When I got home, I let Violet and Peony out, made myself a cup of tea, called for the dogs to come in, took a seat in the den, and continued thinking.
There could be no doubt Iris Laval had been killed by one of the people who’d gathered in Rebecca Stanton’s library on Saturday night for a supposed séance.
I considered it highly unlikely the medium had been killed by mistake and that someone else had been the intended target, but the possibility had to be considered. Someone who planned to commit murder, if they weren’t experienced in such matters, would be very much on edge. Mistakes did happen.
As for Iris herself, Max, and perhaps even Larissa, might indeed have come to the séance intending to expose the medium, but was it possible that the sight of her getting ready to fleece other unsuspecting people pushed one of them over the edge. And so they killed her?
Possible. But, again, unlikely. That hat pin had to have been brought into the room with the specific intention of using it.
Eleanor Stanton claimed to have been to many séances and to be a believer in their legitimacy, but her husband, Daniel, was skeptical about the whole thing. Despite his skepticism, had he accompanied her on other occasions?
Might they have attended previous séances with Iris Laval and, like the Greenwoods, be out for revenge because they believed they’d been cheated? They told Ryan they’d never met the medium before, but people don’t always tell the police the truth, particularly if they’re covering up a crime.
I hadn’t thought to ask Rebecca specifically when the couple announced their intention to visit. Was it before or after the psychic fair dates were publicized?
I reached for my phone. Violet woke with a start, leaped to her feet, and barked. Only then did I realize the time. It had gone two. Perhaps too late to be calling anyone. The timing of the visit likely didn’t matter. Had Eleanor and Daniel, like the Greenwoods, accidentally stumbled on the person they were after?
I settled back against the cushions and listened to the silence of the night. Violet watched me. Next to her, Peony whined in his sleep. I wondered what he was dreaming about.
Rebecca and her niece Miranda might have had reason to kill Max Greenwood. They knew Max caused the accident that killed Rebecca’s sister and Miranda’s mother, although the Greenwoods didn’t recognize them in return.
Except Max and Larissa hadn’t died, which brought me back to wondering if there’d been a mistake.
If I accepted, and I did, that my friends hadn’t committed the murder, the only other possibility was Mary Moffat, the so-called assistant. She told me she and Iris hadn’t been working together for long, but was that true? Maybe they had a long and sordid history of committing fraud together.
But surely, if Mary did want to get rid of her inconvenient partner, she had plenty of better opportunities to do so without drawing so much attention to herself.
Violet scratched lightly at my leg. As long as I was awake, she seemed to be saying, I might as well offer her a treat.
I reached down and gave her a scratch between the ears. She wiggled happily at the attention.
I jerked upright. Drawing attention was the entire point.
The mysterious death of Iris Laval, aka Madame Lavalier, noted medium, at a séance no less, had attracted a lot of attention. Attendance at the psychic fair had increased to the point the police had to be called to help with crowd control.
Did Mary Moffat plan to take advantage of the extra attention to find another medium to work with? Maybe she’d assume that role herself, helped by her newfound fame. She might even be able to claim that the ghost of Madame Lavalier was her new spiritual partner.
The fair had moved on to another town. Had Mary gone with them? I opened my iPad and searched for information about the psychic fair.
“How’s Bunny?” I asked Ashleigh when she arrived for work on Tuesday morning.
My assistant gave me a sideways glance. “Fine. Why are you asking?”
“No reason. Okay, maybe I have a reason. Is Mary Moffat still hanging around bothering her?”
“No, and I’m glad of it. Mary went to Sandwich with the fair. She asked Bunny to come with her, having some notion of them setting up a booth and selling Bunny memorabilia. Bunny told her what tokens she kept from her youth and her career are not for sale. Mary said okay, and then she started again on her idea of them gathering together an exhibit for us to display here, at the store. Bunny eventually hung up on her.”
“A difficult situation.”
“For sure. Everyone thinks it would be so great to be famous, but it’s not really. Don’t tell her I said this, Gemma, but all this attention from her fans only reminds Bunny that she’s getting old and she’s past it. Some people even come right out and tell her they expected her to look younger. I suppose the fame thing’s manageable if you have a house with a big gate and security guards and bodyguards when you go out and the like, but Bunny, my mom, doesn’t have any of that. Not anymore.”
“She has you,” I said.
