08 Illusion (41 page)

The man was Dane Collins.

Wow! He’d never seen a white-coated professional, a knowledge-is-power doctor looking so fallible. Her hand was trembling. All she could do was gawk at him.

So all he did was smile and let her gawk. The torturous silence was delicious.

“You’re not …” Phlegm made her voice rattle. She cleared her throat. “You’re Mr. Collins.”

“That’s right,” he answered, clicking open the briefcase.

“Isn’t this a little underhanded?”

“You wouldn’t answer or return my calls, not since you called that one time to tell me that I was seeing things.”

Without another word, he produced the promotional photographs of blond Eloise Kramer and the early photos of Mandy Collins and laid them side by side on Kessler’s desk.

The photographs spoke very well for themselves, and Kessler was definitely getting the message. She studied one, then another, her hand going to her face, her head shaking.

“This one”—Dane pointed it out—“calls herself Eloise Kramer. We happened to meet in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, where Mandy grew up. I took her in, trained her, got to know her. It turns out she spent some time in a mental ward because she thought she was someone else. Someone else named Mandy.”

She finally looked up at him. “What … I suppose you have a point to make.”

“Eloise Kramer was the maiden name of my wife’s mother, and Eloise was my wife’s middle name. Eloise is a magician just as Mandy was; she grew up on a ranch near Hayden, Idaho, just as Mandy did; she talks, acts, laughs like Mandy; she even has the same teeth as Mandy.”

Oh, now the doctor was recovering her strength. The know-it-all face was coming back. “And your point?” Her voice was still weak.

“These are photographs taken by people other than myself who are witnesses to their authenticity. These images are not hallucinations, not delusions, not the side effects of medication. I want to hear you say I’m not crazy and that I truly saw what I saw.”

“Well …” She drew a breath and her voice was stronger. “I can’t deny that the girl bears a remarkable resemblance to your wife when she was that age.”

“Which is something you seemed to anticipate in your warnings to me about my medication, am I right?”

She was struggling, a terrible liar. “I assure you, what we have here is a stunning coincidence.”

“You did tell me that I might see Mandy again, or think I saw her, correct? Well, I did, only she was real, as these photographs prove.”

“I am amazed,” she managed to say.

“But I suggest that you warned me about it because you knew it would happen.”

She wagged her head. “I didn’t know it would happen.”

What did he expect her to say? “No, of course you didn’t. But given the evidence, would you say I’m crazy if I think I saw a girl who exactly resembled my wife?” She fumbled at the question so he asked again, “Am I crazy?”

She indicated the photos. “Given this, I would have to say no, you’re not crazy. You’re the victim of an incredible coincidence I can’t possibly explain, but you’re not crazy. Is that all?”

Her shocked, blown-to-pieces reaction to the photos had already told him volumes. “Good. We’re clear on that.” He began gathering up the photos. “I know this was only a ten-minute appointment, so to get right to the point—
the
point—I believe there’s a reason for what appears to be a stunning coincidence, and now I believe more than ever that you know what that reason is. I’ll be staying in town for a while.” He gave her a slip of paper bearing his cell number and the phone number and address of Preston’s Las Vegas home, now at his complete disposal. “I’d like you to think things over, and if there’s anything you need to tell me, you can get in touch anytime. Also”—he produced Jerome Parmenter’s picture and bio from his briefcase—“I’m looking for this man and what he knows. If you know him, if you ever run into him, let him know I want to see him.” He left a photo of Eloise and a photo of Mandy on her desk. “I’ll leave you these. Of course there are duplicates.”

He snapped the briefcase shut and went to the door. “Give it some thought, will you?”

She said nothing more. She only looked down at the two photos as he closed the door behind him.

“Now, that’s cute, that’s really cute!”

Keisha Ellerman, veteran costume designer, was a grandmotherly type, warm and immediately likable, always ready with pins, chalk, and a measuring tape draped about her neck. She was so delighted, even awestruck with how Mandy’s new outfit looked one would think she hadn’t made it herself. “And you are so perfect for it!”

