Free You Might As Well Die by J.J. Murphy

interruptin’?” Welsh said. “Well, who do we ’ave’ere? ’Allo, Mrs. Parker. Mr. Benchley.”
    For all his phony upper-crust affectation, Dorothy thought, he couldn’t quite lose his coarse East End of London accent.
    Before she could respond, Snath turned on him viciously. “You’re acquainted with these infidels? These charlatans?”
    “Indeed I am,” Welsh said brightly. “Are you ready to make a book deal, Mrs. Parker? My offer still stands. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.”
    Several months ago, Jasper Welsh had asked her to put her poems together for a book, for which he offered her a paltry hundred dollars plus ten cents for each book sold. She’d be rich—in about a thousand years of steady sales.
    “Forget it, Jasper. I’m destined to remain a beggar,” she said. “Speaking of beggars, what are you doing here?”
    “Mr. Snath and myself ’ave a major business deal we’re workin’ on,” he said smugly. “Somethin’ very big in the pub-lishin’ world. A masterstroke, if I say so myself. Mind you—Oh my God!”
    God? Well, maybe He answers our prayers after all, Dorothy thought as she looked down and saw her dog peeing on the man’s fancy leather shoes.
    While Snath and Welsh stood stunned, Dorothy quickly pulled Woody and Benchley away. They hurried out of the office without another word.

Chapter 11
    O nce outside of Snath’s dilapidated office building, Dorothy stopped on the busy sidewalk and searched in her purse for a treat for Woodrow Wilson.
    “Good boy,” she said as the dog snatched a piece of dry kibble from her hand.
    With relief, Benchley looked up at the grimy windows of the lawyer’s office. “Mr. Snath, Esquire, had very little to tell us about Ernest MacGuffin, painter. Now what do we do?”
    “Do you still have that leaflet?” Dorothy asked.
    Benchley pulled the flyer from his pocket and read it aloud. “‘Mistress Viola Sweet—Spiritualist, Mentalist, Clairvoyant, Interlocutor of Paranormal Manifestation—’”
    “And pants pressed while you wait.”
    “She’s near Washington Square, in Greenwich Village.”
    “Then let’s see how much she knows about our pragmatic and workmanlike pal Ernie. Come on, Woody.”
     
    “I remember you.” The platinum blonde chuckled as she opened the door and patted the dog lightly on the head.
    Woody’s stubby tail wagged so vigorously that his little behind moved back and forth. Again Dorothy silently cursed the little dog for its lasciviousness.
    Viola no longer wore the tight blue skirt. Now she had only a pink satin robe wrapped tightly around her shapely body. Her sultry eyes showed that she remembered Dorothy and Benchley, too. “You’re here to ask about the séance?”
    “Boy, you really can read minds, can’t you?” Dorothy said.
    “You have my flyer in your hand,” Viola said wryly, glancing at the leaflet. “Can I have your names for the list?”
    “The list?” Dorothy said.
    “The list of participants. The séance is for participants only. No gawkers. There’s a five-dollar deposit. You can pay the balance of the donation when you arrive.”
    “The balance?”
    “Twenty dollars. So twenty-five altogether.”
    “Mesmerism, clairvoyance and arithmetic, too. You’re quite a talent.” Dorothy looked over the storefront. The large sign read HUDSON RIVER SCHOOL OF ART. “What is it you do here? Are you an artist?”
    “I’m an artist’s model.”
    “A clairvoyant, a math whiz and an artist’s model? You’re quite a Renaissance woman.”
    “Being a medium is new for me, just since Mr. MacGuffin’s spirit began speaking to me.”
    “Speaking to you?” Benchley asked.
    “Well, speaking through me. It’s his voice. I’m just a mouthpiece.”
    That’s not the only kind of piece you are, sweetie, Dorothy thought. But she said, “So, you knew Mr. MacGuffin?”
    “Oh no. We never met.”
    Dorothy remembered one of the paintings in Snath’s office—the one of the platinum blonde.