Free Now You See It: A Toby Peters Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

remains among the list of eighteen illusions of magic that have never been duplicated, the secrets of which have never been revealed and have gone to the grave with their creators.”
    There was a pause during which Ott took a long drink, looked at Phil and me and then back at the group of costumed guests.
    “Another year,” said Ott. “Has anyone solved the mystery? Can anyone claim the reward?”
    “Yes,” came a voice from the corridor behind us.
    A startled Ott swung around, the remains of his drink spraying me. In the green glow, a figure stepped out of the corridor and into the room.
    “Stephen, the lights,” Ott called.
    The green glow disappeared. There was an instant of darkness and then light.
    The man who had stepped out of the corridor was Blackstone.
    “I didn’t invite you,” said Ott, clearly shaken, his voice rising.
    Blackstone was wearing his tux and tails from the show. His white hair billowed. His mustache caught the light.
    “The singing blade,” Blackstone said.
    “You don’t know how it was done,” Ott said.
    “But I do,” said Blackstone. “And it is not for sale, nor do I ever intend to perform it. There are some secrets which are better not revealed. The legend of Dranabadur would be gone.”
    “You lie,” Ott challenged, his voice quivering.
    “No,” said Blackstone calmly, facing the frozen costumed group in front of him and looking at them as he named “Wayne, Paul, Walter, Milton, Steven, Bill, Richard, Leo.”
    “What do you want?” Ott demanded.
    “What do I want? A man of questionable motive and character was murdered at the theater tonight during my performance. A young woman in my troupe was shot tonight by a man dressed as …”
    He pointed dramatically at each of the people in front of him.
    “… Dranabadur. Knowing of this annual party, it seemed a reasonable place to come for answers.”
    I watched Ott’s face. Tension. Then a series of quick contortions and decisions. Throw the magician out of his house? This was Blackstone. The eight men in costume behind him might not want to take part of the blame from throwing Blackstone out. They might even go with him. Ott’s face loosened a little. Phil and I had been hired to find out why Ott had set up the testimonial dinner for Blackstone. How would it look if he threw out of his home the man he was going to honor on Wednesday?
    “Forgive me,” Ott said. “I was … of course you are welcome, anytime.”
    “Mr. Pevsner, Mr. Peters,” said Blackstone. “I assume you are here seeking the same answers. Please.”
    Ott moved to the side to sulk and pour himself another drink. The stage had been taken from him. I think he was shaking.
    “How long have you been here?” I asked the group.
    They looked at each other and one, the one named Stephen who had operated the lights, said,
    “Since about eleven. I mean most of us started to arrive about eleven. I came about ten minutes earlier. Marcus wanted to go over my handling the lights.”
    No help there. Anyone in the room could have shot Cunningham and Gwen and been here by eleven.
    “I’d like to talk to everyone here alone, one at a time in some nice quiet room,” said Phil.
    “No,” said Ott, regaining a touch of courage. “This is my house. You are not the police. These are my colleagues. The gathering is over. The mood is destroyed. I am feeling decidedly drained. Please leave, depart, go, and I shall see you all on Wednesday night.”
    Slowly, led by the little chubby one called Leo, they moved past us giving good-byes, exchanging a word or two with Blackstone. Phil didn’t try to stop them though he gave each one his look that said, ‘I know you’re guilty.’
    When they had all left, Ott faced us and said, “Anything else?”
    He was very calm again. I didn’t like the latest smile. He had something up his sleeve, probably an ace of spades.
    “Why did you come to the Pantages tonight?” I asked. “The show was almost over.”
    “A whim, to