, light invaded a clear plastic garment bag, rippling through the folds of silks and bouncing off sequins.
"Other magicians have stopped by to offer condolences and ask if they could buy the mechanical devices. But I would never sell Max's secrets. It's a point of honor. Would you like to see one of his most famous illusions? Do you have a strong heart? We only performed this act one time. Too much blood, the theater-owner said. Are you frightened easily?"
Mallory looked down on the old woman. "Give it your best shot."
Edith switched on a footlight at the base of the section screen which nearly touched the high ceiling of the basement. A dragon, mouth full of fire, was illuminated on three panels of delicate rice paper.
"Wait here," said the old woman. Til just be a moment. I have to test the equipment. It hasn't been used in more than thirty years." She handed the flashlight to Mallory and disappeared behind the screen.
Mallory felt a prickling sensation on the backs of her hands. All her good instincts made her wary. She took inventory of the shadows on the periphery of the globe lamp. The beam of the flashlight found the eyes she had only felt at her back the moment before. Charles?
No. She was staring into the eyes of a disembodied head. The flesh had to be wax, she knew, but something icy was leaving a slick trail down her spine as she drew closer. The thing sat on a trunk at her own eye level and stared back at her with eyes entirely too real. The irises had more normal proportions of blue to white, but the wide-eyed stare of a Christmas-morning nine-year-old was definitely genetic. This was Charles's cousin.