The Black Orchid
Cullen Mabry enjoyed working the small nightclubs along the eastern seaboard. Although places in Myrtle Beach, Ocean City, Wildwood and Virginia Beach didn't pay anywhere near as well as those in New York, Las Vegas or even Branson, he enjoyed the slower pace and friendly atmosphere. Besides, as a hypnotist, supplemental income was usually readily available. If his cash flow was a little slow, he had only to hypnotize some smokers, overeaters or nail-biters to make a few extra bucks.
It was while he was working at a club on Cape Cod that Cullen realized that hypnosis, which he had always regarded as being no more dangerous than a card trick or a gypsy's palm reading, could prove perilous. This particular show had begun like all his others. He made the audience laugh by having his subjects behave in a bizarre manner. Some walked like chickens, some performed belly dances and others barked like dogs.
Cullen's shows were popular because he had a knack for picking the right subjects. He seemed to instinctively know who was a good sport and who was likely to become angry. When he saw the sweet-faced Gwendolyn Thayer that night, he assumed she would be a good subject.
"I need a volunteer from the audience," he announced as he walked toward a group of elderly women sitting at one of the front tables. "How about you, little lady?" he asked and held his hand out to a white-haired octogenarian who giggled and eagerly nodded her consent.
After a few brief instructions, Cullen proceeded to hypnotize the old woman, who proved to be most susceptible to hypnosis.
"What's your name?" the hypnotist asked and placed the microphone near the subject's mouth.
"Gwendolyn Thayer."
"And where are you from, Gwendolyn?"
"I live in Salem, Massachusetts, but I'm originally from Hollywood, California."
"Really? Were you an actress?"
"I tried to be," Gwendolyn admitted, "but I was never able to get a break. Then I met a magician, and he asked me to work as his assistant."
"No kidding? A real rabbit-in-the-hat magician?"
"Yes. At first, I only handed him his props, but then I actually participated in his magic acts."
"Like what?"
"We did a sword act and a knife act. The most popular, though, was when he sawed me in half."
"I hope you had a good health insurance plan," Cullen teased.
The audience, consisting mainly of senior citizens, was amused by every joke the hypnotist told.
"What happened with you and your magician?"
"I left him."
"Why is that? Did he want you to take a cut in pay?"
The pun brought another roar of laughter from the audience.
"No," Gwendolyn replied in her trance-induced monotone. "I left when I learned he was a murderer."
The laughter abruptly ceased.
"A murderer?" Cullen asked uncomfortably. "What did he do, forget to tell his previous assistant to take a deep breath when he drove the sword through the trunk?"
"No. He killed a young woman, and when I found out, I was afraid I'd be next."
The members of the audience looked at each other uneasily. Cullen wanted to end the conversation and get another subject, but he wasn't sure how to do it tactfully.
"Okay, Gwendolyn," he finally said, trying to reestablish the humor, "Why don't you entertain all these people in the audience by singing us a little song?"
Gwendolyn paid no attention to the hypnotist's instructions. She was far too lost in her own thoughts.
"He seemed so gentle, so quiet. I couldn't believe he was capable of such a monstrous crime."
"Everyone, let's give Gwendolyn Thayer a big hand," Cullen said, eager to get the woman off the stage. "When I count to three and snap my fingers, you'll awaken from your trance. One, two, three."
Snap.
There was no noticeable change in Gwendolyn; apparently, she was still under hypnosis.
"Can you hear me?" Cullen asked, praying the old lady would respond.
Gwendolyn turned, stared at him and asked with confusion, "Where am I?"
"You're at the Outrigger Hotel in Cape Cod."
"In Massachusetts?" she asked with astonishment.
"The last time I checked," he replied, desperately trying to salvage his act.
This time, however, no one in the audience laughed, not even the most easily amused senior.
"What am I doing here?"
Cullen looked to her dinner companions for help.
"Would any of you care to tell this lovely lady what she's doing here?"
