All Things Undying Read online

  At 8:02 precisely – by the light of my iPhone – a spotlight lit the stage and Susan walked on to it, smiling broadly and waving, wearing a long, dove-gray skirt and matching sweater-coat. A scarf of many colors was twisted into an elaborate knot at her throat.

  The applause that greeted the medium’s arrival could have drowned out a launch of the space shuttle.

  From a position in front of the armchair, Susan bowed slightly to right, left and center, accepting the accolades, then raised both hands for silence. ‘Good evening!’ she began, but whatever else she had planned to say was drowned out by a renewed round of applause.

  Susan laughed, eyes flashing in the theater lighting. ‘Welcome! It’s good to see so many of you here tonight, both new friends and old!’ With a sweep of her arm, she appeared to be acknowledging a rowdy group of individuals in a block of seats to our left who were whooping it up like die-hard Manchester football fans. ‘As you know, I am totally governed by spirits, so I have no idea what’s going to come through tonight. My job is to convey messages, so if a message seems to be for you, if you can relate to it, don’t be shy. Stand up!

  ‘And here’s the first important message. Do you have a mobile phone?’ She waited a beat, surveying the audience, then continued. ‘Of course you have a mobile phone! I want you to reach into your pocket, or into your bag, and turn that phone off. I’m the only one getting messages here tonight!’

  Ripples of laughter accompanied a chorus of chimes, beeps and tweets as those who had forgotten to silence their phones before coming into the theater finally did so.

  Including me.

  ‘Thank you!’ Susan said after the commotion died down. ‘Now, some of you out there are skeptics.’ She pointed a finger, panned the audience. ‘You know who you are. And right now you’re thinking I’ll bet she Googles everyone.’ The boom camera zoomed in for a close-up, and on the screen to our right, Susan rolled her eyes. ‘Like who has time? I barely have time to blog let alone Twitter!

  ‘And I’m the first to admit to you that I’m not always right.’ Susan paused, cocked her head. ‘Wait a minute. John’s here. Couldn’t wait, could you, John?’ she chuckled.

  At the mention of the name John, hands shot up all around the auditorium.

  ‘Lights on in the house, please,’ Susan said. ‘This John is around fifty, and he has brown hair going just a bit gray, here.’ She flicked her temple with her fingertips.

  Among the early arm wavers, only four individuals remained standing. From the stage Susan shielded her eyes with her hand and surveyed the audience, like a Cheyenne Indian scout on the lookout for General Custer. ‘He’s kind of a nervous guy, our John,’ she continued. ‘He’s doing this.’ She pumped her shoulders up and down.

  Behind us, somebody screamed, ‘That’s my Jack!’

  The boom camera swung around like a giraffe grazing for leaves in a fresh treetop. On the overhead screens, a woman wearing a flowered sundress and a strand of red and green glass beads began to bounce up and down on her toes.

  ‘This message is probably for you, then,’ Susan said from the stage. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘Jack passed away recently, didn’t he, Grace?’

  Grace sucked in her lips, nodded. ‘Last year, about this time.’

  ‘He’s saying, “I like what you’ve done with the lounge.”’

  On the overhead screens, a fat tear glistened and began to slide down Grace’s cheek. ‘I took down the wallpaper and painted it yellow. It looks ever so fresh and bright!’

  ‘He’s smiling, Grace. He says he always hated that wallpaper.’ Susan wagged a finger. ‘But he’s also saying, “Don’t you dare touch my workshop!”’

  Grace’s hands shot to cover her mouth, then parted slightly to let out a little-girl giggle. ‘He was a keen woodcarver, my Jack. Carved the most comical ducks out of pine. Sold them at the village market on Tuesdays.’ Her voice shot up an octave. ‘I’m keeping yer ducks, luv!’

  ‘He wants you to know that he’s fine, and that he loves you.’ Susan was summing up, preparing to move on. On the screen, Grace swiped at her eyes with a tissue produced from a handbag somewhere off camera. Susan stepped back, paused, cocked her head then suddenly returned her attention again to Grace. ‘Does the name Leo have any significance, Grace?’

  Eyes wide, Grace nodded silently.

