Show-Me Murder

Jasper Whiteacre, a.k.a. Jay White Owl Thorne (a meld of his Meskwaki grandfather's fondness for White Owl Cigars and his boss' wry pun about Whiteacre being a thorn in his State's side), raised his field glasses and peered through the leaded panes of the front parlor window.

In the east, seamless dark clouds blended into the snow-dusted landscape. The visual subtlety, partially illuminated by the globe lamps lining the driveway, was knocked askew by a turquoise minivan turning off the county road. Jasper watched it roll slowly down the drive toward him and halt before the brick mansion.

A moment later the van driver stepped out in a swirl of black cape and a halo of light hair.

Helene Apricot, a.k.a. Helen Shoemaker, by her publicity photo. Fortyish, divorced, pretty in a tailored way. Business manager of the performing group hired by Del Englewood to entertain his guests on this New Year's Eve deep in the Missouri countryside.

Six bundled passengers, ranging in size from miniature to super-king, spilled from the van, permitting its rear to rise gently as though expelling a sigh.

The Psychic Circle had arrived.

Jasper lowered the glasses and permitted his lips to curl in disdain. According to its promo brochure, the group included at least one psychic reader "compatible with any seeker of hidden truths."

Mavis Hostetter, the housekeeper (and paramour, if the occasional sounds from her employer's bedroom were any indication) met the group at the door, her servant's camouflage a long leopard print dress, rimless glasses and bland makeup.

The arrivals were divesting themselves of coats and capes in the marble-tiled entry when Del Englewood and Jasper, who was overpaid to protect the promoter from bodily harm, joined them.

Englewood greeted his temporary employees with the briskness that might be expected of an important man with important things on his mind. "Welcome, everyone. Ms Hostetter here will escort you to the room where you will, ah, offer my guests whatever information you may wish to impart this evening. However, as I explained to Ms Apricot--" a nod in that lady's direction "--this is a party. So I wouldn't want any of my guests--" he paused for dramatic emphasis "--distracted by any, ah, disturbing revelations, if that's the correct term?" He smiled and shrugged, obviously beyond his depth when it came to psychic affairs. "I mean, this is a party, folks. So let's keep it light, okay?"

Despite his clubby words and tone, it was an order, and Jasper saw that the 'psychics' understood. Light, it would be.

"Oh." In afterthought, Englewood introduced Jasper. "This is my assistant, Jay Thorne. Don't pay any attention to him. He tends to wander."

Jasper acknowledged the responding murmur with the stoic Native American nod he figured Politically Correct Whites expected, then moved to stand against the wall and give the others more space. Some of them needed it.

At least Englewood didn't make a crack about Indian Guides.

Englewood passed one hand over his thin, expertly silvered hair in a habitual preen before addressing the shepherdess. "Now if you'll excuse me, Ms Apricot, I'll leave you in Ms Hostetter's capable hands. As you can imagine, I have several dozen things to attend to. We're expecting around forty guests--" he frowned at the jeweltone stained glass insert in the front door "--that is, if the weather pros are correct. They're predicting only an inch of snow for us, with the heavy fall shifting North."