Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“How long have you been here?” I asked the group.

They looked at each other and one, the one named Stephen who had operated the lights, said,

“Since about eleven. I mean most of us started to arrive about eleven. I came about ten minutes earlier. Marcus wanted to go over my handling the lights.”

No help there. Anyone in the room could have shot Cunningham and Gwen and been here by eleven.

“I’d like to talk to everyone here alone, one at a time in some nice quiet room,” said Phil.

“No,” said Ott, regaining a touch of courage. “This is my house. You are not the police. These are my colleagues. The gathering is over. The mood is destroyed. I am feeling decidedly drained. Please leave, depart, go, and I shall see you all on Wednesday night.”

Slowly, led by the little chubby one called Leo, they moved past us giving good-byes, exchanging a word or two with Blackstone. Phil didn’t try to stop them though he gave each one his look that said, ‘I know you’re guilty.’

When they had all left, Ott faced us and said, “Anything else?”

He was very calm again. I didn’t like the latest smile. He had something up his sleeve, probably an ace of spades.

“Why did you come to the Pantages tonight?” I asked. “The show was almost over.”

“A whim, to see a little of the master at work,” he said with a thick layer of sarcasm.

“Just happened to be the night someone was murdered,” said Phil.

“Didn’t discover that till I entered the theater and was stopped by a police officer,” said Ott.

“Didn’t know the dead man, Cunningham?” I tried.

“That’s what the police asked me. I’ll give you the same answer I gave them, no. More questions?”

“Someone was supposed to be at the theater, someone who had threatened to ruin my show if I didn’t turn over my secrets,” said Blackstone.

“You think it was me?” asked Ott, pointing to himself.

“Yes,” Blackstone said.

“Why not the man who was shot? Or the one who shot him?” asked Ott smugly.

“Pieces of the puzzle,” said Blackstone.

“Well,” said Ott with an overdone sarcasm, “if anyone can put the pieces together, it’s the great Blackstone. I am, as I said, drained. I will see you all on Wednesday night,” Ott said, holding his glass up in a toast to Blackstone.

We went to the front door. I was about to say “Open Sesame” when Blackstone simply clapped his hands and the door opened. We stepped out into the night past the gargoyles. The doors closed.

“I hate to say it,” said Blackstone, “considering the murder and Gwen’s shooting, but I enjoyed that.”

We moved to the street. The cars that had filled the driveway when we arrived were gone. There was one, lone dark Buick parked in front of Phil’s Ford. Pete Bouton stood next to it.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Blackstone.

“A question,” I said. “Do you really know how to do the singing blade trick?”

“Ah,” said Blackstone looking at his brother. “Pete?”

“I’d say there are maybe eight or nine people here in the United States, four in Europe, one in Australia and who knows how many in China who could do it,” said Pete.

“Then why don’t they?” Phil asked.

“It’s not much of a trick,” said Blackstone, looking back at Ott’s house. “Any really competent illusionist could figure out how it was done. The technology has come a long way since Dranabadur. But, that said, there are still brilliant illusions, which have endured for centuries. The singing blade, however, is not one of them.”

“Ott’s an idiot?” Phil asked.

“Mr. Ott is a wealthy amateur in the worst sense of the word,” said Blackstone. “Given the opportunity, he would reveal every one of Peter’s and my illusions.”

“So he’s just jealous,” I said.

“Not just of me, but I do seem to have become his obsession. I did not like the way he recovered in there.”

Blackstone looked back at the house.

“Wednesday night,” he said. “Gentlemen, you have work to do.”

“You knew all those people who were here tonight?” said Phil.

“Yes,” said Blackstone. “Local magicians, not professionals.”

“Can you give us their names? Full names?” asked Phil.

“I’ll have a list in your office in the morning.”

Blackstone got in the car with his brother and they drove off. Phil and I did the same. We didn’t talk. There was nothing to say except good night when he took me back to my car parked behind the Bluedorn Apartments.

I got back to Heliotrope and parked half a block down from Mrs. Plaut’s at a little after two. There was one more surprise waiting for me before I got to bed.

I got up the porch stairs, through the door, and past Mrs. Plaut’s door. No problem. I got to my room. Still no problem. I turned on the light. Problem.

I saw it on the small table near the open window. Dash, the orange cat who sometimes permitted me to share the room with him, was sitting on it. The black cardboard covered composition book lay next to the salt and pepper shakers. A sheet of cardboard stood propped between the shakers. On the cardboard was written, Please read before morning. Breakfast at eight.It was signed, Irene Plaut.

“No way out of it,” I told Dash, who licked his left front paw.

I undressed down to my underwear, felt the stubble on my chin, filled a bowl with milk for Dash, and poured myself a big helping of Wheaties and milk.

Then I sat to eat, read, and wonder about the latest addition to Mrs. Plaut’s family history.

WOOLEY AND THE BEAR

Brother Wooley was not one to shrink from his duty or a battle with fists or bottles or anything that was helpless. Wooley toward the end of the days the good lord had given him on this orb of woes and frequent joy did shrink a bit but that was because of lumbago.

Be that as it may my brother Wooley who was as skinny as a dandelion stem was at the London Zoo. In truth Wooley had yellow hair and looked much like a dandelion if one applied one’s imagination. This may account for why my aunt Evangeline called Wooley “the wilted flower of the family.” Aunt Evangeline was a tsk-tsker. To Aunt Evangeline everything was a shame or a sin or both. Aunt Evangeline simply called me “Poor Irene.” Then she would shake her head and tsk-tsk. Aunt Evangeline was loath to explain. Aunt Evangeline would not say. This concerned me for many a year but a distant cousin named Sarah Free-homver from Sandusky Ohio did later tell me that Aunt Evangeline had met her but once and said to her upon taking her hand, “I’m so sorry.” Sarah Freemhover was not at all sure what Aunt Evangeline was sorry about and she never did explain.