Dead Dogs and Englishmen (18 page)

Amid the crush of characters, I made my way out of the library and searched for Dolly. Being the only nun there, she wasn't difficult to find. I could see the black figure moving across a bay window at the back of the hall, approaching a tall man with his back turned. The man, maybe an Abraham Lincoln from the stovepipe hat, stood near the door leading to the kitchen. Edith, the maid, made another foray past him, a tray of appetizers clutched in her white-knuckled hands, just as Dolly tapped the man on the back.

The tall man whipped around to face Dolly. His head went down toward her for a minute and then he was gone. He'd turned enough so I could see him, and recognize the face. The man from the front porch. The dark, angry looking man I thought had to be Toomey.

Salman Rushdie stopped in front of me and by the time I got around him Dolly and the tall man were gone. I hurried in the direction of the kitchen, pushing at people who got in my way. When I looked again, Dolly was standing alone, frowning around her as if searching for someone. I put my hand into the air and was about to call out when the candelabras along the walls and the overhead chandeliers went dark and I was caught in place, unable to see.

At the central staircase, a floodlight came up slowly, focused on a woman posing dramatically at the top of the steps. The crowd below was hushed by the spectacle.

The slightly rotund woman held still for effect, drawing her wide and flowing gown of jeweled damask around her. Over her hair and across her face, she'd wrapped a jeweled scarf, the gems catching the floodlight and blinding us as she turned from side to side.

Other scarves flew about the woman's shoulders. At her ears and wrists, diamonds caught the light and sent out bright sparks.

One step down and then another. She held her skirt in a white-gloved hand as she slowly descended.

At the base of the steps, near the edge of the floodlight, Lila Hawke stepped out to point dramatically toward the woman. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she cried out. “May I introduce our psychic for this evening, Madame Arcati. The séance is about to begin.”

Around me, guests oohed and ahhed as Madame Arcati—
straight out of
Blithe Spirit
—descended the rest of the way,
waving her scarves from side to side, then drawing them over her face—one after another—until she was at the base of the stairs, pulling the last of the scarves away to reveal herself, and her little diamond-studded ears, to the stunned crowd.

There was a collective gasp and then nervous laughter. I laughed
along with the others.

Cecil posed, with smudged make-up on his round face, gown and scarves draped prettily over his wide body, wig askew atop his head. He bowed and threw kisses from left to right. Finally, he grabbed on to his wig and scarves, threw back his head, and began to laugh.

Cecil Hawke in drag, made an amazing woman.

Dolly whispered from the
corner of her mouth. She smiled and nodded to people around us as Cecil Hawke made his way through the clapping crowd.

“The guy was dark and tall, like you said,” Dolly hissed. “A real Abraham Lincoln. All I did was say Toomey to him and he was outta there. Think he's the one?”

Partygoers, with the lights now turned back on, unfolded chairs in front of a makeshift platform that had been hastily set up at the middle of the hall. A table and tall chairs were lifted up to the stage. Madame Arcati, with a queenly wave to all his friends, took his seat in the highest chair, at the center of the table.

I shrugged and shushed Dolly, afraid people around us might hear. In a place like this, with so many strangers, and all of those strangers in disguise … well … I didn't think it was a good idea to take chances on Dolly being ratted out.

Madame Arcati fussed with her flowing gown—getting settled in her chair—and then was joined by Jackson, who waved to the crowd. He bowed and was probably about to break into one of Romeo's speeches when Madame Arcati stopped him.

“Let's get on with it,” Madame Arcati growled. Jackson sat down and Madame Arcati leaned up as tall as he could get, looked out over the assembly, spotted me, and motioned me to the stage.

I kept my head down, pushing through the crowd.

“Lucky you.” Voices followed me, the comments sour.

“Mary Poppins! Criminey, Madame Arcati. She'll bollox the whole thing,” someone yelled and the crowd laughed.

Jackson helped me up to the platform. I took the chair next to him. Three other people I didn't know were invited to the table and then Madame Arcati put up her hands for quiet.

“I will need total silence in the room. If spirits are to be called to us, you must stay as still as you possibly can stay. I hope for a glorious séance. A séance to end all séances. A memorable séance. The lights will be very, very dim, to encourage the spirit world to join us.”

