By shifting my eyes to the utmost, I could read the small clock on Max's desk. Eleven fifty-seven A.M. A gray and windy morning, outside sounds—wind, rustling foliage, distant thunder rumblings—harbingers of an approaching summer storm. Nature herself conspiring to set the scene for that turbulent afternoon? Who knows?
I was seated in my usual place, a location chosen by my son from which I could, by (as noted) shifting my eyeballs, get a panoramic view of The Magic Room. I had breakfasted, been changed, and now was in position to observe the many doings about to occur.
Which began, as I recall, at noon. And if it wasn't exactly noon, to hell with it, I'm going to say that it was exactly noon.
At noon, the cabal began.
I heard a voice shout, "Cassandra?"
That of Brian (Crane), calling from the entry hall. My eyeballs shifted; pretty much the extent of my physical dexterity, I might add.
There was silence for a few moments. Then Brian called again, more loudly, "Cassandra!"
Somewhere upstairs, a door was opened (my hearing, too, was unimpeded) and Cassandra answered with her usual imperious tone, "What?"
"Come down to Max's den!" he shouted. "I've got something to show you!"
"Brian, I am really busy!" Cassandra shouted back.
Brother persisted. "You can spare a minute! Come on!"
"Brian!" a protesting cry now.
He would not back off. "I guarantee you'll love it!" he shouted.
Reluctant submission from Cassandra. "Oh, all right."
I heard the clicking of a woman's shoe heels on the wooden floorboards of the entry hall—
—and Cassandra entered The Magic Room, tall, blonde, alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, brown, high-heeled shoes.
I would have frowned if my facial muscles had been up to it.
How did Cassandra get here first when she was upstairs and Brian down?
I tried to see more clearly as she crossed to the bar and, stooping, opened the door of the ice maker. I heard her start to ladle ice cubes into the silver bucket.
I would have frowned again—in spades—if I'd been able to.
For, down the staircase and across the floorboards of the entry hall, I heard the clicking of a woman's shoe heels—
—and Cassandra entered TMR, tall, blonde, alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, you know the rest.
"What the hell?" I would have said if my voice had been attainable. I certainly thought it. What the hell is going on? Was I hallucinating now, a new (and lower) stage of strokedom?
The moment the second Cassandra had entered the room, the first Cassandra had stopped putting ice cubes into the silver bucket.
I watched the second Cassandra as she looked around, her gaze passing me, as usual, with non-reception. Does one take notice of a plant?
Then the first Cassandra rose from behind the bar and thrumped down the bucket on the counter.
The two Cassandras eyed each other, doppelg?ngers to the detail. I closed my eyes; that I could manage. When I open them, I thought, I'll see only one of them.
I did. I didn't. There they were, the Cassandra twins. Did I begin to get the message at that point?
If I did, it wasn't because I was helped by either of them.
The first Cassandra smiled.
The second Cassandra smiled—then shook her head with a chuckle.
As did the first.
The sounds they uttered were identical as the second Cassandra indicated amusement, then the first.
There was no way, let me assure you, that I could tell them apart. It could have been double vision. My mind's eye knew otherwise but my skull's eyes didn't.
Now the second Cassandra approached the bar and stopped, peering closely at the first. The first peered likewise.
The second made a sound of appreciative recognition. The first made the identical sound.
The second gave the first a chiding look. Received it back, identically. The game was getting on my nerves; patience was not one of my virtues at that time, though obviously no one knew it.
Irritatingly, these two were clones in manner as well as appearance.
The second gnawed at the edge of her right index finger, smiling, making noises of amusement. So, too, did the first.
Then the second spoke.
"All right," she said.
"All right," echoed the first.
Their voices were identical.
Damn it, will one of you crack? I thought.
The two Cassandras eyed each other saucily, smiling the same smile, affecting the same expression; an uncanny sight, I'm forced to admit.
