Rituals (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Amande looked up for the first time since she started work on the transcription of Virginia Armistead's correspondence. “Mom. There's something a little weird about these letters.”

“I saw it, too.”

They both hesitated. The truth was uncomfortable, but somebody had to say it.

“Are the letters in your box dated from the 1880s?” Faye asked.

Amande nodded.

“By that time, Spiritualism was well-established and Virginia Armistead was a
grande dame
of the movement, if only because of her illustrious last name. Her husband and children were active practitioners. And she was decades into her marriage.”

Amande nodded again.

“Then why is she carrying on an extended correspondence with Piruz Takhat? The man was a notorious fraud and a womanizer.”

“I'd never heard of him, so I looked him up. Whoever wrote the Wikipedia article makes a big deal about proving that Takhat's names don't even match.”

“Yeah, I think Takhat is Farsi and Piruz is used by Sikhs. Or maybe it's the other way around.” Faye's knowledge of non-American cultures was embarrassingly spotty. “Even worse, his stage name was ‘Sultan Piruz Takhat,' but he is known to have been born in Detroit to American citizens named Sullivan. The odds against his being a legitimate sultan are pretty steep.”

Amande rolled her eyes. “‘Sullivan'
sounds
a little like ‘Sultan.'”

Worse than his phony claim to sultanhood, however, was his habit of misusing his very real talents of hypnotism and masculine charm to seduce a legion of women. His supposed psychic abilities had been thoroughly debunked by Harry Houdini. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle couldn't be convinced to believe in him.

Faye tried to picture an upper-class lady who was an adult in 1848 indulging in a long correspondence with such a shady man in the 1880s. Mrs. Armistead must have been in her sixties by that time. “What have you learned?” she asked Amande.

“I've read three of his letters. If he calls her ‘my lady' or talks about her ‘chaste beauty' one more time, I'm going to barf.”

Faye had been treated to a sentence that included the phrase, “the luminosity of your Grecian brow and flawless bosom.” She had almost barfed herself.

“Do you think they were sleeping together?” Amande asked.

The phrase “sleeping together” sounded so crass after spending an hour reading Victorian love letters.
Affaire de coeur
or
liaison dangereuse
seemed more period-appropriate. Nothing sounded tawdry when pronounced in French.

Faye was unaccountably relieved to be able to say, “I see no evidence of it.” Why was she relieved? The woman had been dead for more than a century. Maybe because she wouldn't want Myrna to know that one of her ancestors had misbehaved before she passed to the other side.

Though she saw no evidence of a physical affair, she saw plenty of evidence of a one-sided emotional affair. The “sultan” spared no compliment, and he missed no opportunity to ask Mrs. Armistead for money. Faye knew she had sent him money, probably many times over, because all three of the letters she'd read so far expressed his gratitude for her recent “donation to the cause of furthering my work.”

Faye was particularly unsettled by the ways he had used her gifts. Takhat made no effort to hide the fact that he was using it to scam his audiences. He'd bought materials for elaborate boxes with places where assistants could hide when they “disappeared.” He'd used Mrs. Armistead's money to hire contortionists who could slither into any hiding place and wriggle out of any restraints. He'd even used it to construct a Pepper's Ghost setup, sending Mrs. Armistead an itemized receipt for large panes of glass.

Most damning of all were the diagrams. Takhat had repeatedly sent Virginia detailed plans of how to construct these trick boxes and “escape-proof” restraints. Worse, he'd repeatedly explained how her family members could use them to fool their gullible clients.

Faye knew that Takhat had promoted himself as the real thing. He didn't earn his money in public magic shows. He earned it by scamming grieving parents into thinking they had seen their dead children, when they were really only looking at Pepper's Ghost. Reading Takhat's letters made Faye want to wash the lies out of her brain, yet he didn't even try to hide his tricks from Virginia Armistead.

Takhat's letters were evidence that all the Armisteads hadn't been as honorable as their heiress, Tilda. If this knowledge made Faye feel sad and disillusioned, how would Tilda have felt if she'd known about it? How would it make Myrna feel now?