She smiled at me. “I hope that’s enough.” Ashleigh looked as though she were about to set out for a cruise on her own yacht this morning in white trousers, white T-shirt, and blue blazer decorated with miles of gold trim. Blue-and-white espadrilles were on her feet and a jaunty captain’s cap perched on her head. “After Bunny hung up on her, Mary sent a bunch of texts, mostly saying she was just throwing ideas out there, and if Bunny didn’t like them, what would she suggest they do together? Bunny didn’t reply, and last night she got a text saying Mary was going to Sandwich for a few days, in case Bunny changed her mind and wanted to come after all.”
“Do you know if Gale has anything on today?”
“Why would I know that? She’s not due to come into work.”
“I’m wondering if she mentioned anything. I need to go out this afternoon for several hours. I’ll ask her if she can fill in at the last minute.”
I ran upstairs, closely followed by Moriarty. I’m sure he didn’t deliberately intend to slip between my feet at the top of the stairs, causing me to trip, so I only saved myself by grabbing the banister with both hands before I plunged the full seventeen steps to my doom.
When my heart stopped pounding and my breathing returned to normal, I called Ryan. I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to call him in the middle of the night when I’ve had a sudden idea for a direction his inquiries should take, so I’d forced myself to wait until this morning.
“You might want to interview the Greenwoods again,” I said after we’d exchanged pleasantries.
“For once, I’m ahead of you, Gemma. Mrs. Greenwood called the station first thing this morning and made an appointment to come in. I’m expecting them any minute. Shall I assume you’re responsible for that?”
“I just happened to run into them last night having dinner at the yacht club.”
“Because you’re a member there. Not.”
“Coincidences do happen, but it helps if one arranges them. Yes, we had a chat. Mostly Larissa and I chatted. They didn’t lie to you, but they might have not been telling you everything they know, and I told her that was never wise.”
“However it came about, thanks. What have you got on today?”
“Nothing special.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. Moriarty growled at me.
“Try and keep it that way,” Ryan said. That he didn’t leave me with a more affectionate sign-off meant someone was listening.
“Love you,” I said to the empty air.
Moriarty thought I was speaking to him. He narrowed his eyes and hissed in response.
My next call was to Jayne. “Feel like taking a few hours off today? We can play tourist. Maybe go for a nice drive, see the scenery.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“You’ve been working so hard. I thought you’d enjoy the break.”
“You mean you’re doing something you shouldn’t and you need someone to act as your wingwoman.”
“If you want to put it like that.”
“I hate to imagine what trouble you’d get into without me. As it happens, I got a lot of baking done yesterday and today’s Tuesday, which is usually our slowest day of the week. I should be able to manage a couple of hours this afternoon.”
“Excellent. Be at my house at one.”
Gale was able to come in with little notice, and I left the Emporium at noon. The dogs were overjoyed to see me home in the middle of the day, but their joy was short-lived when I told them I wasn’t here to play. I went into the guest room and rummaged through dressers and closets in search of what I needed. I spent a good deal more time in front of the mirror than normal until I was satisfied with my appearance.
Precisely at one o’clock, the dogs set up a chorus of barks, informing me Jayne had arrived.
I opened the mudroom door. “Come on in.”
She paused with one foot in the air. She stared at me open-mouthed. She cocked her head to one side, and then to the other. She put her foot down. “I’ve met your mother, so I know you’re not her. Have I fallen through a warp in the space time continuum or something? And what on earth is that on your head?”
“As you may have suspected, I have a destination in mind for our little outing, and I’d prefer not to be recognized.”
“It’s uncanny,” Jayne said. “You look like you, Gemma, although a good twenty years older.”
“Glad to hear it.” I’d applied makeup to deepen the circles under my eyes, rubbed in a touch of putty to create lines around my mouth and wrinkles on my neck, and added more makeup to accent them. I’d topped the whole thing off with a wig in an unappealing shade of reddish brown straight from a bottle of drugstore hair dye. I tied some padding around my rear end and then pulled on a pair of slightly baggy Bermuda shorts and an ill-fitting pink golf shirt. The entire effect was topped off with gold hoops through my ears and a tiny fake diamond necklace on a chain. I also wore a plain gold band on the third finger of my left hand.
“Come into the guest room,” I said. “I’ve laid out some things for you to wear.”
Jayne looked down at herself. “What’s wrong with this?” She wore her usual work clothes of black yoga pants, loose-fitting sleeveless T-shirt, and well-worn trainers. Her blond hair was pulled up behind her head in a bouncy ponytail. Her blue eyes sparked with good humor and youth.
