Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

'Forgive.' "

"Did he forgive Leopold?"

"No. Houdini had been the family patriarch since his father's death when he was seventeen.

His mother was the only person who could persuade him to accept what he perceived as a family betrayal. But she died without speaking to him, so he banned his brother's body from the family plot and even cut his photo out of the family pictures."

"No!"

"Houdini was never one to do things by halves, and he had a disturbing history of turning on those nearest him, especially on those he had once idolized. Eventually, he became his only idol, the only one he strove to outdo, and he died trying to do just that, a competitive personality to the last. That's what gave him his almost legendary reputation. Many people of his time thought that Houdini had paranormal powers, you know. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle insisted--to Houdini himself--that he must unconsciously draw on dematerialization powers to accomplish some of his feats."

"I had read that. Still, it's hard to believe of the creator of Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't look so disappointed. Toward the end of his life, Conan Doyle became a thoroughgoing Spiritualist, and sincerely believed several things that people today consider crackpot." Jeff Mangel smiled and crunched the last cracker to crumbs. " 'Course, you've got to remember I believe in post death presences myself, or at least surviving energy."

Temple shook her head as if to clear it. Like all decent academics, as opposed to insufferably smug ones, Jeff Mangel relished contradictions. She could see the precocious twelve-year-old squinting through glasses almost as thick as today's at the lurid, tall-tale pages of True magazine, in which he kept his place with a report card bearing straight A's.

"Okay," she conceded, "but do you believe in mediums ?"

"A more germane question. And more specific. You mean do I believe in the mediums at the seance?" He peered at her as intently as she imagined his preteen self perusing True magazine.

"I get the distinct impression that your interest in my opinion has more to do with the recently dead Ms. Mayfair/Mr. Gandolph than the long-dead Mr. Houdini. Oh, well, in my profession I take what female attention I can muster. It's like this, if you want to boil down what I believe, it's a thick stew of murky probabilities: Agatha Welk, a likely Self-delusional; D'Arlene Hendrix, a real Probable. Oscar Grant, a possible ... Emmy winner for unconvincing reality-programming emcee." Temple couldn't help thinking that Grant's flashy looks influenced that summation.

Mangel had another thing in common with Houdini, uncommonly short stature, though she'd never met a man less affected by it.

"What about Mynah Sigmund?"

Something flashed in the eyes miniaturized by the lenses that allowed them to see better, but to be seen less. "Did I forget her? How unforgivable. A definite Maybe."

"Really?"

"I understand your skepticism, especially being a female. Remember that in the paranormal world, normal is a disguise."

"As in Las Vegas, loud clothes are a better disguise than outright nudity."

Mangel nodded until he had to anchor the bridge of his glasses against his nose. "Exactly right, and well put!"

Temple could hardly credit the Mystifying Max.

"But, heck." Mangel grinned again. "I may be wrong about the White Widow. I would have rated Edwina Mayfair a very strong Possible. She/he was good." His firm hand held out a card between two fingers. "If you want me for an opening lecture when your supernatural attraction debuts, just give me a call. I love doing un-academic things publicly. It wouldn't hurt to have some mediums on hand, or even a good magician. Good luck with the ghosties and goblins."

She shook his hand and then he was up, striding across campus, innocent energy and insouciance and inquiring mind personified. Temple remembered Jeff Mangel's own advice about his field: the normal was suspect. So: was the peanutty professor act a diversion? A lot about Professor Mangel seemed a diversion, mostly for himself.

And how could any man have "overlooked" Mynah Sigmund? she wondered. Of course, Max had often pointed out that most women tend to deal with a vixen in the henhouse by blaming the roosters for their gullibility. And why did Mangel call her the White Widow? Did it refer to the fact that she was not very faithfully married?

Temple pulled out her trusty reporter's notebook and studied the next suspects--oops; candidates--on the list. The most "normal" medium, and therefore the most suspicious, according to Mangel, would be refreshing herself from a hard day at the psychic fair at her hotel: Agatha Welk was staying at the Debbie Reynolds.

Only Oscar Grant remained, and he had suggested six o'clock cocktails at the Mirage. Temple eyed the large, accusing face of her wristwatch. Would she have time to go home and change before meeting the suave Mr. Grant, or should she use any spare time to check in on Max back at the Welles house? Time, she decided, would tell.

Chapter 31

. . . And Ladies of the Seance

Temple tap-danced into the Debbie Reynolds' Hotel and Hollywood Museum, ready to do a Fred Astaire glide right into the registration desk. The light and airy lobby sparkled under its trio of chandeliers on high, as long and elegant as the pale-powdered and bejeweled ladies' hairdos from the Marie Antoinette era.

The hotel's air of nostalgic, slightly used elegance would suit a sensitive woman like Agatha Welk, Temple decided. Agatha struck her as someone who would suffer from the Specter Mountain High atmosphere most Strip hotel-casinos cultivated, where a rock-band intensity noise level and an amphetamine-overdose action level were models to be envied.

Here the chink/clink of slot machines was discreet, and if the Chairman of the Board eyed the action over the lobby balcony, Ol' Blue Eyes was both blind and deaf, being a mannequin togged out in a vintage Sinatra suit.

Agatha's room was on the fourth floor, and when Temple arrived, Agatha was in it, with a room-service tea table laid out on white linen like The Streets of Laredo's deceased cowboy.

"I travel with my own teas," she explained when Temple stopped dead to eye the elaborate array. "They rarely serve herbal brews anywhere, and of course, never loose-leaf."

Temple sat and shook out a white napkin as big as a chessboard. "This is so nice of you--"

"I always relax with tea after a day out of town, whether it's for a psychic fair, of which I do very few, or a... private consultation. Green or gray?"

"Gray will be fine," said Temple, whose legal addiction of choice was coffee.

Agatha Welk pushed back the trailing ruffles on her three-quarter-length sleeves and filled a stainless-steel tea ball with dried leaves that resembled tobacco. "Redheads always prefer gray to green tea. Perhaps they feel their coloring requires subduing at teatime."

"Not me. I've heard of Earl Gray tea, but I'm ignorant of any other kind."

"What a pity." Though not an Englishwoman, Miss Welk was the refined sort of old-school woman who would use the word "pity," and who, one felt, really ought to be one.

While her hostess did civilized things with the tea paraphernalia, Temple noticed a beige horn bangle pushed up above one elbow, from which trailed a green chiffon scarf. Though the fluttery accessory suited its wearer, Temple had never seen such a style. She checked out the hotel room (not a personal effect in sight, darn!) and her hostess for further eccentricities.

Agatha Welk was the quintessential old maid, a breed Temple, in her brash youthful confidence, had thought extinct. Her aunt Kit, for instance, was certainly an old maid by age and marital status (sixtyish and none, ever). She herself was perhaps a candidate-in-training for this ancient title, though she supposed no one could suggest that until she had reached forty. She had never seen marriage as a goal, but she had always regarded it as a likely eventuality; now she had begun to wonder. She was as curious about Miss Welk as a freshman might be about a senior at a brand-new college.