Mandy turned this way, then that, striking little poses and looking herself over in the full-length mirror in her dressing room. The costume was cute—a pink top with puffy sleeves and matching capris that hugged her hips, both lavishly embroidered and trimmed out in silver. The bare midriff took a momentary decision to like—not that it didn’t come across as teasing, playful, and fun, and not that she’d never dressed in short summer tops before, but just because, well, because she felt she was dressing this way for Mr. Vahidi and her navel was not her own. Something about that man took the fun out of everything.

But the reflection in the mirror captured and held her just as it had back in Idaho, as if the mirror were a window into a real world where that girl who was she, but in some mysterious way, not she, lived, dreamed, loved, and danced. Even the style and workmanship of this costume looked the same as the dresses and gowns she’d worn that day, as if the same person had made them all.

“I just have to ask you,” said Keisha, studying her from across the room. “Have you ever heard of Mandy Collins? She and her husband used to have a magic act, Dane and Mandy?”

Mandy’s heart thumped so hard she could feel it. Her next breath came with conscious effort. Were she and this nice lady living in the mirror’s reflection, or were they here in this room right now and had Keisha really said that? She couldn’t be sure. So much of her heart and memory still lay in that other time when she almost
was
the girl in the mirror, when she danced a waltz through a special world …

When she couldn’t find her voice to say good-bye.

She put on her professional, social interaction smile—or at least half of it. “I, I sure have.”

Keisha shook her head, looking at Mandy and marveling. “You look so much like Mandy Collins you could be her daughter, I swear!”

Her gasp came so slowly it could have been a drawn breath. Keisha’s words played and replayed through her mind as she stared, transfixed, first at Keisha, then at her own reflection.

I look so much like … I could be her daughter?

No one had ever told her that. Maybe Dane had tried in certain ways but she didn’t catch it. Now the girl in the mirror became more than a longing; she became a revelation.

He called me Mandy. He must have meant
that
Mandy,
his
Mandy, the one I look like.

Not me.

She turned to Keisha and tried to answer. “Is that … really?”

“I did her costumes. I was Dane and Mandy’s designer for years.”

Mandy felt her jaw drop open. She turned away from Keisha and toward the girl she longed to be. So her costume had a family, all beautiful; she’d met them, worn them; she could see the resemblance, feel the kinship.

So this was what Mandy Collins looked like?

A knock on the door drew her back from the mirror, back into the room. “Come in.”

It was Seamus. “All set. Hey!”

She turned so he could admire her, and he did, and she might have appreciated his gaze up and down her frame, she wasn’t sure.

“Well … that should make Mr. Vahidi happy.”

Whatever smile she’d managed fell away.

“Be careful you don’t get it dirty.” He prodded her toward the door. “Great work, Keisha! Magnificent! We’ll do another one, something in the same style to complement this one, maybe in blue. Bring us by some ideas, some swatches, all right?”

Mandy gave Keisha an adoring hug and the sweet lady kissed her on the cheek. “Good luck, dear.”

Seamus draped her in an overcoat and they walked through the lobby of the Orpheus, past the jangling gambling machines—an adult could accompany a minor across the floor of the casino provided they kept moving—and out a side door.

“So how’s the room at Priscilla’s?” he asked.

I look like her. That’s why.

But Seamus had asked her a question about her lodging. Right, the room at the bed and breakfast. Priscilla was a sister of Seamus’s cousin’s friend—or something like that—who ran the place. With kind words and some dealing, Seamus had secured a room there for Mandy, something she could rent by the week.

“It’s very nice. I even have my own bathroom.”

“My invitation is still open, of course.”

She knew he was going there. “I appreciate the offer but I haven’t changed my mind.”

“If you saw my place, you might decide you like it.”

She yanked her own leash but her feelings slipped through. “Could we wait till I’m through risking my life to talk about this?”

He backed off.

