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

Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence?
    “There’s a big auction of Ernie MacGuffin’s paintings on Thursday night—Halloween night, the same night as your séance,” Dorothy said. “We just had the opportunity to look over the paintings. I could swear that you were pictured in one, and dressed quite informally, I might add.”
    “ Quite informally,” Benchley said merrily.
    Dorothy asked, “How could he have painted a picture of you if you didn’t know him?”
    “I told you I’m an artist’s model. I pose nude.” Viola didn’t sound defensive, but her voice took on an edge. “Maybe he was in a class or an artist’s group and I was the model. In any case, I never met him personally.”
    “But his voice speaks through you now?” Dorothy asked.
    “Yes. When summoned.”
    “And why does he speak through you , if you never knew him?”
    She smiled, as though back in familiar territory. “A number of people have asked me that. All I can say is that I’m the conduit, the channel through which he chose to convey his message.”
    “And what is his message?” Dorothy asked. “What does he say when he speaks through you?”
    “I don’t know exactly.” Viola’s smoky eyes took on a faraway look. “I go into a trance when it happens. People who have come to the séance tell me afterward that Mr. MacGuffin’s spirit says things—details—only he would know. They walk away convinced that it’s his true spirit.”
    “Yes, I’m sure you show them a lot of spirit,” Dorothy said. “What kind of details?”
    “All kinds,” Viola said, smiling again, confident in what she was saying. “He talks about his most well-known paintings. What kinds of brushes he used to paint them. When he painted them. Which models he used to get the exact effect. I learned that he once used Popsicle sticks to prop up a dead cat as a model for a painting of an attacking mountain lion. This was for the cover of The Outdoorsman magazine.”
    Dorothy sensed Benchley’s posture stiffen. That story about the cat was a telling detail. They’d heard MacGuffin tell Neysa that exact same tidbit before.
    Dorothy took a different tack. “And has he said why he took his own life?”
    “Not that I know of. But you can ask him yourself.”
    “Right now?”
    “No.” The woman chuckled good-naturedly. “Halloween night. Just a five-dollar deposit each.”
    Benchley took out his nearly empty wallet and handed her two fives.
    Viola produced a clipboard. “Your names?”
    “Mrs. Becky Sharp,” Dorothy said.
    Viola scribbled it down, then turned to Benchley.
    “Fred”—Benchley gazed around for inspiration, his eyes settling on Woody—“Wilson. Fred Wilson.”
    Viola wrote down the names. “We’ll see you at midnight on Thursday.”
    “One last thing,” Dorothy asked. “What does this donation go toward?”
    The woman spoke with sincerity. “To further the search for a better connection to the spirit world.”
    To further the search for a better peroxide dye job, Dorothy thought. Instead, she said, “Can you tell us anything else about what MacGuffin says?”
    “You’ll have to come see for yourself. Bye.” She began to close the door.
    Dorothy spoke impatiently, desperately. “I think you know more about Ernie MacGuffin than you’re telling us.”
    Viola paused. Her smoky eyes now glittered with resentment.
    Dorothy continued. “I think you knew him. I think you knew him quite well.”
    For the first time, Viola didn’t speak so sweetly. “Mr. MacGuffin was a married man, Mrs. Sharp.” Her eyes darted accusingly between Dorothy and Benchley. “If you want to know more about him, go ask his wife.”
    She slammed the door.

Chapter 12
    “ H arold Ross is going to have to reimburse us in shoe leather,” Dorothy said to Benchley. Woodrow Wilson had tired, so Dorothy now carried the dog in her arms. They trudged across busy Fourth Avenue on their way to pay Midge MacGuffin another visit. They walked in shadow.