Robin’s Rambles – “The Mentalists”

The Mentalists
Season 7 Episode 7
Robin’s Rambles by Robin Vogel

Goldy, a medium, holds a seance with a man and woman (Cynthia),  the man clearly not a believer. “Are you with us, spirit?” asks Goldy. “I feel something–Uncle Danny?,” says Cynthia as the curtains blow and whispering voices chatter. “We’re going to make contact now,” says Goldy, “rest your hands on the planchette–let the spirit guide our hands.” She asks if the spirit is indeed Uncle Danny, and to the Cynthia’s delight, the planchette moves to yes. The annoyed man, not participating, insists, “She’s pushing it.” Goldy assures him it’s okay to be skeptical and asks Danny to knock twice for yes. They get their two knocks. “Can you ask him if he’s happy?” the smiling Cynthia requests. Two knocks. “He is, he’s happy,” Goldy assures her. “Is Sadie with him?” asks Cynthia. The man gripes, “Now you’re being ridiculous! Who cares about Sadie?” The medium sees a family pet. Cynthia delightedly says that’s Sadie, and Goldy assures her Sadie is with Danny, chasing tennis balls in the afterlife. “Sadie loved tennis balls,” exults Cynthia. The man impatiently asks about the important papers, which weren’t in the safe–ask Danny about those. Of course, agrees the medium, miffed, but he must place his hands on the planchette. He does. Winds and whispers blow through the room again, and Goldy suggests Danny didn’t like the question. “Quit fooling around,” the man insists, “he knows darn well that’s my money!” The fire explodes in the fireplace. Cynthia orders them to stop squabbling: “For God’s sake, he’s dead! Tell him we’re sorry. Maybe, if we’re nice, he’ll. . .” They all look down to see the planchette moving by itself. “Oh my God, Danny?” breathes Cynthia. They can all view their breath in the suddenly frigid room. “What’s going on?” demands Cynthia. The planchette rises from the board and launches itself directly at Goldy, the point imbedding itself in her throat. Blood spurts everywhere, mostly all over the doubting man, as she falls to the floor, dead.

Walking out of a take-out place featuring a bag with a pig on it, Dean receives a phone call that seems to annoy him. He jimmies open a blue Dodge Challenger with a gray door. He climbs into the garbage-strewn car, remarking, irritably, “Take some pride,” pushing it all onto the floor. He hot wires the car with ease, and is about to turn off Morning Chaos with Bananas Foster until he hears about two dead mediums who, according to the DJ “should have seen it coming.” (really! LOL!) He hightails it to Lily Dale, NY.

Presenting his FBI credentials, Dean checks out the crime scene. He finds the small tape recorder and curtain blowing machine the medium was using and asks, “Oh spirits of the further, am I going to win the Power Ball? I’m gonna be rich!” He tells no one, because the room is deserted. He looks like he feels foolish. (Aw, no Sammy to bounce off his sense of humor.) 

