CHAPTER ONE
Sunday in Echo Park with Louie
I looked out the car window at the dappled early morning light, a rare sight for a night owl like me. October is one of my favorite months in Southern California. Goldilocks time, as Louie likes to call it. Not too hot, not too cold, not too wet, not too dry⎯just right.
“Remind me why I let you drag me out of bed at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning.”
“To have brunch with my dear Aunt Lupe, sweet Roberta.” Louie shot me one of his I-need-something-from-you smiles.
“I agreed to go to one of her gigs with you. How did that turn into
brunch?”
“Well, this is a gig⎯sort of.” Louie pulled off the Hollywood Freeway
and headed toward Echo Park Avenue. “She’s singing before brunch.”
For those of you who don’t already know me from my previous adventure, “Murder Has a Memory” (shameless plug, but a girl’s gotta make a living), my name is Roberta Law. And here are my Vital Stats:
OCCUPATION: Hypnotherapist.
PREVIOUS OCCUPATION: Actress.
HEIGHT: Five-Foot-Eight.
EYES: Green.
HAIR: Auburn.
AGE: Old enough to be on my second career.
WEIGHT: That’s on a need-to-know basis only.
Louie, you ask? Swarthy Latin Lover looks, but unfortunately plays for the other team. An actor turned talent manager, and my best pal.
As for his aunt? Lupe Lopez is not your typical octogenarian. She fancies herself a chic cabaret chanteuse. But she’s more Charo meets Delores Delago, a feisty Latina blend of retrofitted tack.
“Since when does your aunt get up before three in the afternoon?” I yawned.
“She’s on a new kick.”
We made our way into the quaint enclave of Angelino Heights, the second oldest district in Los Angeles. An area filled with Craftsman, Mission Revival, Art Deco and classic Victorian homes in various states of repair and disrepair.
“This is your aunt’s neighborhood. Are we picking her up, too? Has that 1970 Corvette convertible of hers finally given up the ghost?”
“Ghost? Who said anything about ghosts?” Louie sounded agitated. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem at all like his usual self. No quips, no smart- ass comebacks.
“It’s just an expression. Calm down. What’s the matter with you today?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” Louie brought his black SUV to a sudden stop in front of Lupe’s formidable Queen Anne style Victorian. “Almost missed it. Keep forgetting about the new paint job.”
The once sedately colored home was being reimagined in the most garish shade of lavender I had ever seen.
Louie opened his car door, “Okay, let’s do this.”
“I’ll just wait here while you get her. It looks like that paint might still be wet.”
“Oh, I’m not getting her. The show’s going on inside.”
I stepped out of the car and saw two guys in painter overalls standing on a scaffold. They hoisted a large wooden sign onto the second story of the house. Painted in bright rainbow colors, it read: “A. B. C. D. E.”
“Is she turning her place into a daycare center or something?”
“I only wish.” We hiked up the front steps leading to the porch. “The sign stands for Abundant Beings Church of Divine Energy.”
“Don’t do cults. Gotta go!” I turned around and headed back down the stairs.
“Hey, wait a minute. You promised,” Louie shouted.
“Oh no, I didn’t. I never signed up for this.”
Louie ran after me. “You won’t have to sign up for anything. I need you
to check someone out and give me your professional opinion.”
“I’m a hypnotherapist, not a psychiatrist or a deprogramming expert. You
should be dragging Danny to this.” Danny is my brother and Louie’s ex- partner—romance, not business. A groundbreaking psychiatrist turned card- carrying schizophrenic, in-between lucid moments he dabbles in religion. The last time I saw him he was a Zen Buddhist.
“I can’t. He’s the one who got Aunt Lupe hooked on this group. And now look,” he pointed to the fresh paint job and the newly hung sign, “they’re taking over.”
That stopped me dead in my tracks. “Louie, when will you ever learn? Danny’s a ticking time bomb. He never stays on his meds. I thought you two were finally through.”
“Love is a fickle mistress, my friend.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“These people are part of some sort of renegade Spiritualist Church. I need you to check out their founder and main channeler, Madame Mestral.”
“In what way?”
“Let me know if you think she’s legit.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can do that from here. Uh—no.”
