Three Sisters (21 page)

The psychic stared without blinking. “It is about to happen.” Dramatic pause. “Within a few seconds—no more than that—this person is destined to die by terrible violence. I see pools of blood—flesh ripped to shreds—fractured bones!” Cassandra cringed.
How terribly icky.

Daisy clenched her remaining teeth, steeled herself for the swift swing of the scythe.
Get ready, all you saints—here I come!

“Oh…it has happened—the soul has been released!” That, she thought, was a nice expression.
I must remember to congratulate White Raven.
(The visionary refers to her favorite and most reliable informant.)

Just to make certain it was not her soul that had been released, Daisy pressed a finger to her neck, felt a steady pulse, expressed her relief with a sigh.
All this time, that silly white woman was jabbering about somebody else. I wonder who it was.

The psychic responded to the unspoken question: “The identity of the recently deceased is coming to me…it is a man. This individual was very attractive, extremely intelligent and—” Cassandra’s pale brow furrowed into a puzzled frown, “very dear to me and my sister Bea.”
Who on earth could that be?
Cassie had always been a bit slow. “Wait…I’m receiving additional information. This man frequently has breakfast with my sister.” That narrowed it down some. But more was coming to her. “And he sleeps…in Bea’s
bed
?”
This is beginning to sound absolutely scandalous.
Determined to get to the bottom of the conundrum, the mystic-logician applied the process of elimination: The only person who had breakfast with Bea and slept in her bed was Andrew. And though Andrew Turner was quite attractive and fairly bright, he was not what one would consider
extremely
intelligent, and he certainly wasn’t dead….

When the truth hit her, it was not like being slapped with a slice of white bread. No. This was Mr. John Henry Truth, slamming a nine-pound sledge against her head.

Cassandra Spencer stared past camera one. Quite oblivious to her unseen audience, she said, “It must be Andrew…Andrew is dead!” She felt a sudden pain behind her eyes; in front of them danced a spray of multicolored dots. These fireworks were familiar, and frightening. She murmured, “Oh—something is wrong.”
I must get control of myself.
The afflicted woman shut her eyes, lowered her head.
There, that’s better.
She opened them, found herself looking at the small monitor under the coffee table, where her face was framed on the screen. From time to time, complex electronic circuitry fails. This was the wrong time. Inside the plastic box, the vertical oscillator lost synchronization with the demodulated video signal. As it did, Cassandra’s image began to flip over, approximately four times each second. From time to time, in the presence of certain external stimuli, complex brain circuitry fails. Back came the field of multicolored dots—with a vengeance. The visual display was accompanied by the taste of garlic, an overpowering scent of ammonia, the familiar muscle cramp in her left leg. Cassandra turned her face toward the dining room, her enormous eyes stared
through
the wall, into the imagined space, where her mind painted a picture of her sister. “Bea.” The teacup slipped from her numb hands. “Bea, please help me.”

But unbeknownst to Cassie, the fair-haired sister was no longer among those present. Beatrice was already out of town, headed for the family estate on Spencer Mountain where, just possibly, a husband-in-distress required her immediate attention.

In Cassandra’s Dining Room

Assistant Director Gerald Sax had cut the live audio/video feed immediately after Cassandra’s “Something is wrong.” He signaled Denver to run a string of commercials.

Without knowing what he might be called upon to do, Charlie Moon was on his feet, muscles tensed for action.

Standing by his side, Sarah Frank looked up at this man who, she believed, knew the answer to every question. “Charlie, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” The tribal investigator frowned at the bank of video monitors.
But wherever she goes, trouble seems to follow Aunt Daisy.

Crisis in the Parlor

Her brief moment in the limelight so rudely terminated, Daisy Perika seemed to have withdrawn inside herself. An onlooker might have concluded that she was sulking. Not so. The tribal elder had witnessed the unfolding of this drama with intense interest. She was watching the psychic, who was staring dumbly at what the Ute woman could not see—the silent shampoo commercial on the under-the-coffee-table monitor. Daisy was surprised to notice that Cassandra’s lips were moving.
That white woman is talking to herself. And her eyes look funny. I think she’s gonna pass out.

Dr. Daisy’s diagnosis was right on the mark.

