The Floating Light Bulb: The Eli Marks Mystery Series, #5

By John Gaspard

A magician disappears in the middle of his act.

Was it magic? Or murder?

"If David Copperfield and Sherlock Holmes had a child, it would be Eli Marks."—The Magic Word Podcast

 

★★★★★

When a magician is murdered in the midst of his act at the Mall of America, Eli Marks is asked to step in and take over the daily shows—while working hard to not be the next victim in a series of bizarre homicides!

 

Praise for Eli Marks Mystery Series:

"You will just LOVE these books."—VANISH Magazine

"This is an instant classic, in a league with Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Arthur Conan Doyle."—Rosebud Book Reviews

"It's full of magic, mystery, danger and misdirection, as a good magic trick should be. I love this cozy mystery series, a thoroughly delightful read."—Sweet Mystery Books

"Before I had even finished the first chapter I had fallen in love with Eli. He is intelligent, sensitive, witty and, suddenly, the main suspect in a series of murders…well written, fast-paced and exciting."—The Frugal Mennonite

"This story is very well written and fun to read. I would definitely read another Eli Marks Mystery!"—A Simple Taste for Reading

"Hands-down the funniest thing I have read in a long time, expertly paced and hilariously detailed."—Seattle Book Mama

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Gaspard
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201011970

John Gaspard

John is author of the Eli Marks mystery series as well as three other stand-alone novels, "The Greyhound of the Baskervilles," The Sword & Mr. Stone" and "The Ripperologists."He also writes the Como Lake Players mystery series, under the pen name Bobbie Raymond.In real life, John's not a magician, but he has directed six low-budget features that cost very little and made even less - that's no small trick. He's also written multiple books on the subject of low-budget filmmaking. Ironically, they've made more than the films.Those books ("Fast, Cheap and Under Control" and "Fast, Cheap and Written That Way") are available in eBook, Paperback and audiobook formats.John lives in Minnesota and shares his home with his lovely wife, several dogs, a few cats and a handful of pet allergies.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

T he primary difference between you and me, I said, is you go out of your way to see magicians perform. While I do just the opposite.

Ah yes, Uncle Harry said with a grin. A familiar trope: The self-loathing magician. You make your living from an art, but despise it in others.

We had taken our seats on a bench that turned out to be just as uncomfortable as it looked. We attempted to settle in and then quickly had to slide further down for a young mother toting three tots, all unfortunately in that squirrelly five-year-old age range.

Despise is a strong word, I countered as one of the squirming tykes elbowed me in the ribs. It's just a question of how I choose to spend my spare time. Do attorneys sit in on other lawyer's trials? Do surgeons observe other doctor's surgeries?

Yes, I would imagine the best ones do. How else do you get an accurate pulse on the well-being of your industry?

Ha, I snorted. Yes, actually snorted. Have you checked the pulse of the magic community lately? I think the correct medical term is that it's flat-lined.

Ebb and flow, Harry murmured as he took off his glasses and gave them a cursory and probably unnecessary wipe with his ever-ready handkerchief. Ebb and flow. Magic is always either on its way in or on its way out. But be that as it may, turning up and watching their show is what you do for others in the magic fraternity. I promised Billy I would give his new show a look and offer any suggestions for possible improvements. And you, he added, as he gave me a cautious look over his glasses once they were again perched on his nose, are in a crabby mood today.

I was about to offer a response, the tone of which would have instantly proved his point, but at that moment the lights suddenly dipped to black while music began to blast from speakers on either side of the stage.

For better or worse, the magic show was about to begin.

The small theater we found ourselves in was located in one corner of a large indoor amusement park, which itself was found in the center of an unwieldy shopping center known to the world as the Mall of America.

Locally it had been christened the Mega Mall, but steady work on the part of the mall's PR department had gently persuaded the nearby citizens to refer to it by its full name. In its early years, the huge mall had been merely sprawling, but recent additions had expanded the enterprise to the level of a behemoth. It now covered several acres in what had once been the sleepy suburb of Bloomington, Minnesota.

Like many a local landmark, it was more popular with tourists than with natives; amazingly, visitors flocked from around the world to marvel and gape at how many Gap stores could actually be found under one roof.

Just as New Yorkers never visit the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, I was an infrequent visitor to the Mall, possibly based on my late Aunt Alice's loathing for the place, in both concept and reality. Her dislike was partially based on the fact the new mall had been built on the site of her beloved Metropolitan Stadium, home to her cherished Minnesota Twins. The double whammy of losing the open-air stadium and then watching as the team was moved to a soulless domed stadium in the heart of downtown Minneapolis was enough to make her swear off both the Mega Mall and indoor baseball in one fell swoop.