Wilma Langley, a young woman who was in charge of organizing events and trips for the Golden Age Society, came to the hypnotist's rescue.
"Gwendolyn, why don't you come back to the table? You don't want to miss dessert, do you?"
The old woman slowly shook her head and then asked, "Do I know you?"
Despite her continued bewilderment, Gwendolyn followed Wilma back to her seat.
After the disturbing scene with the old lady, Cullen had some difficulty finding another volunteer. He was glad when the show finally came to an end.
* * *
By the time Gwendolyn finished her cheesecake, she'd recovered sufficiently to know not only her own name and address but also those of the others at her table. Her dinner companions were all eager to learn the details of her former life as a magician's assistant, especially the accusation that her employer was guilty of murder.
"Is it true what you said up there?" one of her elderly friends asked.
Gwendolyn giggled.
"Good heavens! What did I say?"
"You said you used to be a magician's assistant. You also said the magician was a murderer."
"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"
"No. Under hypnosis, you said you left him because you were afraid he would kill you next."
Gwendolyn turned to Wilma.
"I didn't say any such thing. Did I?"
Ms. Langley confirmed the other woman's claim.
"But I've never even known any magicians."
"Perhaps you were remembering a movie you once saw," Wilma suggested.
"I suppose that's possible. God knows my memory isn't what it used to be."
* * *
Several weeks passed during which time Cullen Mabry headed north to Maine. After working venues in Old Orchard Beach, Portland and Bar Harbor, he started his return trip south. The autumn was approaching, the tourist trade was dwindling and the summer towns along the coast were closing down.
As was his habit, he stopped in Salem at the end of September. Every year during the month of October, "Witch City" held its annual Haunted Happenings festival, and Cullen always pitched a tent on the Essex Street pedestrian mall and competed with psychics, aura readers and street vendors for a portion of the tourist dollars. During the first week, business was slow. The cold temperatures and steady rain kept local visitors away, and the overnight tourists preferred to huddle inside the museums, shops and restaurants rather than stroll along Essex Street's cobblestone walkway.
One afternoon Cullen sat inside his tent, reading a book and taking refuge from the steady downpour. The winds increased, and most vendors packed up their merchandise and left, hoping for fairer weather the following day. The hypnotist was about to do likewise when a customer entered the tent. Normally, Cullen didn't remember the subjects he'd hypnotized, but when he saw Gwendolyn Thayer in her raincoat, with water dripping off her yellow rain hat, he recognized her immediately. The recollection, however, was not a particularly pleasant one.
"I thought it was you," Gwendolyn said. "I don't suppose you remember me."
"Of course, I do," he replied, forcing a smile. "It was on Cape Cod, wasn't it?"
The old woman beamed, clearly flattered. Cullen politely tried to get rid of her.
"It was nice of you to stop and say hello."
"I came here to make an ... an appointment," the old woman stammered.
"For what?"
"I understand I said some pretty disturbing things while I was under hypnosis."
"Did you ever!" Cullen laughed. "You damned near wrecked my show—oh! I'm sorry."
Gwendolyn waved aside his apology.
"Since that night I've been having bad dreams, but I don't remember much about them when I wake up. I was hoping you could hypnotize me again and find out what it is that's been preying on my mind."
"I don't know," Cullen said unenthusiastically.
"I can pay you," Gwendolyn offered, taking a small change purse out of her handbag.
"Why don't you keep that for your groceries?" he said, reluctant to take the old lady's money.
Gwendolyn laughed, "If it's the money that's bothering you, don't worry about it. I have plenty."
A gust of wind blew and almost upended the tent.
"We can't stay here," Cullen declared.
"Why don't you come to my home?" the old lady suggested. "It's only a few blocks away."
When Cullen saw the fine old house on Chestnut Street, he knew the woman hadn't lied.
She must have quite a bit of money to afford a place like this, he thought.
