Deeply Odd(52)

“Mr. Fischer was a magician.”

“Call him Heath or Heathcliff, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am. So Mr. Fischer was a magician.”

“Well, he was and he wasn’t, dear. He was many things, and one thing he could appear to be was a magician.”

Her periwinkle eyes sparkled with merriment or mischief, or both.

“What about the waiter?” I asked.

“Oh, he was a nice man, but I don’t know what happened to him, dear. That was a long time ago.”

In the spirit of our eccentric conversation, I said, “I thought maybe he was the best man at your wedding, right there at table-side.”

“No, no. Heath’s best man was Purdy Feltenham, one of the most charming people I’ve ever known, though he had to go everywhere with a sack over his head, poor thing.”

Aware that we might easily lose track of the pantless waiter, determined not to do so, I said, “Ma’am, what I meant was—why did the waiter take off his pants?”

“Of course he had to, child. When that sweet man asked Heath where the rabbit went after it disappeared under the napkin, Heath said, ‘It’s in your pants,’ and then, of course, the waiter felt it there and was eager to return it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed about taking off his pants, even though he had unfortunate knees. Heath had a way of putting everyone at ease in any circumstances. And it turned out, as things had a way of doing around Heathcliff, the little girl dining at the next table with her parents had two months earlier lost her pet rabbit to some illness. She was so happy when Heath gave his magic rabbit to her.”

If the diner had had a liquor license, I might have spiked my coffee with brandy, which would most likely have helped me to make more sense of Mrs. Fischer’s story. Instead, with only the benefit of caffeine, I said, “What happened to the dove?”

“It turned into a rabbit, child. Weren’t you listening?”

“But it can’t really have turned into a rabbit.”

Her blue eyes widened into bright pools. “Then where did it go?”

“You never saw the dove again?”

“No, dear, I did not. And I certainly didn’t eat it. I would have remembered.”

“What did you mean, Mr. Fischer was and wasn’t a magician?”

“Well, he could certainly appear to be one when he wanted to. He could be almost anything he put his mind to. He was very intelligent and wise, two qualities that don’t always go together, clever and kind, in awe of the world and full of fun.”

“Was Mr. Fischer smoothed out and fully blue?”

“Yes, but he was unusual among the smooth-and-blue because, although he knew the truth of the world and what comes after, he decided he had to have a backup, which is why he’s frozen now.”

“He’s frozen now?”

She looked a little sad and disappointed, but affectionately so, as she shook her white-capped head. “Heath’s body is in a container of liquid nitrogen at a cryogenic-preservation center in New Mexico. If they’re ever able to bring back the frozen dead, which they never will be able to do, then he thought he might have a chance to live in both this world and the next at the same time. Even the wisest and best of us can be foolish occasionally.”

As I have learned, most mysteries yield to patience sooner or later.

“So that’s why you told Officer Shephorn that your husband was still dead but otherwise perfect.”

Mrs. Fischer shook one finger at me. “Now, don’t you go making arrangements to have yourself Popsicled. There’s no need for that. When you disappear from this world, you won’t wind up in a waiter’s pants, you’ll go where you’ve always belonged since you were born, and it’s a lot nicer than a tank of liquid nitrogen.”

Sandy arrived with our dinner.

We had two cheeseburgers, french fries, a shared order of fried onion rings, a side of fried cheese for Mrs. Fischer, and a dish of pepper slaw for me.

Mrs. Fischer said, “That pepper slaw would probably shock my arteries into full collapse. Are you really sure you should eat that stuff?”

“It’s my one dietary foolishness, ma’am. And less expensive than being perpetually preserved in liquid nitrogen.”

“True enough.”

After we had been eating awhile, I was only a little surprised to hear myself say, “It worries me that I’m missing something about Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Would that be the Mr. Hitchcock, dear?”

Our booth was far removed from the nearest other diners, and I felt increasingly comfortable with Mrs. Fischer because she and I seemed to be more alike than not, acutely aware of the strangeness of the world and charmed by its mysteries. I told her that I saw the spirits of the lingering dead, that they came to me for justice, if they were murdered, or for help in crossing over if they were simply afraid of what might await them on the Other Side.