Everyone seemed to arrive then. Sam and I planted ourselves in the living room, Sam standing and chatting at one end, and I standing and chatting at the other. Miss Betsy Powell and Harold weren’t the only two people to compliment me on my glittery blue gown. Their appreciation helped keep my nerves calm(ish).
Dennis Bissel arrived with Brian O’Hara. Guess Dennis’s wife, Patsy, didn’t feel up to attending a séance. Made perfect sense to me. If I had the choice of being with a baby of my own or attending a séance, I’d opt for the baby, too.
Other people poured through the front door. There seemed to be a horde of them, and I wasn’t sure where Mrs. Bissel had found them all. Or maybe some of them were Sam’s plants. Interesting thought. A couple of men who might possibly be of Italian extraction entered with the rest of the bunch. I couldn’t identify friend from foe. Nertz.
Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Albert Costello mingled with the company, some of whom I recognized and some of whom I didn’t. My relief when I saw Flossie walk into the room was so profound I had to check myself from galloping over and snatching her hand. Maintaining my dignity, I wafted her way, smiling sweetly. When I reached her, I leaned in to give her a cheek-kiss. “I’m so glad you’re here, Flossie!” I whispered as our cheeks met. “I’m scared to death.”
“No need to worry, Daisy,” said the ever-encouraging Flossie. “According to Johnny, everything should go as smooth as butter.”
Recalling how stone-like butter could be when left in the Frigidaire, her words gave me scant comfort.
When a hand fell on my shoulder, I jumped twelve inches into the air and whirled around, whacking poor Flossie with one of the sequined side panels of my dress. Miss Betsy Powell registered astonishment at my reaction to her hand on my shoulder. It didn’t help that my juju took that precise moment to send a jolt of heat through me. I very nearly uttered a swear word. But I didn’t. Nor did I scream.
“Miss Powell,” I said, when I could get my vocal cords to work, “you startled me.” Turning to Flossie, I said, “I’m sorry, Flossie. Did my dress hurt you?”
With a genuine laugh—I could tell—Flossie said, “No, your perfectly stunning dress didn’t hurt me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Betsy Powell, sounding contrite. As well she should. “But Detective Rotondo told me yesterday when he kindly drove me home from church that you might be able to read some tea leaves for me.” She held out a gorgeous teacup with nothing in it but a wee bit of tea and some leaves. Because Harold and I had been looking at china patterns for weeks, I recognized the pattern as Royal Albert’s Lavender Rose, which was more pink than lavender, but I had no part in naming the pattern.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Powell,” I said with some contrition of my own. “Yes, I’ll be more than happy to read tea leaves for you.” I glanced at Flossie, who appeared amused.
Because Flossie was more polite than either Miss Betsy Powell or I, she said, “So nice to see you again, Miss Powell. I’m Mrs. Buckingham. We met yesterday at the exercise class at your church.”
Miss Betsy Powell stared at Flossie for a moment, blank-faced, and then smiled. Not precisely quick off the mark, our Miss Betsy Powell. “Of course! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Buckingham. It’s lovely to see you again, too. I was so eager to get Mrs. Majesty to read my tea leaves, I forgot my manners.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Flossie with one of her sweet, gentle, let’s-all-be-friends smiles. “In fact, I’d love to watch as she does it, if nobody minds.”
“Not at all,” said I, probably before Miss Betsy Powell even digested Flossie’s question.
When she did, she too said, “Not at all, as long as Mrs. Majesty doesn’t mind.”
Because I’d already said I didn’t mind, I didn’t repeat myself. The three of us glanced around the room. It looked to me as though Sam had been monitoring the progress of our trio, because he deftly pulled a chair up next to another chair flanking a piecrust table. Harold, I presume taking a clue from Sam, fetched another chair and plopped it down with the other two. Both men then stood, guarding the arranged chairs and table, ready to fend off anyone who wasn’t Flossie, Miss Betsy Powell and me. So, arrangements having been so obligingly arranged, we three wafted over and sat in the chairs.
That is to say, I wafted. The other two strolled.
“Just put your cup and saucer on the table, if you will, Miss Powell,” I said once we’d arrived at the three chairs and the table. “Isn’t this a lovely china pattern?” I added the last part just for…I don’t know, actually. Still a trifle edgy, I guess. Especially now that my erratic juju had made its presence known. If it only shot me when Miss Betsy Powell came near me, what the heck good was it? I knew for a certified fact she hadn’t kidnapped Vi, even if she’d unwittingly been the cause of the evil deed by spreading Vi’s culinary fame in criminous circles.
First placing her napkin on the table like a good girl, Miss Betsy Powell then set her cup and saucer on the napkin. “Just to make sure we don’t damage the table,” she said unnecessarily.
“Yes. Thank you,” I said. “Now let me take a look here…”
I moved my bottom to the edge of my chair—a sturdy example of some French king’s reign, so it didn’t tip me over—and peered into the teacup. And there I saw—ta-da!—tea leaves! Whatta shock, huh?