Trudy, the housekeeper, opened the door for them.
"Come in, Mrs. Thayer," she fussed. "You'll catch your death out there in this weather."
Trudy helped her employer remove the wet rain gear and then sent her to the parlor where a fire had been lit.
"You two get dry," the housekeeper ordered. "I'll go make you some tea."
Cullen, who was used to spending most of his nights in inexpensive motels, was clearly impressed by his surroundings.
"This is some place," he declared. "Being a magician's assistant must pay pretty well."
"That's one of the reasons I want you to hypnotize me again. You see, I have no recollection of ever working for a magician. I've never had a job of any kind, other than volunteering for charity functions."
"I don't know why you said what you did," Cullen explained, "but I'll gladly put you under again and try to find out. I don't suppose you have a tape machine so that we can record the session?"
"I'm sure there's one upstairs in my late husband's study."
* * *
"Can you hear me?" Cullen asked after pressing the RECORD button on the cassette player.
"Yes," Gwendolyn replied.
"We're going to take a trip back in time," the hypnotist told his subject. "Let's go back to the time when you first met the magician. Where are you?"
"At the bar in the Biltmore Hotel. I thought it was an odd place to meet. The studio would have been much better, but I guess that's the way things are done in Hollywood."
Cullen's raised eyebrows indicated his surprise. What was a young woman from a wealthy, socially prominent Massachusetts family doing meeting men in bars in Hollywood? Could it be an authentic case of multiple personality disorder? Such a thing was common in movies, soap operas and detective fiction, but in real life, it was extremely rare.
"When did this meeting take place?" he asked.
"January of 1947."
"You must have been quite young at the time."
"Yes, I was only twenty-two."
"What were you doing in California?"
"I wanted to be a movie star."
"That's quite an unusual goal for someone of your social position."
"Social position? What are you talking about? Why can't a poor girl from Medford make it in the movies? Lots of women that started out worse in life than I did went on to become famous."
Cullen was confused. The things Gwendolyn told him under hypnosis did not coincide with the facts she'd given him earlier.
"You're not from Medford; you're from Salem. You were born and raised in a house on Chestnut Street, which you later inherited after your parents died."
Gwendolyn laughed bitterly.
"My father ran out on us when I was five. I lived with my mother until I was nineteen. Then I went to California to stay with my dear old dad. While I was there, I was arrested for underage drinking and told to go back east; but I wanted to be an actress, and that wasn't gonna happen in Massachusetts."
Cullen rubbed his chin. He was out of his league here. His brain was bombarded with doubts. Still, here was a unique opportunity, and unique opportunities were often profitable. He made his decision. He would learn as much as he could about this woman and her fantasy life and write a book about her. True, he didn't know the first thing about writing, but there were people who would—for a price—write the book for him.
Thus, motivated by his own self-interest rather than any desire to help Gwendolyn Thayer discover the reasons behind her recent spate of nightmares, he continued.
"Getting back to the magician," he said, "was that the only work you could get, or did you hope that in some way the exposure might help your career?"
"He wasn't really a magician. That was just a nickname he sometimes used, the Magician. He was really a talent scout. He was going to make me a star, the next Rita Hayworth."
"What went wrong? Did he fail to show up that night?"
"Oh, no. He was there, right on time, too. He even brought me flowers: an orchid. He placed it in my hair and said it softened my look."
"What did he mean by that?"
"I had black hair, and I was wearing a black dress that night. I guess he thought the light flower made me look less like an extra in one of those Universal horror movies."
"What happened next?"
"After we had a few drinks, he told me he needed some good quality close-ups of me to show to casting directors. He claimed to know a professional photographer who had some free time that night. So I got in his car, and we drove to a building not far from the MGM lot."
Gwendolyn suddenly stopped speaking.
"And ...," Cullen prompted.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why not? Did he want you to pose naked? Did he try to seduce you? Did you find out he wasn't really a talent scout, that he was just a guy who used the old I'm-gonna-make-you-a-star line to try to get you into bed?"
