The maid was raising a sash to the noises of the street. And by that cacophony of noise, Mallory knew this could not be a park-side window. A driver was leaning on his car horn, something which was not done in the square by tacit agreement of every living and rolling thing which passed through. And on a nearby street, a siren careered down the block. It must have been stopped in traffic, because now its siren switched to the bleating mode, whining to get this show on the road. And inside the apartment, the old women gathered like birds on a fence, tensely perched on the furniture while the table was being set up and chairs were brought in. Woman with hennaed hair chatted with blue-haired women, and all about the room was the air of the things to come.

A matron in her early seventies was walking toward the foyer, smiling, her neck choked in pearls. Her head was disproportionately small, a white-haired marble atop a thick-waisted hourglass.

"Miss Mallory? I'm Fabia Penworth, Marion's mother, I'm so glad you could come, my dear. Oh, but who is this?" She stared down at Edith Candle, and then back to Mallory. "This won't do. You were supposed to come alone, dear. Redwing never sees anyone without advance notice." She leaned closer and said in a stage whisper, "I've told her all about your father and his unfortunate death. She says the easiest spirit to reach is one who dies by violence. They want to contact us, they want truth to out." She suddenly remembered the annoying detail of Edith. "But this won't do."

Mallory said, "This is an old friend – "

"How do you do," said Edith, stepping forward, "I'm Edith Candle. Perhaps Miss Whitman or Mrs Gaynor mentioned me to you. I believe you all used the same broker at one time or another."

"Why, of course. Oh, how do you do." The woman was showing all of her expensive bridgework to Edith. "Well, I'm honored, really honored. I never expected this. I don't see any problem at all, really. I'm sure Redwing will be delighted to meet you, someone of your stature in the spiritual community."

After being led into the main room and introduced to the medium, Mallory couldn't tell if Redwing was delighted or not. The medium's large, padded armchair had taken on the aspect of a throne. Imperial Redwing was dressed in Day-Glo colors, her head wound with a scarf of Indian pattern. The jewelry must weigh ten pounds, by Mallory's rapid estimate, all bangle bracelets and golden chains. Her feet were encased in tiny gold lame sandals with delicate straps. Her eyes squinted into slits as one plump hand rose in the air to the level of Edith Candle's lips as though she expected it to be kissed. Redwing did not rise for the older woman.

Edith took Redwing's proffered hand in her own arthritic one. Mallory detected a wince of pain. Perhaps any pressure on Edith's inflamed joints might cause that, perhaps not. And now Redwing's eyes were open wide, too sharp, too bright.

The boy standing behind the armchair must belong to Redwing. Mallory assessed the genes of all races, rejum-bled in this new combination: the child's eyes were yellow, the skin was golden brown and the hair somewhat kinky. The facial features were Caucasian. Though the eyes slanted up, the Asian folds were missing in this new translation of chromosomes. The boy's expression was dulled. Had he been drugged?

When the introductions were done and Redwing turned away, ending the audience, Mallory pulled Edith Candle to the only unpopulated corner of the room.

"You never told me you knew Estelle Gaynor."

"You never asked. At my age it's not unusual to know several dead people."

"Several murdered people?"

And what about Samantha Siddon? Had the fourth victim also been on nodding acquaintance with dead people before joining their company?

The doorbell chimed with light musical notes. Jonathan Gaynor was admitted. After a brief handshake with the enthroned Redwing, he allowed his introduction to be made to Mallory as though they had never met. He winked at her as his hostess led him off to another part of the room. Another white-haired woman with a survivor's eye for dangerous moving objects stepped out of his way as the sharp angles of his jutting elbows came perilously close to her.

As long as he was sitting down, and not colliding with anyone, not tripping on anything, Mallory thought he fitted in well with the old women who fawned over him and fed him nourishing sugar cookies. He touched the wrinkled dry hand of an octogenarian to make some point with tactile emphasis, and the woman came all undone. Mallory re-evaluated her opinion on the death of sex after forty.

Her attention turned to a tall, thin woman who had joined them on the couch. The lean body was created for designer dresses. The expensive razor cut of her short white hair framed a fine bone structure beneath the webs of wrinkles. The woman was saying to Edith, "Oh yes, we knew Samantha Siddon quite well. She never missed a seance after the second murder. She said it was life on the edge, and she hadn't been to the edge for more than fifty years, and then it was only for a moment."

Mallory accepted a delicate teacup from the maid and turned back to the woman with the mannequin frame. "Ma'am?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Aren't you afraid? Three murders so close to home. Those women – "

"Oh no, dear, not at all. Now, take Pearl Whitman, she wasn't killed in the square. Oh, but it was the same lunatic, wasn't it? Of course it was. You know, what frightened Pearl most wasn't death. It was the prospect of invalidism, lying in a hospital bed for years, waiting to die or waiting for someone to visit, always being disappointed, always waiting."

"Miss Whitman attended the seances, too?"

"She was a charter member. She thought murder made the whole thing more exciting."

"And Estelle Gaynor?"

"She hosted the very first one."

"No, dear," said a voice behind Mallory's chair. "Anne hosted the first one."

Mallory looked up into the bright eyes of a blue-haired woman with a perfectly round face.

"Anne?"

"Anne Cathery, the woman who died in the park," said the moon-faced woman.

"You're both aware of the connection?"

"The murders and the seances? Of course, we're aware. All of us." The wave of her hand included the entire room. "What's left of us. How could you fail to notice a thing like that? I swear, you young people must think we were all born with liver spots and Alzheimer's."

The mannequin leaned towards Mallory and said, more kindly, "It's all right, dear. You're supposed to take old women for doddering fools. You're young, that's your job. I certainly don't mind. I find it gives me an edge in all my dealings with your generation."

The round-faced woman winked at the mannequin 'Like that young financier you took for a ride last year?"

"Netted me a million in profit, April dear." She looked back to Mallory. "The young man assumed my position on the board of directors was some honorary title for the widow of the majority stockholder. But you seem more interested in murder than money. That speaks well of you."

"So you're not afraid."

"Of dying? I'd have to think on that, dear. Most days I'd have to say yes. But then, there are those days, you know? No, of course you don't. You're a child. You don't know the joys of incontinence and flatulence. I don't think Samantha Siddon much cared if she lived another year. She had lived too long, she thought, surviving her own children. Now there's a crime of crimes."

"Didn't she have a cousin?"

"Margot. Strange child. I don't think she cared for Margot very much. She used to brag on the child's visits every week, but I don't know that she enjoyed them. No, Samantha probably didn't mind dying."

"But a death like that…"

"There's an excitement to a quick ending," said the mannequin. "It's a momentous thing, death. But you wouldn't know that." She rested one paper-light hand on Mallory's. "You think you're immortal, don't you, dear? Of course you do."