There was a titter of laughter from the middle of the crowd, quickly shushed by others. The lights went down again. I was surprised that Lila hadn't joined us and then realized she was probably a part of whatever ghostly manifestation we were in for.

“Everyone here at the table must join hands,” Madame Arcati, in a high falsetto voice, instructed us. “And those in the room, please take the hand of the person next to you on either side and don't break the link while I am in trance. I could get hurt, you see … ”

Around me, people laughed nervously and Madame Arcati clucked at them.

With the room quiet and dark, holding Jackson's hand on one side and the White Rabbit's on the other, I could feel the smallest chill work up and down my spine. I'd never been into séances and Ouija boards. Part of that came out of fear. Some things were better left alone, I'd always felt. If anything real happened here, I didn't want to have a whole new set of rules for living to believe in. If a Ouija board or spirits from another world could tell me my future, or bring me messages, then how the heck could I ever trust my own choices? Nope. I had to believe that my life was my own. That I could run it or ruin it—all by myself.

Still … sitting there with only the sound of clocks ticking and twenty or thirty people breathing in the darkness, holding one sweaty paw and one cool hand in mine, waiting for something to happen … Who knew?

Madame Arcati's breath deepened. She began to moan, then mumble. After a few minutes of the mumbling, Cecil Hawke, in his own voice, called out, “Spirits! If anyone is here, let us know now!”

A deep, waiting silence settled over the room. The floor creaked. A noise came from the kitchen. A few nervous coughs were quickly quieted. I was perspiring and wishing I were anywhere but there.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was startling. People gasped. I found myself holding my breath.

Knock. Knock. The sound came again.

“Spirit. Are you in this room?” Madame Arcati called out.

We waited. I figured if there was an answer I would connect the two hands I was holding, slip off the platform, and head for the front door. The only spirit I was interested in right then was a glass of wine, preferably in my own home, with my brave dog keeping watch beside me.

There came a low moan. The voice behind the moan was high. Female. The moan came again, louder. A heartbreaking sound. My sensible self told me it had to be Lila, doing a little acting. My old brain—flight or fight response—told me to get the hell out of there as fast as I could or the zombies would come after me, or a ghost would appear right where I was sitting and tell everybody all my sins and why I should be condemned to hell. I couldn't have said when I'd become the center of that particular universe; all I knew was that childhood learning went deep, and old stories about dragons and ogres my mother used to read to me were shaking their roots like tambourines in my head.

“Ahh,” Madame Arcati, now back into her high womanly voice, said. “We have a spirit. And do you have a message for someone in this room, kind spirit?”

A gasp made its way around the hall as a quivering light near the library door showed in the darkness. Only a weak, candle-like flicker, it moved quickly, side to side, as if hunting for something or someone. People fell back from it.

The moaning grew louder and then a deep voice, coming from everywhere, said simply, “Why?”

“Ah, a spirit with a question of its own. Can you tell us, spirit, who your message is for? Can you, by indication, or name, or something, identify the one you are here to speak to?”

Madame Arcati hissed for quiet as a low current of conversation buzzed through the partygoers. Probably, like me, no one wanted to be the target of the disembodied voice.

The moaning began again. There was a brightening of the flitting light though it seemed attached to nothing. The spirit voice said, “Cecil Hawke …”

“Ah, but he's not among us this evening, spirit. Perhaps someone else? Don't you have a message for Jackson Rinaldi?” Cecil's voice was hard and insistent. It sounded as if someone wasn't playing by the rules in a new Hawke game.

“Perhaps,” Cecil went on in his own voice, “your message was to be about not bedding the wives of new friends? Don't you imagine that's what you wanted to say?”

Now the low buzz became a gasp. I felt Jack's hand tighten hard against mine and then pull away completely. I was left with a very cold, very wet empty hand.

“This isn't funny, Cecil.” Jack, still in darkness, pushed his chair back violently. He stood beside me.

“Ah, but all is funny, my friend,” Madame Arcati said. “All the world's a stage, don't you agree? And we are simply players? Isn't that right? And your part has been to bed the queen. A little out of your league. But time to stop, I'd say. Oh yes, time to stop.”

