It isn't that I don't like Praxythea; it's just that I feel totally inadequate every time I'm near her. She's beautiful while I'm ordinary, tall while I'm height disadvan-taged, and has a perfect figure while my weight would be okay if I were eight or nine inches taller. On top of all that she's rich, and her first book,
“You don't mind my staying here, do you?”
“No, of course not.” Praxythea hadn't become famous only because she was beautiful. She was also intelligent and witty. As a houseguest, she would be better company than those traitorous animals of mine.
“Would you get me another drink please, Tori? I don't want to disturb these darling cats.” Fred squirmed with pleasure and adjusted his tail.
I glared at him as I carried Praxythea's glass to the bar, where I poured an inch of Scotch into it. I didn't want to cloud those psychic vibrations she'd mentioned. Then I poured about three inches in another glass for myself. I had no vibrations to worry about, and as late as it was, I'd welcome a cloud-all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and get to bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day: I still had to write up my interview with the Pof-fenbergers and, of course, I'd want to keep up with the progress of the search parties.
I handed her the glass. “I'd better extinguish that fire,” I said. “The chimneys haven't been cleaned in years.”
“It's safe, Tori. I checked it out.”
“Physically or psychically?”
“Don't worry about it.”
I slumped into the armchair and hoped Ethelind had a good homeowner's policy. Still, I did have to admit it was nice to have a fire going. For the first time since I'd moved in, I was warm. The firelight cast a cozy glow upon the room, camouflaging the dust and the shabby upholstery, and making it easy to imagine how grand it must have been ninety years ago.
We sipped our drinks, and Praxythea filled me in on her most recent psychic adventures. Lulled by the warmth, her melodic voice, and the Scotch, I was nearly asleep when the sound of a car approaching on the gravel driveway startled me awake.
“What time is it?” I'd been meaning to get my Timex repaired for months.
“Only a little past one. That should be Luscious Miller.”
“Luscious! Why?”
“I called him a few minutes before you got home. I've offered to help him with his search for the boy.”
A moment later, there was a loud pounding at the back door.
“I'll get it.” Did I have any choice?
Luscious stood on the back porch, stripping off layers of clothing. I asked, “Any luck?”
He shook his head, so upset he didn't even bother to rearrange his hair over his bald spot. “Praxythea Evange- lista called me-said she's come all the way from New York to help us,” he said. “She found a missing murder victim for us back a few years ago. We're real lucky to have her.”
“Indeed we are.” I tried not to sound skeptical. After all, it couldn't hurt to have her here, despite what I thought about her psychic abilities. “Luscious, if I were you, I'd ask those kids more questions. The ones that were with Kevin before he got lost. There was something peculiar about the way they acted-I don't trust them.”
“Thanks, Tori. I'll do that. First thing in the morning.”
Praxythea was standing when we entered the parlor. Now I saw she wore a creamy raw-silk pantsuit with a purple scarf artfully draped around her neck. Purple, I recalled, represented spiritualism. I couldn't help feeling shorter, heavier, and more poorly dressed than I had a few minutes ago.
She held her arms out, and Luscious, with a goofy smile on his face, stepped right into her embrace.
“So good to see you again,” she whispered huskily into his right ear. His bald spot glowed like a fuchsia in full bloom.
“Let's start at once, shall we?” Praxythea said. Looking at me, she said, “We'll need a small table and some straight-backed chairs.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “You're not going to hold a seance, are you?”
“I prefer to call them
Luscious and I carried in three oak chairs from the kitchen and set them around the table Praxythea had selected.
“Very nice. I need one more thing. Something convex with a reflective surface to concentrate on.”
“You mean a crystal ball, don't you?” I said. “I'm surprised you didn't bring one with you.”
“Mine is far too heavy to carry with me and is really not necessary. I'm sure you can find something suitable.”
“Would you like some background music, Praxythea? I have an Enya tape.”
Her cool stare told me my attempt at humor was not appreciated. A few minutes later, the three of us sat in a circle around the rosewood table, holding hands and staring at an upside-down one-and-a-half-quart Pyrex baking dish. As Praxythea had ordered, all the lamps were turned off and the only light in the room came from the burning logs in the hearth.
“Concentrate on the reflection,” she told us. “Let your eyes relax until you feel you are falling into it.”
“Just like looking at a 3-D computer picture,” I commented, crossing my eyes.
“Whatever it takes for you, Tori. Relax. Empty your mind. Be receptive to what comes.” Her eyes narrowed to nearly closed slits. I was afraid if I did as instructed I'd fall asleep, so I concentrated on a baked-on gravy stain on the side of the bowl.
We sat that way for a long time, while the fire died down to embers and the room turned cold. Once or twice I imagined I saw a shadowy image move across the surface of the bowl, but when I tried to bring it into focus, it disappeared. An illusion caused by moving light and tired eyes, I thought.
The room was dark. Way too dark. There should be moonlight coming in through the windows. My hands were icy cold, and I wished I could disentangle my fingers and blow some warmth into them. Although I tried to act nonchalant, I didn't like this type of thing at all. The memory of an encounter with something evil in the Mark Twain house in New York was still fresh in my mind. Intellectually, I knew there were no ghosts, spirits, or evil entities, but something deep inside the darkest reaches of my mind told me differently.
Suddenly, Praxythea's long bloodred fingernails dug into my palm. “I'm here,” she said, only it wasn't her voice that emitted from her mouth. “Mommy, I'm here, and I'm cold and scared. Where are you? Why don't you come, Mommy?”
A frisson of fear chilled my spine. What I was hearing was a small child. A frightened child. A child who was now crying.
A tear trickled down the psychic's cheek as the child continued. “Why don't you come? I've waited so long. Please, come get me. It's so dark. Please… please… please…” The voice deteriorated into pathetic sobbing that nearly broke my heart. I kept trying to remind myself that it was only Praxythea being dramatic, but damn, she truly did sound like a child.
“Where are you, darling?” Praxythea's speech was back to normal. She sounded like a concerned mother, talking calmly, trying not to alarm her frightened toddler.
The child's voice answered. “It's so deep… and still… something's holding me down… I'm cold… here… by the edge of running water…” The voice faded, and the room suddenly felt twenty degrees warmer.
“Lights, please, Luscious,” Praxythea ordered.
Luscious leaped to do her bidding. I pried Praxythea's fingers off my hand and rubbed the painful dents in my flesh. When the lights came on, I saw she looked dreadfully worn. The dark purple of old bruises circled her eyes, and her cheeks were pale and sunken. I could actually see her heart pounding through the soft silk of her suit.
My heart pounded, too, with fear that she might have a stroke or something equally awful. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, and she accepted it wordlessly. Luscious helped himself to something from the bar, and we sat and waited.
After a few minutes, Praxythea regained her usual, glamorous demeanor with no apparent ill effects. “He's trapped,” she said. “I saw a deep, still pool of water surrounded by cliffs. There's running water nearby. A spring or maybe a small creek. Can you think of any place that fits that description, Luscious?”