***

Faye asked for the waitress to pack their lunches to go. It was far too gorgeous a day to eat in the diner. Also, Ennis was seated in the exact middle of the dining room, feeding his great-aunt with unctuous patience, and Faye wasn't in the mood to watch his floorshow.

“There you go, Sister Mama. Do you want some squash? Let me mash it up for you.”

He nodded in Faye's direction, then flashed a big smile at Amande. The girl got so flustered that she dropped the napkins and straws she'd been gathering for their picnic. What was wrong with her? Until last night, Faye would have said that her daughter didn't even like this man.

While waiting for their food, Faye scanned the bulletin board by the door. Most of the postings were business cards and brochures, but she couldn't miss the big orange flyer urging residents to attend that evening's town council meeting.

“You should go to that, Mom. They're going to elect Tilda's replacement.”

Faye wanted to go, but she couldn't think of an excuse that would justify sending Amande to the airport to pick up Joe, so she asked, “Why?”

“Because you're not going to be happy until you know what happened to Tilda, and that meeting will be full of suspects. I'll pick up Dad.”

There were extra copies of the flyer on a table by the door, so Faye grabbed one. If she was going to snoop on an entire town, she might as well learn as much about them as possible.

The waitress presented them with two white paper bags. One of them already showed a transparent greasy glow, evidence that Faye's Reuben was in there. Amande's turkey sandwich was keeping its scanty fat to itself.

“Hang on a minute, Sister Mama. You got to give me time to cut this roast beef up for you, and I need to pour gravy on it. Since I know that's how you like it.”

Faye could not fail to see how Ennis' eyes followed them out the door. She was glad to leave him behind.

The trees in the park looked manicured to Faye, who was accustomed to live oaks shawled in Spanish moss. She thought the northern landscape looked unnaturally neat, as if harsh winters killed off everything messy and weedy. Stone picnic tables and benches were scattered along the lakeshore. Here and there, a moss-covered piece of statuary punctuated the grassy lawn. Rosebower's park looked like an inviting and useful cemetery.

One of the tables was occupied. Toni sat alone, eating a sandwich brought from home and wrapped in waxed paper. A bag of green grapes sat at her elbow. She looked glad to see them.

Scooting over on the bench to make room for Amande, Toni said, “How's the museum biz, ladies?”

“
Awesome
.” Amande pulled her sandwich out of the bag. “We found a stash of letters that you are not going to believe. One of the Armistead ancestors was carrying on a long-distance love affair with a fake sultan. The only way this could be better is if there were pictures.”

“Amande…” Faye said. She hoped the girl realized this was code for, “It's not real ethical to blurt out sensitive information until you've figured out whether your client really owns it and you've shared it with the donor's heir.” Which, in this case, was probably Myrna. Faye could just imagine how an elderly spinster would feel about such family laundry being aired. A married Armistead woman corresponding with a philandering charlatan? Myrna would be apoplectic.

Amande didn't pick up on her mother's coded message of “Please be quiet now.” She kept talking. “And he wasn't just a fake sultan. He was a fake psychic working under a fake name. I love it!”

Faye put a hand on Amande's arm. This time the girl understood. Toni was holding a grape up, studying the sunlight glowing through its translucent green body as if that particular grape were the most interesting thing around. “So,” she said. Her tone was so casual that she had to be faking it. “Those sultan letters sound…um…mildly interesting. May I…?”

Faye shook her head.

“Maybe they'll go on display in the museum. Maybe they'll be in an open collection where you can come read them. But maybe Myrna will ask for them back, so she can keep them private. The museum's records are such a mess that I can't begin to decide ownership issues.”

Toni finally ate the grape. She said nothing.

Wondering if the woman was going to study every last ever-loving grape instead of making eye contact, Faye decided to push her a little. “Doesn't it bother you, living here among these people but knowing that they're going to hate your book when it comes out? Not just the book—they're going to hate
you
. I remember you said you were planning to sell your book in local gift shops. That's ridiculous on the face of it. The residents of Rosebower are going to pretend that you and your book don't exist.”

