His pen flew a few feet into the air, landing on the stage. Wondero picked it up, examining it in the process. He was clueless.
“How the hell did you do that?”
“I’ve got something else of yours,” Hardare said. “Come here.”
Wondero sensed that he was about to be fooled again, and cautiously approached the cabinet.
“Stick both hands through the curtain. Go ahead.”
Wondero stuck his hands in, and a moment later, felt cold steel encircle his wrists. Realizing he’d been had, he jerked the curtain open and watched Hardare walk out, the Kansas vest still firmly secured to his body.
“Christmas,” Wondero said. He tugged at his own handcuffs encircling his wrists. This was as bad as someone stealing his gun. “I can’t reach the key,” he said awkwardly.
“Very well,” Hardare said. “Close the curtain.”
Wondero pulled the curtain closed. An instant later a woman’s red hair appeared at the top of the curtain, and like a ghostly apparition Hardare’s beautiful wife stepped out of the cabinet wearing a skintight black outfit.
“Where did you come from,” Wondero said in astonishment.
“Indiana, originally,” Jan said. She went to her husband’s aid, undoing the leather straps holding him prisoner, and he in turn unlocked Wondero’s handcuffs.
“That was a dirty trick, detective,” Hardare said.
“Sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Wondero said.
“You don’t like to be fooled, do you?”
“Guess not. I’ve got another favor to ask.”
“Hold on.”
Hardare walked to the edge of the stage, and spoke to the technicians up in the booth. “We’re done guys. Thanks.” He came back to where Wondero stood. “Let’s talk in my dressing room.”
The dressing room was tiny and cramped. A cage with a Dutch dwarf rabbit munching on lettuce sat in the corner. Hardare and his wife leaned against the make-up table.
“Death struck again last night,” Wondero said. “He picked up a prostitute and stabbed her. Luckily, she didn’t die, and was able to tell a police artist what he looks like. I want to release the sketch to the press, only our victim fell unconscious before confirming it.”
“Is she going to die?” Jan asked quietly.
“I’m afraid so. It puts me in a bad situation. I know what our killer looks like, only the law prevents me from sharing his composite with the media.”
“What do you want me to do?” Hardare asked.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. I’d like to take you to where the girl was found. We’ll have a newspaper reporter there. You do your psychic routine, and produce the sketch, and give it to the reporter. That way, it didn’t come from me.”
“Is that ethical?” Hardare asked.
Wondero grew red in the face. “Maybe not. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Death will strike again, and soon. That’s his pattern. I’ve got to do whatever I can to stop him.”
“You’re saying a life is at stake.”
“Yes.”
“Let me see the sketch,” Hardare said.
Wondero produced the artist’s composite and handed it to the magician. He waited expectantly, hoping Hardare would say yes.
“She got a better look at him than I did,” Hardare said under his breath.
“Will you do it?” Wondero asked.
Hardare looked at his wife. “What do you think?”
“If it will help the police catch this killer, then yes, you need to do it,” Jan said.
“All right. I’ll do it. But with one caveat,” Hardare said.
“Name it, Wondero said.
“This is the last psychic stunt I’m going to do. You’re on your own after this. Understood? No more late-night visits to my hotel, or sneaking up on me unannounced.”
Wondero was beaming, and he clasped Hardare on the arm.
“You have my word,” the detective promised him.
Chapter 13
News at Noon
It was eleven o”clock in the morning when Myrtle Jones banged on Eugene Osbourne’s front door for the second time in as many days. He appeared in a bathrobe, his eyes heavy with sleep. Inside the house a radio newscaster droned on, sounding like an old movie newsreel.
“Guess what I’ve got baking in the oven,” she said, winking mischievously. “That’s right: my heavenly chocolate cake.”
On the sidewalk sat Mr. Kozlowski in a wheelchair, bundled up like a mummy. She handed Eugene a brown paper bag, the smell of warm tollhouse cookies jump-starting his senses. Eugene took one from the bag and bit into it, tasting chocolaty sweet perfection.
“I was hoping you would join us for lunch. Mr. Kozlowski is so looking forward to you coming.”
Eugene hesitated, his attention diverted by a special news flash on the radio. A school bus had overturned, children hurt.
“Can we watch television?”
Myrtle Jones was taken aback. “Well, I suppose we could.”
“All right,” he said, closing the door in her face.
Lunch was served in the musty living room on TV trays. Myrtle had outdone herself; lobster bisque, chicken pot pies made from scratch, miniature vegetables, and a bottle of wine. Eugene, wearing a fresh shirt and cologne, sat directly across from the TV, his eyes glued to the flickering screen.
“Eugene, do you have any family?” Myrtle asked while spoon feeding Mr. Kozlowski.
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Oh. Well, I’m sure you have lots of friends.”
“Just one.”
“Does he ever visit? I’d be happy to invite him—”
“He’s in prison,” Eugene said.
“Mr. Kozlowski says you remind him of a steam fitter he once employed years ago.”
Eugene looked suspiciously at her, then Mr. Kozlowski. “I didn’t hear him say anything.”
“Mr. Kozlowski talks with his fingers,” she said, showing him the tiny computer taped to the arm of the wheelchair. “He types in what he wants to say, and I read the screen.”
Eugene lifted his head to stare at the tiny screen. Printed across it were the words NICE TO MEET YOU.
“Same here,” Eugene said.
THANKS FOR HELPING YESTERDAY
“No problem.”
Myrtle stacked up their dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.
YOU’RE VERY STRONG
“Uh-huh.”
BET THE GIRLS LOVE IT
“Not all of them.”
I SEE YOU BRING THEM HOME. REAL LADY KILLER
“Maybe I should invite you over sometime,” Eugene said.
TO DO WHAT? I’M EIGHTY FOUR.
“You can watch.”
The dessert was better than promised, and Eugene licked his fork after each scrumptious bite. He watched Mr. Kozlowski grow animated with his over-sized portion, his toothless mouth working vigorously. They both said yes to seconds.
Over decaf they watched the last half of a sitcom called Hugo. Hugo was an overgrown alien rodent who had been adopted by the average family next door. Orange, hairy, and shaped like a pear, Hugo was a cheap-looking puppet. No one in their right minds would have thought that he came from anywhere but a toy store, except for the people on the show with him. On today’s episode the Tanners, Hugo’s adopted family, helped Hugo deal with a cold.
OH BOY. ALIEN SNOT JOKES
“Mr. Kozlowski has a rather caustic sense of humor,” Myrtle explained, feeding him more cake.
“What would you do with Hugo?” Eugene asked him.
DROWN HIM IN A GARBAGE CAN
Embarrassed, Myrtle said, “Mister Kozlowski!”
OR FEED HIM RAT POISON
“That’s the ticket,” Eugene said.
WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
“I think a minute in the microwave would do the trick.”
ALIEN CASSEROLE
“Sure. They could serve him to the neighbors.”
STAY TUNED