Three O'Clock Séance

Chapter 3

3

Rebecca saw nothing illegal or fraudulent in Geller’s act. It was pure theater, a performance—a magic trick—and not a particularly clever one. The people who believed in him did so because they wanted to and perhaps found it comforting. Sandy was a good performer, throwing out questions, ideas, and images at such a fast pace that the people listening were overwhelmed. He never said anyone should “believe” anything—he carefully kept saying what “he” saw or heard or felt. It was up to the audience to decide how much credence to give to his remarks.

Richie drove to Homicide and parked in the employee lot of the Hall of Justice, a massive gray, bland building devoid of design that took up one side of Bryant Street between Sixth and Seventh. They rode the elevator to the fourth floor where the Homicide bureau was located.

The department was empty. Only the night lights were on, casting a dim florescent glow over the large room, one bulb flickering.

Rebecca didn’t bother to turn on all the overheads since she had a lamp on her desk, the one she used when she worked long into the night. She switched it on now.

“Why don’t you tell me all you know about Sandor Geller and his Sandoristas,” Rebecca said as she sat and began thumbing through her files of open cases.

Richie slid the guest chair to her side to better see what she was looking at. “My mother told me it all started with her best friend Geraldine Vaccarino. Geri, as she’s called, had a sister, Betty, who was quite a bit older. She lived in Los Angeles, had never married, and was estranged from the family. Geri didn’t know until about a year after it happened that Betty had died.”

“What was Betty’s full name?” Rebecca picked up a pen.

“Elisabetta Faroni.” He spelled out Betty and Geri’s full names for her. “After getting over the shock of her sister’s death, Geri started to think about Betty’s money. I don’t know if you’ve had much experience with Italian families and money, but believe me, Geri would have started to think about it by the next day, if not sooner. She wondered where Betty’s money and belongings had gone. She especially remembered an antique sewing machine from the old country that had been their mother’s. It was built into a fancy wooden cabinet and used no electricity. The sewer worked a pedal under the machine.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Rebecca said.

“If a person had one of those in good working order these days, it’d be worth something, so Geri started to look into it.”

“Uh huh.”

“And since Betty died intestate, you know, without a will, Geri couldn’t find anyone who had any idea of where the money went. The landlord said he gave her things to Goodwill after no one claimed them for several months, but who knows?”

“So how is Sandor Geller involved?” Rebecca asked.

“Because one minute, Betty had money and savings, and the next, she didn’t—or so it seemed to the family. One of Geri’s sons drove her down to Los Angeles where she talked to Betty’s neighbors to see what they knew.” He took a deep breath, and his next words were spoken with a conspiratorial edge. “Geri learned that Betty had been introduced to Geller by a friend of hers who had gone to his séances for years. And then, one day, that friend was found dead. Betty was inconsolable.

“That, and family hints and silences, make me think she and her girlfriend were more than just friends, if you get my meaning. But my mother’s generation rarely talked about such things, especially about family. Still, my suspicion could explain Betty’s estrangement from them. Anyway, Geller calmed her down and let her talk to her friend during a séance. Betty claimed they spoke of things only the two of them knew about, but you’ve seen how clever Geller is suggesting something and letting his prey fill in the missing parts.”

Rebecca was taken aback. “Prey?”

“Damned right,” Richie said. “This guy took advantage of a lonely old lady, gained her trust, and took her money. Betty had become a confirmed believer in Geller’s abilities and ended up broke.”

“Or,” Rebecca said, “you can look at it from Geller’s viewpoint. People pay him money to take part in a séance. It’s not up to him to go into their finances to be sure they can afford his sessions.”

“True. But that’s where this gets really weird. After Betty spent all her money on Geller’s séances, she told a neighbor he was helping her with expenses.”

Rebecca was stunned. “Geller gave her money?”

“Yes. And, she told the neighbor he’d done the same for her friend who’d died—the one who had introduced her to Geller in the first place.”

“Could it be he’s a good man who felt bad that the woman went so far overboard? Maybe, once he found out, he simply wanted to help.”

“Yeah, he’s a real prince among men.” Richie apparently couldn’t sit and stare at paperwork any longer. He got up and paced. “I’m telling you, something’s wrong. But that’s all background. It’s what’s going on now that worries me.”

“Which is?”

“A few months ago, Geri learned Geller’s now in San Francisco and she went to see his act. She kept going, and now she’s convinced Carmela to join her. They claim they’re going just to be entertained, but I don’t buy it.

“Then, last week, Carmela and Geri went to a funeral of one of the women Geri would sometimes see at Geller’s séances. The woman supposedly had money, a nice house in the Marina, but she died alone, suddenly, and her funeral was practically that of a pauper. She had no family or anything, and her whole life revolved around her séances with Geller. She was, in fact, one of the very first Sandoristas in San Francisco. All in all, to me, her story sounds too similar to Betty Faroni’s to be a coincidence.”

“Now I remember!” Rebecca opened a file cabinet drawer, rifled through it, then pulled out a folder and put it on her desk. “It’s not a cold case, because it wasn’t even a case.”

She looked through the papers, then stopped at one of them and read it over quickly. “This is it. The deceased, Neda Fourman, was eighty-nine years old and had a heart condition. When the building manager found her dead in her apartment, we were called in. I remember Bill Sutter, who was working the scene with me, finding pamphlets about life after death, séances, and a group called the Sandoristas. At first he thought she was involved in Nicaraguan politics—as in San-din-istas. It was actually pretty funny.”

At Richie’s expression, she said, “Death-cop gallows humor, what can I say?”

He grinned at that and then stood and leaned over her shoulder to look at the file with her.

“Anyway,” she continued, “the M.E. checked her over, and we ruled it a death by natural causes.”

“I see,” Richie murmured as he skimmed through the paperwork.

She found his nearness unsettling and scooted to one side. “I have a couple of contacts in the LAPD, and I’ll see if they saw anything at all questionable about the deaths of Betty Faroni and her friend. They might even have something on Geller.” She shut the file, and he straightened. “Time to go.”

Richie drove her back to her apartment and then walked her to the door by the garage that led to the breezeway. There, he stopped.

“Good night, Rebecca,” he said. “Thanks for looking into all this.”

She nodded. “No problem. You’re being a good son, looking out for your mother’s friend.”

“I look out, as much as I can, for everyone I care about,” he said, his voice and eyes soft.

She quickly unlocked the door and then stepped into the breezeway before she faced him again. “Good night. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

She shut the door and waited until she heard the Porsche’s engine start, and then, with a sigh, she headed for her apartment.