Cassandra Spencer’s vision suddenly shifted from sharply focused to fuzzy. She could no longer see the television monitor. Or the coffee table. Or her Native American guest. Or anything else in this physical world. Now, her visual experience consisted entirely of a bluish white pinwheel of twirling lights. Round and round the galaxy went. Faster. Faster. Her last conscious thought was:
Oh, no…it’s happening!

And so it was.

As Cassandra Spencer pitched forward, Daisy Perika reached out to catch her. If she had not, the lady’s pretty face would have smashed onto the coffee table.

The assistant director came through the parlor door, clipboard in hand, stopped in midstride. “What happened?”

“She’s passed out cold as ice.”
And this little pipsqueak don’t look strong enough to pick up a dime off the sidewalk.
“Tell my nephew to come in here.”

Before all the words were out of her mouth, Charlie Moon appeared. Sarah Frank trailed after him.

Daisy addressed her favorite relative: “Charlie, take this woman to her bedroom.” Her next order was directed to Mr. Sax: “Tell him where her bedroom is.”

“Uh—two doors down the hallway on the right.” Sax waved the clipboard. “What’ll I tell my supervisor in Denver?”

Daisy shot him her barbed-arrow look. “Tell your boss she’s had a seizure.”

The frantic man was tapping his wristwatch. “But we’ve still got almost twenty minutes of air time left, and this is a live broadcast so we’ve got to do something—”

“Not with her, you won’t.”

The lanky Ute was gathering the limp form into his arms when Sax muttered, “What should I do?”

“Call 911,” Moon said. “Tell ’em to send an ambulance.”

“Uh—right.”

Daisy issued further orders to her nephew: “When you find the lady’s bed, lay her on her side—not on her back.” To Sarah, she said, “I’ll be there in a minute. Make sure she keeps breathing okay.”

Gerald Sax watched the tall man and the girl disappear down the dark hallway, slipped back into the dining room, closed the door. Nibbling thoughtfully on a plastic ballpoint pen, he summed up the situation:
Star conks out during a live performance. This could kill the show. Which could lose me my job
. Deep breath.
Unless I can keep a lid on it. Which won’t be possible if the EMTs show up and find Cassie unconscious
. Exhale.
I’ll have to do the right thing.
Which was a matter of one’s definition.
I’ll wait a few minutes, see if she’s all right
. Inhale.
If she’s not better in a half hour or so, I’ll check out the Yellow Pages. See if I can find a specialist.
His game plan made, Gerald Sax switched his headset to Denver. “Paul, Cassandra’s…uh…feeling a little woozy. Run me a few more commercials.”

The senior director’s voice barked in his ear: “You got it, Jerry. How long d’you think it’ll take to get her back up to speed?”

“Uh—problematic. Let me get back to you on that.”

“Roger-dodger. Take a whole minute.”

The assistant director switched his headset to Broadcast Audio, counted down to zero, crossed his fingers as the toothpaste commercial ended, breathed a huge sigh of relief when a Honda ad began.

How a Star is Born

Glancing at an off-air monitor, the assistant director noticed that Daisy was hobbling in the direction of the hallway and Cassandra’s bedroom.
She’s leaving the set!
Sax opened the door, called out, “Mrs. Perika, I wonder if you would do something for me.”

She turned to glare at the little man.

“It’s nothing much.” He made a delicate gesture, touching fingertip to thumb. “Just an itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy little favor.” The fellow had a moderate tendency toward extravagant and wordy understatement.

By contrast, the Ute elder was economical with her syllables. “What?”

“Oh, nothing all that difficult.” He clasped his hands, and the little-boy face presented a wide-eyed innocent expression. “Just continue with your story about Green Jailbird.”

“Blue
Humming
bird,” Daisy snapped.

“Oh—right.” His mouth cracked an apologetic grin. “When the commercial’s over, I’ll point at you.” He demonstrated with his trusty pointing finger. “You tell us about Uncle Blue…uh…”
Mockingbird?

She scowled at the assistant director. “I forget where I was in my story.”

