you told me about Hertha Gloriana the other day that I went to see her this morning. I used your name shamelessly. I hope you don't object.'
'Of course not. Isn't she a remarkable woman?'
'She is that,' I said. 'And lovely.'
'Careful, Archy,' Mrs. Gillsworth said, laughing. 'Hertha is happily married, and Frank carries a gun.'
That shook me. 'Why on earth would he do that?'
'He says it's just a precaution. Sometimes they have to deal with irrational or deeply disturbed people.'
'I can imagine,' I said. 'The lunatic fringe.'
'Exactly,' she said. 'If you don't mind my asking, why did you consult Hertha?'
I told her my loopy story about the close friend whose beloved cat was missing and how I had asked Mrs. Gloriana to visualize the pet's present whereabouts. Lydia didn't think my request unusual at all.
'I'm sure Hertha will be able to help,' she said. 'She's very good at locating lost things. She told Laverne Willigan where to find her pearl earrings.'
I suspect that if I had been wearing dentures they might have popped out at that moment. I know my jaw flopped open and I stared about wildly to make certain the world was still there.
'And where were the earrings?' I asked hoarsely.
'Behind her dresser drawer. They had caught on the inside molding.'
'I know Mrs. Willigan,' I said as casually as I
could. 'Her husband is a client of ours. Does La-verne attend those seances Mrs. Gloriana holds?'
'Oh yes, she never misses a session.'
I didn't want to push it any farther.
'That's another part of my confession, Mrs. Gillsworth,' I said. 'I asked Hertha if I might sit in on one of your meetings. She said I could, and have you bring me to the next gathering.'
'Of course,' she said. 'As a matter of fact, there's one tonight at seven o'clock.'
'Ah, what a shame,' I said. 'I have a dinner date I dare not break. Well, I'll make certain I'm at the next one, with your kind assistance. And now the request: I'd like to learn more about spiritualism, and I wondered if you had any books on the subject you'd be willing to lend me. Return guaranteed. I'm especially intrigued about the possibility of contacting those who have, uh, departed this life for existence on another plane.'
'Oh, Archy, I have a whole library of books on the subject. You'll find them fascinating, I'm sure. Suppose I select three or four that will give you the basic information on our beliefs.'
'I'd certainly appreciate that. When may I pick them up?'
'Let me see. . I have a little shopping to do, but I should be back around two o'clock. Can you stop by then?'
'Love to. Thank you so much for all your help, Mrs. Gillsworth.'
I drove home for lunch and found I had the McNally manse to myself. Mother and the Olsons had departed on a shopping safari to replenish our larder, but a note left on the kitchen table informed me that a Caesar salad, heavy on the garlic, had been prepared for my pleasure and was chilling in the fridge.
I had a glass of California chablis with the salad and popped a few fresh strawberries for dessert. Then I trudged upstairs to my digs, donned my reading specs, and placed the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note next to the poison-pen letter sent to Lydia Gillsworth. I compared them carefully, and to my inexpert eye they definitely appeared to have been composed on the same machine.
Even more telling, both documents included the word 'horrendous.' That is not an adjective commonly used in written communications. What could I think but that both letters had quite likely been written by the same person? It was not hard evidence, I admit, but I was more convinced than ever that the catnapping and the threats against Mrs. Gillsworth were somehow connected.
I started to scrawl notes in my journal about the morning encounter with Hertha and Frank Gloriana, but I tossed my gold Mont Blanc aside, unable to concentrate.
What was confounding me was Laverne Willigan's apparent interest in spiritualism. She always seemed to me such a physical woman, whose main enthusiasms were chocolate eclairs, tanning her hide, and amassing expensive baubles. It came as a shock to hear she attended seances.
It was obvious I had misjudged Laverne; she was more than a featherbrain with a zoftig bod. It made me wonder if my opinions of other actors in this drama were similarly in error. Perhaps Harry Willigan, beneath his bluster, was a devotee of macrame, and Frank Gloriana a keen student of the bass lute. Anything, I concluded glumly, was possible.
But my sour mood dissipated as I drove southward to my meeting with Lydia Gillsworth. Now there was a woman who harbored no hidden passions or guilts; I was ready to swear to that. She was complete and without artifice.
She was waiting for me in a sitting room that was an aquarium of light. She had just purchased several twig baskets of dried flowers, and their presence made the room seem like a country garden. She took such an innocent joy in the hydrangea, pepper-berries, and love-in-a-mist that her pleasure was infectious. I requested and received a pink straw-flower to place in the buttonhole of my Technicolor jacket.
She had three books ready for me, neatly stacked in a small Saks shopping bag.
'Now, Archy,' she said, 'you must promise to read these slowly and completely.'
'I promise,' I vowed.
'Your first reaction,' she went on, 'will be laughter. You'll say to yourself, 'What nonsense this is!' But if you open your mind and heart to these ideas you'll find yourself wondering if the whole concept might not be true. Do try to wonder, Archy.'
'I shall.'
'You must not think about spiritualism in a logical manner,' she said severely. 'It is not a philosophy; it is a faith. So don't try to analyze. Just let the belief enter into you and see if it doesn't answer a lot of questions you've always asked.'
She was so sincere and earnest that I was more impressed by her than by her words. Mr. Webster defines 'nice' as, among other things, 'well-bred, virtuous, respectable.' Lydia Gillsworth was all of that, I thought, and observing her eager efforts to set me on the right path, I felt great affection for her.
Among the zillion problems I've never been able to solve is whether there can ever be a true friendship between a man and a woman if sexual attraction is totally lacking. I'm just not sure. But at that moment, in Mrs. Gillsworth's sunlit country garden, listening to her quiet voice and gazing into her limpid eyes, I did feel a kinship that I believed came near to love.
I thanked her for the books and rose to leave. She came close and held me by the shoulders. She gave me a smile of surpassing warmth.
'Be prepared, Archy,' she said, almost mischievously. 'These books may change your life.'
'Any change would be an improvement,' I said, and she laughed and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
I returned home thinking what a sweet woman she was. I felt empathy for the terror those dreadful letters aroused in Roderick Gillsworth. It may sound odd to you, but I now considered threats against Lydia's life an act of blasphemy; that's how convinced I was of her goodness.
Back in my cave, I did little more than glance at the books she had loaned me. I read the introductions and scanned the chapter headings, then tossed the volumes aside. Oh, I planned to read them in their entirety eventually, but I knew it would be heavy going.
I went for my ocean swim, dutifully attended the family cocktail hour, and at seven o'clock that evening I was waiting in the driveway of the Lady Cynthia Horowitz estate, having announced my arrival to the housekeeper. Ten minutes later Con-suela Garcia came scampering out, slid into the Miata, and away we went.
I don't care how exacting your standards may be,
I assure you, male or female, that if you ever saw Connie you'd think me a dolt for casting a libidinous eye at any other woman. She is not beautiful in a conventional way, but she is certainly attractive and so sparkling that she could persuade a golem to dance a gavotte.
She is rather shortish and plumpish, but she sports a year-round tan and usually lets her long, glossy black hair float free. I think I mentioned previously that I once saw her in a string bikini. More impressive than Mount Rushmore, I assure you.
That evening she was wearing a white silk shirt with white denim jeans. Atop her head was a jaunty straw