"I said I don't want to talk about it," Gwendolyn cried.
"All right. Let's talk about something else. Do you remember when I first met you in Cape Cod?"
Gwendolyn's features brightened, and a smile came to her lips.
"I was there with some friends from the Golden Age Society."
"That night you told me that you worked as an assistant to a magician, and in your carnival days you and he performed magic tricks, including ones where he locked you in a box and ran it through with swords."
"Yes. I remember."
"Then you must understand why I'm a little confused. I seem to be faced with three different people here: a wealthy socialite from Salem, an aspiring actress from Medford and a young woman who works in a carnival. Are there any more of you locked inside your memory?"
"I don't think ...."
Gwendolyn became confused.
"You don't think what?"
"I don't think that business about the carnival is true. I think it was a dream or something."
"And what about your wanting to be an actress? Was that a dream, too?"
"The images are far too real, too vivid to be a dream. The others, the scenes of the carnival, are more surreal."
"Okay. You were never a magician's assistant, you never worked on the carnival circuit, you were never run through with swords or cut in half ...."
Suddenly, Gwendolyn shrieked. Her screams brought the housekeeper running in from the kitchen.
"What are you doing to her?" Trudy cried.
"Nothing. I simply put her under hypnosis as she requested."
Trudy cradled the hysterical woman in her arms.
"Well, bring her out of it. Can't you see the poor thing is terrified by what you've made her remember?"
* * *
While Cullen rewound the tape, Trudy went to the kitchen to get her employer another cup of tea.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" the hypnotist asked.
"No," Gwendolyn replied, "but I need to hear it. I have to know what's going on in my brain."
When the housekeeper returned, Cullen pressed the PLAY button, and the three of them listened to the taped conversation without comment.
"I don't have any idea why I said those things," Gwendolyn exclaimed when the recording came to an end. "I've never been to California nor have I ever wanted to be an actress."
"What about Medford? Have you ever been there? Ever known anyone who lived there?"
"No."
"Perhaps these aren't memories or dreams," Cullen hypothesized. "Maybe they're repressed desires."
Gwendolyn's eyes widened as she stared at the hypnotist.
"Hidden desires?"
Cullen blushed and explained, "I didn't mean of a sexual nature. I meant the desire to have or to be something that you can't. I'm assuming you were sheltered as a young girl. You might have created fantasies in your mind to experience these adventures—working in a carnival and becoming an actress—vicariously."
"If so, wouldn't I remember the fantasies I had?"
"Perhaps you had them so long ago that you've forgotten them."
"Aren't repressed desires beyond the scope of your knowledge?" Trudy asked Cullen. "It seems to me this is a matter for a psychiatrist, not a hypnotist."
Cullen reluctantly agreed. After all, he still hoped to cash in on Gwendolyn's splintered psyche.
"I don't think a psychiatrist is necessary," Gwendolyn objected. "I'm not crazy."
"Don't get me wrong," the housekeeper explained. "I don't think you need therapy. I just think a psychiatrist might be able to tell you whether these images are actual memories, dreams or fantasies."
While Gwendolyn saw the logic of her housekeeper's argument, she was hesitant to go to a psychiatrist.
"I have a second cousin in Puritan Falls who is a psychiatrist," Trudy said. "If you'd like, I can go and see him, let him listen to the tape and see what he thinks. You'll like him. He's a nice young man—and handsome, too."
Gwendolyn agreed, relieved that she would not have to go herself. Cullen, who didn't want to be left entirely out of the loop, volunteered to accompany the housekeeper.
"Good," Trudy said. "I'll go phone Lionel now."
* * *
The hypnotist and the housekeeper arrived at Dr. Lionel Penn's office in Puritan Falls shortly after his normal office hours ended. Cullen quickly described the way Gwendolyn had behaved under her first hypnotic trance and told Lionel the reasons why she wanted to be hypnotized a second time.