“Come on, Roberta, I’m serious.” I knew he was. Louie had never gone
this long without making some sort of joke, usually tied to a song title. “Take a look at this woman and see if she really is going into some sort of trance and communing with the spirits of the dearly departed. Please... Aunt Lupe is my only living relative in LA.”
Guilt ropes me in every time. “All right.”
***
Upon entering Lupe’s foyer we were greeted by a portly matron bestowing exuberant unsolicited hugs on everyone. She locked her sights on Louie and me. “Welcome, my angels! I feel the spirits are with us today.”
I ducked out of the trajectory of the impending embrace, leaving a dazed Louie in her clutches, and glommed onto an elderly gentleman handing out programs. “Please take a seat,” he said, ushering me into the cathedral- ceilinged living room on his right.
Except for the baby grand piano, all of Lupe’s furniture had been replaced by rows of stackable white chairs. A raised platform sat between the fireplace and the stained glass bay windows. The place was abuzz with activity. At least fifty seats were packed in to the space and they were filling up fast. The congregants were mostly Latino, predominantly women⎯
middle-aged or older⎯with a smattering of artsy-looking millennial hipsters thrown into the mix.
Louie caught up with me. “Thanks for leaving me in the lurch.”
“Hola, Luis!” Lupe called out from beside the piano. “Is that Roberta with you?” She looked at us through a pair of bejeweled, gold opera glasses.
Too vain to wear eyeglasses, she reluctantly wore contacts when driving.
Though no stranger to the cosmetic scalpel, LASIK eye surgery was out of the question. As a Latina, she considered her sapphire blue eyes to be priceless, and proved it by insuring them with Lloyd’s of London years ago.
Lupe pointed to the first row of chairs, “I saved a place up front for you.”
We found two seats, dead center, with place cards on them. One read: “UNCLE LUIS LOPEZ.” The other: “FUTURE MRS. LUIS LOPEZ.”
I picked my card up and sat down. “How many times have you come out to your aunt?”
“Every time I see her.”
“Something tells me it’s not sticking.”
Louie stared at his card. “Maybe she’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
My Uncle Luis has been dead for years.”
Lupe pushed through the milling people, rushing at us with a sheet of
music clutched in her hand. She wore a skin-tight, indigo sequined, micro- mini cocktail dress with a plunging neckline on her birdlike hundred pound frame. The whole ensemble was topped off with a matching turban, concealing god knows what color of hair. Her size D boob implants had held up much better than her now sagging facelift. Though only five-foot-two, she made up for this by wearing a pair of five-inch high, glittering red, hooker heels.
“Please excuse my shoes,” Lupe swooped in to hug me. “I’m having a hard time letting go of red. It’s my signature color.” Shaking her head, “There I go again. It was my signature color.”
“What do you mean was?” Louie asked.
“Madame Mestral says I need to raise my vibrational level. Red is the color of the base chakra. Which is all well and fine for regular entertaining, but I am attempting to do so much more with my act now.” She tapped a long crimson fingernail on the center of Louie’s forehead. “Indigo is the color of the third eye chakra.”
“Come on, you can’t be serious, Cousin Lupe.”
It was a long established Lopez family tradition that Lupe’s true age was never to be revealed. She felt it would be detrimental to her timeless music career. So whenever they were around other people Louie was instructed to refer to her as his cousin, never his aunt. How this made any sense was beyond me, but it seemed to make Lupe happy.
Lupe put her hand over Louie’s mouth. “Shhh, Luis! I think we’re going to have to drop this business of you being my cousin,” she said in a hushed tone. “You’re getting a little old looking.” Wow, that took a lot of nerve. Louie had just turned forty, he was two years younger than me for god’s sake! “But we’ll discuss this matter later in private.”
Louie and I looked down at the discarded “UNCLE LUIS LOPEZ” sign by our feet. Then we looked at each other knowing the inevitable conclusion to this mystery. The Cousin Lupe Era had drawn to a close and a new epoch in Lopez Family History had begun.
“Thanks to the guidance of Madame Mestral,” Lupe continued, “I am channeling the greats⎯Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich! Last week, ‘The Little Sparrow’ came through.”
“You’re channeling birds, too?” Louie quipped.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m speaking of the legendary Piaf!” Lupe took in a series of deep breaths while waving her arms up and down her body in a crisscross motion. “I must not allow myself to get so worked up. This passionate energy of mine will disturb the spirits.” She paused and stood perfectly still. “It’s these damn red shoes! They must go!” She kicked off her heels like they had erupted in flames, then let out a sigh. “That’s better.” Lupe turned to me. “So when are you two going to set a date?”