Knowing Jackson, I was sure he wanted to find a way to go along with this terrible joke and come out of it looking all right. He tried for a shaky laugh then gave up. There was a thud when he jumped off the platform. Comments followed him as he made his way through the crowd. I figured he was heading for the front door.

When quiet fell again, Madame Arcati went on as if nothing had happened.

“Spirit? Are you still here?” His voice filled with choking laughter.

I decided to escape too. This wasn't just creepy, it had taken on a cruel edge. Between them, Cecil and Lila probably had plans to decimate others here at the party. What a miserable pair, I thought, as I felt my way off the back of the platform. They weren't just a little nuts, but something much worse.

The spirit didn't answer him this time. I figured she'd done as instructed, been there to humiliate Jackson, and was now entering the hall from another door, ready to take her place among the partygoers as if nothing had happened.

Cecil Hawke called out louder, in an insistent voice. Oh-oh, I thought as I edged around seated people. Cecil fully expected her to answer. Somebody else was in for it. Could even be me, the one who dared to criticize his work. Oh God, what next! I felt my way along the wall.

The spirit moaned again.

“Ah, you're back, spirit. And now, have you another message for someone in this room? Maybe for a woman named … oh, let me see … could it be … ?”

More moaning and flickering of the light.

“No,” the quavering voice of the spirit answered.

“Spirit … you must know the woman I'm speaking of …”

The spirit's voice came back stronger, but different. “Ah yes. Cecil.” Again the moaning began. “Ah, Cecil. It's Amanda. You murdered me. Will Lila be next?”

Madame Arcati was up and out of her chair, struggling with her gown, and swearing hard in Cecil Hawke's clear voice.

I didn't know where to look first, at the flickering light, or at the shadowed figure disappearing back toward the kitchen. Around me people yelled for someone to put on the lights. The séance was over. The party was certainly finished. When the lights came on, we blinked bleary-eyed at each other. It didn't take long for someone to yell, “Let's get the hell outta here.” I agreed and looked around for Dolly, lost among turtles and moles and a startled Gertrude Stein. Before I could get anywhere close to the front door there came the loud and echoing sound of thunder close by. A loud crack. Then silence.

A gunshot.

“Down. Everybody. Hit the deck. NOW!” Deputy Dolly's voice yelled before the echo faded from the room. People screamed. There was a panicked rush for the front door as chairs flew and bodies careened into each other.

I saw the nun with a .38 in her hand standing in the doorway to the library. As fast as I could, I got over to her. She put out one arm, holding me away.

“Stay back,” she yelled. People stopped in their tracks, curiosity overtaking fear. It crossed my mind that this was just another part of the whole crazy night.

“Close the front door,” Dolly yelled. “And stay back,” she ordered again as she ripped at her habit, tugging at the wimple tied up under the veil. I got to her side and helped her, tossing the habit aside to expose the official uniform beneath. No one said a word about the cop the nun had become.

A man yelled for someone to call 911. I heard maybe a dozen voices soon shouting into phones even though Dolly was screaming at the top of her lungs that the police were on the way.

No sound came from the library. Behind us, Cecil Hawke edged his way back through the crowd. He got to the library and tried to ease Dolly out of the doorway. She put up her hand, stopping him. “Can't go in there. That was a gunshot. We don't know …”

“But I will go in,” Cecil insisted, his made-up, androgynous face twisting with outrage. “My entire collection of Noel Coward works is in there. They are invaluable! I have a fortune tied up …”

“I don't think we're looking at a robbery,” Dolly shushed him, her voice calm and low.

“But you don't know. Out of my way,” Cecil ordered, voice shrill, pushing hard against her. Dolly pushed back, the two of them ending up inside the room. Cecil flicked on the lights, took a few more steps and stumbled over the body of a woman lying atop a scattered pile of books. Beneath the body a heavy black, hooded cape lay spread open. Beside it an incandescent tube glowed faintly. Blood pulsed from the woman's chest, the dark stain widening slowly across the finely pleated bodice of a pink voile dress and the feathers of a white boa. Freddy stood above her, looking down into her face with his one good eye. He gave one of her cheeks a brief lick, then backed off when Cecil screamed.