Dean walks down a street loaded with psychics, wind chimes and other assorted paraphernalia–the annual Lily Dale Psychic Festival. Good Graces Cafe special of the day: YOU! Soup of the Day: A state of Bliss. (Give me a steaming bowl of that, please!) The overly happy, fey waiter greets him, assuring him he gets a free affirmation with every order. Dean turns around, deciding to go to the taco joint–until he turns and sees Sam sitting at a table, reading a menu. (Ed. note: I wonder if Dean’s heart skipped a beat like mine did at that moment?) “You always wear a suit to get your palm read,” quips Dean, moving to sit with him–“not surprised you caught this one, it’s on every morning zoo in America. . .mind?” Sam makes a gesture like he can’t stop him, anyway, as Dean continues, very rapidly to prevent any rebuff, “so I went to the scene, enough wires and speakers and EMF to make your hair stand up, don’t even think about gettin’ a reading–oh, and if this hadn’t been two psychics who’d bit it, I woulda chalked this up as dominaccidental. Now I know this whole place is supposedly collared ghosts, but that takes some serious spell work and some serious mojo, the only books this lady had were Oprah crap, when’s the last time you actually saw a REAL psychic, huh? Pamela? Missouri? This is good, how you been?” The waiter comes over. Dean orders pancakes, side of pig, and coffee. The waiter promises to get right on the “manifestation of the divine.” “What the hell did he say to me?” Dean asks. Sam grins. “Oh it’s funny to you?” says Dean, “go ahead, laugh it up, Sam, hilarious.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean,” says Sam. “Oh, he speaks,” says Dean. “Look,” says Sam. “Sam,” says Dean, “we’re both here. The chance of either of us leavin’ while people are still dyin’ out there. . . (He makes a negative clicking noise.) You might as well bite the bullet and work with me on this one.” “I don’t know if I can,” says Sam. “I’m not askin’ you to open a can of worms,” says Dean, “I’m not even askin’ you where you been for the past week and a half–” “Good,” says Sam. “I’m just sayin’ let’s try and stop the killings,” says Dean. They agree on that much. A woman at the next table thinks they’re the Winchester brothers from the news a couple of weeks back, but they assure her that, while they get that a lot, they are NOT them. “Those depraved killers got put down like the dogs that they were,” Dean assures her, “us, on the other hand, we’re completely harmless.” She bursts into giggles and says she can tell by their energies that they’re completely gentle. “Excuse my friend,” says her male companion in a thick accent, “she’s very excitable, sweetheart, look at them, they’re FBI. I’m Russian, we can spot the law. You must be here about the tragedies.” “We’re just beside ourselves about what happened,” agrees the woman. “And so close to festival season,” says Dean. “Yeah. . .no,” says the woman, confused, afraid of being politically incorrect. “Of course we are worried, we have no idea what is going on,” says the man, handing them his card, introducing himself as Nikolai and mentioning how intuitive he is. He’s big on spoon bending, and will teach them to harness the power of their minds. He doesn’t display his spoon bending power right then, however. As Nikolai and his companion leave, Dean comments, “I’m so glad we decided to vacation here.” All right, here we go, says Sam, opening his folders on the table–first death, second death. The first psychic, Imelda, was brained by her own crystal ball. “Bummer, and ironic,” remarks Dean. Both women are wearing the same necklace; Imelda gave it to Golde in her will. “Cursed object?” suggests Dean. Golde’s next of kin lives in town, also a psychic, explains Sam. Oh, good, I haven’t had my fill, says Dean sarcastically. When Sam is pouring sugar in his coffee, his spoon bends! “He broke my spoon!” complains Sam.

The brothers pull up to a house where two women are exiting. The show their FBI badges to the very pretty, brunette Melanie Golden. She sends her friend off with a hug. “A friend, she just heard about my grandmother,” explains Melanie, “which I guess is why you guys are here–come on in.” Melanie has just returned from “the circuit”–she works hotels and conventions. “No offense, but you don’t seem all that psychic,” says Dean. “Why do you say that?” asks Melanie. “Where’s all the crystals and pyramids?” asks Dean. “I’m off the clock,” she says, “also not psychic–it’s an honest living.” “Interesting definition of honest,” comments Dean. “I honestly read people,” she says, “it’s less woo-woo, more body language–look at you–long time partners, a lotta tension, you’re pissed (Sam) and you’re stressed (Dean). It’s not brain surgery. It’s kinda why me and my grandma didn’t get along. She’d go full smoke machine, but she still actually believed in all that stuff, so. . .” “You don’t,” says Dean. “You do?” she asks. “I’ve got an open mind,” says Dean, “you’d be surprised.” Sam asks about the necklace. Instantly, Melanie says, “Don’t have it–everything went straight to the Emporium–she had to deal with the owner.” “The Emporium?” repeats Sam.