“Never,” I replied. “He’s gay, remember?”
Lupe broke out into a hysterical laugh. “That’s just a phase. His Tio Ramón went through the same thing.”
“He’s gay, too,” Louie said.
She continued laughing. “Tell that to his wife!”
“He lives with a drag queen,” Louie replied.
“Enough with this frivolity. The service will be starting any minute now.
I must finish preparing my song.” Brandishing the sheet music in her hand, she headed back over to the piano.
“Did you get a look at the music she was holding?” I asked Louie, who was down on the floor looking for Lupe’s discarded shoes. “A Piaf number, ‘No Regrets.’ If she is channeling her, why does she need to study a chart?”
“See what I mean? This Mestral woman has got her all twisted up. She’s always been a little nuts, but never totally crazy.” Louie sat back down in his chair.
I stared at the rescued ruby footwear sitting in his lap.
“Don’t give me that look, Missy. The West Hollywood Halloween
Carnaval is coming up. I’m not letting pumps this fabulous go to waste.”
An angelic sounding voice came over the loudspeaker, “Everyone please take your seats and turn off all electronic devices, the service is about to begin.”
A series of chimes rang. A young man shut the door connecting the living room to the foyer. A couple of women drew the heavy purple velvet curtains across the windows. Then all the lights in the room dimmed to black. We sat in silence.
I felt a hot moist breath on my neck. “I’m scared,” Louie whispered.
A pinhole baby pink spotlight focused on the makeshift stage. The light slowly opened to reveal Madame Mestral, in all of her glory, seated on a purple and gold throne. The piano played a short, familiar intro followed by Lupe singing, “You Light Up My Life.” Yes, the Debby Boone song.
“Now I’m scared,” I whispered.
Clothed in a flowing white robe, Madame Mestral’s jet-black hair spilled
over her shoulders and down her back. She looked to be somewhere in her late fifties. The song came to a close. Mestral sat motionless, her piercing gaze fixed on the congregation. “Sing, make it wild and loud,” she commanded in a lisping Spanish accent. “The vibrational level of the room must soar.”
The house lights rose slightly, everyone jumped to their feet and launched into a rousing rendition of “Sing A Song.” First Debby Boone, now the Carpenters. For some reason the spirit world was locked in a Seventies pop time warp.
Madame Mestral⎯eyes closed⎯placed her hands in front of her, in what appeared to be some sort of yogic posture. Middle fingers straight, pointing forward, touching at the top; other fingers bent, touching at the knuckles; thumbs pointed toward her and touching at the top.
As the song progressed, the congregation grew louder and wilder. People were singing at the top of their lungs, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, and banging their chairs up and down on the antique redwood floors.
Lupe, a cordless mic in hand, wove through the room interjecting her singing with shouts of, “That’s it!” and “Let’s raise the roof!”
Madame Mestral’s head bobbed up and down, faster and faster, until it finally dropped to her chest. She appeared to be going into a trance, but I wasn’t close enough to detect any significant rapid eye movement. Then out of nowhere, Madame Mestral let out an ear-piercing shriek. The music and singing came to an abrupt halt. Mestral’s head bolted upright.
What an opener!
No one moved. All eyes were fixed on the mystic diva atop her throne.
“Samir is at the door. Do you wish to let him in?” she bellowed in a deep
Middle Eastern accent.
“If somebody starts singing the Wings’ tune 'Let ‘Em In,' I’m outta here,”
I whispered to Louie.
“Welcome, Samir!” someone cried from the back of the room.
“Please come in, Samir!” the woman next to me spoke.
“We’ve missed you, Samir!” a young man standing near the foyer door
called out.
“Ahlan, Samir!” Lupe said.
Madame Mestral let out a robust belly laugh. “Ahhh, that is the word I have been waiting to hear. Ahlan wa Sahlan, my little songbird. Your companion in evening talk doesn’t usually like to come out and play in the day. But it must be evening somewhere on this big blue marble, right? Drinks, anyone?” This was followed by another boisterous laugh.