  ‘Jack wants you to know . . . wait a minute. Yes, OK. He’s telling me it’s fine with him about Leo. Can you relate to that?’

  ‘Leo’s Jack’s best friend. He’s been asking me to step out with him, but . . .’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘Thank you!’ Her face relaxed, the deep lines on her forehead disappeared, and she suddenly looked ten years younger. Leo would be pleased.

  The applause began to our left, one person, then another, and suddenly the entire auditorium was putting their hands together. Susan Parker took the opportunity to sit down in the chair.

  Stephen Bailey, on the other hand, took the opportunity to mutter, ‘Bollocks!’ under his breath, just loud enough for Alison and me to hear. He jerked his head toward the stage. ‘I’ll wager that Parker woman has spies out in line while we’re waiting to get in. Silly cow was probably rabbiting on about her poor dead Jack out there, and how she’s having a bit of how’s your father with Leo.’

  Alison’s elbow scored a direct hit where she shared an armrest with her father. ‘Shhhh.’

  From the chair on stage, Susan raised a hand. ‘I’m looking for someone named Lisa.’

  From a row in front of us and to the left, someone shrieked, and three young women leapt to their feet. ‘I’m Lisa!’ one of them squealed, then pressed both hands to her mouth and continued to squeal.

  ‘Are you sisters?’ Susan asked.

  Well, that was obvious, even to me. Same height, same build, same chestnut-colored hair. The way they giggled in unison at the same decibel level, pummeling each other with their elbows.

  ‘I have a father figure here,’ Susan continued.

  A fresh chorus of eee-eee-eees erupted from the sisters.

  ‘He wants to apologize.’

  The girls’ heads bobbed in unison.

  ‘This is difficult.’ Susan stood up and walked to the edge of the stage so she could face the three women directly. ‘Did he end his own life?’

  On the overhead screen, the girls stood silent and grim, like the See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys. The girl named Lisa, hand still pressed to her mouth, nodded silently.

  ‘He wants me to tell you that he’ll be there on the aisle. Do you understand that?’

  A sister who wasn’t Lisa spoke up. ‘Yes! I’m getting married next week!’

  Susan said, ‘He’s going, “Uh, uh, uh . . .”’

  ‘Oh. My. God! That’s what Dad does when he’s thinking!’ the third sister screeched.

  ‘Do you ever lose your car keys, Lisa?’ When Lisa nodded, Susan said, ‘Your father says to tell you that he steals the keys. So when they go missing, it’s just a reminder that he’s watching over you.’ Susan raised a hand. ‘Hold that thought, Lisa. Somebody else is coming through.’ A pause, listening. ‘I have a message for Brenda. Brenda? Where’s Brenda?’

  A spotlight began sweeping the audience, looking for Brenda, too. It settled on a woman in the back row who seemed to be struggling to her feet with the help of a younger companion. When she was finally upright, gripping the back of the seat in front of her, Susan said, ‘This must be a night for sisters because I have a woman here who says she’s like a sister to you.’

  ‘Oooh!’ On the overhead screens, Brenda’s eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled back. I thought she was going to pass out.

  ‘Why is she doing this?’ Susan pressed her hands together palm to palm, like a supplicant angel in a Renaissance painting.

  ‘Oooh, oooh, oooh,’ Brenda managed, swaying dangerously.

  If Susan was cold reading, relying on verbal clues from this woman, she was out of luck. �
�She loves you, Brenda. And she’s reminding you to take your meds!’

  Brenda steadied herself as if preparing to hear more, but Susan waved a buh-bye hand. ‘That’s all, I’m afraid. The spirit was willing, but the signal was weak. She’s gone.’

  The sisters in the front row were still hugging each other and dithering when Susan turned her attention back to them. ‘Lisa! One more thing. Your father says he’s not particularly happy about the tattoo, but he’s glad you got it in a place where it won’t show.’

  ‘It’s on her bum,’ one of the sisters volunteered, bouncing up and down on her toes. Lisa began tugging at the waistband of her jeans and I feared she was going to moon the audience in order to prove that, once again, Susan Parker, Medium and Clairvoyant, was right on the money. Fortunately, two clearer heads and two pairs of hands prevailed and the three sisters sat down.