Uncle Harry didn't hold the Mall in the same disdain as his late wife. In fact, he and his new bride-to-be, Franny, frequently joined other octogenarians prowling the shopping center in the early hours, where they used the wide-open, empty corridors for walking, safe from ice and snow and other weather-related elements. Consequently, he had a comprehensive knowledge of the layout and brought us to the small theater in the corner of the amusement park via the fastest and most direct route.

Given how little I wanted to see this magic show, it was puzzling how quickly I had agreed to attend. Perhaps it was the promise of a gentle respite from the doldrums of running a magic store, with its dimly-lit, dusty environment and infrequent and elusive customers. It also occurred to me that the prospect of freshly-made, hot mini-donuts might have been my primary motivator. I was nearly through the small bag I had purchased on the way in and was beginning to think we might need to stop back at the donut stand on our way out. And then the show had begun.

About five minutes in, I realized this was going to be less of a unique magic show and more of a ploddingly-paced excursion through magic's greatest hits. As the ceaseless music pounded away at us, the young bearded magician--William Blume, aka Billy--moved quickly through all the clichéd classics. An appearing cane turns into a candle! A red silk becomes blue and then a rainbow of colors! A rope is cut and then restored! All of which he completed with a competent but cheerless execution. It was just one trick after another, with hardly a pause between effects, like he was attempting to beat some imaginary Guinness World Record for cheesy magic.

On and on it went. There was a swift levitation of an attractive but dour assistant which lacked any spark, followed by an equally zestless Zig Zag Girl effect. Then a Zombie Ball routine with a light bulb that was equally dull and--due to the small size of the bulb and the distance from the stage--hard to see. And then a short routine involving the disappearance of doves from an ornate wooden cabinet, a performance which was not nearly as eye-catching as the box itself.

By the time he wheeled out what appeared to be a cheap knock-off of Jim Steinmeyer's classic Origami effect, I was ready to call it a day. However, looking from side to side, I realized there was no easy way out, as I had wiggly urchins to my right and Harry on my left.

Clearly trapped, I settled in as the act limped interminably ahead, my ears ringing from the incessant music, which was doing little to enhance the perfunctory performance. While there is a notable history of silent magic acts performed to music, Blume didn't seem to know how to time his effects to the rhythm of the soundtrack, or--more importantly--how to connect with the audience as each magic moment unfurled. Everything was done at such a monotonous pace that, as far as I could tell, some of the effects had come and gone before many in the audience realized anything magical had transpired.

The audience--which appeared to consist of an equal mix of young moms with kids in tow and brightly-dressed, wide-eyed out-of-towners--sat mutely throughout the laborious performance, which provided no respite in the action for even an occasional laugh or applause break. Many of these folks may have ducked into the magic show to avoid the constant roar of the amusement park just outside the theater's doors, only to be surprised by the even louder and more persistent din to which they were now being subjected.

The climax of the show, if you can call it that, was a substitution trunk routine, clearly based on (or, let's be honest here, flat-out lifted from) the famous Metamorphosis act perfected by The Pendragons. This illusion was a particular favorite of mine; I had literally worn out a VHS copy of the act Harry had given me when I was a teenager. The moment of magic in the routine was sublime and despite multiple slow-motion re-viewings, I was never able to see the trick's seams.

Blume's presentation was nearly identical to that of The Pendragons, although he lacked the physical grace of Jonathan Pendragon. Blume's assistant, an attractive East Indian woman, seemed to possess the dance skills and the elegance he didn't, but I suspect her innate skill at the routine was lost on the audience.

With little fanfare, a large trunk was pushed onto the stage. Blume opened the trunk's lid and pulled a large canvas bag from within. Stepping into the chest, the assistant--wearing a bright red dress--then stepped into the bag, which Blume pulled up over her head. He then quickly tied the bag shut, adding an oversized padlock to the securing process. The assistant, now ostensibly locked in the bag, curled into the trunk as Blume shut the heavy lid.

Another large padlock was produced and snapped shut on the hasp on the front of the trunk. Assured the box was now sufficiently fortified, Blume awkwardly leaped on top of it, grabbing a large piece of fabric as he did. Standing on the trunk's lid, he pulled the fabric up, covering himself entirely for just a split second. Then the fabric dropped, revealing the assistant --now sporting a bright blue dress--standing atop the trunk and that Blume had vanished.

The duo's timing was not nearly as amazing as The Pendragons'--and really, who could top them?--but it was more than serviceable and provided the first truly magical moment of the morning.

The strength of this routine was not lost on the audience, who reacted audibly for the first time, their response masked by the thumping music. As the assistant gracefully jumped off the trunk and began to unlock the large padlock, I glanced around the small theater, anticipating the trick's climax.

In its simplest form, the illusion might end with the assistant unlocking both the trunk and then the large canvas bag, revealing that the bag's occupant is now the magician, perhaps dressed in a different outfit.