The brothers enter a very cluttered store, where the proprietor says, “You’re looking for something.” “You’re good,” praises Dean sarcastically. “You Jimmy Tomorrow?” says Sam, reaching into his pocket–“we’re looking for a necklace.” “Very romantic,” says Johnny, causing Dean to raise a quizzical eyebrow. (LOL, always that little dig that they;re “antiquers.) “It would have come out with Grandma Golde’s effects,” says Sam almost angrily. He shows him a photo of the necklace. “Yes, yes,” says Johnny, “you do know this is the Orb of Thessaly?” “We did not know,” says Dean. “Very rare,” says Johnny. “Let me guess–very expensive,” says Dean, grinning. “Worth every penny,” Johnny assures them. “Well in that case,” says Dean, both of them showing their FBI badges in tandem, “we’ll be taking the State’s evidence discount.” (LOL! gotcha!) “What’s going on?” demands Johnny, pissed off. “A murder investigation,” says Sam, reaching for the necklace, “and we’d like to personally thank you for not obstructing.” Johnny grabs Sam’s hand. “I give private, energetic readings,” he threatens. “No thanks,” says Sam. Still holding Sam’s arm, Johnny says, “A loss weighs on you. You’re angry.” Dean looks uneasy. “It’s complicated. Come see me,” adds Johnny. Sam takes and pockets Johnny’s card and walks away. “Thanks, Johnny, we’ll see you,” says Dean, smiling. “The FBI is going to reimburse me for the necklace, right?” Johnny asks. “We’ll send you a check,” promises Dean. “Right,” mumbles Johnny, putting away the empty box. Outside, Dean starts to question Sam about what Johnny was saying to him, but he changes the subject: “What’s an Orb of Thessaly?” “One thing,” says Sam, tossing the necklace to him, “it’s made in Taiwan.” “Fake, around here, imagine that,” says Dean, “of course that means whatever is killing mediums is still out there.”

Nikolai sits down and bends a spoon with his own hand. Some other force bends it back, scaring the crap out of him. There are whispering voices, flickering lights–and every piece of silverware he brought to the coffee table is standing straight up, all by itself! Nikolai’s breath comes out cold. He is lifted off his feet, flying for a few moments, then hovers above the coffee table–and above the deadly silverware–finally dropped directly on top of it. Knives, forks and even spoons protrude from his body. Blood flows from his mouth onto the glass surface and onto the carpet. 

“He should have bent those with the power of his mind,” says Dean, vis a vis Nikolai and the cutlery. Sam introduces the Chief of police to Dean, aka Agent Bourne. This is a weird one, says the chief, a chest full of cutlery, a tip line with 46 calls, all from clairvoyants that know what REALLY happened. Two most popular theories: a ghost or an ogre that attacks Russians. “Policing Lily Dale, sounds fun,” says Dean. “It’s either this or Los Angeles,” says Chief. Sam asks if the clairvoyants gave any details as to why they thought it was a ghost or Russian ogre. “Their spirit monkey (LOL!) said so,” supplies the cop, “plus, this guy claims he had a vision of his own death, cutlery and all. Dean gets a call from Melanie: “Did you mean it when you said you had an open mind?” (Hm, provocative!) 

They go to her house, where she’s holding her land-line phone in her hand. The only person who ever called her on that was Grandma. “I wouldn’t put much stock in it; she was always calling me with some crazy dream she was sure was a sign, that kinda thing, but–is it true Nikolai had a real vision of his death?” “That’s what we were told,” says Dean. “So did she, the day she died,” says Melanie. She invites them to listen themselves. She was at a seance, the lights went, the room got cold. “She said that?” asks Sam–“the room got cold?” “Yeah, why, is that important?” asks Melanie. The brothers exchange a glance, and Melanie asks what’s going on. “A ghost–the real deal,” says Dean. “Come on,” says Melanie. Looking directly at his face, she says, “You’re serious.” He explains to her that there’s fake and real woo-woo crap. Yeah, but GHOSTS? she says. Trust me, there’s a lot weirder out there than that, Dean assures her. “So the X-Files is real, or you just stopped talking like an FBI agent,” she says. “We’re not FBI agents,” confesses Sam. “I need a drink,” she says. “I support that,” says Dean. (Ed. note: He was very quick to tell her the truth about themselves. Remember how What They Did was such a big secret?)

