Paul Drake to the Rescue
After Lt. Tragg left Perry's office, Paul sat back, smoking a cigarette, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling. It had been twelve hours since contact with the plane had been lost. Twelve long, unending hours in which to wonder if his friends were alive or….
No! I have to believe they survived! Perry's the strongest man I've ever known, and if there's one thing I know about him, he would give up his entire being to protect Della from harm. But being alive is one thing. Surviving in the elements, especially with this cold front sitting on them, is another. They could be hurt and unable to move, and with the forest and peaks around, there's no telling how much of the plane is left to give them shelter.
Crushing his cigarette out, he grabbed the phone and snapped, "Gertie, put in a call to Mr. Daniel Franklin at the FBI."
While he waited, Paul paced the office. He knew his next move depended on what he learned from his contact. It was a shot in the dark, but he had to have some background information . . . He also couldn't believe he was seriously considering the course his mind was taking.
The ringing phone broke into his thoughts. Lunging for the desk, he snatched up the receiver. "Drake here."
"Hello, Paul," a calm, measured voice said, "Long time no hear from."
"Hi, Dan." Paul perched on the top of Perry's desk. "Yeah, I know. Listen . . . I need a huge favor and I'm in a bit of a rush. Perry Mason's life may depend on it."
"Yeah, we heard about the missing plane. I'll do anything I can to help. What do you need?"
"I want any and all information you have on a Marica Broussard."
Over the telephone Paul could hear Dan's quick, in-drawn breath. If that didn't give him pause, nothing else would. Still, he had to know.
"Paul, how on earth did you get mixed up with that woman?"
She has a record. Great. I'm about to get in bed with a woman on the FBI's watch list! J. Edgar will be all over me for the rest of my natural life! But aloud he simply asked, "Why?"
Dan chuckled. "Well let's just say, I wouldn't want to be on her bad side."
Paul let out a deep groan. "Okay, Dan. Let me have it all."
Fifteen minutes later, Paul had hung up the phone, poured himself a healthy amount of the Scotch Perry kept in the cabinet, and sat sipping it as he tried to digest the information Dan had imparted.
Marica Broussard was a legitimate psychic. She was a graduate of Louisiana State University, Magna Cum Laude, no less, although her degree wasn't in anything spiritual or sinister. She was also a licensed voodoo priestess and one very rich woman. So it seemed Paul had made a very costly mistake and a powerful enemy.
Well, there's nothing for it, he counseled himself, and finished his drink in one gulp. I'm going to work with a witch—or whatever the hell she is! I'm so glad Perry isn't here to see this; he'd never let me hear the end of it! And Della? All the times I've teased her about being psychic, and here I am, depending on one to find her. There's something worthy of O Henry in this, but I don't have time to sort it out.
He swallowed his pride as he had the Scotch, and picked up the phone. After his request went through, he waited until the call was connected, then heard a voice on the other end.
"Hello?"
She had a beautiful, rich alto voice, and though he had no reason in the world to think so, Paul knew it was the second-best sound in the world.
"Miss Broussard? Paul Drake."
"Yes, Mr. Drake. I was sure I'd be hearing from you."
Paul rolled his eyes and suppressed a sigh. "I'd like to come visit you, if I may."
"Of course, Mr. Drake. Is this to be a social call? You made it quite clear, even for a non-clairvoyant, that you don't require my professional services." She paused for that to sink in, then sweetened her voice to ask, "Do you know where I live?"
"Yes. I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Thank you."
"Of course." And Paul heard the smile, even over the phone. "I'll be waiting."
As he set the receiver back in its cradle, he once again wondered if he was doing the right thing or if he had finally lost his mind.
~~~~~~~~~~.
When Dan had told him Marica was rich, Paul wasn't prepared for the gross understatement. When he pulled into the circular drive of Marica's home, he unconsciously let out a low whistle.
"Good God! The woman could loan the government money for the national debt!"
The house, set back among the Hollywood Hills, was unmistakably a Frank Lloyd Wright design. The angles and opulence were something very few people could afford. It was, like its resident, dramatic, larger-than-life, and intimidating.
As he opened the car door and started to step out, Marica appeared in the doorway of her home. He stopped, one foot on the pavement and the other still in the footwell. Her appearance had become even more stunning.
She was dressed in a flowing, gossamer black dress that seemed to swirl of its own volition around her feet. Her black hair was loose, falling almost to her waist, and Paul couldn't check the thought of running his hands through it. Perched at a slight angle on her head was a tall witch's hat and, in one hand, she held a broom and on the other arm she balanced a coal-black cat.