But if the theater has the necessary resources, there were other more dramatic options for the final reveal. I turned and looked behind me at the main door to the auditorium, which was at the top of the center aisle, then turned back to see how things were progressing on-stage.

The assistant had succeeded in unlocking the trunk and--demonstrating more natural performance gifts than her boss--she dramatically flipped the lid open and reached inside, pulling out the now-empty canvas bag. To reinforce the illusion, she even stepped behind the trunk and tipped it forward, revealing that the interior was, in fact, empty.

She gestured from the empty box toward the back of the theater and the moving spotlight followed where she directed. The audience turned in unison toward the main door as it was hit with the spotlight. The music reached a crescendo as we waited for the doors to fly open and for Blume to come running down the main aisle into the auditorium.

I wasn't particularly surprised he missed this obvious musical cue, as he had done the same throughout the entire act. But then two seconds turned into five and then into ten and the folks in the audience began to look around, realizing that somehow, somewhere, we had missed something.

The assistant, clearly annoyed by this muffed cue, wisely motioned again to the empty trunk and then gestured to all of us and bowed deeply, providing the first applause break of the show. We played our part and applauded, politely if not enthusiastically. Still noticeably scowling, she scampered off-stage. House lights popped on a moment later, signaling once and for all that the show was indeed over.

As the audience shuffled out around us, Harry remained firmly in his seat.

"I've seen a lot of versions of Metamorphosis, he said, a puzzled look on his face. All kinds of different climaxes. But that was a new one. Disappearing and then not re-appearing. Fascinating."

At first I thought he had just missed his cue, I agreed.

Maybe that's all it was, Harry said. A missed cue. And once he realized it, he was just too ashamed to come out.

I nodded, although I could easily think of twenty other things Billy Blume had done in the act of which he should be more ashamed.

Did you want to go say 'hi' to him? I asked, gesturing toward the backstage area. Harry quickly shook his head.

No, not today. Oh my goodness, I hope he didn't see me in the audience. I would hate to embarrass him by letting him know I was at today's show. Harry stood up and started to head toward the main exit, the bulk of the crowd having already departed. I'll come back another day with Franny, and we'll pretend it's our first time here.

On the drive home--with a second bag of mini-donuts already devoured--we discussed the show at length, each coming up with several reasons why Billy Blume might have missed that vital cue. Most of our ideas were plausible but not convincing. Eventually, the topic turned to how things were going at the store, now that Harry was no longer involved in its day-to-day operations.

But the young magician’s odd finish to his show continued to puzzle me and I'm sure Harry felt the same. The experience didn't remain a mystery for too long, though, as the answer appeared in the newspaper the very next day.

It came in the form of Billy Blume's obituary.

CHAPTER TWO

H ave you seen this morning's paper?

While that's a perfectly normal and reasonable question, the moment Harry posed it I realized—not for the first time--the degree to which our circumstances had recently changed.

For several years--after the death of Aunt Alice and my sudden, drive-by divorce from my now ex-wife, Deirdre--Harry and I had enjoyed breakfast together as a nearly daily ritual. I lived in the apartment on the third floor above Chicago Magic, his magic shop, and he lived on the second floor. Each morning, once I heard him moving around downstairs, I would wander down to his apartment and we'd share coffee while we read the paper. For Harry, this meant an actual paper, while for my part I was content to click and swipe my way through the day's news on my iPad.

However on this morning--as we had done for the last month or so--we were having breakfast separately. I was across the street from my apartment, in the brownstone duplex owned by my fiancée, Megan. For his part, Harry was two miles to the south, enjoying breakfast with his fiancée, Franny.

In the backward fashion that life sometimes runs, Megan and I had already been on our honeymoon but had not yet gotten around to our actual wedding. For their part, Harry and Franny were waiting for just the right moment to tie the knot, centered on Franny's read of the psychic universe and any possible omens which might lie within. Most recently she had noted that Mercury is in retrograde, which meant nothing to me, but apparently was a strong enough sign that she felt prudence was in order. Harry, always the diplomat, was happy to be in standby mode, ready to make the marriage leap whenever Franny felt the omens portended success. Until that time, they had settled into a simple life together in her small house in Richfield.

Harry had suggested the move was because now that the store belonged to me, he wanted to get out of your hair and let you drive the business into the ground in your own way.

While that may have been true, I think the real reason was the trek up and down the steep stairs to his apartment was becoming more of a strain than he was willing to admit. Plus, now that he was starting a new life with Franny--as late in life as that may have been--perhaps the flood of memories of his fifty-year marriage to Aunt Alice and their life in that second-floor apartment was something he needed to put behind him.

Regardless of the reasons, we now found ourselves several miles apart at breakfast, and Harry had gotten into the occasional habit of calling me when something in the newspaper struck his fancy. This, as it turned out, was not an infrequent occurrence.