Louie looked over at me. “I don’t get it. Is she supposed to be Samir, Allan, Allan Samir or Allan Washalan? And what’s all the laughing about?”
“The entity’s name is Samir,” a familiar voice answered from behind us. “The word ‘Ahlan’ is an Arabic greeting of welcome. ‘Ahlan wa Sahlan’ is a traditional reply. He’s laughing because he made a little joke. His name, Samir, loosely translates in to 'companion in evening talk' in English.”
Louie looked puzzled. “Huh? She’s a he?”
“Samir is a man. He lived in ancient Egypt and was involved with the building of the great pyramid at Giza.”
I turned to face my older brother, Danny. “But, of course.”
“Still a cynic I see, Roberta,” Danny said. He looked good. The graying black curls on his head and emerging crow’s feet around his dark blue eyes suited him.
Samir thundered, “I have an important message for someone in the room.” All unnecessary chatter ground to a halt. “It’s from a spirit named Tommy. Does anyone in the room know a Tommy?”
A number of hopeful hands shot up in the air. Not the most unusual name.
“I’m having difficulty getting a clear impression of the last name. Something beginning with an ‘F’ perhaps?”
The old cold reading scam, typical phony psychic ploy. Throw out a vague tidbit of info and see who bites.
“He is a young man, in his twenties, wearing some sort of battle uniform. I believe he died in the nineteen hundred and sixties, anno Domini, as you call it.”
Deceased war veteran with a common first name, pretty safe bet.
“But the death did not come in battle. He was on leave. Hiking in a forest.” Madame Mestral fidgeted in her seat. “A last name is coming through. It is like the Riddle of the Sphinx. He is a forest in a forest.”
Oh, brother, what a ham.
“Forrester! The name is Forrester!” Lupe ran to the platform crying. “It’s my Tommy! Tommy Forrester, the love of my life. He died hiking in the Angeles National Forest. It was an accident, he tripped and fell from a cliff.”
“Correct,” Samir pronounced. A look of consternation came over Madame Mestral’s face. “Wait. Not all correct. Tommy is writing something he does not have the strength to speak. M—U—R ... MURDER!”
Lupe screamed, then fell in a heap at the foot of the channeler’s throne.
I looked out the car window at the dappled early morning light, a rare sight for a night owl like me. October is one of my favorite months in Southern California. Goldilocks time, as Louie likes to call it. Not too hot, not too cold, not too wet, not too dry⎯just right.
“Remind me why I let you drag me out of bed at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning.”
“To have brunch with my dear Aunt Lupe, sweet Roberta.” Louie shot me one of his I-need-something-from-you smiles.
“I agreed to go to one of her gigs with you. How did that turn into
brunch?”
“Well, this is a gig⎯sort of.” Louie pulled off the Hollywood Freeway
and headed toward Echo Park Avenue. “She’s singing before brunch.”
For those of you who don’t already know me from my previous adventure, “Murder Has a Memory” (shameless plug, but a girl’s gotta make a living), my name is Roberta Law. And here are my Vital Stats:
OCCUPATION: Hypnotherapist.
PREVIOUS OCCUPATION: Actress.
HEIGHT: Five-Foot-Eight.
EYES: Green.
HAIR: Auburn.
AGE: Old enough to be on my second career.
WEIGHT: That’s on a need-to-know basis only.
Louie, you ask? Swarthy Latin Lover looks, but unfortunately plays for the other team. An actor turned talent manager, and my best pal.
As for his aunt? Lupe Lopez is not your typical octogenarian. She fancies herself a chic cabaret chanteuse. But she’s more Charo meets Delores Delago, a feisty Latina blend of retrofitted tack.
“Since when does your aunt get up before three in the afternoon?” I yawned.
“She’s on a new kick.”
We made our way into the quaint enclave of Angelino Heights, the second oldest district in Los Angeles. An area filled with Craftsman, Mission Revival, Art Deco and classic Victorian homes in various states of repair and disrepair.
“This is your aunt’s neighborhood. Are we picking her up, too? Has that 1970 Corvette convertible of hers finally given up the ghost?”
“Ghost? Who said anything about ghosts?” Louie sounded agitated. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem at all like his usual self. No quips, no smart- ass comebacks.
