How It Happened in Peach Hill (17 page)

“The person who asked this question urgently wants an answer!” Mama smiled. “The spirit world is responding with a simple reply, loudly and clearly.
Yes
, you will find a husband! And without too much more waiting!”

Not one but two ladies jumped to their feet, each
exclaiming that it was her question. Mama laughed along with the rest of us. “No wonder the spirits were so adamant,” she said. “There must be two husbands waiting. In fact”—she pulled the scarf away from her eyes and let her hand hover, quivering over the basket—“am I sensing a husband in this very room?” Her eyelashes fluttered prettily, as if she were the wife-in-waiting.

A young man wearing spectacles and a violent blush raised his hand from the second row. “That’s me,” he said. “My question. I was only wondering.” He shrugged.

“Well, now you have your choice of two!” said Mama. I could see how pleased she was that she’d hit the bull’s-eye. “That is perhaps the quickest delivery on a promise I have ever managed!”

Oh, they loved her now. She tore open the envelope and read aloud: “ ‘Will I ever find a husband?’ ” The audience clapped. Mama slid on the blindfold and I placed another envelope in her hands.

“I am receiving another name,” she said. “Please show yourself, without speaking, if you are related to someone passed over named Carol. Or, perhaps, Caroline?”

A man heaved himself to his feet.

“The person has been identified, Madame,” I said. I thought I recognized him as one of the gents who worked at the bank.

“Sir,” said Mama. “You have lost someone?”

“Caroline,” he said. “My sister.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mama. “She has something to tell you. She seems to be shaking her head. Do you understand her message?”

“Can’t say as I do,” said Caroline’s brother. “You tell me. You’re the genie.”

A scoffer. Some people seemed to think that if they challenged a medium, it made them look clever. Mr. Poole stood up near the wall, as if preparing to pounce if he didn’t like the fellow’s attitude.

“I am a clairvoyant,” said my mother gently. “Not a genie. Genies are magical creatures who live for hundreds of years. I hope you are not implying, sir, that I appear to be a century old?” Everyone laughed, charmed. Someone in the back even gave one of those wolfish, admiring whistles.

“But Caroline is still trying to reach you,” added Mama, calming the audience. “I feel that she wants to prevent you from doing something you are contemplating. What might that be?”

“As if I’d tell you,” said the man, flushing.

“Absolutely right,” said Mama. “You deserve your privacy. I’ll tell your sister to keep her advice to herself.”

“You do that,” the man blurted. “What’s she giving advice for, anyway? She died when she was two!”

Another laugh from the audience, embarrassed this time. The man was pouring vinegar on Mama’s show.

Mama pushed up the blindfold and ripped the seal on the envelope. She scanned the paper quickly as she passed it to me, urging me to pretend to read it. The words on the page read, “Will the person I’ve lost come home?” What I read aloud was “
Caroline
!”

The applause was not so noisy or prolonged this time. We needed a good ending. Mama replaced the scarf over her eyes.

“I am hearing a question that speaks of heartbreak,” she
said. “You have lost someone and have trouble accepting that there will be no return.”

A hand shot up in the back. I made my way toward it. My heart thudded to the polished parquet floor. “The person is recognized, Madame.”

It was Delia de Groot.

“My mother is gone.” Delia stood to make her declaration.

Her mother wasn’t dead! Half the people in the room knew that! But Mama had no idea who had spoken, and she was already responding.

“I see her beckoning to you, as if she has a secret to tell,” said Mama.

A wave of snickering rippled through the hall. She had a secret, all right. Delia blanched. Mama hesitated, confused.

I cut in. “Madame is contacting only the deceased this evening,” I said loudly. “She is skilled at finding missing persons, or objects, but she is currently envisioning the Other Side and not prepared to seek out what you have lost.”

Delia narrowed her eyes, almost beaten, but then leaned forward, as if ready to pounce.

“Then how did she see my mother ‘beckoning’ in the first place? She’s a phony, that’s how! You’re fakes and liars, both of you, phonies and fakes!”

The people all around her shifted in their chairs, gaping
in excited horror, as if watching a wrestling match. Mr. Poole hurried over but then stood useless and dithering.

