I mentioned the titles of two of the books Mrs. Gillsworth had lent me.
"Very good," Irma Gloriana said approvingly. "But you must realize they are only instructional. True belief must come from the heart and the soul."
"I understand that," I said, fearing I was about to be proselytized and dreading the prospect. But she dropped the subject of my conversion.
"Hertha tells me you have asked her assistance in finding your missing cat."
"A friend's cat."
"She may be able to help. My daughter-in-law has amazing psychic powers. And did you wish to ask about the cat during the seance?"
"No," I said, "something else. I hope to receive a message from Lydia Gillsworth. I'm sure you knew her and have heard what happened to her."
Her expression didn't change. "Of course I knew Lydia. A sensitive soul. She attended a session here the evening she was killed. A brutal, senseless death."
"Yes," I said, "it was. Do you think there's a possibility that Hertha may be able to contact the spirit of Lydia Gillsworth?"
"There is always a possibility," she said, then added firmly, "But naturally we can offer no guarantees. You wish to ask Lydia the identity of her murderer?"
"Yes, that is what I intended."
"It is worth trying," she said thoughtfully. "Hertha has assisted in many police investigations in the past. With some success, I might add. Our standard fee for a seance is five hundred dollars, Mr. McNally. But that is usually divided amongst several participants. Since only you and your friend will attend, I believe a fee of two hundred dollars will be more equitable. Is that satisfactory?"
"Completely," I said. "And you do accept credit cards?"
"Oh yes. This friend who will accompany you-a man or a woman?"
"A woman."
"Could you tell me her name, please? Numerology is a particular interest of mine, and I enjoy converting names to numerical equivalents and developing psychic profiles."
"Her name is Margaret Trumble."
"A resident of this area?"
Then I was certain she was prying-no doubt about it.
"She is a new resident," I said.
"So many refugees from the north, aren't there?"
If she expected me to divulge Meg Trumble's hometown, she was disappointed; I merely nodded.
"My son tells me you work for a law firm, Mr. McNally."
"Yes, McNally and Son. My father is the attorney."
"But you are not?"
"Regretfully, no," I said, unable to cease staring at her bare neck, the skin seemingly so flawless and tender that it might be bruised by a kiss.
"And what is it you do at McNally and Son?"
It wasn't exactly a third degree. Call it a second degree.
"Research, mostly," I told her. "Usually very dull stuff."
I finished my iced tea, but she didn't offer a refill.
"Did you know Lydia Gillsworth a long time?" she asked.
"Several years. She and her husband were clients. And neighbors as well."
"I have met Roderick Gillsworth. He attended a few of our sessions with his wife. His late wife, I should say. I found him a very intelligent, creative man. A poet, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"He was kind enough to give me autographed volumes of his poems. Have you read his work, Mr. McNally?"
"Some," I said cautiously.
"What is your opinion of his poetry?"
"Ah," I said. Then: "Very cerebral."
"It is that," she said, her deep voice resonating.
"But I believe he is more than an intellectual. In his poems I sense a wild, primitive spirit struggling to be free."
"You may be right," I said diplomatically, thinking I had never heard such twaddle. Roderick Gillsworth a wild, primitive spirit? Sure. And I am Vlad the Impaler.
She rose to her feet, a boneless uncoiling. "I'll try to arrange your seance for later this week, Mr. McNally. I'll give you at least a day's notice. Will that be sufficient?"
"Of course," I said. "I may be speaking to your daughter-in-law before that if she is able to receive additional information about Peaches."
"Peaches?"
"The missing cat."
Unexpectedly she smiled, a mischievous smile that made her seem younger. And more attractive, I might add.
I hesitate to use the adjective "seductive" to describe any woman, but I can think of none more fitting for Irma Gloriana. I don't wish to imply her manner was deliberately designed to entice, but I could not believe she was totally unconscious of her physical allure. But perhaps she was. In any event, she projected a strong and smouldering sexuality impossible to ignore.
"Peaches," she repeated. "A charming name. Is the cat charming?"
"The cat is a horror," I said, and this time she laughed aloud, a booming laugh. "But my friend loves her," I added.
"Love," she said, suddenly serious. "Such an inexplicable emotion, is it not, Mr. McNally?"
"It is indeed," I said, and her final handclasp was soft and warm, quite different from the hard, cool handshake with which she had greeted me.
I drove back to the office trying to sort out my impressions of Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Al Rogoff had initially dubbed her a "tough broad," and I could understand his reaction. But I thought her more than that: a very deep lady whose contradictions I could not immediately ken. I had a sense that she was playing a role, but what the script might be I had no idea.
The first thing I did on my return to the McNally Building was to phone Sgt. Rogoff. He wasn't in, so I left my name and number, requesting he call me as soon as possible.
I then clattered down the back stairs to our real estate department on the second floor. This section of our legal supermarket advises clients on the purchase and sale of commercial properties and raw land. It also assists on negotiations for private homes, helps arrange mortgages, and represents clients at closings.
The chief of the department was Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, a jovial lady married to a Lebanese who sold Oriental rugs on Worth Avenue. But Evelyn was absent on maternity leave (twins expected!), so I spoke to her assistant, Timothy Hogan, an Irishman who wore Italian suits, English shirts, French cravats, and Spanish shoes. The man was a walking United Nations.
I explained to Tim what I needed: all the skinny he could dig up on the Glorianas' Clematis Street office and their condo near Currie Park. That would include rent, length of lease, maintenance, purchase price of the apartment if they indeed owned it rather than renting, and the references they had furnished.
"Are you sure you don't want the name of their dentist?" Hogan asked.
"I know it's a lot of work, Tim," I said, "but see what you can do, will you?"
"What's in it for me?" he asked.
"I won't tell the old man you're peddling Irish Sweepstakes tickets on company time."
"That's called extortion," he said.
"It is?" I said. "I could have sworn it was blackmail. Whatever, do your best, Tim."
Back in my private closet, I got busy on the phone calling a number of contacts at banks, brokerage houses, and credit rating agencies. Most of the people I buzzed were fellow members of the Pelican Club, and the only price I had to pay for the financial lowdown I sought on the Glorianas was the promise of a dinner at the Pelican.
It was late in the afternoon before I finished my calls, and a subdued growl from the brisket reminded me that other than breakfast the only nourishment I had had all day was a glass of iced tea and a cigarette. I was heading out the door for a pit stop at the nearest watering hole when a jangling phone brought me back to my desk. It was Sgt. Rogoff.
"I'm phoning from the airport," he said. "I just checked with the station and they told me you called."
"What are you doing at the airport?" I asked. "Leaving for Pago Pago?"
"Don't I wish," he said. "Actually I wanted to make sure Roderick Gillsworth made his flight. He's taking the casket up north."