“Yep, I did.” I turned the speaker sound down on my cell phone and pulled a tendril of loose hair from my twist. “And it still stands. Never, ever, ever—”
“It’s for charity.”
“Doesn’t matter. Not after the last time.”
“Charity, Jaime. Using your good fortune to raise the fortunes of others. I know that’s important to you.”
I tried to force out another “no,” but it stuck in my throat. Damn it. I took a deep breath. “What’s the cause?”
“Cotard’s syndrome.”
“Never heard of it.” I picked up the phone, switched to the browser, and typed in a search.
“It’s a neurological disorder,” he said. “That means it affects the brain.”
I bit back a retort. That’s the price I pay for playing ditzy minor celebrity for thirty years. Not that I’m a brain surgeon, but I do know the word for it is “neurosurgeon.”
“Cotard’s is very debilitating,” Mike continued. “It’s a rare but terrible—”
“‘Walking corpse syndrome’?” I read from the screen. “Hell, no.”
“It’s a real condition, Jaime,” Mike hurried on. “Sure, there’s a promotional tie-in. Ghosts, zombies, walking corpses. But that’s just the hook. We’ll be raising real money for actual victims. Think of the children.”
“It says here Cotard’s only affects adults.”
“Think of the children of those adults. Can you imagine what that’s like, having your parents believe they’ve been zombified? Absolutely tragic. But you can help. See, the idea is—”
I hung up. As I was turning off the phone, a knock sounded at my dressing room door.
“Ms. Vegas? Ten minutes.”
I shoved the phone in a drawer, checked my hair one last time, and headed out.
Live shows are hell for performers. At the end, you feel like you’ve run a marathon, shouting the whole way. It’s not just a physical toll. It’s mental and emotional, too. A live show means your audience is right there, waiting to be entertained, and you sure as hell better deliver, because if you don’t, they’ll let you know. It’s not just heckling. I’ve learned to deal with that. I actually prefer heckling to that most insidious critique—boredom. I swear, I can be on my catwalk in front of five hundred people, talking a mile a minute, half blinded by the lights, and still hear every yawn, notice every pair of closed eyes.
My professional reputation is good enough that I could earn more giving private sessions. I could certainly earn more with a TV show. There was a time when I dreamed of that. Then, after doing a TV special, Death of Innocence, I got my offer, and I realized I didn’t want it. I was happy where I was, and sometimes that’s more important.
So what gets me out on that stage? The audience. Yes, there are jeers and there are eye rolls. I’m a spiritualist. There’s always part of the audience that comes to mock the crazy lady who thinks she talks to the dead. There are also yawns and even snores on a really bad night. But that’s five people out of five hundred. For the rest, I deliver what I promise. Not just entertainment. Happiness. Peace. Closure. Even if it isn’t real, it does something. Something magical.
Tonight’s show was in an old theater. With this kind of performance, the older the venue, the better. It was a traditional setup with a proscenium stage at the front, but my crew had added a portable catwalk to allow me to walk down the middle aisle, elevated so everyone could see me. As I walked, I talked.
“There’s a spirit trying to come through. It’s a woman. The name …” I lifted my hand for quiet as I strained to listen. “Margaret? Marg? Meg? Megan? Do we have anyone hoping to contact a loved one—”
Two dozen hands shot up before I even finished.
“Wait …” I said. “I can see her now. Marg? Meg? I know this isn’t easy, but if you can just come a little …” I smiled. “Yes, that’s better. Thank you. Take a moment now. Rest.” I turned back to the audience. “She’s partially through the veil. I’m still not hearing her clearly, but we’re going to give her a moment before I ask her to complete the journey. We had a few people who’d lost someone named Margaret or Megan …”
The hands shot up again. Another dozen joined them, those who had, in the last few minutes, sifted through their memories and remembered Great-aunt Marguerite, who died when they were five.
“I can see enough to give a partial description,” I said, my gaze fixed on the stage. “She’s dark-haired.”
Several hands lowered. A few more wavered.
“She’s not tall,” I said. “Five-two? Five-three?”
More lowering. More wavering.
“Average weight? Maybe slightly more?”
We were back to a dozen hands now. I climbed off the catwalk and headed down the aisle to one that had been firmly up since the first question.
“I feel a pull in this direction,” I said. “Can you tell me your name.”
The woman—gray-haired, mid-sixties—stood. “Nancy. Nancy Masters.”
“And who are you looking for today, Nancy?”
“My sister Margie. She passed last winter. Stroke.”
I looked toward the stage. “The woman I’m seeing is young, but spirits often choose their materialized form from a time when they were happiest. Margie was a brunette? Petite?”
Nancy nodded.
I backed up to where I could see both Nancy and the stage. “She’s coming through a little better now. She’s wearing her hair …”
I squinted at the stage, while watching Nancy’s reaction out of the corner of my eye.
“Down?” I said.
No reaction.
“Short?”
A slight dropping of her jaw. Disappointment.
“No, actually it appears to be up.”
Nancy’s gaze returned to mine. Getting warmer …
“Yes, that’s why it looked short. It seems to be pinned up. In a bun?”
A faint droop to her eyelids. Cooler …
“Wait, is that a twist?”
Nancy’s eyes gleamed, crow’s feet wrinkling as she struggled not to smile.
“Yes, definitely a twist. Like mine tonight. She has excellent taste.”
A laugh tittered through the audience. Relief and approval. The whole rapid-fire exchange had taken a matter of seconds as I squinted at the distant figure, as if trying to get a better look.
There was no figure. No ghost. In fact, there was vervain burning backstage and in the lobby. If anyone asks, my staff will explain that it’s to soothe troubled spirits. It’s actually to keep them away.
I’m a necromancer, which is an old word for those who can speak to and raise the dead. Like most, I stick to the “speaking” part and do as little even of that as possible. One place I won’t do it? A show, because if I snuff out that vervain, the room will fill with the dearly departed of audience members.
Wouldn’t that make me more credible? No. Because if Nancy’s sister Margie really did appear, she’d have a message. She might ask Nancy to get Margie’s favorite necklace back from her divorced daughter-in-law. Or to tell Margie’s husband not to flirt with that fifty-year-old hussy down the road. Or to make sure Margie’s grandson didn’t buy that motorcycle he was eyeing.
Nancy didn’t want—or need—to hear such petty concerns. She needed to hear that her sister was happy. That Margie was in a good place and looking forward to the day when they’d be reunited.
Unless Margie loathed Nancy—or had been a closet ax murderer—she really was happy and missing her sister. That just wasn’t the first message she’d impart. So I did it for her.