Paul's mouth dropped open, standing as if she had suddenly bewitched him into a frozen statue. Then she laughed, and it sounded like magic! Marica's soft tinkling laugh reminded him of a sleigh bell at Christmas, and he forgot himself completely. A goofy expression settled on his features and his eyes lightened in appreciation.
"Please close your mouth and come in, Mr. Drake."
With that she turned in a swirl of fabric and entered the house. Paul's face flushed as he realized all too late how he had reacted. Scrambling the rest of the way out of the car, he slammed the door, then followed her, almost in a trance. Upon entering the house, he heard music with an undeniable voodoo beat. When he followed her into the kitchen, he saw a large fireplace complete with a black cauldron steaming over the fire.
"Welcome to my," she paused, then added as an afterthought, "home, Mr. Drake."
He didn't say anything. His mind had lost the capacity for forming cohesive words and sentences.
She tried again. "Could I offer you a drink?"
At Paul's glance toward the cauldron, she threw back her head and laughed. The cat jumped from her arms, shot the intruder a death glare, and bolted for security in the unknown recesses of the mansion. Marcia set the broom against the wall, and removed her hat, and placed it on a hook.
Shaking out her hair, she walked to a cabinet, pulling open the doors to reveal a complete bar.
"I believe your drink is Scotch?"
Paul shook his head, clearing it for the business at hand. He sat on a high stool at the kitchen counter and nodded, confirming, "Straight . . . and make it a double."
Marica smiled and poured his drink. Setting it in front of him, she took a seat near him. Watching as he took a healthy gulp of the amber liquid, she smiled again. "Better?"
"Do you greet all your guests in this manner . . . or am I special?"
Marica cocked her head, considering him. The movement caused her hair to fall across her face. Paul had the greatest desire to reach out and push it back. He took another long gulp of the drink.
"You had that coming. Forgive me, Mr. Drake. It's just that you really made me mad. Very few people have that effect on me. I decided to give you the view you obviously had of me."
"Well, Miss Broussard, you certainly put me in my place. I can only say I was wrong. I'm chagrined and humbly beg your pardon."
Now she gave him a genuine smile. "Apology accepted."
She nodded toward his empty glass as if in question, but he shook his head. Instead, she took his hand and led him from the kitchen, down a staircase to a beautifully appointed living room with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
"Make yourself comfortable while I slip into something," she paused, as was now apparently her custom, "more appropriate."
Paul settled in a comfortable chair in deep turquoise. The voodoo music ceased, replaced by a soft, bluesy tune. Instead of fitting the idea of her he had in his head, it surprised him. He was no fan of the genre, preferring the tracks he heard on the radio to anything like this, but the more he listened, the more it settled on him. Combined with the drink and the heady feeling he was in over his head, the music was doing a jam-up job of making him mellow.
What is it about her? She's exotic—strange, even—but so beautiful! And she obviously has a very wicked sense of humor. She knew what I thought of her and staged this to rattle my cage. And it worked! Yet for all of that, Paul sensed there was more buried beneath the surface.
Marica returned in a pair of tight blue jeans, a soft pink sweater and her hair once again in the ponytail. She was barefoot and Paul noted the polish on her toes was a pink that matched the sweater. She took a matching chair directly across from him, curling her feet under her, reminding him of a cat.
"Now, Mr. Drake, let's get down to the purpose of your visit."
"First off, please make it Paul." He grinned and she smiled in response. "Second, I really am curious as to how you knew where the plane went down."
She hesitated, looking out the windows. Paul stayed silent, hoping she would trust him.
"Okay," she admitted quietly, "At the risk of repeating history, I'll tell you. As you have probably discovered by now, I am a true psychic. I can 'see' things, sense things. And as I also said, Mr. Mason helped me, so when I heard of the plane going missing, I immediately tried to contact him."
"How?"
Again she studied him, looking for any sign he was mocking her. Seeing he was very serious, she continued. "I have a business card Mr. Mason gave me. It still has his 'aura' attached to it. By holding the card in my hand and concentrating on the plane's route, I can approximate where the plane went down. If it's any help, I feel very strongly he and the others are still alive."
Paul was silent for a minute. If this woman was telling the truth, she could possibly help get a rescue team to Perry and Della before it was too late.
Taking his time, he thought through his doubts and misgivings, then met her eyes squarely. "Marica, would you be willing to come with me to help the search party?"
"I have already packed. When do you want to start?"
He laughed at that. It might have been directed toward himself. Shaking his head, he said, "Right now, if you're ready."
Standing, she held his eyes for a long twenty seconds. In them she saw the anxiety, the fear, but also the hope he was gripping for all his worth.
Making her decision, she said simply, "Let's get going."