Exiting Melanie’s house, Dean tells Sam if this is a spirit, it’s not your average spook tied to a house, it’s boogeying all over town. “I’m not surprised,” says Sam, “how many crystal balls do you suppose there are in Lily Dale?” “Somewhere between 50 and all of them?” replies Dean. “Quartz can act as an antenna for spirits,” says Sam, “that’s why mediums started using crystal balls in the first place.” “That means every store in town has a ghost satellite dish.” (LMAO!) “Exactly, and this place is packed with people summoning spirits,” says Sam. “Dude, most of these guys can’t even call a taxi,” says Dean. “All it takes it one,” points out Sam. “This could be like looking for a needle in a stack of fake needles,” says Dean. “Worse,” says Sam, “I’ll bet you some of these guys got real juice, I’m not talkin’ kill people level, I’m just sayin’ enough to make it complicated.” “I hate this town,” says Dean, “so, what?–start with Miss Cleo’s?” “I was thinkin’ split up and canvas,” says Sam, “it’s faster.” “Right, of course you were,” says Dean. Sam leaves on foot, Dean takes the car. (Ed. note: Aw, Dean is so hurt that Sam doesn’t want to stick with him all the time. Sam’s a tough nut to crack, and Dean should know that.)

Camille, another psychic, dumps a bunch of what looks like baby bones onto a candlelit table and holds one up to her forehead. The woman across from her asks if her brother is going back to prison. “Stay away, his curse will drag you down!” intones the psychic. “Folks do turn jail into a habit you know.” Realizing how upset the woman across from her is upset, Camille takes her hand. “Don’t fret,” she says, “I always say family is a pain in the ass anyhow!” The client chuckles. “Thank you, Sister Davido,” she says. “No, child, thank the spirits!” urges Camille, looking heavenward. The woman does so. “Now will that be cash or credit?” asks Sister Davido. (Ed. note: No matter how spiritual matters may be, money takes all!)

Later, alone, while putting her cash haul away in a metal box, she is beset with a series of montages of being strangled as a clock strikes 2 o’clock. Her apartment goes cold and she can see her own breath in front of her face. Her doorbell rings–it’s Melanie and Dean. She’s not happy to see them, but Melanie says, “It’s okay, like I said on the phone, he can help.” “Phony lawman, huh?” says Camille. “Nobody can relate to phony around here,” says Dean sarcastically. “If you can do something, I don’t care if you call yourself the Pope, says Camille. Dean asks what happened. “I had a freakin’ vision–something is coming for me!” cries Camille. “What’s coming–did you get a look?” asks Dean. “No,” she replies, scared,, “but I sure felt it when it started breaking my bones. I don’t want to die.” “We’ll figure it out,” promises Dean, “the vision happened in here?” “By the cash box,” says Camille. Dean looks around at things hanging on the wall and finds an really grotesque mask. “Is there any chance good-lookin’ was watchin’?” he asks. Dean checks the security tape, which goes wonky at one point–and they see her. “What was that?” asks Camille. “Oh my God!” the women call out, and Melanie wants to know that’s an actual. . . “Bonafide,” Dean assures them as the hideous creature comes into focus on the screen, darting next to Camille, hands moving to her head, clearly about to attack her. “No offense,” says Dean, “but nobody is having psychic visions around here; this spirit, whoever she is, is giving them out.” “And then killing people?” asks Camille. “Till we stop her,” says Dean. “Good thing is, you saw a clock that read two AM,” says Dean, “so that gives us a little time–now, does anybody recognize this chick?” “I swear I’ve seen her, like in a painting or something,” says Melanie.” “Go on,” encourages Dean. “One of those old photos in the museum,” she amends. 