Out in the parking lot, a gaudily decorated stage was set up, the silver bunting shimmering in the light breeze, and in the middle of the stage was a big, green, ugly-as-an-alley Dumpster. Canned music, obnoxious stuff, was playing over a portable PA system, and behind the stage was a banner:
MANDY WHITACRE, A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAGIC.
The stage and Dumpster had drawn a crowd of maybe fifty. A clown was busily making balloon animals for the kids—all four of them—and a keno runner, not to miss an opportunity, was taking tickets for the next game. Mandy and Seamus ducked behind a barrier and hurried to the rear of the stage, where she shed the overcoat and took her place just behind the Dumpster on a small platform charged with a thousand pounds of compressed air.

Andy the stage manager checked his watch. “Two o’clock straight up. Ready?”

Focus, girl. They need you now, all your emotions, your whole mind, your best.

The music changed to a fanfare. She crouched, just as they’d rehearsed. Things worked pretty well the last several times they tried it; here was hoping. She steeled her muscles; her hands clenched involuntarily.

“One, two, three …”

Ba-boom! Smoke exploded around the Dumpster, the people jumped and shrieked, and like a pink Peter Pan, Mandy shot up from behind the Dumpster and landed like a feather on the lid, striking a pose. That got an excited round of cheers and applause. Good start.

With a wide, exaggerated wave and a pull on thin air, she beckoned a wireless microphone to come to her and it did, circling around her, then plopping into her hand. The crowd stirred at that one. They were with her.

She noticed the folks were wearing jackets, hats, even some gloves. The sun was out, which helped, but a sign across the street said the temperature was fifty-seven degrees. Not bad, really, for the pit of winter.

But she couldn’t wait to get into the stunt and into some coveralls.

“Helloooo, everybody, and welcome to the Orpheus, where anything can happen and dreams can come true!” Vahidi must have written that opener. It was her job to say it. “I’m Mandy Whitacre, opening tonight in the Prospector’s Lounge, bringing you a Different Kind of Magic.” She flung her hand out, and Lily the dove appeared. One more fling and Carson followed Lily as they circled over the crowd. While the doves did a circle, and then, to everyone’s astonishment, a series of vertical loops, a police siren sounded and a Las Vegas Police Department squad car pulled out from behind some landscaping.

“Oh-oh. Aerobatic birds without a license!” she quipped. She extended her arms and the doves came to rest, one on each arm.

Oh, the folks loved that!

Andy brought the doves’ cage and they tucked themselves back home as an officer stepped onto the stage, handcuffs in hand.

“Officer Steve Dykstra of the LVPD!” she announced.

They applauded, though a few booed. The Las Vegas cops were great sports. She put her hands behind her and he handcuffed her. Then he did the same to her ankles. “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll get ’em back—I hope.”

She hopped into a large canvas bag that lay open on the stage, then Andy and crew member Carl pulled the bag up around her and cinched the top closed.

The Orpheus liked doing things big. They’d hired a crane just to hook that bag and hoist it into the Dumpster. It was noisy, it was big and noticeable, it was great show business.

And she was blind to the world, trying to keep her body moving, kicking a little so they’d know she was still in the bag as it dangled on the end of the cable. They’d worked this through.
Come on, don’t let me swing too much …

She felt Andy and Carl’s hands steadying her as the crane lowered her into the Dumpster.
Eeesh
. The Dumpster was empty but it still smelled like garbage inside. She touched down and settled to a sitting position against the Dumpster wall, Andy unhooked the cable, and then SLAM, the lid closed and she was in the dark.

Now for the trick, and quickly, before the garbage truck arrived. She drew a breath, relaxed, and thought of the ranch, the white rail fence and the three aspens, the long driveway. She reached outside herself … and nothing happened.

He never loved me. He was in love with his wife. He said so.

She winced, concentrated.
Reach out … if not the ranch, then—no, not the hospital. Don’t go there.

My invitation is still open.
Was she supposed to feel flattered? Seamus was such a child! At least Dane Collins showed a little honor, a little respect!

But he told me to go away and never come back. He’s in love with her, and I just look like her.