Salty beads of sweat were popping out all over the white man’s forehead. “Look—you help me on this, the rest of this evening’s show is yours.” The agnostic prayed:
If there is a God, and I suppose there very well might be—I’d appreciate some help with this old crank
. He thought it prudent to offer something in return:
Do that for me and I’ll see you in church tomorrow
. Having offered what he considered a reasonable deal to the Almighty, Sax directed his next remarks to the troublesome mortal: “Daisy, if you don’t want to tell us any more about Cousin Blackbird, you can talk about some other stuff. Ghosts. Goblins. Big hairy monsters that bite the heads off innocent little children.” Realizing that he was getting nowhere fast, the AD pleaded in an increasingly shrill tone, “Just do something spooky. Generate a hideous blob of ectoplasm—levitate the damn coffee table!” The obstinate old lady was not going for it. The Honda commercial in his headset faded, was replaced by another for Yamaha pianos, marked down 10 percent. One last, desperate attempt at enticement: “You’ll get to sit in the star’s chair.”
That does it. I’ve shot my wad.

His final round had hit the mark. Daisy’s eyes goggled at the fancy chair. “I can?”

“Sure you can.” He puffed up his chest. “I’m in charge here—whatever I say, goes!”

She shrugged. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Way to go!” The semiconvert closed his eyes.
Thank you, God. You’ll see me in church on Sunday
. Which brought a conflict to mind:
But not tomorrow. I’ve got a golf date I can’t break. But next Sunday, old Gerald will be right there in the front pew.
But wait a minute. Next Sunday was the big game.
Let’s say Sunday after next.…

Daisy Perika was ready to go
right now,
and did. For sixteen nail-biting minutes,
Cassandra Sees
would continue without Cassandra on the set.

Not that things didn’t get off to a somewhat rocky start.

As Daisy Perika was settling herself into Queen Cassandra’s throne, and the assistant director turned to check a camera mount, the stand-in was distracted by something annoying under the coffee table—a flashing light. The guilty party was the small television set that served as the psychic’s on-the-air monitor. The picture was rolling over and over. Daisy made an expert diagnosis:
The stupid thing is out of whack
. And drew a sensible conclusion:
That flickering is most likely what started off her epileptic attack.
A personal observation:
And if it don’t stop it’ll give me a fit.
A genuine TV star would have called for someone to come adjust the annoying thing. Daisy, who had spent most of the past forty years alone, was accustomed to dealing with problems on her own. Without the slightest hesitation, she was out of the chair, on her knees, head and shoulders under the small table, arm reaching for the controls. She turned the sound up and down.
The flippity-flop button must be in the back.
She reached around the electronic appliance, found the controls, adjusted the brightness, the contrast, then—stopped the picture cold! This was a quite gratifying outcome. And there was more to come. In the steady light of the TV screen, Daisy noticed something on the carpet. The object was round and shiny, which suggested “coin” to the avaricial lobe of her brain, which sent an urgent command to her right hand:
That is cash money—pick it up and put it in your pocket!
Said hand received the message, acted reflexively, reached for the prize. It was not a coin.

The thinking portion of her brain kicked in:
It’s probably just a dumb old button that fell off the TV set.

Wrong again.

But as she got the item in her hand, and her eyes did a quick scan, Daisy realized what it was. She had seen it before. This was something better than a shiny dime. Considerably better. But Daisy, who was hardly ever satisfied, shook her head at having only half a pair and sighed.
Why couldn’t there have been two of them?
Suddenly distracted by a colorful field-of-wildflowers deodorant commercial on the TV monitor, she raised her head to get a better look, bumped it on the sturdy coffee table.
Ouch
. Like a bonked out cartoon character, she saw stars. And planets and meteors and comets and fireworks and flags awaving and banners apassing—but there is no need to go on and on about a thing. You get the picture.

In Cassandra’s Bedroom

After Charlie Moon gently placed the unconscious woman on an immense, canopied four-poster (on her side), Sarah slipped a silk-encased pillow under Cassandra’s head.

Moon and the girl stood silently, stared at the lady, who seemed to be sleeping. Her breathing was steady. They waited. For what?

For Daisy Perika, who had been distracted by the assistant director’s tempting offer.

For emergency medical technicians, whom the AD had not summoned.

Moon murmured, “Wonder what caused her to pass out.”

Sarah whispered a reminder: “Aunt Daisy said she had a seizure.” Which reminded the girl of a relative in Tonapah Flats, Utah. “I bet she’s an epileptic, like my cousin Marilee.”

Moon frowned at the prone figure. “That could be a serious problem for someone who does TV shows.”

The girl nodded. “That’s why we’ve got to keep it a secret.”

The tribal investigator, who believed that an ambulance and EMTs were on the way, figured this business wouldn’t be a secret for very long.