A tour is being given at the museum. The curator leads a group through, explaining, “Lily Dale has long been a haven for the psychically gifted. Tortured elsewhere, they are embraced here. My own family has a natural modest gift. We also celebrate our long and colorful history of embellishers–ectoplasm illusion circuses, 1890!” Sam, disgusted and annoyed, walks off on his own. Dean examines a poster for a brother act and runs into Sam. The curator tells them, “It never ended well for the siblings. The strain of working together, or maybe just being around each other all their lives–those two were the exceptions, actually, the Campbells (coincidence?) got along famously–of course, that was just a stage name, they weren’t actually brothers. That was a cover for their “alternative lifestyle. (Ed. note: Did they really go there?) Any other questions I can answer for you?” Sam points to a photo of two women sitting together. “Oh, the Fox sisters,” he says, “among the founders of Lily Dale–Kate Fox, quite troubled, apparently, but mesmerizing on-stage, she’s said to be able to levitate objects and foretell one’s death.” “That’s her,” Dean quietly tells Sam. “Her older sister,” says the curator, “perhaps not a natural psychic, so. . .” “Fulla crap,” says Dean. “She looked after Kate,” says museum guy, “sometimes one’s true gift is taking care of others.” (Dean looking after Sammy?) It turns out the sisters lived and died there all their lives and are buried in the cemetery. “That was very educational,” says Sam, calling Dean’s name once before walking briskly away. The curator grabs Dean’s arm. “I don’t normally do this during business hours,” he says, “but do you know an Eleanor or an Ellen?” Dean doesn’t reply. “She seems quite concerned about you,” says the curator, “she wants to tell you–pardon me–if you don’t tell someone how bad it really is, she’ll kick your ass from beyond. You have to trust someone again eventually.” Out of Ellen mode, he suggests a visit to the gift shop and walks away. (Ed. note: Gave me chills, and at the same time, I applauded, go get him, Ellen, kick his ass!).

Dean meets Sam outside. Sam just wants to go dig up and salt and burn Kate, but Dean has had it. “Hold on a damn minute. Enough with ‘just the facts’.” “We agreed,” begins Sam. “We agreed to work the case,” says Dean, “we didn’t agree for you to be a dick the whole time.” “What?” demands Sam. “You’re pissed,” says Dean, “and you got a right.” “Damn straight,” says Sam. “But enough’s enough,” insists Dean. “Says who?” asks Sam–“look, I’ll work this damn case, but you lied to me, and you killed my friend.” He walks away. Dean follows. “No,” he says, “I put down a monster who killed four people, and if you didn’t know her, you’d have done the same thing!” “I DID know her, Dean!” “Which is why you couldn’t do it,” says Dean–“look, I get it, there are certain people in this world, no matter how dangerous they are, you just can’t. . .” “Don’t pull that card!” snaps Sam–“that’s bull!–look, if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that if something feels wrong, it probably is!” (Ed; note: So why did letting Amy live feel RIGHT to you? Your radar in these matters was broken because of your feelings for her, right???) “Usually, yeah,” agrees Dean–“killing Amy was not wrong–you couldn’t do it, so I did–that’s what family does, the dirty work–and I woulda told you, eventually, once I knew that this whole wavin’ a gun at Satan thing was a one-time show–I think it’s reasonable to want to know you’re off the freakin’ high-dive, Sam, you almost got us both killed–so you can be pissed all you want, but quit bein’ a bitch!” Dean stalks off. (Ed. note: Good for you, Dean, that speech was perfect, and Sam needed to hear it! Dean was all set to kill Madison until Sam found himself able to take the matter into his own hands. It’s just that Sam’s feelings for Amy were far too strong and wrapped up in the fact that she had saved his life. He simply couldn’t bring himself to do what he knew needed to be done. Plus, there was her son.)

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