  Back on stage, Susan Parker was taking a break. She twisted the cap off a bottle of water, poured half of it into a glass and drank deeply. After setting the glass down on the table, she paced, studying her shoes. Suddenly she snapped to attention, held up a hand. ‘Someone else is coming through. Yes, yes, I hear you.’ Susan turned to face the audience. ‘It’s a woman, and she’s showing me a flower. What kind of flower?’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Is it a lily? A pansy? Wait a minute.’ Her eyes flew open. ‘Thank you! No, it’s a rose.’

  The guy carrying the Steadicam rushed up the aisle near us, and pointed his lens at the stage. The boom camera, its red eye blinking, began to scan the audience, a brontosaurus, looking for fresh meat.

  ‘You, sir,’ Susan said, pointing in our direction. ‘You in the yellow tie.’

  As the guy with the Steadicam closed in, Stephen Bailey pressed his hand to his chest in a classic who-me? gesture.

  ‘Dad! She’s talking to you,’ Alison hissed, elbow working overtime. ‘Stand up!’

  Bailey unfolded slowly, rising to his feet by degrees, eyes wide, like a deer caught in the headlights.

  ‘She says her name is Rose. Who might this refer to?’

  Bailey looked blank. ‘Nobody I know that’s passed on. There’s a Rose who cuts my hair.’

  Susan stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, fingers tapping her lips. ‘She’s saying that she’s sorry she broke your heart. Do you know what she’s talking about?’

  Bailey shrugged.

  ‘Now she’s showing me an engagement ring. No, wait a minute. Not an engagement ring. It’s a signet ring of some sort, with a red stone.’

  ‘Never been engaged to anyone but my Doris, miss, and Doris, she’s been gone these six years.’ Alison squeezed her father’s arm reassuringly as he continued, ‘If you can bring me a message from my Doris, then I’ll give you a listen.’

  Susan faced the Steadicam and smiled brightly into it. ‘Rose’s message must be intended for someone else, then.’ As the camera followed her closely, Susan once again addressed the audience. ‘I have a message from Rose.’

  The spotlight swooped over our heads and settled on a man at the far end of our row. ‘Had a girlfriend once named Rosie,’ he volunteered. ‘Wore a ruby ring, too, Rosie did.’

  ‘Stand up!’ Susan said. ‘Don’t be shy!’

  ‘Told you!’ Stephen Bailey crowed, collapsing into his seat. ‘It’s a load of codswallop.’

  Alison patted his knee. ‘Never mind, Daddy.’

  ‘You were right about one thing, Mr Bailey,’ I whispered as the audience learned of the tragic break-up of Rosie and James back in 1963.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That bit of tape with you on it?’ I made a snipping motion with my fingers. ‘Cutting-room floor.’

  NINE

  ‘Dubois has responded by calling Randi “senile” and “unintelligent”, and stating that she has “nothing to prove” to him, remarking that whereas believers such as herself live in the afterlife after they die, skeptics will “look around and go, ‘oops!’”’

  Allison Dubois, quoted at www.allexperts.com

  Early the next morning, I drove Cathy Yates to catch the eight-fifteen from Totnes so she could connect through Paddington to her mid-afternoon flight out of Heathrow. She still refused to drive the rental car.

  On the way to the train station, Cathy told me that she planned to contact her Congresswoman, Karen Tuckerman-Webb, a pitbull of a woman who had made her mark in politics by standing up to Nancy Pelosi on the issue of universal health care. I pitied anybody who got in the way of either Cathy Yates or Ms Tuckerman-Webb. It could get ugly.

  We arrived in good time, so I parked the car and joined Cathy for a farewell cup of coffee in the station cafe.

  ‘I may be back,’ she said mysteriously, as we sat down opposite one another at a little table overlooking the tracks. ‘I’m thinking about buying a place over here. If I’m going to be travelling back and forth, back and forth . . . it tires me out just thinking about it. And Heathrow? Son of a bishop, don’t get me started!’

  I smiled over the rim of my cup. I’d always thought that Miami International was the devil’s brainchild, until I touched down at Heathrow Airport for the first time, and that had been before the recent Terminal 5 expansion where a glitch in the automated baggage system sent 28,000 bags into luggage hell. ‘Do you have any place in mind, Cathy?’