I admit there was a part of me that gaped in admiration. Delia was doing what I’d never have the nerve to do: taking on Mama, and in public! But only for an instant. We were in peril, and I knew what should be done with Delia. Toss her through the French doors! I wanted to bellow. Dunk her in the pond!

Mama tore off her blindfold, her cheeks glowing and her eyes locking on their quarry. Go on, Mama! Chew her up and spit her out!

Mama pulled herself up tall, set her shoulders back and took a slow breath, while everyone else was holding theirs.

“You’re very young, miss,” Mama began quietly. “Your experience of the phenomenal is limited—”

Delia stomped her foot. “Show me the papers! Show us the notes you were reading. I’m sure there’s a trick!”

The paper Delia had written was in my pocket. The others were on the floor around the base of the stool. Her paper should still be in its envelope. What if she kicked up enough of a fuss to have us searched?

But Mama lifted a warning finger, like a schoolmistress. As long as she had a smidgeon of control, there would be no scoffers scrambling for evidence.

“What lies out of our sight is often beyond our understanding.” Mama raised her voice a little, putting music into it, so that it carried above the chatter. “We expect the spirit world to be mysterious. Understanding the nature of loss is a lifelong challenge. But when a loved one leaves us,
by choice
, instead of through death, it is most difficult to accept.”

Delia flinched, but Mama continued, calmly exacting her revenge.

“The missing person hovers in an emotional mist, becoming a memory before her time, instead of remaining a presence. She is standing offstage, as it were, overlapping with those we cherish on the Other Side.”

“You’re lying!” shouted Delia, fists clenched and face aflame. “This is babble!”

“Memories are the spirits we create for ourselves,” Mama said firmly. “The recollection of your mother is trapped by your desire to see her again.” She was almost purring, though her heart must be thumping, as mine was, like the heart of a hurdler galloping to the last jump. She stepped to the edge of the platform. “I can locate her roaming aura, if you care to consult me privately.” The audience chuckled. “It may be that her situation is one you do not care to share with all of Peach Hill.…”

Delia sat, deflated.

Mr. Poole appeared at Mama’s side. “My friends, Madame Caterina!”

Mildred, widow of Edmund, rose to her feet, clapping. A few others joined her in a sprinkling of applause, though not the hurrahs and cheers that I knew Mama had hoped for.

“Champagne is being served in the next room.” There came a well-timed
pop!
“Please join me in a toast to the marvelous Madame Caterina!”

Mama curtsied gracefully and left the stage. She would never cry, of course, but her eyes burned with disappointment. I pretended not to see her beckoning me. Instead, I followed Delia into the hallway, where she waited with Sally to
receive her wrap from Norah. Demanding an apology was meaningless, I knew. I wanted to yank her hair or rip the tassels off her shimmering dress.

“Delia!”

But when she looked at me, I saw the face of a sad little girl, spite and haughtiness flown away.

“Delia?”

“Are you happy now?” said Sally. “With your mother making a fool of her in front of everyone?”

“But she—you—” I decided to ignore Sally. “You were bent on destruction. You purposely tried to make fools of us first. Mama just turned the tables, and not very far.”

People streamed out of the ballroom, pressing around us, far too many for Norah to assist by herself. Sally’s uncle Travis waved from the door to tell her that their car was waiting.

“I don’t like liars,” said Delia. “Especially mother liars.” She hugged her shawl close around her shoulders.

Me neither, I thought. How did she know?

A little of Delia’s old spirit had returned. “And your mother is the biggest liar of all,” she said. “Except possibly for Mr. Slippery-Slidey Poole. She deserves whatever she gets. I’m going now.” She took Sally’s arm as they squeezed through the crowd toward the door. What?

The foyer was full of flashing jewels and happy chatter. Mr. Poole, everybody said so, was a charming host and threw a splendid party. Madame Caterina had been a treat, so pretty and surprising.

I felt as if my skin were crawling with spiders. What did
Delia know about Mr. Poole? Or was she guessing, like me? She had often been horribly right about things. Had my mother given him money? Were our hard-earned bundles of bills hidden somewhere inside this house? The curving staircase beckoned. One small person slipping out of the crowd would hardly be noticed, would she? I was halfway up the carpeted steps, compelled to prowl.

