Karen Mercury by Manifested Destiny [How the West Was Done 4] Page B

Tabitha both reached for the object, Foster swiping it up first, as his arms were longer.
    “I am rising now,” Caleb reported in his normal voice.
    But Foster wasn’t paying attention. He clutched a silver baby rattle, an ornately gilded thing that did double duty as a whistle.
    He knew this, because it was the exact same rattle he had given to his baby son a couple of years ago. Overcome by this eerie surprise, Foster dropped the rattle to the table.
    This confirmed Foster’s worst suspicions. The hand that slapped Tabitha, pinched Jeremiah, and caressed Foster was controlled by his old flame, Orianna. Orianna killed Phineas! Foster was already highly irate with that she-devil hussy for having ripped his son from his bosom two years ago, following some pie in the sky money-making scheme to California. Now his soul fairly boiled to think she was causing further mischief—now that he was poised on the verge of an entirely new life!
    Tabitha leaned over the table. “What is it? A baby rattle? How odd. Why would that be this witch’s message?”
    “Ah, Foster?” Worth queried weakly. “You might want to pay attention to this.”
    The rattle was forgotten when the other three participants turned their eyes to the head of the table. The table had settled, the room was still, and spirit hands had ceased to grope. But Caleb, that master mystifier, floated a full three feet above his chair!
    The man who was grace itself remained rigid in a sitting position, as though he hovered in an unseen chair. But as the spectators gaped, Caleb’s limbs unfurled and straightened out, and his entire body tilted like a seesaw, until he was lying as though on an invisible board, facing the ceiling.
    Jeremiah squealed, got to his feet, and ran headlong from the room, knocking over a glass terrarium on the way. No one else moved.
    Foster looked at Tabitha. Her mouth open, she stood with her fingers balancing her on the tabletop. Worth didn’t even look as though he were breathing.
    Foster climbed on his chair to get a better view.
    “Don’t disturb him,” Tabitha whispered. “You never know what could happen when he’s in a trance like this.”
    Foster only wanted to ensure there were no wires holding up the mystic. He passed his hand back and forth over Caleb’s ankles—nothing. Caleb’s eyes were open, hands firmly at his sides as though he lay on a mattress. The oddest thing was that his hair remained floating angelically about his shoulders, not dangling toward the carpet as it should have.
    Foster climbed back down. “What should we do?”
    Worth shrugged. “What can we do?”
    Tabitha asked, “I wonder how long he stays up there? Oh, look!”
    Everyone looked at the center of the table, where a pair of emerald green gloves lay.
    Tabitha said, “These weren’t there before.” She picked them up and turned them over with curiosity. “You know, these would perfectly match that green dress that appeared in the parlor yesterday. They seem to be dyed an identical shade of green.” She regarded Foster, as though a medium were not floating directly above their heads. “I tried that dress on. It fit perfectly. I wonder which spirit has been outfitting me for the fandango tonight.”
    Foster could guess, but he didn’t dare give voice to it. “If we make a loud noise and startle him, he might fall.”
    “Yes,” Worth agreed. “He’d crash into the table and break something.”
    “Who is Ezra Kind?” Tabitha asked.
    That reminded Foster of something. “Stay here. Don’t let Caleb fall!” He went out front to get Ezra’s stone from his saddlebag and noted Phineas’s skull he had jammed in there when in a lather over her death.
    Foster held the skull in the palm of his hand, and a fresh wave of sorrow at his beloved dog’s death overcame him. “Why?” he asked. “Why is Orianna doing this to us now, all the way from California?” He felt vaguely Shakespearean as he addressed the skull. “Why did she kill you,