“It’s just an expression. Calm down. What’s the matter with you today?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” Louie brought his black SUV to a sudden stop in front of Lupe’s formidable Queen Anne style Victorian. “Almost missed it. Keep forgetting about the new paint job.”
The once sedately colored home was being reimagined in the most garish shade of lavender I had ever seen.
Louie opened his car door, “Okay, let’s do this.”
“I’ll just wait here while you get her. It looks like that paint might still be wet.”
“Oh, I’m not getting her. The show’s going on inside.”
I stepped out of the car and saw two guys in painter overalls standing on a scaffold. They hoisted a large wooden sign onto the second story of the house. Painted in bright rainbow colors, it read: “A. B. C. D. E.”
“Is she turning her place into a daycare center or something?”
“I only wish.” We hiked up the front steps leading to the porch. “The sign stands for Abundant Beings Church of Divine Energy.”
“Don’t do cults. Gotta go!” I turned around and headed back down the stairs.
“Hey, wait a minute. You promised,” Louie shouted.
“Oh no, I didn’t. I never signed up for this.”
Louie ran after me. “You won’t have to sign up for anything. I need you
to check someone out and give me your professional opinion.”
“I’m a hypnotherapist, not a psychiatrist or a deprogramming expert. You
should be dragging Danny to this.” Danny is my brother and Louie’s ex- partner—romance, not business. A groundbreaking psychiatrist turned card- carrying schizophrenic, in-between lucid moments he dabbles in religion. The last time I saw him he was a Zen Buddhist.
“I can’t. He’s the one who got Aunt Lupe hooked on this group. And now look,” he pointed to the fresh paint job and the newly hung sign, “they’re taking over.”
That stopped me dead in my tracks. “Louie, when will you ever learn? Danny’s a ticking time bomb. He never stays on his meds. I thought you two were finally through.”
“Love is a fickle mistress, my friend.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“These people are part of some sort of renegade Spiritualist Church. I need you to check out their founder and main channeler, Madame Mestral.”
“In what way?”
“Let me know if you think she’s legit.”
I rolled my eyes. “I can do that from here. Uh—no.”
“Come on, Roberta, I’m serious.” I knew he was. Louie had never gone
this long without making some sort of joke, usually tied to a song title. “Take a look at this woman and see if she really is going into some sort of trance and communing with the spirits of the dearly departed. Please... Aunt Lupe is my only living relative in LA.”
Guilt ropes me in every time. “All right.”
***
Upon entering Lupe’s foyer we were greeted by a portly matron bestowing exuberant unsolicited hugs on everyone. She locked her sights on Louie and me. “Welcome, my angels! I feel the spirits are with us today.”
I ducked out of the trajectory of the impending embrace, leaving a dazed Louie in her clutches, and glommed onto an elderly gentleman handing out programs. “Please take a seat,” he said, ushering me into the cathedral- ceilinged living room on his right.
Except for the baby grand piano, all of Lupe’s furniture had been replaced by rows of stackable white chairs. A raised platform sat between the fireplace and the stained glass bay windows. The place was abuzz with activity. At least fifty seats were packed in to the space and they were filling up fast. The congregants were mostly Latino, predominantly women⎯
middle-aged or older⎯with a smattering of artsy-looking millennial hipsters thrown into the mix.
Louie caught up with me. “Thanks for leaving me in the lurch.”
“Hola, Luis!” Lupe called out from beside the piano. “Is that Roberta with you?” She looked at us through a pair of bejeweled, gold opera glasses.
Too vain to wear eyeglasses, she reluctantly wore contacts when driving.
Though no stranger to the cosmetic scalpel, LASIK eye surgery was out of the question. As a Latina, she considered her sapphire blue eyes to be priceless, and proved it by insuring them with Lloyd’s of London years ago.
Lupe pointed to the first row of chairs, “I saved a place up front for you.”
We found two seats, dead center, with place cards on them. One read: “UNCLE LUIS LOPEZ.” The other: “FUTURE MRS. LUIS LOPEZ.”
I picked my card up and sat down. “How many times have you come out to your aunt?”
“Every time I see her.”
“Something tells me it’s not sticking.”
Louie stared at his card. “Maybe she’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
My Uncle Luis has been dead for years.”
