Now You See Her by Cecelia Tishy

the kitchen is a reckoning. The hot pulse signals the obligation that defines my new life. I am
     Henry Faiser’s target.
    And his lifeline.

Chapter Nine
    I t’s a lovely spring twilight with the trees in foliage and the songbirds in lullaby chorus. It’s almost seven, and the sky
     is mauve, the air a mix of earth and lilac. Hope is in the air. An evening like this was made for a political fund-raiser—and
     for knowledge that might help the Faiser case.
    I park the Beetle and walk down Dartmouth. The hideous night of two weeks ago seems from another world. Kids on skateboards
     jump the very curb where I stood that night, cowering, hearing the gagging noise and scuffle. I pause to scan the pavement
     stones carefully. It’s years since anybody bothered to pick up pennies. There is no mark visible on the concrete.
    The Marlborough Street home of Jeffrey and Tania Arnot is bathed in pearly light, the dank Gothic mists vanished without a
     trace. Lamplight glows from every window of the neo-Medieval brownstone, and luminarias guide us up the stairs. The Carney-Wald
     yard sign of red, white, and blue looks jaunty, making the very notion of haunting silly and far-fetched.
    Most guests wear business clothes, the men in suits, the women in spring linens. The massive door that slammed itself on Meg
     and me stands wide open in welcome. A quick inspection of the hinges and panels reveals no mechanical closing device.
    A slender blonde in a cream box suit with pearls and a Carney-Wald button greets some guests by name and gives others an emphatic,
     compensatory “How are you? Good to see you” and a deep, direct gaze.
    I shake her hand. “Good evening.”
    “Well, how are you?”
    “I’m Reggie Cutter.”
    “Reggie Cut—oh yes, we were hoping you’d come. Tania will be so pleased, and Mr. Arnot.”
    “Then you’re not—”
    “Tania? Oh no. I’m Alison. I work with the Arnots. Come in, have a glass of wine, and give us a chance to get things going.
     The governor and lieutenant governor should be here any second.” Dimples deepen her smile. “We’re practicing their titles
     for election day. Join the party. I’ll find you.”
    I go inside to the sandalwood aroma I mistook for gas. The catering staff pass with trays of drinks and hot tidbits. Chablis
     in hand, I mix among strangers who look familiar from my old life, except these are Democrats. Marty, my ex, scorns them as
     losers and bleeding hearts, but half of them could double at fund-raisers on Chicago’s North Shore.
    However, prosperity wears a somewhat different face chez Arnot. Neckties are scarce among the men. A celebrity architect with
     a shaved head and black combat boots holds court on the orange sectional sofa. A woman in a hand-painted red cotton tent of
     a dress gestures extravagantly, her bangles chiming with every upsweep of an arm. Several women wear the earnest jewelry of
     the Himalayas, chunky beads the color of tallow. In one corner a trio plays light jazz. The shag carpet feels like underbrush.
     No one stands within four feet of the glittering blades of the chandelier.
    One big difference from similar events in my past life: black faces are plentiful in this crowd. Which is Jeffrey Arnot’s?
     My guess: the tall, broad-shouldered man who angles his arm on the balustrade railing, laughing easily, shaking hands, enjoying
     the moment, elegant in a chalk-stripe suit of midnight blue.
    Approach him? No. First things first. Standing behind a tufted corner chair—inconspicuous, let’s hope—I close my eyes and
     concentrate and focus. It’s not easy. The trio breaks into an upbeat “Embraceable You” as I try to open my psychic channel.
     As before, nothing registers. I cross the room murmuring “Scuse me” through the crowd and try again. Nothing.
    The dining room, scene of the Black Power salute wall covering, is my next stop. A polished dining table fit for a corporate
     boardroom looks new, as are the twelve baronial oak