“Annie?”

“Oh!” I about jumped out of my shoes. It was Mr. Poole, standing suddenly on the landing above me.

“The upstairs is strictly off limits to guests, my dear. Even special guests.”

“I—I—was looking for the ladies’ room.”

“Indeed. It remains, as during your last visit, behind the second door on your right in the lower corridor.”

I stepped down one step.

“Your mother asked me to give you a message.”

“My mother? Has she gone?”

“Well, yes. She was disheartened by events. I had Douglas drive her home. She said you would understand.”

“She left me here?”

“I’ll have Douglas take you when you’re ready.”

“We suffer a disaster and she abandons me?”

“Nonsense, child. It was hardly a disaster. Your mother is the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met.” He clasped his hands across his heart to emphasize how thrilling she was.

“Not according to everyone,” I muttered.

“Ah, yes. That brings me to the next point.” He came down the stairs, glancing past me at the hallway brimming with guests. He put his hand on my arm, guiding me toward
a door that opened into what must be his study. “May I have a word with you in confidence?”

If I’d believed in ghosts, I’d have said that one had sauntered through me right then, the chill I got.

The room was dim, with enormous armchairs flanking a cold fireplace. The floor was littered with boxes and stacks of books, as if the library were being moved.

“Events this evening have led me to question what I believed about you and Catherine,” said Mr. Poole. “That snip suggested that your mother is not a genuine medium. That she employs tricks to captivate her customers.” He gazed at me intently, making me feel as if I were shrinking to the size of a mushroom.

“Delia is disturbed,” I said. “About her own mother. It makes her feel better to belittle mine.”

“I’m not certain that is the whole of it,” said Mr. Poole.

“The natural ability of a psychic must occasionally be enhanced by theatrics to have the desired impact,” I said carefully. “Is that what you’re referring to?”

Mr. Poole smiled. “You do take after your mother, don’t you? She can spin gold out of words.” He kept pausing between sentences, making me shiver.

“Your mother was splendid when I met her,” he said. “I’d never visited a psychic before. I … I imagined she could expel my wife’s nagging ghost, perhaps make some business predictions. I trusted her.”

Why was he telling me this? How could my mother have left me here?

“But now it appears that trust was misplaced.”

I shuffled my feet, inching back toward the door. Would they hear me in the foyer if I began to scream?

“Now!” He flung his arms up and tossed back his silvery chin. “Now the sun is rising in the west! We are looking at the world from a different hilltop! Far from being less than what she was, she is much more!

“She enchants whomever she encounters. She is not ruled by the whims of unreliable spirits who may or may not materialize; she decides who will visit and when! Such cleverness! Such charm!”

He put a confiding arm around my shoulder. “Her only error is one we can quickly address. Her only error is that she performs her magic for mere dollars when there are hundreds and thousands of dollars available for such a talent as hers.”

“It’s not an error,” I said. “It’s the way we work. We are best—Mama is best—with one person at a time.”

“Not anymore,” said Mr. Poole.

“Mama doesn’t want to be famous, or to attract dangerous attention.”

“I don’t think you understand,” he said, his voice like honey. “I have plans for Madame Caterina. What you’ve done in the past, what you think you want or don’t want; none of that matters. I am now equipped with knowledge that could lead to your undoing. Best to avoid that, don’t you think? Together we can flourish. As long as you follow instructions, we will all be very rich! We’ll leave Peach Hill far behind. Is this clear?”

My hands were like ice.

“Douglas must be back by now; I’ll have him take you home. Be sure to tell your mother about our little chat.”

I wanted to think before I passed on any messages. Messages? Threats. He’d threatened me. Both of us. This was exactly why we’d never trusted anyone. There was a reason we had that rule, and I didn’t intend to waver now. But for the first time, I didn’t trust Mama, either. She seemed to go right along with him. I couldn’t read her the way I used to; I wasn’t seeing everything. Had she given him some of our money to invest in a dubious nickel mine? Did she really want to go with him on a tour that might spark unwanted attention? Would she marry him?