"Okay," Lionel said, "let's hear the tape."
As Dr. Penn listened closely to the recorded conversation, from time to time he raised his head to look Cullen directly in the eye. When the tape came to an end, Cullen pressed the STOP button.
"Is this some kind of a joke?" Lionel asked his cousin.
"No," Trudy replied. "Why would you think we're joking?"
"The details on this tape—a young woman from Medford who went to California to be an actress, last seen at the Biltmore Hotel in January 1947—it's the Black Orchid."
"The what?" Cullen asked.
"The Black Orchid, one of the most famous unsolved murders in history. The Black Orchid was the nickname given to Dorothea Peters, a young girl from Medford, who went to Hollywood and wanted to become a movie star. However, before her dreams could come true, she was brutally murdered. Her body was found in a vacant lot—in two pieces. Among other mutilations, she'd been cut in half at the waist."
* * *
When Cullen returned to Salem, he brought with him a true-crime book on the Black Orchid murder that he had purchased in Puritan Falls.
"Have you ever read about this case?" he asked Gwendolyn, holding up the book.
"I don't like to read about such things," she said after glancing at the back cover. "I prefer a good romance myself, something by Danielle Steel, Yvette Delacroix or Ursula St. John."
Cullen turned to the photograph of Dorothea Peters in the middle of the book.
"Have you ever seen this young woman?"
Gwendolyn briefly glanced at the picture, and her hand went to her mouth to stifle a scream. She shook her head, denying the evidence of her own eyes.
"What are you doing? Is it money you're after? Go away!" she cried and then turned and ran upstairs to her bedroom.
"What upset her like that?" Trudy asked and reached for the book. "Don't tell me you showed her crime scene photos of that poor girl cut in two?"
She drew in her breath when she saw the photograph of Dorothea Peters.
"Where did you get this book?"
"At a bookstore in Puritan Falls, the Pen and Sword or something like that."
"You mean The Quill and Dagger?"
"Yes, that's it."
"So, this hypnosis thing is on the level. It isn't some joke after all"
"If it is, then the joke is on me because I don't have a clue what this is all about."
"Wait here," Trudy ordered as she went up the stairs to the master bedroom.
A few minutes later she returned with her employer's framed wedding photograph. Cullen looked closely at the old picture. The bride was the spitting image of Dorothea Peters.
"I don't understand," Cullen cried in confusion. "Who is that, Gwendolyn Thayer or Dorothea Peters?"
"That's Gwendolyn Thayer. I know that for a fact, but why does she look so much like that dead girl?"
"Dorothea Peters came from Medford; that's not too far from here. It's possible that she's a cousin or something."
The housekeeper considered the possibility but rejected it.
"Even if they were related somehow, that wouldn't explain why Mrs. Thayer is seeing these images, would it?"
"Maybe that's something your cousin can tell us."
* * *
The following Sunday, Lionel Penn appeared at the house on Chestnut Street. Trudy led him to the parlor where Cullen and Gwendolyn were waiting.
"It's so good of you to come here today," Gwendolyn graciously welcomed her housekeeper's handsome cousin, "especially on your day off."
"My pleasure. I was headed over to Marblehead, anyway."
Lionel declined his cousin's offer of tea and politely suggested they get right down to business. Cullen handed him Gwendolyn Thayer's framed wedding photograph and the book on the Black Orchid murder, which was opened to the picture of Dorothea Peters.
"My God!" Lionel exclaimed. "The resemblance is uncanny."
"I believe," the hypnotist said, "Dorothea Peters might be a relative of Mrs. Thayer, a cousin or something."
"And I don't agree," Trudy argued. "Why would Mrs. Thayer be receiving psychic images like some TV broadcast? That's not possible, is it, Lion?"
"It has been known to happen. There have been several well-documented cases, but most involve siblings—twins, in particular."