That would never do.
She gave her head a shake and followed me into the house. I’d laid out an arrangement of clothes on the bed for Jayne to try on. Not clothes from my regular wardrobe, but things I kept in case they might be needed one day. “Try that skirt and jacket first.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. I don’t like to be rude, Gemma.” Her expression indicated she didn’t mind at all. “But I am, in case you haven’t noticed, quite a bit thinner than you, not to mention shorter. Your clothes won’t fit me.”
“Which, considering you bake for a living and I do not, proves once and for all that life is not fair. Don’t worry about things not fitting properly. I have some padded undergarments that will do the trick.” I held up a one-piece bra and pants set stuffed with additional layers of fabric.
“I am not wearing padded undergarments, Gemma.”
“No one will recognize you. Which is rather the point of the exercise. Try them on, please, and I’ll explain.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she grumbled.
“We’re going to Sandwich in search of a medium.”
“I’m not going to another séance,” Jayne said as she struggled into the clothes.
“Nor am I. I want to find out what Mary Moffat’s up to, that’s all. Meaning, I want you to find out what she’s up to. My original plan was to present myself, in disguise, as someone needing a consultation. But I was signaled out at the séance, no doubt at her instigation, and then she and I had a nice long chat the other day in the Emporium. We talked one-on-one, so I’m not sure any disguise I can throw together in a hurry will fool her for long if we talk. Considering she’s a fraud and a confidence trickster, she’ll be on her guard.”
“She met me at the séance.”
“Yes, but you didn’t converse with her at any time, and you were only one of the numbers. Plus, you didn’t stay long. You were allowed to leave ahead of the rest of them.”
I stepped back and studied my handiwork. “Yes, that will do. Your lack of height will be an advantage here. You were wearing heels at Rebecca’s, so with those flats, you’ll be a couple of inches shorter than you appeared then. Now, into the bathroom.”
“Are you going to make me look like my mother?”
“You should be so lucky.”
When I was finished, she studied herself in the mirror for a long time. “This is genuinely creepy, Gemma. It’s me but … not me. Where on earth did you learn to do this? You never told me you had a background in theater.”
“I have many and varied interests, of which doing makeup for theatrical productions is not one. My sister taught me.”
“Pippa?”
“Like many young girls, and more than a few boys, I went through a rebellious phase. My parents moved me to a new school, and I was immediately, shall we say, not a favored student there. During the first term break, the headmistress invited my parents to drop by for a chat when school resumed. Pippa, who was home for a short visit from Oxford, where she was completing her doctorate in Russian literature—”
“Hold on a minute. Pippa has a PhD in Russian literature? In Russian?”
“Or course. One can’t truly appreciate the nuances of the classics in translation. My own Russian, I am forced to admit, is poor. Little more than a handful of basic words I picked up from her.”
“By which I assume you could walk into the Kremlin and convince them you belong. Never mind that. What about your school?”
“Pippa intercepted the letter. She decided the less contact my parents had with the headmistress the better. She would have gone in our mother’s place herself, but she had an appointment that could not be missed, so she taught me how to present myself as my own parent. I’ve learned a few tricks from my sister over the years.”
“And this headmistress fell for it?”
“At the time. Pippa either didn’t think things through to their logical conclusion—which I don’t believe for one minute—or she was having fun at my expense. Considering neither the headmistress nor my parents are idiots, when they eventually did meet, the game was, as they say, up.”
“What happened then?”
“That’s best forgotten. Fortunately, in the interval, I’d decided to buckle down to my studies, and I was doing reasonably well, so I was sternly reprimanded but not expelled. Shall we go?”
Two middle-aged, middle-class women, hoping to add some spice to their lives by attending a psychic fair, left my house.
Jayne wore a dress in swirls of orange and brown that came to slightly below her knees, topped by a tattered jean jacket (circa 1990). A jaunty orange scarf was tied around her neck and sturdy, flat sandals were on her feet. Her lovely blond hair was tucked under a wig formed into a chin-length bob dyed blond with numerous gray streaks. I’d done my best with the makeup to roughen her skin, and to take some of the natural color out of her lips and cheeks, and replace it with pale powder and blush.
“I feel absolutely ridiculous,” she said.
“We’ll take your car in case anyone sees us arriving. The Miata won’t suit the image I want to project.”