Nevertheless, in full mystical mode, I passed a beautifully manicured hand over the teacup—I wore gloves when I worked in the garden. “Hmmmm,” I said.
Mrs. Betsy Powell gulped audibly.
“Ahhh,” I murmured, passing the other hand over the same teacup. Deciding enough was enough, I didn’t do any more hand tricks, but continue peering, as if fascinated, at the muck at the bottom of the teacup. Miss Powell used sugar in her tea, I noticed. “Hmmm.”
“Oh,” she whispered, “What do you see?”
Tea leaves. I saw tea leaves. I didn’t say so. “It’s a bit murky,” I said. “A little confused.”
“Oh, dear. Is that bad?”
“Let me peruse the leaves a moment longer,” I whispered. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Flossie looking as though she were trying not to laugh. Glad one of us thought this was amusing, I furrowed my brow a trifle. Didn’t want to give myself permanent wrinkles, but I wanted Miss Powell to fret some. “This appears…” I allowed my words to peter out.
“It appears what?” Miss Powell snapped. Then she yawned.
I nearly lifted my head to stare at her because that yawn seemed so…I don’t know. Out of place or something, but I restrained myself. “It looks as if there might be a little trouble coming your way.”
“What kind of trouble?” she whispered fiercely. Then she yawned again.
What did this mean?
Oh, who knew?
“Let me study the leaves for a bit,” I requested. Since she couldn’t do much to stop me, she did. She fidgeted, though.
After a few seconds of looking at soggy tea leaves, I sat up straight and looked Miss Betsy Powell in the eye. “I fear I see some trouble in your future, Miss Powell. I can’t tell precisely what kind, but I can tell it involves a man.”
Her face took on such a miserably bleak expression I felt sorry for her. “Oh, no,” she said softly. “Not again!”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I reached out to take her hand, which was properly gloved, as was mine. The gloves would come off in the séance room.
That didn’t sound right.
“But Albert seems so nice. He’s been very kind to me, too.”
“Perhaps he’s not the man who will cause you trouble,” suggested Flossie. I’d have scowled at her if circumstances had been different. “Although,” she added, probably having read my unexpressed scowl—Flossie was a lot better at reading people than I was—“as he’s the one you’ve been closest to lately, well…”
Dejected, Miss Powell said, “It’s probably Albert. I should have known better than to get involved with him.”
Intrigued, I said, “Oh? Why is that?”
“Another woman at work told me he belongs to a group of men who are no better than thugs.”
“Really?” Fascinating!
“Yes.” She seemed to have fallen into the slough of despond. Poor thing. “But I’m so old, men never pay attention to me any longer, and those who do are awful.” She looked searchingly at me. “Well, you know that better than anyone, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. I’m sorry, Miss Powell. However, I don’t think you’re too old for a man to pay attention to you.” Actually, I did, but I’d never admit it. Anyhow, it wasn’t her age that repelled people. It was her whiny voice. And her scream.
“You should come to the Salvation Army, Miss Powell,” said Flossie, surprising Miss Powell and me both. “Quite a few fine, unattached men come to our services.”
Miss Betsy Powell looked astounded. “The Salvation Army? Do you go to the Salvation Army?” She sounded as if the Salvation Army were slime under her feet.
I guess Flossie was accustomed to this reaction, because she laughed softly, as opposed to my wanting to slug her in the jaw. “Indeed I am. My husband is captain of the local chapter, in fact. I’d love it if you’d attend a service one Sunday. We do a lot of good in the world, Miss Powell.”
“That’s true,” I said, both to fortify Flossie’s invitation—I’d love to get Miss Powell out of my own church, which is sinful, I think—but also because it was the truth. “They do wonderful things for the community and for children, and…well, for everyone.”
“Really?” Miss Betsy Powell squinted at me as if she thought I’d lost my mind.
However, before we could continue our conversation, Miss Powell yawned again, covered her mouth with a hand, shook her head, appeared embarrassed and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. All of a sudden, I feel so sleepy.”
Goodness gracious sakes alive! If my wonderful aunt had prepared this evening’s meal for Miss Betsy Powell and her evil companions, perhaps she’d dumped some valerian or some other sleep-inducing plant in the stew! I didn’t have time to cultivate this interesting notion, however, because Mrs. Bissel clapped her hands, we gave starts of one degree or another, and she said in a penetrating voice, “It’s time for the séance, ladies and gentlemen! I’ll let Mrs. Majesty lead the way.”
So I did. Standing gracefully—honestly, I’m not bragging (well, not much anyhow), but I’d honed my act to perfection, and grace was part of the act—I gave the gathering an enigmatic smile and said softly and melodically, “Please follow me.”
I all but floated to the hall off the living room, turned right, and led my lambs into the breakfast room through the side door. I noticed the door leading to the sunroom had already been closed. Sam’s doing once more, I was sure.
