"Of course."
"And do you have a friend or two you could bring along? Individuals who are sympathetic to spiritualism even if they are not yet firm believers?"
"Yes, I think I could provide at least one person like that."
"Very well," she said. "I'll plan a session and let you know when arrangements have been finalized."
Her language surprised me. She spoke as if she was scheduling a corporate teleconference.
"Fine," I said. "I'm looking forward to it. And now about Peaches. . Have you received any messages on the cat's whereabouts?"
She stopped moving and turned to face me. But instead of the intent gaze I expected, her eyes slowly closed.
"Faint and indistinct," she said, and now her wispy voice took on what I can only call a singsong quality. "The cat is alive and healthy. I see it in a very plain room. It's just a single room with bed, dresser, small desk, armchair." Her eyes opened. "I am sorry, Archy, but that is all I have. I cannot see where this room is located. But if you wish, I will keep trying."
"Please do," I urged. "I think you've done wonders so far."
She didn't reply, and I had nothing more to ask about Peaches. I rose, moved toward the door, then paused.
"Hertha," I said, "when we have our seance, do you think we could contact Lydia Gillsworth?"
She looked at me gravely. "It might be possible."
"Could we ask her the name of her murderer?"
"Yes," she said, "we will ask."
"Thank you," I said. "Please let me know when the session will be held."
She nodded and then moved close to me. Very close. She lifted up on her toes and kissed me full on the mouth. It was not a kiss of commiseration between two fellow mourners. It was a physical kiss, sensual and stirring. Her lips were soft and warm. So much for my vision of her as a wraith. Ghosts don't kiss, do they?
She pulled away and must have seen my shock, for she smiled, opened the door, and gently pushed me out.
There was no one in the reception room. The place seemed deserted.
I drove home in a State of Utter: utterly startled, utterly confused, utterly flummoxed. I confess it wasn't the catnapping or murder that inspired my mental muddle; it was that carnal kiss bestowed by Ms. Gloriana. What did she mean by it? Kisses usually have meaning, do they not? They can signal a promise, serve as a lure, demonstrate a passion- any number of swell things.
Hertha's kiss was an enigma I could not solve. It had to be significant, but where the import lay I could not decide. As you may have guessed, my ego is not fragile, but I could not believe the lady had suddenly been overwhelmed by my beauty and brio. I am no Godzilla, but I am no young Tyrone Power either. I mean women are not repelled by my appearance, but neither do they swoon in my presence or feel an irresistible desire to nibble my lips.
I was still trying to puzzle out the mystery of that inexplicable kiss when I arrived home just as my father was garaging his Lexus. We paced back and forth together on the graveled turnaround before going inside.
"Have you heard from Sergeant Rogoff?" he asked.
"No, father. I expect he's busy."
"Have you made any progress?"
I was tempted to reply, "Yes, sir. I was smooched by a medium." But I said, "No, sir. Nothing of importance. Was Lydia's will as you remembered it?"
He nodded. "Roderick is the main beneficiary- which causes a problem. We also drew his wilclass="underline" a simple document since his estate is hardly extensive. He leaves what little cash he has and his personal effects to his wife. He bequeaths the original manuscripts of his poems to the Library of Congress."
"They'll be delighted," I said.
"Don't be nasty, Archy," he said sharply. "You and I may feel they are nonsense; others may see considerable literary merit."
I said nothing.
"The problem," my father continued, "is that Roderick is now a wealthy man. It is imperative that he revise his will as soon as possible. As things stand, the bulk of Lydia's estate is in a kind of legal limbo. If Gillsworth should die before dictating a new will, the estate might be tied up for years. I'd like to suggest to him that a new testament is necessary, but the man is so emotionally disturbed at the moment that I hesitate to broach the subject. I invited him to dine with us tonight, but he begged off. Too upset, he said. That's understandable."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I don't suppose he's quite realized the enormity of what's happened. Do you think he is aware of his wife's will?"
"I know he is. He was present when I discussed the terms with Lydia. Let's go in now. Considering recent events, I think we might schedule the family cocktail hour a bit earlier today."
"Second the motion," I said.
But despite the preprandial drinks and a fine dinner (duckling with cherry sauce), it was a lugubrious evening. Conversation faltered; the death of our neighbor seemed to make a mockery of good food and excellent wine. I think we all felt guilty, as if we should be fasting to show respect. Ridiculous, of course. An Irish wake makes much more sense.
After dinner I retired to my nest and worked on my journal awhile. Then I tried to read those books on spiritualism Mrs. Gillsworth had lent me. Heavy going. But I began to understand the basic appeal of the faith. It does promise a kind of immortality, does it not? But then so does every other religious belief, offering heaven, paradise, nirvana-whatever one wishes to call it.
It was all awfully serious stuff, and as I've stated on more than one occasion, I am not a serious johnny. In fact, my vision of the final beatitude is of a place resembling the Pelican Club where all drinks are on the house.
So I tossed the books aside and went back to wondering about the motive for Hertha Gloriana's kiss.
I came to 110 conclusion except to resolve that if there was an encore I would respond in a more manful and determined fashion.
Only to further the investigation, of course.
7
The most noteworthy happening of the following Sunday was that I accompanied my parents to church. I am not an avid churchgoer. As a matter of fact, I had not attended services since a buxom contralto in the choir with whom I had been consorting married a naval aviator and moved to Pensacola. After that, my faith dwindled.
But that morning I sat in the McNally pew, sang hymns, and stayed awake throughout the sermon, which was based on the dictum that it is more blessed to give than to receive. I supposed that included a stiff bop on the snoot. But the final prayer was devoted to Lydia Gillsworth, a former member of the congregation. The short eulogy was touching, and I was glad I was there to hear it.
We returned home to find a police car parked outside our back door. Sgt. A1 Rogoff, in civvies,
was in the kitchen drinking coffee with the Olsons. He stood up when we entered and apologized for his presence on a Sunday.
"But there are some things to talk about," he said to my father. "Including funeral arrangements. The Medical Examiner will release the. ." He glanced at mother, and his voice trailed off.
"Of course, sergeant," Pere McNally said. "Suppose you come into the study. I'll phone Gillsworth and find out what his wishes are."
"Fine," Al said, then looked at me before he followed my father. "You going to be around awhile?" he asked.
"I can be," I said.
"Do try, Archy," Rogoff said with that heavy sarcasm he sometimes affects. "I want to talk to you."
"I'm on the third floor," I told him. "Come up when you and father have finished."
I trudged upstairs, took off my Sunday-go-to-meet-ing costume, and pulled on flannel bags and a fuchsia Lacoste. I was wondering if I had time to nip downstairs for a tub of ice cubes when there was a knock on the door.