“Plenty of middle-aged women like sports cars,” Jayne said.
“True, but Mary might have seen my car outside Rebecca’s house.”
“Does Ryan know about this?” she said as she backed out of the driveway onto Blue Water Place.
“We’re not doing anything illegal, Jayne.”
“Meaning, no, he does not. What are you hoping to prove, Gemma?”
“Mary Moffat’s the only genuine suspect we have, unless other people have a history with Iris Laval we don’t know about. I’m struggling to come up with a reason anyone else would have not only killed the woman but planned it ahead of time. The latter, I believe, is the most pertinent point. Why bring a concealed weapon to a gathering if you don’t plan to use it?”
“I suppose I can buy that. How’s this going to work?”
I would have outlined my plan, but that would mean I had a plan. I did not.
The day was clear and the sun bright, and traffic was light getting out of West London and continued to be so all the way down Route 6 to the town of Sandwich. I’d looked up the location of the fair and used the sat-nav on my phone to direct Jayne to the recreation center where the event was being held.
The parking lot was almost full. I had no way of knowing if that was normal for this place at this time of day, or if the psychic fair had attracted similar crowds as in West London.
Only one way to find out.
Jayne circled the lot until she found a place to park, and we got out of the car. She tugged awkwardly at the uncomfortable skirt and then reached for her hair.
“Don’t touch that wig,” I warned. “It might fall off.”
Her hand jerked back.
We went into the hall. The entrance fee was a shocking ten dollars each, twice as much as in West London.
“Your shout,” Jayne said, using an English expression she’d no doubt picked up during our visit to London. Meaning, I was expected to pay.
I did so.
The hall was crowded with booths and the aisles full of people checking everything out. Vendors beckoned browsers to investigate their wares; the air was full of the scent of incense sticks, fruity candles, and too many people gathered in an indoor space on a hot day. Jayne and I mingled with the browsers.
While Jayne pretended to admire a display of crystals, I said, “I’m looking forward to having my palm read,” in a plummy Boston accent. “There seem to be several choices.” I waved the program book we’d been handed when we (meaning I) paid in the direction of the booth owner. “Can you make any recommendations as to who might be best?”
She wore a swirling-multicolored dress. Her black hair, liberally streaked with gray, was tied into a long braid tossed over one shoulder. Silver rings adorned every finger, and rows of bracelets ran up her arms. “Everyone here’s fully vetted and qualified.” I didn’t ask vetted and pronounced qualified by whom. “Personally, I’ve found Mrs. Varga to be excellent. She’s recently arrived from Hungary and is a genuine Roma who had to flee her homeland to escape persecution. Her grandmother was renowned far and wide for her intelligence and insights into the human condition.” She pointed, bangles clattering, vaguely to our right.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to her. June, have you found any information about a séance yet? June?”
“What?” Jayne said. “Oh. Me. You’re talking to me. I’m going to ask around, uh, Emma.”
“You might not have much luck with that,” A bearded and bespeckled man selling tarot cards called to us. “Finding a séance, I mean. The medium associated with this show tragically passed away a few days ago. I don’t know that anyone’s taken her place yet. Have you heard anything about that, Dottie?”
“There’s been some interest, but I haven’t heard anything specific. It’s kinda a blow to the show, if you know what I mean,” Dottie said. “A genuine medium is a powerful draw. If you take two bags of those crystals, honey, I can throw in one of the hanging arrangements at a twenty-five percent discount.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jayne said. “We just got here, and I want to check everything out before I decide.”
“Deal won’t last much longer. I’m expecting a busy day.”
We wandered off, making a show of scrupulously studying everything. “What now, Gemma?” Jayne whispered.
“I’m going to have my palm read. You keep asking about séances and try to get a bite. I’m hoping someone will contact Mary Moffat to say they have a mark. I mean, an interested client.”
“What do I do then?”
“Meet with her and ask about having a séance, of course. See what she says in reply. Text me if you have any luck.”
Jayne gave me The Look. Then she shrugged, shook her head, and set off on her journey. She wasn’t able to restrain herself from giving her wig a solid tug.