In the Parlor with a Hostile Indian

After another conversation with Denver, a promise of more commercials, Assistant Director Gerald Sax turned to check on the Native American woman. His heart almost stopped.
Dammit, she slipped away when I wasn’t looking!
But then he spotted the bottom half of her. The upper portion was under the coffee table. He slapped his forehead.
Great, now we’ll start off with a shot of the old woman’s butt in the air! What’ll Denver say to that?
A worrisome question occurred to him:
What in hell is she doing on the floor?
And another:
Why isn’t she moving?
Frozen by a nameless dread, the assistant director was not moving either.

But forget about G. Sax’s immobility, which is of little importance.

Back to the tribal elder, and the AD’s final question.

Daisy was not moving for this reason: She was experiencing an epiphany. Now there are all sorts of epiphanies. When it comes to these mind-expanding whatchamacallits, there are minor ones, a middle-size species, and a
very
rare few that deserve to begin with a capital
E,
but even the least of them have a way of commanding all of one’s attention—focusing the entire faculties, as it were. And it were.

Having posed the questions about why the aged person was on the floor, on all fours, and not moving, Gerald Sax felt obliged to provide himself with something resembling a plausible answer.
She’s probably had a heart attack or a stroke and fallen out of the chair
. The negative thinker felt a dull chill ripple up his spine, then down again.
Well, that’s the icing on the cake. First the star of the show passes out, now our feeble old guest drops dead on the floor. What next?
He knew what next. Grim headlines on the front pages of the
Denver Post
and
Rocky Mountain News
:

AGED INDIAN WOMAN DROPS DEAD ON LIVE TV YOOT TRIBE SUES NETWORK FOR TEN BILLION DOLLARS

Mr. Sax, who had never won a spelling bee, had no doubt that there would also be highly critical essays in the entertainment sections of these newspapers. And don’t forget the tasteless jokes on late-night comedy shows. Plus demands for an immediate FCC investigation, and so on and et cetera. Not to mention humiliation and unemployment. He saw additional headlines:

ASSISTANT DIRECTOR HELD RESPONSIBLE
FOR TV GUEST’S DEATH GERALD
SAX GETS THE AX

And the abbreviated version:

SAX AXED

Assistant Director Gerald Sax might well suffer from overactive imagination, but he can be forgiven for not deducing that Daisy had discovered something important under the table, and how that discovery had led to her sudden enlightenment, which had yielded an instant solution to a significant mystery—after all, who among us could have done better than he?

But wait—now the presumed corpse was
moving.

Almost sick with relief, the agnostic offered up a genuine prayer of thanks, promised again to attend some sort of religious service next month. Or perhaps the month after. If his busy scheduled allowed. Moreover, his joints suddenly unlocked, which enabled him to trot over to the star’s chair and address the woman’s posterior, which was practically all he could see of her. “Mrs. Perika—are you okay?”

Startled from her happy trance, she bumped her head on the coffee table again.
Ouch
. “I’m fine.” And she was. Fine and dandy.

This isn’t so serious after all. Maybe she dropped a contact lens.
“Uh—what are you doing?”

“Watching TV.”

She has got to be kidding
. “You have got to be kidding.” Mr. Sax tended to repeat himself. Especially when he was in a state of high agitation.

Mildly embarrassed at the position she found herself in, Daisy cackled a crackly “heh-heh.”

The old woman is stark-raving bonkers insane!

But Daisy’s explanation for her behavior was more mundane: “I’m trying to figure out how to turn off this little TV set.” There was a quite audible
click.
“There—that did it.” She began backing out rump-first, and as she made a groaning effort to get to her feet, she gladly accepted the assistant director’s assistance, and provided an explanation for her behavior. “I was worried that if I saw myself looking back at me from that screen—” the elderly woman paused to catch her breath, “that I might get all fiddle-faddled.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want
that
to happen.” He liked to roll his eyes, and did so. Probably because he was rolling his eyes, possibly because he was assisting the geriatric guest by her left arm, Assistant Director Sax did not notice that Daisy’s right hand was tightly clenched in a fist. Or that once she was comfortably deposited in Cassandra’s chair, the sly old woman slipped something into her pocket. He restrained himself from shaking a finger in her face, but did assume an appropriately stern tone: “Mrs. Perika—please don’t do anything like that again.”