The Turtle Mound Murder by Mary Clay Page B

relation of its big time cousin in Daytona Beach, and we
slowed to a crawl.
    “What is Cassadaga, again?” Penny Sue asked
Ruthie. “A bunch of astrologers?”
    “It’s a Spiritualists enclave. You know,
mediums. People who channel information from entities on the other
side.”
    “Dead people?”
    “Yes.”
    Penny Sue chuckled. “Spooks speak, huh?”
    Ruthie shook her head with disgust. “Stop
that. You’ll offend the spirits, and none of us will get a good
reading.”
    “I was just kidding. Surely, the spirits are
not so thin-skinned. They know we call them spooks. If they used to
be human, they probably called spirits spooks, too.”
    Ruthie folded her arms. “Maybe so, but
there’s no sense in taking chances.”
    I could see that Ruthie was getting pouty,
so rushed to change the subject. “How do these readings work? Do
the mediums go into a trance, or can we ask questions?”
    “Every medium has their own system, but they
all give you an opportunity to ask questions.”
    “I’m going to ask if Lyndon Fulbright is
married,” Penny Sue declared airily. “I sure liked the looks of
that boat. I can see myself sailing around on it.”
    “It’s not a sailboat,” I said.
    “Sail, float, what difference does it make?
It’s the Lyndon and me going off into the great blue yonder that
counts. Sail to Cancun. Cruise the Caribbean. Flit over to Monte
Carlo.”
    “I don’t think you flit to Monte Carlo. The
trip would take weeks.”
    “I’m sure he’d hire someone to sail—”
    “It’s not a sailboat.”
    “—it across the ocean. We’d fly.”
    “My, you do think big,” I quipped.
    “Thoughts are things, right, Ruthie? You
can’t have what you can’t imagine.”
    The comment stopped me. Just when I’d almost
concluded that Penny Sue was a empty-headed hedonist, she’d come up
with something profound. It happened every time, and she was
right.
    Thoughts and attitudes do determine our
lives. Depressed people see a dismal world. Happy people see humor
in almost anything. So, what did that say about me? What did I see?
I thought of Penny Sue, the spirits, Woody with his pants around
his ankles ... nuts. I must be nuts.
    We parked the car in front of the Cassadaga
Hotel. Typical of resorts from the turn of the century, the hotel
was a stucco and wood structure ringed by a wide porch with white
rocking chairs and worn wooden benches. Only a handful of people
were outside, most having a cigarette. We entered through the front
door, and Ruthie’s face lit with delight. An ancient sofa and
old-fashioned upholstered chairs complemented the lobby’s polished
hardwood floors and ornate tray ceiling. A wooden telephone booth,
complete with folding door and corner seat, stood against the wall.
A New Age shop offering books, incense, rocks and Indian
paraphernalia was off to the right. To our immediate left was The
Lost in Time Cafe, a pleasant room with lace curtains, a delicately
carved bar and tables decked out with white tablecloths, small
vases of flowers, and bottles of the house wine, Delicious
Spirits.
    Everything about the place was reminiscent
of a long past, slower era. I could almost see women in long
dresses having tea in the cafe. Or men with handlebar mustaches in
white linen suits milling around the lobby. The place truly was
lost in time, maybe that’s what the spirits liked about it.
    We went to the front desk and inquired about
readings. Several mediums were available. Who was the best? we
asked. The receptionist refused to comment, recommending that we
use intuition to make our choice.
    “I’ll take Horace,” Penny Sue said
instantly.
    Ruthie regarded her quizzically. “You get
good vibes from him?”
    “No. He’s available now, and he’s the only
man. I like available men.” Penny Sue smiled, counted out her money
and sashayed across the lobby to find Horace.
    Illumina, Sally Ann and Reverend Angelina
were the other choices. Ruthie took a deep breath and touched each
of their