  She leaned across the table, speaking in a husky whisper. ‘Now I’m going to surprise you!’

  ‘Please do!’

  ‘When I took that book over to Susan Parker’s that day? She was out in the cemetery with her dog, pulling weeds. I told her about my idea, about visiting Slapton Sands and all, and I’m here to tell you, Hannah, she was on board with it one hundred per cent.’

  Funny, I thought it was my idea, but I kept my mouth shut and nodded.

  ‘Then . . .’ Cathy paused, making me wait for it. ‘Then, she gave me a private reading! What do you think about that?’

  ‘That depends on what Susan told you, I guess.’

  ‘Knocked my socks off, Hannah. Blew me away.’

  ‘Susan has a tendency to do that,’ I said, remembering my experience in Foss Street not so very long ago.

  ‘After the reading, I marched myself down to that estate agent in Hauley Street, the one near the beauty parlor, you know? Looked through a bunch of listings, then bingo! I think I’ve found the place, but I have to go home and get the financing together.’

  ‘Where is the place?’

  Again the mysterious smile. ‘Can’t tell you yet. I don’t want to jinx the deal.’

  ‘Paul and I have talked about buying a holiday cottage in the UK, but even with the downturn in the market, everything’s still so expensive!’

  ‘Confession time?’ She raised a neatly drawn eyebrow.

  ‘Uh, sure.’

  ‘I may look like a hick from the sticks to you, Hannah,’ she said, pegging me for the snob that I was, ‘but my stepfather owned a small chain of motels that sold out to Motel 6 just before he died. What I’m saying? Money is no object.’

  When I got back to Dartmouth, I left the rental in the car park near the Visitors’ Center and tucked the keys under the rear floor mat, to be collected by the rental company later in the week. I’d miss having the little Corsa at my disposal, but with Paul away sailing at Cowes for the next several days, I wasn’t planning on driving anywhere anyway.

  I was window shopping my way back to the B&B and had just made the turn on to Duke Street at the Butterwalk when my cell phone rang. Unknown caller. I usually ignore incoming unknowns, but I had time on my hands that morning, so I thumbed the iPhone on. To my astonishment, the caller was Susan Parker.

  ‘Hannah? I hope you don’t mind. Janet gave me your number.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all! How nice to hear from you. It gives me an opportunity to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing your show in Paignton last night.’

  ‘You were there? I’m so pleased you were able to get tickets.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t see me. Do you remembe
r an elderly gentleman, around eighty, sitting on the aisle? You called on him.’

  After a slight pause, Susan made an ah-ha sound, as if a light bulb had flashed on over her head. ‘The fellow in the yellow tie?’

  ‘You got it. That was Alison Hamilton’s father. You met Alison at dinner the other night.’

  ‘Alison’s father, huh? Well, I’ll be damned. What a small world we live in.’

  ‘You didn’t see us?’

  ‘The spotlights can be blinding, and . . . well, when I’m working, I tend to be rather focused.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Just as I was wondering why on earth Susan Parker would be calling me, she apparently read my mind.

  ‘Hannah, there is a reason for my call. Last night, just before I went to sleep, I had another message from your mother.’

  I stopped dead in my tracks, cell phone glued to my ear. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a bell started clanging, rung by my conveniently absent husband. ‘Here it comes, Hannah,’ he was saying. ‘The pitch. She’s gonna ask you for money. Didn’t I tell ya so?’

  ‘I’m sorry she disturbed your sleep,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘The spirits, I’m afraid, are no respecters of time or place.’ Susan was silent for a moment, the empty air on her end of the line filled by music playing softly. A Mozart string quartet, unless I missed my guess. ‘Your father must have been quite a handful,’ she said.

  ‘What??!’ I said it aloud, just like that, with two question marks and an exclamation point. After Mom died, my father had crawled inside a bottle. He’d been sober for years now, thank goodness, but back then, being ‘quite a handful’ was putting it mildly.

  ‘She’s OK with it now,’ Susan was saying when I tuned in again. ‘Actually, I think the message is meant for your father. Is there another woman in his life?’