Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“I know. That’s what Art told me when I suggested the possibility. I didn’t dare tell him I’d already been there for two sessions with this woman.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Her name is Sandra Gleam, or at least that’s what she calls herself. ‘Sandra Gleam — Lifting the Veil of the Afterlife.’ She’s a woman in her late forties, about my age, and she does seem to get results.”

“What sort of results?” I asked with more than a little scepticism.

“She’s contacted an Indian guide on the other side who says he can bring Ron to talk to me.”

“And of course you paid her for this?”

“Certainly. I’d give a great deal to actually speak with my son again.”

“And your husband knows nothing of this?”

She took a deep breath. “I haven’t told him, and that’s my problem. Sandra Gleam feels she needs to conduct a small séance at our home, with just my husband and me taking part. She says that would be the most comfortable setting for Ron.”

I shook my head, more in sorrow than in reprimand. “Kate, you don’t know what you’re getting into here. The woman is a charlatan. She’s using all sorts of trickery.”

“How do you know that? You’ve never even met her.”

“I know the way psychics operate.”

“When she was in her trance I could see ectoplasm above her head.”

“Gauze coated with phosphorescent paint.”

“A small seashell appeared on the table as a sign from my son, even though I was holding both her hands.”

“But the room was dark?”

“Mostly,” she admitted. “There was a dim light so I could see there was no one else in the room.”

“She had the shell hidden in her mouth, or perhaps even regurgitated it from her stomach. It’s a trick some mediums are quite skilled at.”

Kate Hale pondered this for a moment. “I have to do it. I have to take the chance that she’s on the level.” An idea seemed to light up her face. “Look here, Dr. Sam, since you know so much about this, could you attend the séance, too? If you’re there to prove she’s not a fake, my husband might go along with the idea.”

I shook my head. “I think I’d have to say no to that, Kate. It falls far outside my duties as a physician.”

She gave a reluctant sigh. “All right. Thank you for listening to me, at least.”

My wife Annabel was Northmont’s only veterinarian, and Annabel’s Ark had become a haven for creatures of all shapes and sizes. That afternoon, following a house call at a farm near there, I stopped by the Ark on my way home and found her removing a painful thorn from a cat’s paw. “Much the way Androcles would have done it,” I suggested.

“I’m far gentler than Androcles, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I’m on my way home. You coming soon?”

She sighed and glanced over at the row of cages where her assistant was treating a large German shepherd. “I’ve got at least another hour here. Then I’ll be along.”

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s meet at Max’s for dinner. Say, seven o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect!” she readily agreed. Max’s Steakhouse was our favorite restaurant in Northmont, the scene of our December wedding reception.

I changed my clothes and arrived at Max’s about fifteen minutes early. Annabel hadn’t yet come in and I was surprised to see Kate Hale and her husband seated in one of the booths. It seemed foolish to ignore them, so I said hello as I passed. Arthur Hale immediately stood up to greet me. “Hello, Doctor. Could you join us for a drink?”

“I’m meeting my wife. She should be here momentarily.”

“Sit down anyway, until she comes.”

I signaled Max so he’d know where I was and then joined them in the booth. “Nothing to drink for me,” I told them. “I’ll wait for Annabel.”

Art Hale was a scholarly type who wore gold-rimmed glasses and smoked a pipe. He was around fifty, maybe a few years older than his wife, and when he wasn’t busy on the town council he worked at a small printing business he owned that employed about a dozen people. “Kate has been telling me about her visits to this woman in Boston. She said she discussed it with you today. What’s your opinion of it?”

I was reluctant to be dragged into a family dispute, but I felt I should repeat what I’d already told Kate. When I’d finished, she joined in. “Art feels the same way you do, Dr. Sam, and I’ll admit you may be right. But what harm is there in finding out? All she’s asking to come out here and hold a seance at our house is three hundred dollars, plus her travel expenses.”

“Three hundred dollars is a lot of money,” Hale murmured.

“To talk to our son? To hear his voice one more time?”

“Kate—” His voice was pleading now. “Be reasonable.”

“If you’re so afraid the woman is a fraud we can ask Dr. Sam to be present.”

“I don’t—”

But I’d barely started my objection when her husband’s face brightened. “Would you, Doctor?”

“This is a bit out of my line,” I protested.

“Nonsense! You have quite a reputation as a solver of mysteries. Isn’t this the same thing, in a way?”

“If you suspect some sort of fraud is being perpetrated you need to call on Sheriff Lens, not me.”

“Maybe both of you could be there,” Kate suggested.