I was still diddling with that nonplus when my phone rang again. This time it was my father, announcing he was ready to return. He specifically requested that I drive the Lexus. He didn't have to say that; I knew very well he thought riding in my red two-seater dented his dignity.
He was waiting outside when I arrived at the Gillsworth home. He placed his overnight bag in the back and motioned for me to slide over to the passenger side so he could get behind the wheel. He thinks I drive too fast. But then he thinks motorized wheelchairs go too fast.
"I'm going to drop you at home, Archy," he said, "and then go to the office. Gillsworth wants me to inform his wife's relatives."
"Shouldn't he be doing that, sir?"
"He should but he's still considerably shaken and asked me to handle it. Not a task I welcome. Also, I want to review Lydia's will."
"Did Sergeant Rogoff question you about that?"
"He did, and Gillsworth had no objection to full disclosure. To the best of my recollection, she left several specific bequests to nieces, nephews, an aunt, and her alma mater. But the bulk of her estate goes to her husband."
"Hefty?" I asked.
"Quite," he said. "I told the sergeant all that, and he asked for the names and addresses of the beneficiaries. He is a very thorough man."
"Yes, sir," I agreed, "he is that. He wants me to continue my investigation of the poison-pen letters."
"So he said. I also want you to, Archy. Lydia was a fine lady, and I would not care to see this crime go unsolved or her murderer unpunished."
"Nor would I, father. Do you know where Rogoff is now?"
"He came to the Gillsworth home early this morning. He was driving his pickup, and with Roderick's permission he loaded the grandfather clock into the truck and drove off with it."
"The clock that was tipped over during the assault?"
"Yes."
"What on earth does Al want with that?"
"He didn't say. Here we are. Please take my overnight bag inside and tell mother I'll be at the office. I'll phone her later."
I followed his instructions and then went into his study and used his phone to call the Glorianas' office. I wasn't certain mediums worked on Saturdays, but Frank Gloriana answered, and I identified myself.
"Ah, yes, Mr. McNally," he said. "About the missing cat … I intended to contact you on Monday."
"Then you have news for me?"
"My wife has news," he corrected me. "When might you be able to stop by?"
"Now," I said. "If that's all right."
"Just let me check the appointment book," he said so smoothly that I was convinced he was scam-ming me again. "Well, I see we have a very busy afternoon ahead of us, but if you can arrive within the hour I'm sure we can fit you in."
"Thank you so much," I said, playing Uriah Heep. "I'll be there."
Mother wanted me to stay for lunch, but I had no appetite at all. And besides, I had recently noted that the waistbands of my slacks were shrinking alarmingly. So I went upstairs and pulled on a silver-gray Ultrasuede sport jacket over my violet polo shirt. Then I went outside and jumped into the Miata for the trip to West Palm Beach.
As I've mentioned before, basically I'm a cheery sort of chap, and that black cloud that had been hovering over my head since I heard of Lydia Gillsworth's death began to lift as I drove westward. That doesn't mean I ceased to mourn, of course, or that I was any less determined to avenge her. But the world continues to spin, and one must continue to spin along with it or step off. And I wasn't ready to do that.
Actually, I hadn't called the Glorianas to inquire about Peaches. The fate of that miserable felid was small spuds compared to finding the killer of Lydia Gillsworth. But I reckoned the cat's disappearance would serve as a good excuse for seeing the medium again. Not only did I want to learn more about her relationship to Lydia, but the woman herself fascinated me.
When I entered the Glorianas' suite there was no crush of clients Frank had forecast during our phone conversation. In fact, he was alone in that mauve and aqua office, listlessly turning the pages of a magazine and looking bored out of his skull. He glanced up as I came in, put the magazine aside, and rose to greet me.
He was wearing an Armani double-breasted in taupe gabardine and sporting a regimental tie. It happened to be the stripe of the Royal Glasgow Yeomanry, a regiment of which I doubted he had ever been a member. We shook hands, and he reached to stroke the sleeve of my Ultrasuede jacket.
"Nice," he said. "Would you mind telling me what it cost?"
I knew then he was no gentleman. "I don't know," I said. "It was a gift." I think he guessed I was lying, but I didn't care.
He nodded and turned back to his desk. "I'll tell Hertha you're here," he said, then paused with his hand on the phone. "We heard about Lydia Gillsworth," he said. "Dreadful thing."
"Yes," I said, "wasn't it."
He pushed a button, spoke softly into the phone, and hung up. "She's ready for you," he reported. "This way, please."
He again conducted me down the hallway to his wife's chamber. There were two other closed doors in that corridor but they were unmarked, and I had no idea what lay behind them. Gloriana ushered me into the medium's sanctum, then withdrew.
She was standing alongside her high-backed chair, and when the door closed she came floating forward to place her hands on my shoulders. I marveled at how petite she was: a very small wraith indeed, and seemingly fragile.
"Lydia has gone over," she said in that muted voice, "and you are desolated."
"It was a shock," I agreed. "I still find it hard to accept."
She nodded, led me to her wing chair, and insisted
I sit there. She remained standing before me. I thought it an awkward position for a conversation, but it didn't seem to trouble her.
"Did Lydia tell you how she felt about physical death?" she asked.
"Yes, she did."
"Then you must believe the spirit we both knew still exists. This is not the only world, you know."
She said that with such conviction that I could not doubt her sincerity. But I thought her a world-class fruitcake. Strangely, her feyness made her more attractive to me. I'm a foursquare hedonist myself, but I've always been intrigued by otherworldly types. They live as if they're collecting Frequent Flier points for a one-way trip to the hereafter.
"Mrs. Gloriana," I started, but she held up a soft palm.
"Please," she said, "call me Hertha. I feel a great kinship with you. May I call you Archy?"
"Of course," I said, pleased. "Hertha, Lydia promised to bring me to one of your seances. In fact, she suggested the meeting last evening, but I was unable to make it. Perhaps if I had, things might have turned out differently."
"No," she said, staring at me, "nothing would have changed. Do not blame yourself."
I hadn't, but it was sweet of her to comfort me.
"I would still like to attend one of your gatherings. Would that be possible?"
She was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I was to be rejected.
"There will be no more sessions until October, Archy," she said finally. "So many people have gone north for the summer."
The off-season seemed a curious reason to halt spirit communication, but I supposed the medium charged per communicant, so there was a good commercial justification for it.
"Do you ever hold private seances?" I asked. "Could that be arranged?"
She turned and began to move back and forth, hugging her elbows. She was wearing a flowered dress of some gossamer stuff, and it wafted as she paced.
"Perhaps," she said. "But the chances of success would be lessened. The psychic power of a circle of believers is naturally much stronger than that of an individual. I could ask Frank and his mother to join us. Would that be acceptable?"