attend.
'I didn't know you and your sister were interested in spiritualism,' I said as casually as I could.
'Laverne more than me,' Meg said. 'She's into all that stuff. I think she's had her horoscope done by a dozen astrologers, and she always sleeps with a crystal under her pillow.'
'I wonder if she knows Hertha Gloriana, the medium we're going to visit tonight.'
'I've never heard her mention the name, but that's understandable. Harry goes into orbit if anyone brings up the subject of parapsychology. He thinks it's all a great big swindle. Do you, Archy?'
The direct question troubled me. 'I just don't know,' I confessed. 'That's one of the reasons I'm looking forward to the session tonight. Meg, do you believe it's possible to communicate with ghosts?'
'Of course,' she said promptly. 'I went to a seance once and talked to my grandmother. I never knew her; she's been dead for fifty years. But her spirit knew things about our family that were true and that the medium couldn't possibly have known.'
'Did your grandmother's spirit tell you where she was?'
'In Heaven,' Meg said simply, and I finished the retsina.
We arrived at the Glorianas' residence ten minutes before the appointed hour. The family was assembled in that rather shoddy living room, and I introduced Meg. The greetings of Irma and Frank were courteous enough, although not heavy on the cordiality. But Hertha welcomed Meg warmly, held her hand a moment while gazing deeply into her eyes.
'An Aries,' she said. 'Aren't you?'
'Why, yes,' Meg said. 'How did you know?'
Hertha only smiled and turned to me. 'And how are you tonight, Pisces?' she asked.
She was right again. But of course she could easily have researched my birthday. In all modesty, I must admit my vital statistics are listed in a thin booklet titled: Palm Beach's Most Eligible Bachelors. And I could guess how she knew Meg's natal date.
Hertha was wearing a long, flowing gown of lavender georgette which I thought more suitable for a garden party than a seance. Irma Gloriana wore a black, wide-shouldered pantsuit with a mannish shirt and paisley ascot. Son Frank, that fop, flaunted a double-breasted Burberry blazer in white wool with gold buttons. He made me look like an IRS auditor, damn him.
No refreshments were offered, and no preparatory instructions or explanations given. We all moved into a dimly lighted dining room. There, leaves had been removed from an oval oak table, converting it to a round that accommodated the five of us comfortably. The chairs were straightbacked, the seats thinly padded.
I was placed between Irma and Frank. He held Hertha's left hand while Meg grasped her right. From the top of the table, moving clockwise, we were Hertha, Frank, Archy, Irma, Meg. An odd seating arrangement, I thought: the two men side-by-side, and the three women. But perhaps there was a reason for it.
Hertha looked around the circle slowly with that intent, unblinking gaze of hers. And she spoke slowly, too, in her low, breathy voice.
'Please, everyone,' she said, 'clasp hands tightly. Close your eyes and turn your thoughts to Xatyl, the Mayan shaman who is my channel to the hereafter. With all your spiritual strength try to will Xatyl to appear to me.'
At first, eyes firmly shut, all I was conscious of was Frank's muscular handclasp and the softer, warmer, moister hand of his mother. But then I tried to think of Xatyl. I had no idea of what a Mayan shaman looked like- certainly not like any member of the Pelican Club-so I concentrated on the name, silently repeating Xatyl, Xatyl, Xatyl, like a mantra.
I thought five soundless minutes must have passed before I heard Hertha speak again in a voice that had become a flat drone.
'Xatyl appears,' she reported. 'Dimly. From the mists. Greetings, Xatyl, from your supplicants.'
The next words I heard were a shock. Not their meaning as much as the tone in which they were uttered. It was the frail, cracked voice of an old man, a worn voice that quavered and sometimes paused weakly.
'Greetings from the beyond,' Xatyl said. 'I bring you love from a high priest of the Mayan people.'
I opened my eyes to stare at Hertha. The words were issuing from her mouth, no doubt of it, but I could scarcely believe that ancient, tremulous voice was hers. I shut my eyes again, grateful for the handholds of Irma and Frank to anchor me to reality.
'Who wishes to contact one of the departed?' Hertha asked in her normal voice.
'I do,' Meg Trumble said at once. 'I would like to speak to my father, John Trumble, who passed on eight years ago.'
'I have heard,' the Xatyl voice said. 'Be patient, my child.'
We waited in silence several long moments. I must tell you honestly that I didn't know what to make of all this. But I confess I was moved by what was going on and had absolutely no inclination to laugh.
'Meg,' a man said, 'is it you?'
Now the voice was virile, almost booming, and I opened my eyes just wide enough to see that the words were being spoken by Hertha.
I heard Meg's sudden, sharp intake of breath. 'Yes, dad,' she said, 'I am here. Are you all right?'
'I am contented since mother joined me last year. Now we are together again as we had prayed. Meg, are you still doing your exercises?'
'Oh yes, dad,' she said with a sobbing laugh. 'I'm still at it. How is your arthritis?'
'There is no pain here, daughter,' John Trumble said. 'We are free of your world's suffering. Have you married, Meg?'
'No, father, not yet.'
'You must marry,' he said gently. 'Your mother and I want you to be as happy as we were and are. I must go now, Meg. If you need me, I am here, I am here.'
The voice trailed away, and I could hear Meg's quiet weeping.
'Please,' Hertha whispered, 'do not let our psychic power weaken. Clasp hands firmly and think only of the other world.'
There was silence a few moments, then I heard again the trembling voice of Xatyl.
'There is one among you who is deeply troubled,' he said. 'Let him speak out now.'
'Yes,' I said impulsively, hiding behind my closed eyes. 'My name is Archibald McNally. I wish to contact Lydia Gillsworth, a friend. She passed over a few days ago.' 'I will summon her,' Xatyl said. 'Be patient, my son.'
Once again we waited several minutes. I found myself gripping the hands of Irma and Frank so tightly that my fingers ached, and I was conscious of hyperventilating.
'Archy?' a woman's voice asked. 'Is that you?'
After I heard my name I opened my eyes to verify that it was Hertha speaking, but I swear, I swear it was Lydia Gillsworth's sweet, peaceful voice. So dulcet.
'It is I, Lydia,' I found myself saying, almost choking on the words. 'Are you well?'
'Oh yes, Archy,' she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. 'It is as I told you it would be. Have you read the books I loaned you?'
'Some. Not all.'
'You must read all of them, dear. The truth is there, Archy.'
'Lydia,' I said, eager to ask the question, 'you must tell me another truth: Who killed you?'
There was no answer. Just silence. I tried again.
'Please tell me,' I implored. 'I can never rest until I know. Who murdered you, Lydia?'
What happened next shocked and galvanized us.
'Caprice!' Lydia Gillsworth's voice shrieked. 'Caprice!'
Handclasps were loosened, four of us rose, stared at Hertha. She was still seated, head thrown back, bare throat straining. And she continued to scream, 'Caprice! Caprice! Caprice!' But now it was her voice, not Lydia's.
Meg Trumble got to her first, held her arms, spoke soothing words. We all clustered around, and gradually those piercing screams diminished. Hertha
opened her eyes, looked about wildly. She was ashen, shivering uncontrollably.
Frank left hastily and came back in a moment with a shot glass of what appeared to be brandy. Meg took it from him and held it gently to the medium's lips. Hertha took a small sip, coughed, stared at us and her