Finally, the magician gave Faye her attention. She also gave her a glimpse of the force-of-nature personality that might be expected from a schoolteacher who had once made a splash in low-rent show biz.

“Do you think I don't know how Rosebower is going to feel about my book? Maybe they feel that way already. Did you know somebody busted out my window this morning? That rock could have killed me. I'm thinking about leaving town. Maybe you should do the same.”

“Maybe I will. But first, I'm going to find out all I can.” Faye waved the flyer for the town council meeting in Toni's face. “Want to come?”

***

Avery had asked Faye to sign some paperwork, in preparation for photographing the demolition of Tilda's house. The pile of forms indemnifying Myrna, Avery's employer, Myrna's insurance company, and the rest of the western world was truly monumental. If Tilda's house should accidentally collapse on Faye's head, she had no one to blame but herself.

As Faye plowed through the pile of paper, she said, “Do you know any reason for Willow to be spending time with Gilbert Marlowe?”

“The developer?”

“Yeah. I saw Willow in the back of Marlowe's limo this morning. Yesterday, I watched Myrna rip the man a new one over his development plans for Rosebower. I don't know whether Dara hates him as much as Myrna does, but Willow apparently likes him. Or, at least, he's willing to enjoy his cushy ride.”

“Why doesn't Myrna like Marlowe?”

“She seems to have known him since he was a boy. Right now she's angry because he wants to build a resort that she thinks will ruin Rosebower. Tilda was against it, too, but she had some power to stop him. Myrna's just an old lady shaking a fist. I'm sure he'd like her to give his project the Armistead stamp of approval, but she can't keep him from doing anything.”

“And Tilda could?”

“She was on the town council. With Tilda dead, Marlowe may soon get his way. Would you consider a business deal like this resort—golf course, hotel, spa, exhibition halls—a motive for murder?”

“A project that size? Hell, yeah. It's the only reasonable motive I've heard yet.”

Faye reached in her purse and pulled out the town council flyer. “I'm going to this meeting tonight. You know Gilbert Marlowe will be there, along with most anybody else who might have killed Tilda. Wanna come?”

“You know I do.”

Faye said, “I'll save you a seat,” and went back to her stack of paperwork.

After she'd signed about eighty-five pieces of paper, Avery had led her over to a big pile of junk in the house's side yard.

“These are the things I had to pull out of the house to complete my investigation. I gave Miss Myrna a few trinkets I found upstairs that I thought she might want, but most things that didn't burn were ruined by smoke or water. What you see in this pile is…stuff. Bricks. Here,” Avery said. “Have a brick for the museum.”

Faye took it, knowing that even this bit of trash was going to need cataloging. And she'd need to get Myrna to sign paperwork deeding any donations over to the historical society. These archival requirements were the reason Samuel needed to stop taking everything that was handed to him.

Avery had picked up a stick and was using it to uncover new layers of debris. “Scorched wallboard, with the paper still glued to it. Nails left behind when a board burned. Is there any reason you archaeologists might want to look at this junk before I have it hauled away?”

Amande didn't even wait for Faye to answer. “Oh, yeah.”

The three women, deeply immersed in discussing how to deal with the trash pile, didn't hear Dara as she approached.

“Willow and I were checking on Auntie. We've decided to take turns sleeping at her house, because she's not doing so well. I don't think she needs to be alone any more. Anyway, he's there to watch her and I saw you and I thought…well…I wondered what had happened to my mother's crystal ball. Please? If I could have only one thing to remember her by, that ball would be it.”

“I haven't seen it,” Avery said. “Or rather, I haven't seen what's left of it. The fire was centered around the room where your mother used the ball, so I'm assuming it was there. Glass doesn't do well in high heat.”

A breeze ruffled Dara's curls and played with her full skirt. The midday sun revealed some lines around her mouth that Dara would probably wish away if she could, but Faye thought they made her seem more human. So did her need to recover a little piece of her mother.