Lupe pushed through the milling people, rushing at us with a sheet of
music clutched in her hand. She wore a skin-tight, indigo sequined, micro- mini cocktail dress with a plunging neckline on her birdlike hundred pound frame. The whole ensemble was topped off with a matching turban, concealing god knows what color of hair. Her size D boob implants had held up much better than her now sagging facelift. Though only five-foot-two, she made up for this by wearing a pair of five-inch high, glittering red, hooker heels.
“Please excuse my shoes,” Lupe swooped in to hug me. “I’m having a hard time letting go of red. It’s my signature color.” Shaking her head, “There I go again. It was my signature color.”
“What do you mean was?” Louie asked.
“Madame Mestral says I need to raise my vibrational level. Red is the color of the base chakra. Which is all well and fine for regular entertaining, but I am attempting to do so much more with my act now.” She tapped a long crimson fingernail on the center of Louie’s forehead. “Indigo is the color of the third eye chakra.”
“Come on, you can’t be serious, Cousin Lupe.”
It was a long established Lopez family tradition that Lupe’s true age was never to be revealed. She felt it would be detrimental to her timeless music career. So whenever they were around other people Louie was instructed to refer to her as his cousin, never his aunt. How this made any sense was beyond me, but it seemed to make Lupe happy.
Lupe put her hand over Louie’s mouth. “Shhh, Luis! I think we’re going to have to drop this business of you being my cousin,” she said in a hushed tone. “You’re getting a little old looking.” Wow, that took a lot of nerve. Louie had just turned forty, he was two years younger than me for god’s sake! “But we’ll discuss this matter later in private.”
Louie and I looked down at the discarded “UNCLE LUIS LOPEZ” sign by our feet. Then we looked at each other knowing the inevitable conclusion to this mystery. The Cousin Lupe Era had drawn to a close and a new epoch in Lopez Family History had begun.
“Thanks to the guidance of Madame Mestral,” Lupe continued, “I am channeling the greats⎯Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich! Last week, ‘The Little Sparrow’ came through.”
“You’re channeling birds, too?” Louie quipped.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m speaking of the legendary Piaf!” Lupe took in a series of deep breaths while waving her arms up and down her body in a crisscross motion. “I must not allow myself to get so worked up. This passionate energy of mine will disturb the spirits.” She paused and stood perfectly still. “It’s these damn red shoes! They must go!” She kicked off her heels like they had erupted in flames, then let out a sigh. “That’s better.” Lupe turned to me. “So when are you two going to set a date?”
“Never,” I replied. “He’s gay, remember?”
Lupe broke out into a hysterical laugh. “That’s just a phase. His Tio Ramón went through the same thing.”
“He’s gay, too,” Louie said.
She continued laughing. “Tell that to his wife!”
“He lives with a drag queen,” Louie replied.
“Enough with this frivolity. The service will be starting any minute now.
I must finish preparing my song.” Brandishing the sheet music in her hand, she headed back over to the piano.
“Did you get a look at the music she was holding?” I asked Louie, who was down on the floor looking for Lupe’s discarded shoes. “A Piaf number, ‘No Regrets.’ If she is channeling her, why does she need to study a chart?”
“See what I mean? This Mestral woman has got her all twisted up. She’s always been a little nuts, but never totally crazy.” Louie sat back down in his chair.
I stared at the rescued ruby footwear sitting in his lap.
“Don’t give me that look, Missy. The West Hollywood Halloween
Carnaval is coming up. I’m not letting pumps this fabulous go to waste.”
An angelic sounding voice came over the loudspeaker, “Everyone please take your seats and turn off all electronic devices, the service is about to begin.”
A series of chimes rang. A young man shut the door connecting the living room to the foyer. A couple of women drew the heavy purple velvet curtains across the windows. Then all the lights in the room dimmed to black. We sat in silence.
I felt a hot moist breath on my neck. “I’m scared,” Louie whispered.
A pinhole baby pink spotlight focused on the makeshift stage. The light slowly opened to reveal Madame Mestral, in all of her glory, seated on a purple and gold throne. The piano played a short, familiar intro followed by Lupe singing, “You Light Up My Life.” Yes, the Debby Boone song.
“Now I’m scared,” I whispered.
Clothed in a flowing white robe, Madame Mestral’s jet-black hair spilled
over her shoulders and down her back. She looked to be somewhere in her late fifties. The song came to a close. Mestral sat motionless, her piercing gaze fixed on the congregation. “Sing, make it wild and loud,” she commanded in a lisping Spanish accent. “The vibrational level of the room must soar.”
