the phone. 'We heard about Lydia Gillsworth,' he said. 'Dreadful thing.'
'Yes,' I said, 'wasn't it.'
He pushed a button, spoke softly into the phone, and hung up. 'She's ready for you,' he reported. 'This way, please.'
He again conducted me down the hallway to his wife's chamber. There were two other closed doors in that corridor but they were unmarked, and I had no idea what lay behind them. Gloriana ushered me into the medium's sanctum, then withdrew.
She was standing alongside her high-backed chair, and when the door closed she came floating forward to place her hands on my shoulders. I marveled at how petite she was: a very small wraith indeed, and seemingly fragile.
'Lydia has gone over,' she said in that muted voice, 'and you are desolated.'
'It was a shock,' I agreed. 'I still find it hard to accept.'
She nodded, led me to her wing chair, and insisted
I sit there. She remained standing before me. I thought it an awkward position for a conversation, but it didn't seem to trouble her.
'Did Lydia tell you how she felt about physical death?' she asked.
'Yes, she did.'
'Then you must believe the spirit we both knew still exists. This is not the only world, you know.'
She said that with such conviction that I could not doubt her sincerity. But I thought her a world-class fruitcake. Strangely, her feyness made her more attractive to me. I'm a foursquare hedonist myself, but I've always been intrigued by otherworldly types. They live as if they're collecting Frequent Flier points for a one-way trip to the hereafter.
'Mrs. Gloriana,' I started, but she held up a soft palm.
'Please,' she said, 'call me Hertha. I feel a great kinship with you. May I call you Archy?'
'Of course,' I said, pleased. 'Hertha, Lydia promised to bring me to one of your seances. In fact, she suggested the meeting last evening, but I was unable to make it. Perhaps if I had, things might have turned out differently.'
'No,' she said, staring at me, 'nothing would have changed. Do not blame yourself.'
I hadn't, but it was sweet of her to comfort me.
'I would still like to attend one of your gatherings. Would that be possible?'
She was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I was to be rejected.
'There will be no more sessions until October, Archy,' she said finally. 'So many people have gone north for the summer.'
The off-season seemed a curious reason to halt spirit communication, but I supposed the medium charged per communicant, so there was a good commercial justification for it.
'Do you ever hold private seances?' I asked. 'Could that be arranged?'
She turned and began to move back and forth, hugging her elbows. She was wearing a flowered dress of some gossamer stuff, and it wafted as she paced.
'Perhaps,' she said. 'But the chances of success would be lessened. The psychic power of a circle of believers is naturally much stronger than that of an individual. I could ask Frank and his mother to join us. Would that be acceptable?'
'Of course.'
'And do you have a friend or two you could bring along? Individuals who are sympathetic to spiritualism even if they are not yet firm believers?'
'Yes, I think I could provide at least one person like that.'
'Very well,' she said. 'I'll plan a session and let you know when arrangements have been finalized.'
Her language surprised me. She spoke as if she was scheduling a corporate teleconference.
'Fine,' I said. 'I'm looking forward to it. And now about Peaches. . Have you received any messages on the cat's whereabouts?'
She stopped moving and turned to face me. But instead of the intent gaze I expected, her eyes slowly closed.
'Faint and indistinct,' she said, and now her wispy voice took on what I can only call a singsong quality. 'The cat is alive and healthy. I see it in a very plain room. It's just a single room with bed, dresser, small desk, armchair.' Her eyes opened. 'I am sorry, Archy, but that is all I have. I cannot see where this room is located. But if you wish, I will keep trying.'
'Please do,' I urged. 'I think you've done wonders so far.'
She didn't reply, and I had nothing more to ask about Peaches. I rose, moved toward the door, then paused.
'Hertha,' I said, 'when we have our seance, do you think we could contact Lydia Gillsworth?'
She looked at me gravely. 'It might be possible.'
'Could we ask her the name of her murderer?'
'Yes,' she said, 'we will ask.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'Please let me know when the session will be held.'
She nodded and then moved close to me. Very close. She lifted up on her toes and kissed me full on the mouth. It was not a kiss of commiseration between two fellow mourners. It was a physical kiss, sensual and stirring. Her lips were soft and warm. So much for my vision of her as a wraith. Ghosts don't kiss, do they?
She pulled away and must have seen my shock, for she smiled, opened the door, and gently pushed me out.
There was no one in the reception room. The place seemed deserted.
I drove home in a State of Utter: utterly startled, utterly confused, utterly flummoxed. I confess it wasn't the catnapping or murder that inspired my mental muddle; it was that carnal kiss bestowed by Ms. Gloriana. What did she mean by it? Kisses usually have meaning, do they not? They can signal a promise, serve as a lure, demonstrate a passion- any number of swell things.
Hertha's kiss was an enigma I could not solve. It had to be significant, but where the import lay I could not decide. As you may have guessed, my ego is not fragile, but I could not believe the lady had suddenly been overwhelmed by my beauty and brio. I am no Godzilla, but I am no young Tyrone Power either. I mean women are not repelled by my appearance, but neither do they swoon in my presence or feel an irresistible desire to nibble my lips.
I was still trying to puzzle out the mystery of that inexplicable kiss when I arrived home just as my father was garaging his Lexus. We paced back and forth together on the graveled turnaround before going inside.
'Have you heard from Sergeant Rogoff?' he asked.
'No, father. I expect he's busy.'
'Have you made any progress?'
I was tempted to reply, 'Yes, sir. I was smooched by a medium.' But I said, 'No, sir. Nothing of importance. Was Lydia's will as you remembered it?'
He nodded. 'Roderick is the main beneficiary- which causes a problem. We also drew his will: a simple document since his estate is hardly extensive. He leaves what little cash he has and his personal effects to his wife. He bequeaths the original manuscripts of his poems to the Library of Congress.'
'They'll be delighted,' I said.
'Don't be nasty, Archy,' he said sharply. 'You and I may feel they are nonsense; others may see considerable literary merit.'
I said nothing.
'The problem,' my father continued, 'is that Roderick is now a wealthy man. It is imperative that he revise his will as soon as possible. As things stand, the bulk of Lydia's estate is in a kind of legal limbo. If Gillsworth should die before dictating a new will, the estate might be tied up for years. I'd like to suggest to him that a new testament is necessary, but the man is so emotionally disturbed at the moment that I hesitate to broach the subject. I invited him to dine with us tonight, but he begged off. Too upset, he said. That's understandable.'
'Yes, sir,' I said. 'I don't suppose he's quite realized the enormity of what's happened. Do you think he is aware of his wife's will?'