Turn to the Metro section. Page 5b. The article on the Obituary page.

I followed his instructions as he began to give me the highlights of the piece I was looking for.

"It's Billy. Billy Blume. He's dead. I think this explains why he didn't appear at the end of his Metamorphosis illusion."

I found the page he indicated and there it was--an article headlined, Local VIP Found DOA at MOA. I questioned this designation of Blume as a Very Important Person but realized the headline writer had seen an opportunity and gone for it.

Apparently, he was killed in one of the service corridors underneath the mall. Gunned down, or so it says, Harry continued as I scanned the article. The photo of Billy Blume was an obvious PR shot, a typical magician image involving a top hat, doves and playing cards. As with his act, the photo was both clichéd and overstuffed. I'm guessing that's why he didn't turn up at the end of the illusion.

The article gave precious little detail about the death besides the mention that he had been shot, but I had to agree with Harry. He probably had a trap door under the trunk, I said.

Exactly. It dropped him down into the service corridor or nearby, and then something happened while he made his way from there to the theater's main door for the finale. The finale he missed.

I wonder what that something was? I mused.

You and a lot of people, Harry added.

I didn't want to speak ill of the dead, but it seemed consistent and not entirely unfitting that Billy Blume--not the most dynamic or skillful of magicians--had done his most mystifying and surprising work off-stage.

Ever since I'd been old enough to successfully demonstrate Adair's Paddle Waggle for interested customers, I'd worked--in one form or another--at Chicago Magic. As a teenager, it was simply a way to earn money, but as I'd gotten older it had become less a matter of income and more a function of trying to take some of the day-to-day burdens off my Uncle Harry. In the twenty-five-odd years I've hung out in the shop, I'd often daydreamed about how I might run the place if I were ever given the opportunity.

Generally, these dreams were a simple reaction to my frustration with the ways my uncle's entrenched habits hampered making progress in the store. I'd fantasized about updating the display cases, moving to a computerized inventory system, upgrading the store's online presence and generally bringing the entire enterprise into the current century.

With all those pent-up plans and dreams, it should come as little surprise that once the store was mine (Uncle Harry having passed it along to me on his way out the door when he moved to Franny's), I did virtually nothing toward any of those worthy goals on a daily basis.

It was a full week after Harry had pointed out Billy Blume's obituary to me and as lunchtime approached, it appeared today was shaping up to be another low-achievement day. My chief accomplishment that morning had been to send out some really belated mail order items. There was so little traffic to our online store, I often forgot--for days on end--to check for sales. To solve that problem, I finally bit the bullet and set up a text alert, which in theory would help me respond in a more timely manner. In future, I would be instantly alerted to the sales. Then, in theory at least, I would act on them in a more prudent manner.

If that wasn't exhausting enough, I also spent a good deal of time talking the morning's lone customer out of his intended purchase. Instead, I steered him toward a less-expensive item which I felt he would find more fulfilling--a habit picked up from years of watching Harry's interactions with aspiring magicians.

It was Harry's long-held belief that it's a crime to sell a budding magician a new trick just because he has the money to buy it. Just like Mr. Roarke on Fantasy Island, Harry gave each customer not what they wanted but what he felt they needed. Granted, this didn't always go over so well with the customers. But Harry was adamant and it was, after all, his store. And now it was my store and I was surprised to discover my innate ability to drive away customers might someday surpass Harry's.

But for some reason, I kept thinking of Billy Blume. Just a recurring flashing image of the young magician as he stepped atop the Metamorphosis trunk, moments before he would raise the large silk and vanish for good.

The tinkling of the bell over the door snapped me out of the latest version of this reverie. I looked up, expecting to see my pal Nathan. Instead, the light from outside was blocked by a looming figure in the doorway. He was silhouetted by the sun, but I recognized the hulking shape immediately as Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. He's a rising star on the police force and--not so incidentally--my ex-wife's husband.

Is it too early to buy you lunch? the silhouette said in what was not the voice I was used to hearing emanate from Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. I recognized it as the voice of my now ex-wife, the comically named Deirdre Sutton-Hutton. She must have been standing unseen behind the Golem currently filling the store's doorframe.

Her star as an Assistant District Attorney, was rising as quickly as his; in fact, I think their mutual ascendency was a key factor in the success of their marriage. I mused momentarily on what might happen if one began to eclipse the other. But before I could explore that curious train of thought, Deirdre had muscled her way into the shop.

Lunch? I said, without any attempt to stifle the tone of suspicion in my voice. The two of you want to buy me lunch?

And chat, she said, glancing back at her silent hulking husband and then giving me a strained smile. Just a little chat, she repeated.

And an offer, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton added.

But mostly a chat, Deirdre said.

Rather than affect a degree of activity which