A brief scuffle ensued when three people attempted to walk side-by-side through the rather narrow passage from the hall into the breakfast room, but no fisticuffs ensued. In fact, I heard a couple of “I beg your pardon’s,” so people remained polite to each other. So far, so good. When I entered the room, I went directly to the head of the table. Keiji stood beside the light switch, ready to turn the lights off when I gave him the signal. He’d already set one cranberry-glass lamp with one candle in the center of the table. Well, more or less center. The table was kind of oblong. But that’s what I allowed during my séances: one cranberry-glass lamp with a candle in it. And I was in charge here.
It occurred to me as I stood at the table’s head and watched the sheep shuffle in that I actually did feel powerful when I conducted a séance. So little of our lives are within our control, really, when you think about it. We can’t control who lives and who dies; we can’t control what other people think or say; we can’t make me good at algebra; we can’t make Frank Pagano smart or Stacy Kincaid good; the list goes on and on. But I could control my own séances.
Oh, very well. There was the one exception when the police raided the speakeasy in which I’d begun conducting a séance. And I guess things got a little out of hand when the ghost of Eddie Hastings showed up during a séance, but for the most part, I held firm sway over my séances. I devoutly prayed this evening’s wouldn’t turn out to be another exception.
Flossie took the chair at the end of the table. She smiled at me. I didn’t smile back, because I was acting. Rather, I gave her a faintly imperious nod and watched the others gather round. Mrs. Bissel sat next to me on the right. Dennis Bissel sat next to me on the left. Brian O’Hara didn’t appear, but Mr. Costello and Miss Betsy Powell sat between Flossie and Mrs. Bissel. Harold Kincaid and a fellow I didn’t know sat between Dennis Bissel and Flossie on the left. My left, I mean.
The candle in the red lamp had been lighted. Keiji’s doing, I knew. So I stood silent at the table’s head and watched impassively as everyone took their seats and looked at me with expressions varying from avid interest to ennui. Mr. Costello appeared fascinated. Anyhow, after they’d all sat down and had begun rustling and clearing their throats, and doing all the other things people do before a séance, I still stood and gazed upon them as if I were a queen deciding which varlet’s head to chop off.
Eventually, they became as silent as a room full of people can become, which is…I don’t know. Relatively quiet, all things considered. Over years of doing this, I’d discovered that when I didn’t speak for minutes on end at the beginning of a séance, people began first to get nervous and then to feel slightly intimidated. Under ordinary circumstances, the notion that I, Daisy Gumm Majesty—soon to become Daisy Rotondo, if the world ever cooperated—could intimidate anyone would make me laugh hysterically. But this was my job. It was my family’s main source of income. And, darn it, I was good at it!
So…well, anyway, after I remained silent so long everyone got nervous and started to fidget, I nodded slowly, looked at each individual in turn, then sat and said, “Please remain silent.”
Because I still wasn’t sure who I was supposed to conjure, I stared directly at Mr. Costello, whose icy blue eyes couldn’t meet mine. Ha! Success!
Ahem. I beg your pardon.
“Mr. Costello,” said I, softly and melodiously, “I understand you might have a departed loved one with whom you’d like to be in touch. May I please have the person’s name?”
“Who?” said Mr. Costello. “Me?” He glanced wildly around the table, as if searching for an escape route.
Tilting my head slightly, “You mean you do not have a deceased loved one with whom you’d like to communicate this evening?”
“No! I mean, no, thank you. I mean, no. That’s okay. Talk to somebody else. Maybe later.”
“Very well,” I said in my most regal voice—but still softly and spiritualistically, of course, “Mrs. Bissel, would you like me to see if Rolly is able to get in touch with Mrs. Baskerville?”
“Oh, yes, dear. Thank you. That would be wonderful.”
“Very well,” I said again. “Will the ladies please remove your gloves.” I watched as the women in the room took off their gloves. I’d already shucked my own. Then I sat with only the hint of a swish. My sequins didn’t make hardly any noise at all, by golly!
“Thank you. Everyone, please take hands.” Everyone took his or her neighbor’s hand. I studied the table to make sure no one was cheating. “Thank you. As the séance begins, I ask that you remain silent. Any noise might interrupt the flow of energy from this world to the next. If everyone cooperates, my spirit control will come to visit us. This may take a few minutes, so don’t squirm.” I sounded stern. “Do you all understand the rules?”
Everyone nodded. I turned my head slightly and gave my own nod to Keiji, who switched off the lights. A gasp went up. It always did during this part of the proceedings. As I did every time, I said, “Silence, please,” and everyone stopped gasping and shut up.
You know, I could get used to being able to wield this much power. Too bad it only lasted a half-hour or so at a time.
Ah, well. Nobody ever said life was fair. In fact, I probably didn’t say it even more than most people didn’t say it.