It had to be close enough so that we could arrive at the seance at the time dictated by Mrs. Irma Gloriana. And yet it had to be distant enough and relatively secluded so I had a fighting chance of not being seen in Meg's company by Connie Garcia or any of her corps de snitches.
I finally decided on a Middle Eastern restaurant on 45th Street not far from an area known as Man-gonia Park. It was a very small bistro, only six booths, but I had been there once before and thought the food superb, if you liked grape leaves. However, it did have one drawback: it had no bar; only beer and wine were served. But, paraphrasing the Good Book, I consoled myself with the thought that man doth not live by vodka alone.
Meg was ready when I arrived, which was a pleasant surprise. Another was her appearance. She wore a short-sleeved dress of silk crepe divided into two panels of solid color, fuchsia and orange. Sounds awful, I know, but it looked great. It had a jewel neckline, but her only accessories were gold seahorse earrings. Meg still had most of her Florida tan, and she looked so slender, vibrant, and healthy that I immediately resolved to lose weight, grow muscles, and drink nothing but seltzer on the rocks.
I whisked her to the Cafe Istanbul, assuring her that although it might appear funky, it had become the in place for discriminating gourmets. That wasn't a big lie, just a slight exaggeration to increase her enjoyment of dining in a joint that had nothing but belly dance music on the jukebox.
It turned out that Meg was fascinated by the place and relaxed her vegetarian discipline sufficiently to order moussaka. I had rotisseried lamb on curried rice. We shared a big salad that was mostly black olives that really were the pits and pickled cauliflower buds. I also ordered a half-bottle of chilled retsina. Meg tried one small sip, then opted for a Coke, so I was forced, forced, to drink the entire bottle myself.
It was over the honey-drenched baklava that I finally got around to the seance we were about to attend.
"I didn't know you and your sister were interested in spiritualism," I said as casually as I could.
"Laverne more than me," Meg said. "She's into all that stuff. I think she's had her horoscope done by a dozen astrologers, and she always sleeps with a crystal under her pillow."
"I wonder if she knows Hertha Gloriana, the medium we're going to visit tonight."
"I've never heard her mention the name, but that's understandable. Harry goes into orbit if anyone brings up the subject of parapsychology. He thinks it's all a great big swindle. Do you, Archy?"
The direct question troubled me. "I just don't know," I confessed. "That's one of the reasons I'm looking forward to the session tonight. Meg, do you believe it's possible to communicate with ghosts?"
"Of course," she said promptly. "I went to a seance once and talked to my grandmother. I never knew her; she's been dead for fifty years. But her spirit knew things about our family that were true and that the medium couldn't possibly have known."
"Did your grandmother's spirit tell you where she was?"
"In Heaven," Meg said simply, and I finished the retsina.
We arrived at the Glorianas' residence ten minutes before the appointed hour. The family was assembled in that rather shoddy living room, and I introduced Meg. The greetings of Irma and Frank were courteous enough, although not heavy on the cordiality. But Hertha welcomed Meg warmly, held her hand a moment while gazing deeply into her eyes.
"An Aries," she said. "Aren't you?"
"Why, yes," Meg said. "How did you know?"
Hertha only smiled and turned to me. "And how are you tonight, Pisces?" she asked.
She was right again. But of course she could easily have researched my birthday. In all modesty, I must admit my vital statistics are listed in a thin booklet titled: Palm Beach's Most Eligible Bachelors. And I could guess how she knew Meg's natal date.
Hertha was wearing a long, flowing gown of lavender georgette which I thought more suitable for a garden party than a seance. Irma Gloriana wore a black, wide-shouldered pantsuit with a mannish shirt and paisley ascot. Son Frank, that fop, flaunted a double-breasted Burberry blazer in white wool with gold buttons. He made me look like an IRS auditor, damn him.
No refreshments were offered, and no preparatory instructions or explanations given. We all moved into a dimly lighted dining room. There, leaves had been removed from an oval oak table, converting it to a round that accommodated the five of us comfortably. The chairs were straightbacked, the seats thinly padded.
I was placed between Irma and Frank. He held Hertha's left hand while Meg grasped her right. From the top of the table, moving clockwise, we were Hertha, Frank, Archy, Irma, Meg. An odd seating arrangement, I thought: the two men side-by-side, and the three women. But perhaps there was a reason for it.
Hertha looked around the circle slowly with that intent, unblinking gaze of hers. And she spoke slowly, too, in her low, breathy voice.
"Please, everyone," she said, "clasp hands tightly. Close your eyes and turn your thoughts to Xatyl, the Mayan shaman who is my channel to the hereafter. With all your spiritual strength try to will Xatyl to appear to me."
At first, eyes firmly shut, all I was conscious of was Frank's muscular handclasp and the softer, warmer, moister hand of his mother. But then I tried to think of Xatyl. I had no idea of what a Mayan shaman looked like-certainly not like any member of the Pelican Club-so I concentrated on the name, silently repeating Xatyl, Xatyl, Xatyl, like a mantra.
I thought five soundless minutes must have passed before I heard Hertha speak again in a voice that had become a flat drone.
"Xatyl appears," she reported. "Dimly. From the mists. Greetings, Xatyl, from your supplicants."
The next words I heard were a shock. Not their meaning as much as the tone in which they were uttered. It was the frail, cracked voice of an old man, a worn voice that quavered and sometimes paused weakly.
"Greetings from the beyond," Xatyl said. "I bring you love from a high priest of the Mayan people."
I opened my eyes to stare at Hertha. The words were issuing from her mouth, no doubt of it, but I could scarcely believe that ancient, tremulous voice was hers. I shut my eyes again, grateful for the handholds of Irma and Frank to anchor me to reality.
"Who wishes to contact one of the departed?" Hertha asked in her normal voice.
"I do," Meg Trumble said at once. "I would like to speak to my father, John Trumble, who passed on eight years ago."
"I have heard," the Xatyl voice said. "Be patient, my child."
We waited in silence several long moments. I must tell you honestly that I didn't know what to make of all this. But I confess I was moved by what was going on and had absolutely no inclination to laugh.
"Meg," a man said, "is it you?"
Now the voice was virile, almost booming, and I opened my eyes just wide enough to see that the words were being spoken by Hertha.
I heard Meg's sudden, sharp intake of breath. "Yes, dad," she said, "I am here. Are you all right?"
"I am contented since mother joined me last year. Now we are together again as we had prayed. Meg, are you still doing your exercises?"
"Oh yes, dad," she said with a sobbing laugh. "I'm still at it. How is your arthritis?"
"There is no pain here, daughter," John Trumble said. "We are free of your world's suffering. Have you married, Meg?"
"No, father, not yet."
"You must marry," he said gently. "Your mother and I want you to be as happy as we were and are. I must go now, Meg. If you need me, I am here, I am here."
The voice trailed away, and I could hear Meg's quiet weeping.
"Please," Hertha whispered, "do not let our psychic power weaken. Clasp hands firmly and think only of the other world."