I held the fabric up and it was just like what Mom used. In a lighted room you could see through it, but in a dark place with only a candle burning and imaginations at a fever pitch—yeah, I could make good use of it. The widest, longest piece folded up small, and I easily pushed it into the gap between my belt and shirt in the back.
But I wanted something more spectacular than a fun house spook. The items in Weisinger’s room would do it.
From his bureau I pocketed the hairbrush, a pipe, a comb, and some keys, and checked out a bottle of aftershave cologne. Aqua Velva was good enough for me, but rich guys had to be different. I shook some into my hands and gave myself a thorough slapping down, face, neck, hands, and lapels. Fortunately, it smelled pretty nice.
Downstairs, things suddenly went quiet. The séance must be starting.
No time for further refinements, I vanished and sank straight through the floor until I’d cleared its barrier and was sure it was now a ceiling. I hovered high, listening.
They sang “Happy Birthday.”
I could have done without that.
The mostly in-key singing ended, then a man gently urged, “Blow them out and make a wish for him, Flora.”
The soft applause that followed indicated success, then there was a general shuffling and scraping as they took seats. No one spoke, which was odd. People talked at parties.
Silence now, a long stretch of silence. I took the pause as an opportunity to explore the edges of the room. Certainly I bumped and brushed into people, and they’d shiver in reaction, because in this form I’d feel like a cold draft to them, but the silence held. Without too much trouble I found a corner and determined this was where Abby hid herself. She was absent, so I gradually re-formed.
The Chinese screen—and I didn’t have much experience with them—was seven feet tall and wide enough to conceal a sizable serving area. When holding formal receptions, you didn’t have to see the servants messing with the dishes. There were spaces between the painted panels that I could peer through, though. Each sliver of space provided a different angle on things.
The large parlor was much bigger than I expected. A long table was set up in the middle and seated eight to a side. Each chair had an occupant, and they were a motley group: some wore formal clothes, others were artistically Bohemian.
An older, more polished, more somber version of Abby sat at one end on the side opposite me: Flora Weisinger. Behind her was a framed portrait of a young man in his prime: her late husband. In front of her was a large birthday cake, its candles dead. She clutched a wadded handkerchief in one hand; in the other, pinched between thumb and forefinger and held up like an offering, was a gold ring. I could guess whose. Her posture was tense, expectant, her big dark gaze fixed on the tall man next to her.
At the head of the table, clearly in charge, stood Alistair Bradford. Having seen a few mediums in the course of my checkered life, I knew they ran to all types, from self-effacing, lace-clad ladies, to suave young lounge lizards with Vaseline-slicked hair. Bradford was lofty and distinguished, his own too-long hair swept back like that of an orchestra maestro. It suited his serious features. He was handsome, if you liked that brand of it, and his slate blue eyes did look piercing as they took in the disciples at the table.
“Now, dear friends,” he said in a startlingly soft, clear, beautiful voice, “please let us bow our heads in sincere prayer for a safe and enlightening spiritual journey on this very, very special night.”
Such was the influence of that surprising voice that I actually followed through with the rest of them. I had to shake myself and remember he’d been happy to dig up a grave to get to that ring in Flora Weisinger’s fingers. The wave of disgust snapped me out of it. The next time he spoke, saying amen, I had my guard up.
Down the whole length of that big, bare table there were only two candles burning, leaving the rest of the room—to their eyes—dark. It was as good as daylight to me.
“And now I ask that everyone remain utterly quiet, and I will attempt to make contact,” he said, smiling warmly.
I expected them to hold hands, touch fingers, or something like that. So much for how things were done in the movies.
Bradford sat, composed himself with his palms flat on the table, and shut his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, audibly releasing it. In contrast, no one else seemed able to move. Flora looked at him with an intense and heartbreaking hope that was terrible to see.
His stertorous breathing gradually got louder. The man knew how to play things to raise the suspense.
And I knew how to bust it.
His noises got thicker with more throat behind them, so I could guess he was ready to turn it into a good long groan so Frère Lèon could make his entrance.
I went invisible, floated until I was exactly behind his chair, went solid while crouched down, and drew a big breath of my own. During the brief silence between his puffings I cut loose with loudest, juiciest Bronx cheer I could manage, then vanished.
In a tense, emotion-charged room it had a predictable effect. I slipped behind the screen to watch.
His rhythm abruptly shattered, Bradford looked around in confusion, as did the others. Some seemed scandalized, a couple were amused, and one guy suggested that perhaps there was a playful spirit in the room already. A more practical man got up to check my corner, which was the only hiding place, and announced it to be empty.
A few of them noticed the cologne and mentioned it. Much to their delight, Flora finally confirmed that it was James’s scent hanging in the air. She sounded awful. Bradford made no comment.
After some excited discussion that didn’t go anywhere, they settled down, and Bradford started his breathing routine again. I watched and waited.
Frère Lèon eventually began to speak through Bradford, and to give him credit, it was a damned well-done French accent. His voice was rougher, deeper in pitch, very effective in the dark.
I ventured forth again, keeping low while he gave them a weather report for the other side, and went solid just long enough to call out a handy bit of French I’d learned while on leave in Paris. The loose translation was How much for an hour of love, my little cabbage?
Or something like that; it had usually been enough to get my face slapped.
Then I clocked him sharp on the back of the noggin with the hairbrush, dropped it, and vanished.
I was back to the screen, going solid in time to see things fall apart. A few in the room had understood what I’d said and were either flabbergasted or trying not to laugh. Bradford’s trance was thoroughly broken; he launched from his chair to look behind it, startled as the rest. He remembered himself, though, and flopped down again, apparently in a state of collapse. They fussed over him, and the electric chandelier was switched on.
Somewhere in the middle of it Flora spotted the hairbrush. She froze, screamed, and sat down fast, sheet white and pointing to where it lay on the floor.
It took attention away from Bradford, and I was betting he was none too pleased. The knock he’d taken bothered him—his hand kept rubbing the spot—but I’d hit to hurt, not cause permanent damage. He’d earned it. I kept myself out of sight for the duration, going solid in the next room over, which was empty. Vanishing took it out of me. I’d have to stop at the stockyards before dawn for some blood or I’d feel like hell tomorrow night.
Some guy who seemed to be the one in charge of the Psychical Society was for canceling the sitting, but Bradford assured everyone that he was fine. Sometimes mischievous spirits delighted in disrupting things—unless, of course, there was a more earthly explanation. With Flora’s permission the ground floor was searched for uninvited guests. I had to not be there for a few minutes but didn’t mind.