Carol O'Connell - Mallory's Oracle

It was Helen Markowitz.

Helen was no longer pudgy and homy, no matron in this incarnation. She was three decades younger, an impossible teenage Helen with spiked hair and a ring in her nose.

Well, why not, thought Mallory, sinking down to a tattered red velvet chair. This had been a week for ghosts.

Rabbi Kaplan had told the truth. Markowitz was a wonderful dancer, lifting his partner high in the air to the music of Chuck Berry, spinning her out and twirling her back to his side. He was rocking and rolling. Illusion created of grace and fluid motion stole the years away until it was a young Louis dancing with the teenage Helen.

"What's the girl's name?"

"Brenda Mancusi."

"Where is she?"

"She doesn't work here anymore. She never came back after we heard the news about our Mr Markowitz."

"I need her phone number, her address and a copy of that tape."

He hadn't expected to see her again, yet here she was, holding two envelopes in her grimy fist, thrusting them into his face, screaming, "Look, look!"

He took the envelopes gingerly in two fingers, wondering if lice might be transferred in this manner, and loathing himself for wondering. He nodded as he read the name appearing on the utility bill.

"This only tells me that you and Samantha Siddon have the same last name."

"I want my – ".

"I did try to contact her attorney after you left the bank. He's in Europe. There's no number where he can be reached. His partner has agreed to look into the matter and get back to me."

"Sure. That bastard probably left town with all my money."

"I can assure you the money is safe in Mrs Siddon's accounts. But those accounts will remain frozen until the bank receives instructions from the executor. And then, we'll need a picture ID. A passport or a – "

"I need money, you son of a bitch. You know what I got in my pockets? This!"

She pulled her deep vest pockets inside out. Lint-coated pennies and nickels spilled over his desk, followed by a slow-rolling moist wad of tissue, and last, the knife came tumbling out and landed in the center of his blotter. It was a switchblade.

She hadn't threatened him. He did realize it had only fallen out with the other contents of her pockets, the tissue and the coins. But a knife. Perhaps it had simply jarred him to see a knife in a bank, a weapon of any kind. Perhaps that was why he had pressed the silent alarm. He wasn't certain.

Now they both stared down at the knife as two overweight gray-haired security guards were charging up the stairs from the lobby, their faces going red with the unaccustomed exertion.

His eyes and hers locked together in mutual disbelief. She grabbed up the knife in one hand and ran down the stairs, passing between the old men who reached out simultaneously and grasped the air she had passed through. They turned to follow after her as she ran the length of the lobby. The guards were so slow, she had time to stumble, to collide with a patron, to burst into angry tears and beat them to the door.

"No," said Mallory. "She's only expecting me. It would've queered the deal if Redwing ran a background check on you. I'm passing you off as a friend of the family."

"Not a good idea," said Edith Candle. "It's truth, bits and pieces of truth, that makes any scam work. An outright lie will work against you. If this woman's any good at all, she'll know."

"We're doing it my way."

The door was opened by a woman in a black dress and a crisp white apron. Mallory gave her name and they were ushered into the foyer. Floating on a rich sea of mingled perfumes, were the sounds of teacups clinking in saucers and a gentle Chopin etude. The maid turned and hurried into the large room which opened off this small holding pen for suspicious callers. From the foyer, Mallory could hear voices: melodious laughter and high twittering speech. The far wall was a bank of sun-bright windows. Riding below the perfume was the unaired smell of an invalid's room.

The maid was raising a sash to the noises of the street. And by that cacophony of noise, Mallory knew this could not be a park-side window. A driver was leaning on his car horn, something which was not done in the square by tacit agreement of every living and rolling thing which passed through. And on a nearby street, a siren careered down the block. It must have been stopped in traffic, because now its siren switched to the bleating mode, whining to get this show on the road. And inside the apartment, the old women gathered like birds on a fence, tensely perched on the furniture while the table was being set up and chairs were brought in. Woman with hennaed hair chatted with blue-haired women, and all about the room was the air of the things to come.

A matron in her early seventies was walking toward the foyer, smiling, her neck choked in pearls. Her head was disproportionately small, a white-haired marble atop a thick-waisted hourglass.

"Miss Mallory? I'm Fabia Penworth, Marion's mother, I'm so glad you could come, my dear. Oh, but who is this?" She stared down at Edith Candle, and then back to Mallory. "This won't do. You were supposed to come alone, dear. Redwing never sees anyone without advance notice." She leaned closer and said in a stage whisper, "I've told her all about your father and his unfortunate death. She says the easiest spirit to reach is one who dies by violence. They want to contact us, they want truth to out." She suddenly remembered the annoying detail of Edith. "But this won't do."

Mallory said, "This is an old friend – "

"How do you do," said Edith, stepping forward, "I'm Edith Candle. Perhaps Miss Whitman or Mrs Gaynor mentioned me to you. I believe you all used the same broker at one time or another."

"Why, of course. Oh, how do you do." The woman was showing all of her expensive bridgework to Edith. "Well, I'm honored, really honored. I never expected this. I don't see any problem at all, really. I'm sure Redwing will be delighted to meet you, someone of your stature in the spiritual community."

After being led into the main room and introduced to the medium, Mallory couldn't tell if Redwing was delighted or not. The medium's large, padded armchair had taken on the aspect of a throne. Imperial Redwing was dressed in Day-Glo colors, her head wound with a scarf of Indian pattern. The jewelry must weigh ten pounds, by Mallory's rapid estimate, all bangle bracelets and golden chains. Her feet were encased in tiny gold lame sandals with delicate straps. Her eyes squinted into slits as one plump hand rose in the air to the level of Edith Candle's lips as though she expected it to be kissed. Redwing did not rise for the older woman.

Edith took Redwing's proffered hand in her own arthritic one. Mallory detected a wince of pain. Perhaps any pressure on Edith's inflamed joints might cause that, perhaps not. And now Redwing's eyes were open wide, too sharp, too bright.

The boy standing behind the armchair must belong to Redwing. Mallory assessed the genes of all races, rejum-bled in this new combination: the child's eyes were yellow, the skin was golden brown and the hair somewhat kinky. The facial features were Caucasian. Though the eyes slanted up, the Asian folds were missing in this new translation of chromosomes. The boy's expression was dulled. Had he been drugged?

When the introductions were done and Redwing turned away, ending the audience, Mallory pulled Edith Candle to the only unpopulated corner of the room.

"You never told me you knew Estelle Gaynor."

"You never asked. At my age it's not unusual to know several dead people."

"Several murdered people?"

And what about Samantha Siddon? Had the fourth victim also been on nodding acquaintance with dead people before joining their company?