I found Mrs. Varga with no trouble. Her booth was a rather rickety-looking structure constructed of tent poles. She’d strung scarves and pashminas from the frame, supposedly to give her clients some privacy. She was in her late fifties. Hair dyed a shocking shade of black, vampiric makeup, a slash of bloodred lipstick across her thin lips. She had no other customers, and I was soon seated on a small stool in the makeshift tent, having my palm read. I was pleased to hear I had a substantial amount of money coming my way, and my husband would soon recover from his recent indiscretion and come back to me. Apparently one of my children would be accepted into the college of her choice after all. Oh, and my own business would prosper and grow.
I clapped my hands in delight and thanked her profusely.
I hadn’t had to say much to get all that information either. Just emit a sigh in the right place, a twisting of the ring on my left hand accompanied by a deep swallow, and a muffled sob at the mention of my twenty-five-year marriage. I also commented on how competitive Ivy League colleges are these days and how it can be hard to make a small business grow.
“Thank you so much,” I said to Mrs. Varga, whose Hungarian accent was as fake as my Boston one. “I’m here with a friend, and I’ll be sure and bring her over.”
“Yes, yes. You do!”
I didn’t even begrudge the money I’d paid. It had been as entertaining as any movie.
It was excessively warm in the hall, and I was considering going in search something cold to drink when my phone buzzed to tell me I had an incoming text.
Jayne: Success! I’m meeting Mary in the refreshment area in ten minutes.
Me: Do not pay any money or commit to anything. If she offers you a séance, string her along and ask for the medium’s qualifications (sic). I want to know if she’s playing the medium or the assistant. Text me when you’re finished.
Jayne: Bond, Jayne Bond, signing out.
I put my phone away and continued browsing, showing an interest in everything. I wondered how many of the attendees were true believers and how many were simply out for a fun day to see what it was about. As I turned a corner between yet another crystal vendor and a booth offering spiritual healing (whatever that might be), none other than Mary Moffat herself cut in front of me. “Excuse me,” I said. “So sorry.” I needn’t have bothered going to all the trouble of wearing a disguise. So intent was she on her mission, she didn’t spare me a glance, and she paid no attention to anyone or anything else around her either. She almost shoved a couple of elderly ladies walking with the assistance of canes out of her way.
A woman on a mission. Very good indeed.
I decided to check out the bookseller while waiting for Jayne to complete her own mission and was heading in that direction when I stopped short at the sound of an angry voice.
“Not you again. Are you following me?” a man demanded.
“Not at all,” said a very familiar voice. “I came to see if you took my recommendation and got in some of the books I was telling you about.”
Donald Morris gestured toward the display racks. A somewhat garish collection of sci-fi and fantasy novels along with books on interpreting dreams, controlling astral travel, and reading tarot cards. “I don’t see any.”
“Books don’t appear on shelves just because I want them to, you know,” the other man said. “I have to put in orders, wait for delivery, and unpack the stock.”
“I suggested you go to the Sherlock Holmes—”
“Bookstore in West London. Yeah, I heard you. More than once. I don’t buy retail.”
“There’s a Sherlock Holmes bookstore in West London?” A third man said. “Where’s West London?”
Donald turned to the new arrival with a smile. The bookseller groaned and threw up his hands. “Not more than forty minutes from here,” Donald said. “Charming little town on the top of the peninsula between the ocean and Nantucket Sound, not far from Chatham. The shop is at 222 Baker Street—clever, isn’t it?—and they stock anything and everything to do with the Great Detective and his esteemed creator. Are you a follower of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m a follower, but I always enjoy Holmes books and TV shows. My wife and I are visiting from Oregon. She’s having her cards read.” He lowered his voice. “I’m killing time. Just having a look around. What does Conan Doyle have to do with this stuff?”
“Sir Arthur intensely believed in spiritualism and spent much of his life in the study and promotion of acceptance of the phenomenon.” Donald settled comfortably into lecture mode. “He participated in many séances, joined the search for fairies, took part in so-called spirit photography. A great many people of his time, particularly during and following the devastation of the Great War, were desperate to find meaning beyond death. Even when it could be proven he’d been the victim of a hoax, he didn’t waver in his insistence on their validity. The History of Spiritualism is perhaps the definitive book by Sir Arthur on his beliefs.” Donald led the man away from the bookseller’s booth. The vendor watched them go. If looks could kill.
I followed, blending with the crowds swirling around us but keeping close enough to hear Donald discussing his idol and his best-known creation as well as singing the praises of my shop. Donald’s enthusiasm can get carried to extremes sometimes, and he fails to notice that not everyone is as keen as he is. But this chap seemed genuinely interested, and they chatted for a few minutes until the man checked his watch and said he had to meet his wife. He promised to pay a visit to West London.
