The guests were asked to write their initials on slips of paper, fold them, and drop them in a basket, which was then placed on the coffee table in front of the seer. There was a breathless pause. Mrs. Ascott, ignoring the contents of the basket, gazed at a distant point above and beyond the heads of the assemblage.
Finally she started to speak in a booming voice, addressing her pronouncements to the initials in the basket.
“To SFU … I am receiving the impression … of a mistake … You have made a drastic decision … not for the best … Is it too late to change your plans?”
“No,” said Sue Urbank in a small frightened voice.
“Then do so!”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the audience.
“To RJM … You have changed careers … with some trepidation … Have no fear … You have acted wisely.”
Roger and Sharon exchanged happy glances.
“Remember your responsibilities … Avoid unnecessary risks.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Roger.
Mrs. Ascott continued to stare at the opposite wall through heavy-lidded eyes.
“To LMC … I see pain … Remember your age and use discretion … You could have trouble with … your knees.”
Lisa Compton groaned while nodding her head.
“To SKM … In my mind’s eye … I see you tormented … by indecision…
Duty first, desire later.”
Again the MacGillivrays exchanged glances, not happy ones.
“To JWB … I have a vision … of great loss … material loss … but you will save what really matters.”
Bushy passed a nervous hand over his nearly hairless head.
“To LFC … I see a dwelling … Are you selling property?”
“I’m trying to,” said Compton.
“Don’t be impatient … Bide your time … A good offer is on the way.”
“Thank you.”
“To VRB … My dear … something you have long wanted … will be yours.”
Vicki Bushland barely suppressed a little shriek.
At that point Mrs. Ascott asked for a glass of water, and there was a brief intermission as guests whispered to each other and Qwilleran thought, Mildred could have briefed this woman on the concerns of her friends: Sue Urbank’s pending divorce, Roger’s career crisis, Lisa Compton’s “jogging knees.” Everyone knew that Lyle wanted to sell his house in Pickax and buy a condominium, and Sharon wanted to hire a babysitter and return to teaching school, and Vicki desperately wanted a successful pregnancy.
Mrs. Ascott resumed with a message for MTH: “It would be wise … to have a complete physical examination … without delay!”
Qwilleran thought this a cruel pronouncement to make so abruptly and in public, and he turned to see Mildred’s reaction. Her lips were pressed together.
When the session ended, there had been messages for everyone except JQ, and Qwilleran surmised that the psychic had sensed his skepticism, or Mildred had warned her.
At this point the hostess rose and said, “Mrs. Ascott has consented to answer a few direct questions if anyone cares to ask.”
There was silence until, in a challenging voice, Qwilleran asked, “Can you tell us anything about the whereabouts of a young man named Clem Cottle?”
Mrs. Ascott stared at the upper wall with unseeing eyes. Finally she said, “I have a sense of distance … a long distance. He is very far away. Is he in the armed services?”
“No,” said Qwilleran, “he’s a local carpenter.”
“He wishes to return … but he is unable.”
She’s bluffing, Qwilleran thought, but then the enigmatic woman added, “Are you JQ? I have a message for you … from a female spirit … Her name is …
Joy … Take precautions … to protect your family. Do you have two…
children?”
“No, ma’am, I have two cats.”
There was a suppressed tittering in the audience.
“There is another message … from Joy … not quite clear … about an excavation … The message is … fading out … It’s gone … That is all.”
“Thank you,” said Qwilleran, somewhat shaken.
She went on with other messages from other spirits for other guests, but he could think only of the cryptic tidings from Joy, his boyhood sweetheart, who had been dead for two years.
CHAPTER 12.
ON SUNDAY MORNING Qwilleran recalled Mrs. Ascott’s messages with mixed reactions. He suspected she had received no vibrations whatever about Clem Cottle and was only trying to save face. He resented her ominous reference to Mildred’s health; there were less frightening ways of urging a friend to have a physical checkup. On the other hand, the idea of a spirit message from Joy Wheatley, with whom he had been so close for so many years, was disturbing. He remembered Roger’s story about Harriet and the nursery ceiling.
He was on the porch with the Sunday papers, throwing each section on the floor as he finished reading it. Yum Yum liked to roll on them, kicking and squirming and having a good time. At one point he went indoors to call Mildred and discuss the events of the previous evening. There was no answer, of course; she and Sharon were chauffeuring Mrs. Ascott back to Lockmaster. While he was letting the phone ring the recommended number of times, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping paper. Koko was standing on a newspaper with his front end down and his hind end elevated and his tail stiffened into a question mark. With teeth aid claws he was shredding the Moose County Something. It was the second time Koko had attacked the “Qwill Pen” column.
“This has got to stop!” Qwilleran scolded. “Shape up, or we’ll ship you to Washington. You can get a job at the Pentagon.”
Why did that cat never shred the Daily Fluxion or the Morning Rampage or the New York Timesi Did it have some-diing to do with the quality of the paper or the smell of the ink? Patiently he gathered the torn scraps of newsprint. Koko had destroyed Emma Wimsey’s story about Punkin.
Qwilleran had met many old-timers since moving to Moose County: the incredible Aunt Fanny; Grandma Gage, who did pushups and headstands; Homer Tibbitt, still doing volunteer work at ninety. When he was with them, he felt he was talking with his own grandparents, whom he had never known. Now he had a sudden strong urge to drive to Pickax and visit the Senior Care Facility. He could scout the possibilities of more memoirs. He might take some flowers to Emma Wimsey. He wondered if the Chief Canary would be on duty. Smugly he groomed his moustache with his fingertips.
Sunday afternoon was a popular visiting day at the Facility. Cars filled the parking lot, and relatives were chatting with residents in the lounge, the lobby, and the dining room. The “canaries” flitted about in their yellow smocks, bringing the elderly down from their rooms, watching lest they became overtired or overexcited, then wheeling them back to the elevator.
Irma Hasselrich, in her yellow blazer, was on duty at the reception desk. “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!” she greeted him. “We’ve all been reading your column about Emma and Pun-kin. It’s delightful!”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t take credit. It was Emma’s story.”
“We read it to her three times, and it brought tears to her eyes. I myself thought it was beautifully written-with such sincerity and compassion.” Qwilleran preened his moustache with pleasure. Although he affected modesty, he relished compliments about his writing. “Is she allowed to have flowers?” He was carrying a bunch of daisies in a florist’s green tissue.
“Of course. She’ll be thrilled! I’ll have someone bring her down to the reading room, where it’s quiet. We’re getting awfully busy today. By the way, Emma had some discomfort this week, and the doctor is limiting her visits to ten minutes.”
When Emma’s wheelchair rolled into the reading room, she reached forward to clasp Qwilleran’s hand with both of her shrunken ones, her thin lips trembling in a smile. “Thank you … for that beautiful … write-up,” she said, her speech faltering and her voice noticeably weaker. More than ever she appeared fragile and wispy.