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

Sandra Gleam turned her eyes to him for the first time. “Does the town of Northmont have an ordinance against communicating with the dead?”

“Well, no,” he admitted.

“Or trying to help people through their bereavement?”

“No. But we do have laws against swindling and confidence games.”

The dark-haired woman turned toward Mrs. Hale and her husband. “Have I tried to defraud you? Have I asked for any money other than my rather modest fee?”

“Certainly not!” Kate was quick to insist. Art Hale remained silent.

I had to come up with something to justify our presence. “If we can’t be part of the seancé, you must allow us to search this room, to make certain no sort of trickery is concealed here.”

The woman shrugged. “It’s their room, not mine. I am entering it for the first time.”

The windowless room was about the right size for a car, though if there had been a garage entrance it was gone now. The walls were all solid and the overhead light was too high to reach without a ladder. The card table and chairs were closely examined by the sheriff and me, but there was nothing hidden in or under them.

“Are you satisfied?” Sandra Gleam asked.

I looked at her long black dress, well aware that it could conceal all the tricks of a medium’s trade. “Would you be willing to allow Mrs. Hale to frisk you?” I asked.

The woman smiled slightly at my suggestion. “Only if I could do the same to her.”

“Look here—” Art Hale started to protest, but his wife stopped him.

“That’s fine with me,” she agreed. “Let’s get to it.”

While the medium stood still and raised her hands above her head, Kate Hale ran her own hands down the slender body, taking special care to feel around the legs. At one point Sandra Gleam slipped her feet out of her shoes so they could be searched as well. When Mrs. Hale lifted one of her feet she laughed. “I’m a bit ticklish there.”

Then Sandra repeated the procedure with Kate Hale, who seemed a bit embarrassed by the groping hands but did not complain. “All right,” her husband said, turning to Sheriff Lens. “You might as well search me as well.”

When all the searching was finished, nothing unusual had been found. Sandra’s purse remained on the kitchen counter and Hale had left his wallet and keys there, too. The women had no pockets in their dresses, and Hale’s pockets held only a handkerchief and his leather eyeglass case.

I asked about the wine and was told that Sandra had brought it. “Some cooks drink a bit of white wine while they prepare a meal,” she told me. “My bottle serves the same purpose.”

I held it to the light but there was nothing else in the bottle. I took a sip and agreed it was wine and nothing else. “A very good wine,” I complimented her.

“Then we are ready,” Sandra Gleam announced, filling the three glasses. Turning to the sheriff and me she said, “The Hales and I will now adjourn here for the seancé. You may stand guard at the door if you wish.”

But before they could begin, an odd thing happened. It was still daylight on this June evening, and the sound of a bell reached our ears. It was not the doorbell, but an irregular ringing that seemed to come from the street. Kate Hale knew at once what it was. “That’s the knife grinder. Sheriff, could you get those two paring knives I left on the kitchen counter and take them out to him? I left some money there, too.”

Sheriff Lens seemed to hesitate at performing this household chore and I immediately said, “You stay here, Sheriff. I’ll do it.”

I found the knives and hurried out to the curb. Pete Petrov, the knife grinder, stopped his wagon when he saw me. “What’re you doing out this way, Dr. Sam?”

“Visiting a patient,” I told him. “Sharpen these two for her, will you?”

“Sure thing!” He took the knives and operated the foot pedal on his grinder, holding the blade close enough to send sparks flying. After a moment he repeated the process with the second blade. “There you are! Good as new.” I took the paring knives and paid him. “Say hello to Mrs. Hale for me,” he called as he moved on with his wagon, pulling the bell cord to announce his passing.

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

I went back inside and returned the paring knives to the kitchen counter by the stove. Sheriff Lens was standing by the closed door of the storeroom. “I heard some mumbling but now it’s silent,” he reported.

“Did they lock the door?”

“No, but no spirits from the beyond are getting by me, Doc.”

I smiled. “You’re not supposed to keep them out. Sandra Gleam wants them let in.”

We waited for several minutes, listening for a sound, but all seemed quiet behind the door.

Finally the sheriff asked, “Think we should take a look, Doc?”

“It’s only been about fifteen minutes so far. Seancés can go on longer than that.”