“Excellent scones at Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, adjacent to the bookstore,” Donald said. “If you want the full afternoon tea experience, you need to make a reservation.”
“Thanks. My wife would love that.” The man from Oregon walked away, leaving Donald looking highly pleased with himself.
I slipped up to him. “Pardon me. I couldn’t help but overhear. You were talking about Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes!” Donald beamed at me. “Are you also interested in him, or in Sir Arthur, perhaps? Many Americans are not aware that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a prominent member of the early twentieth century spiritualism community and that he—”
“Got it, thanks,” I said in my own voice.
He eyes narrowed. He leaned forward and peered into my face. “Gemma?”
“The one and only.”
“What … I mean … what happened to you?”
“I’d tell you I had a ghostly encounter that aged me twenty years overnight, but that’s not actually true, so I won’t.”
“You’re undercover.” His eyes widened in delight. He touched his finger to his lips and gave me a broad wink. “Your secret is safe with me, my dear.”
“Glad to hear it. If we run into each other again, you don’t know me.”
Another wink.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Jayne: Finished
That was quick.
Me: Meet me by the front doors
“You’re here with Jayne,” Donald said. “Shall I ignore her too?”
“Yes, please.”
He gave me another conspiratorial wink and a nod and walked away.
Jayne and I toured the parking lot while she filled me in on her meeting with Mary Moffat. “I did what you suggested and told people I was interested in organizing a séance for a group of friends. Several of them told me about Madame Lavalier’s death, saying they didn’t know what was happening now. Finally, I met someone who said her assistant might be able to put me in touch with a medium. She called Mary. Mary, obviously, wasn’t far, and she came right away.”
“First, did she recognize you?”
“No. I’m pretty sure she didn’t.”
“Did she offer you a séance?”
“No, she didn’t. She told me that due to the sudden death of her employer, she’s searching for someone of, and I quote, power, to whom she can offer her assistance. Can I take off this wig and jacket now? I’m hot.”
“Not yet. She might come out any minute, and I don’t want to rumble us in case we have to go back and talk to her again.”
“Rumble?”
“I’m trying out my American gangster expressions. Is that right?”
“I have absolutely no idea, Gemma. Not being an American gangster, or any other type of gangster. Anyway, Mary was very forthright. She gave me her card and asked for my contact information. I gave her my mom’s number.”
“Your mom?”
“I couldn’t very well give her mine, now could I? Not if I don’t want to be ‘rumbled’ if she calls. She didn’t ask me for any money, and she didn’t offer to arrange anything specific. She said she enjoys helping people get in contact, one last time, with their dearly departed—her words, not mine—and hoped to be able to do so when the circumstances are again favorable.”
“She didn’t suggest she could act as the medium?”
Jayne shook her head. Her hair didn’t move. “I asked her if she’d consider leading the session herself, but she said no. She said it’s the great tragedy of her life that she hasn’t been gifted with the ability.”
Which was probably right. If by ability she meant the ability to put on different voices and accents and to manipulate the space around her without appearing to be doing so.
Mary Moffat needed a new junior partner.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve got enough. Let’s go home.”
“Thank goodness. I hope you’re not too disappointed I didn’t learn anything.”
“Disappointed? Not in the least. Learning a negative can be as important as a positive.”
“Huh?”
“We learned it’s highly unlikely Mary Moffat murdered Iris Laval. For her, it would have been killing the goose that lays the golden egg. Moffat needed Laval to keep them in business. Laval’s death brought a lot of attention to their nasty little operation, but that attention is useless without a medium to continue the work. It’s unlikely you’re the only one coming to this thing searching for someone to lead a séance. Yet the best Moffat can do is get your phone number and say she’ll be in touch. I’d love to see Moffat banged up for fraud, but that’s not our purview. Hopefully Ryan can talk the Greenwoods into helping him build a case.”
“What do the Greenwoods have to do with anything like that?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Let’s go.”
“Is that Donald over there? Walking across the parking lot with his head down, so determined not to look in our direction he doesn’t see the pole looming directly in front of him?”
“That would be our Donald.” I let out a long, piercing whistle strong enough to make him look up in shock. And thus, he saw the obstacle in front of his nose.
I pulled off my wig. “This thing’s hot, and it itches. Let’s go home.”