The second ran fingers through her long blonde hair. So did the first, laughing throatily—as did the second. When will this damned burlesque conclude? I wondered.
It had a few more stages to go.
The second Cassandra raised her right hand. The first one raised hers, the movement a duplicate.
With a repressed smile, the second suddenly produced a scarlet handkerchief from the air—a minor "appearance"; sleeve concealment.
The first Cassandra stared at her. The second chuckled, on the verge of triumph.
At which the first, with a duplicate chuckle, produced the same scarlet handkerchief.
The second threw her head back with a startled laugh. So did the first.
Impasse, the twins regarding one another.
Until the second Cassandra tossed her handkerchief into the air.
As did the first.
The second, though, grabbed at hers abruptly as it fell, causing it to vanish.
Despite her efforts to do likewise, the first Cassandra was unable to prevent her handkerchief from fluttering to the floor.
The second made a sound of victory and pointed at the first—who made a sound which might have been translated as, "Oh, well, you can't win them all."
The second clearly examined the first. "Not bad," she allowed.
"Damn perfect," said the first, still with Cassandra's voice.
The smile of the second Cassandra disappeared. "Are you sure he's still out walking?" she demanded.
"Would I be doing this if he weren't?" asked the first, now in his own voice.
"Well, we can't take any risks," Cassandra told him disapprovingly. "You'd better go upstairs and change."
By now, a chill had begun to settle in my stomach as I stared at them.
What are they up to?
"I have to set it up first," Brian was saying, gesturing vaguely toward the room.
Cassandra frowned. "You should have done that earlier," she said.
"With all I had to do?" he answered; again, the coldness in my vitals.
Cassandra grimaced with impatience. "Well, get it over with, but fast," she ordered him.
She started to turn away when Brian grabbed her arm, restraining her. Cassandra looked around in irritation. "What?"
"You're determined to do this?" Brian asked.
Now I really felt disturbed.
"Brian, we have gone through this already—endlessly." Her tone was coldly critical, making it obvious that whatever was going on, it was her idea, not his. "Now come on," she said. "You have to get out of here." She looked around uncomfortably. "Harry could get here any moment."
"All right." He looked at her, a distressed Cassandra appraising her calmer twin.
Seeing this, Cassandra put her hands on his arms and smiled with reassurance. "Brian. Darling," she said. "It's going to be all right. Fear not!"
He did not respond, and she looked concerned now. "I can depend on you, can't I?" she asked.
His look and voice were gravity itself.
"Haven't you always?" he said.
She squeezed his arms. "Get on with it then," she told him.
She turned and moved to the doorway, shoe heels clicking on the oak floor.
There she turned. "And if you hear Harry's car drive up, or the doorbell rings, for God's sake, get upstairs right away."
"All right," he said. He sounded almost angry now. It was the most he could manage with his sister. Anger, he could not permit himself.
He loved her too much.
Before she left, Cassandra did something which intensified the chill inside me.
She looked at me directly—something she never did—and stuck out her tongue. A childish gesture which dismayed me far more than a scowl or a snarl might have done.
"Why don't you leave him alone?" Brian said.
She didn't reply, only gave him a look.
Then she was gone, and Brian was picking up his fallen handkerchief and moving to the fireplace. As Max's assistant, he was expected to complete the preparation of the room. No detail could be overlooked.
The feeling of gratitude I had for Brian's sympathy was undone by the coldly venomous look he gave to Max's replica as he passed the upright casket.
Cassandra and he had some dark plan with regard to my son. I knew it clearly.
And I could not do anything about it. Do you want to know the sum and substance of true frustration? It was what I felt as I sat there, watching Brian at the mantelpiece while he lifted the silver box, raised its lid, and removed a single match from its interior. Striking the match on the bottom of the box, he began to light the first black candle.
Startled, then, I looked toward the doorway. There had been no car sound and no warning doorbell.
Yet Harry Kendal—Max's booking agent—was striding into the room.