"That's absurd!" the old woman protested. "I don't have a sister; I was an only child."
"There's always the possibility that either you or she was adopted, perhaps both of you. A search of the adoption records might prove or disprove the theory."
"No!" Gwendolyn was adamant. "I don't want to hear any more of this foolishness. I didn't have a sister. These visions are nothing more than bad dreams."
Lionel looked down at the two photographs. He believed it was more than just a nightmare. There was a psychic link between the two women—the type of link sometimes found in identical twins. Only in this case, one was dead and the other was alive. Yet the old woman refused to even consider the idea. Lionel shrugged. Who was he to tell her what to believe? She wasn't even his patient.
"If that's all then," he announced cheerfully, "I'm going to be on my way."
The old woman thanked him once again, and he left. After the psychiatrist was gone, the hypnotist tried to change Gwendolyn's mind.
"If you discover the truth, it might put an end to your nightmares."
"Mr. Mabry, I realize you've gone out of your way to help me. I'm very grateful, and I'll be glad to reward you for your efforts. But I want to drop the matter here and now. No more trances, no more psychiatrists, no more talk of murders that happened more than half a century ago. I don't know why I said what I did under hypnosis, and, frankly, I no longer care."
Cullen sighed. He supposed he couldn't blame her. After all, she was well into her eighties. Let her enjoy what was left of her life. As for him, well, there were still a few weeks of Haunted Happenings left, and the weather had greatly improved.
Gwendolyn opened her purse, took out her checkbook and wrote Cullen a check for a handsome amount.
"This is too much," he protested weakly.
"Nonsense. You deserve it. You've been a great help to me."
"But I didn't solve anything."
"Perhaps some things are better left unsolved."
After the housekeeper saw the hypnotist to the door, she returned to the parlor where she found her employer sitting on the couch, crying.
"Would you like me to get you something to eat?" Trudy asked.
Gwendolyn wiped her eyes with her expensive lace handkerchief.
"No, thank you."
"I'll put your wedding picture back upstairs. What do you want me to do with this book?"
"Put it in the pile with the clothes that are going to Goodwill."
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather keep it?"
"You don't agree with my decision, do you?" Gwendolyn asked. "You think I should try to learn the truth about that young woman, to see if we might be related."
"It does seem the most sensible thing to do."
"What if your cousin Lionel is right? What if Dorothea Peters was my twin sister? How could I live knowing I have enjoyed every advantage in life—wonderful parents, a loving husband, a fine home, money—while she ...?"
Gwendolyn wiped her tears and tried to regain her composure.
"I don't ever want to learn that that poor woman was my sister and that some animal butchered her like that!"
Trudy finally agreed.
"I suppose if a sister of mine had been the victim of such a brutal murder, I wouldn't want to know either."
* * *
Later that evening, Gwendolyn notified her housekeeper that she was retiring for the night. Trudy looked at her watch.
"It's a bit early for you to go to bed, isn't it?"
"It's been an emotionally exhausting day. I need some sleep."
The next morning when Gwendolyn didn't come down for breakfast at her normal hour, Trudy had a strange sense of foreboding. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached her employer's bedroom door. She knocked.
"Are you awake yet?" she called; there was no answer. "Mrs. Thayer, can you hear me? It's time to get up."
Trudy opened the door and went inside. On the bed lay Gwendolyn Thayer, sleeping peacefully. Upon closer examination, the housekeeper saw that the elderly woman was no longer breathing. Her hand shaking, she went to the phone beside the bed and dialed 911 to report the death. When she hung up the receiver, she drew the blankets around the body. It was then she saw the orchid lying on the pillow next to the dead woman's head. It was a gift from a sister she never knew she had.
This story was loosely based on the Black Dahlia murder.
The picture in the upper left-hand corner is of actress Hedy Lamarr.
Salem once went to a hypnotist. He discovered that in all his lives he was a pest!