The house lights rose slightly, everyone jumped to their feet and launched into a rousing rendition of “Sing A Song.” First Debby Boone, now the Carpenters. For some reason the spirit world was locked in a Seventies pop time warp.
Madame Mestral⎯eyes closed⎯placed her hands in front of her, in what appeared to be some sort of yogic posture. Middle fingers straight, pointing forward, touching at the top; other fingers bent, touching at the knuckles; thumbs pointed toward her and touching at the top.
As the song progressed, the congregation grew louder and wilder. People were singing at the top of their lungs, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, and banging their chairs up and down on the antique redwood floors.
Lupe, a cordless mic in hand, wove through the room interjecting her singing with shouts of, “That’s it!” and “Let’s raise the roof!”
Madame Mestral’s head bobbed up and down, faster and faster, until it finally dropped to her chest. She appeared to be going into a trance, but I wasn’t close enough to detect any significant rapid eye movement. Then out of nowhere, Madame Mestral let out an ear-piercing shriek. The music and singing came to an abrupt halt. Mestral’s head bolted upright.
What an opener!
No one moved. All eyes were fixed on the mystic diva atop her throne.
“Samir is at the door. Do you wish to let him in?” she bellowed in a deep
Middle Eastern accent.
“If somebody starts singing the Wings’ tune 'Let ‘Em In,' I’m outta here,”
I whispered to Louie.
“Welcome, Samir!” someone cried from the back of the room.
“Please come in, Samir!” the woman next to me spoke.
“We’ve missed you, Samir!” a young man standing near the foyer door
called out.
“Ahlan, Samir!” Lupe said.
Madame Mestral let out a robust belly laugh. “Ahhh, that is the word I have been waiting to hear. Ahlan wa Sahlan, my little songbird. Your companion in evening talk doesn’t usually like to come out and play in the day. But it must be evening somewhere on this big blue marble, right? Drinks, anyone?” This was followed by another boisterous laugh.
Louie looked over at me. “I don’t get it. Is she supposed to be Samir, Allan, Allan Samir or Allan Washalan? And what’s all the laughing about?”
“The entity’s name is Samir,” a familiar voice answered from behind us. “The word ‘Ahlan’ is an Arabic greeting of welcome. ‘Ahlan wa Sahlan’ is a traditional reply. He’s laughing because he made a little joke. His name, Samir, loosely translates in to 'companion in evening talk' in English.”
Louie looked puzzled. “Huh? She’s a he?”
“Samir is a man. He lived in ancient Egypt and was involved with the building of the great pyramid at Giza.”
I turned to face my older brother, Danny. “But, of course.”
“Still a cynic I see, Roberta,” Danny said. He looked good. The graying black curls on his head and emerging crow’s feet around his dark blue eyes suited him.
Samir thundered, “I have an important message for someone in the room.” All unnecessary chatter ground to a halt. “It’s from a spirit named Tommy. Does anyone in the room know a Tommy?”
A number of hopeful hands shot up in the air. Not the most unusual name.
“I’m having difficulty getting a clear impression of the last name. Something beginning with an ‘F’ perhaps?”
The old cold reading scam, typical phony psychic ploy. Throw out a vague tidbit of info and see who bites.
“He is a young man, in his twenties, wearing some sort of battle uniform. I believe he died in the nineteen hundred and sixties, anno Domini, as you call it.”
Deceased war veteran with a common first name, pretty safe bet.
“But the death did not come in battle. He was on leave. Hiking in a forest.” Madame Mestral fidgeted in her seat. “A last name is coming through. It is like the Riddle of the Sphinx. He is a forest in a forest.”
Oh, brother, what a ham.
“Forrester! The name is Forrester!” Lupe ran to the platform crying. “It’s my Tommy! Tommy Forrester, the love of my life. He died hiking in the Angeles National Forest. It was an accident, he tripped and fell from a cliff.”
“Correct,” Samir pronounced. A look of consternation came over Madame Mestral’s face. “Wait. Not all correct. Tommy is writing something he does not have the strength to speak. M—U—R ... MURDER!”
Lupe screamed, then fell in a heap at the foot of the channeler’s throne.