Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss
Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss
Kyra Davis
Mystery writer and dabbling recreational sleuth Sophie Katz is head over heels in love–with a three-bedroom Victorian.She's just got to have it, despite a few drawbacks. Her slimy ex is the Realtor. The rich, creepy seller wants her to join San Francisco's spirited Specter Society. And her first tour of the house reveals, well, a lifeless body clutching a cameo with a disturbing history of its own.There's no way Sophie is going to give up the ghost on her dreams of stained glass and original woodwork, though–even when things become officially weird. A Society member is found with a slashed throat, and Sophie's house might as well be yelling, "GET…OUT!"She's hearing footsteps, lights are turning themselves off and her stuff keeps moving inexplicably. To top it off, boyfriend Anatoly thinks it's all in her head. Sophie is 99 percent sure her problems are caused by someone six feet tall instead of six feet under, but the only way to be sure is to track down the killer–before he pushes her kicking and screaming to the other side….
Praise for the Sophie Katz novels of
KYRA DAVIS
SEX, MURDER AND A DOUBLE LATTE
“Part romantic comedy and part mystery, with witty dialogue and enjoyable characters…the perfect summer read.”
—The Oregonian
“A thoroughly readable romp.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A terrific mystery. Kyra Davis comes up with the right mix of snappy and spine-tingling, and throws in a hot Russian mystery man, too.”
—Detroit Free Press
PASSION, BETRAYAL AND KILLER HIGHLIGHTS
“A witty and engaging blend of chick lit, pop culture, and amateur-sleuth whodunit [that] will appeal not only to female readers but to any mystery fan who has an offbeat sense of humor…. Laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Barnes & Noble
“Davis spins a tale full of unexpected turns and fun humor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
OBSESSION, DECEIT AND REALLY DARK CHOCOLATE
“Wry sociopolitical commentary, the playful romantic negotiations between Anatoly and Sophie and plenty of Starbucks coffee keep this steamy series chugging along.”
—Publishers Weekly
KYRA DAVIS
LUST, LOATHING AND A LITTLE LIP GLOSS
This book is for my son,
who has taught me more than I thought it was possible to learn.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PROLOGUE
I DIDN’T ALWAYS BELIEVE IN GHOSTS. MY SKEPTICISM WAS BASED ON MY religious and philosophical beliefs. I believe that there are only three things that we can count on to make this world bearable: good friends, a loving family (even when they’re as crazy as mine) and certain mood-altering substances, mainly caffeine and vodka. I also believe that God is good. So why would a good God force the souls of the dead to stick around in a world where they can no longer talk to their friends, be comforted by their families or drink espressotinis? That just doesn’t seem right.
But now I’m beginning to question myself. What if the souls of the dead don’t need to exchange words with those they love in order to be comforted? What if ghosts have access to better drugs, ones that don’t lead to insomnia or hangovers? And ghosts don’t have to deal with mortgage payments. Perhaps heaven is free quality housing.
Then again maybe good people get to move to a more celestial address and it’s only the bad people who become ghosts. Is it possible that it’s the souls of the evil that are forced to stay here, doomed to an eternity of loneliness?
If that’s true then I have a problem because I think the house I just bought might be haunted. That’s what I get for making a deal with the devil, aka my ex-husband, Scott Colvin. He’s the Realtor who sold me my beautiful San Francisco Victorian.
But whether this place is haunted or not, I’m not leaving. I love my house. It has oak floors, crown moldings and, most importantly, two-car parking. This is my home now and I’m willing to fight to the death to keep it.
Unfortunately, I think it might come down to that.
1
There are men worth dying for and others who really just need to die.
—The Lighter Side of Death
WHEN OUR MARRIAGE ENDED TEN YEARS AGO, I FIGURED THAT WAS IT. I would never see Scott Colvin again. I certainly didn’t expect him to be at the open house for this Marina District $1.4-million fixer-upper. But there he was, standing right in the middle of the living room, making it impossible for me to concentrate on the water-stained ceiling or broken light fixture. His body was angled away, so I could only make out a partial profile, but I had no doubt about his identity; that was Scott and the very sight of him brought on a slew of conflicting emotions. One of them was hope. Hope that someone had secretly dropped acid in my Frappuccino and that the thing that looked like Scott was nothing more than a messed-up hallucination.
I had taken hallucinogenics once before, during my freshman year in college. Perhaps if I hadn’t allowed a magic mushroom to trample all over my brain cells I might have had the presence of mind not to get married at nineteen. Fortunately my brain cells were working again by my twenty-first birthday and I celebrated their recovery by getting a divorce.
But this moment didn’t have the feel of a hallucination. The Frappuccino in my hand tasted real. The hopelessly out-of-date faux-wood paneling looked real. The mildew on the windows smelled real. And Scott looked like a real real-estate agent trying to convince a real middle-aged Japanese couple that the house we were all here to see really wasn’t contaminated with asbestos. People on drugs see diamonds in the sky and riders on the storm; they don’t see real-estate agents and overpriced four-bedroom houses that need new flooring. That meant that what I was hearing, seeing and smelling was all horribly real.
But the good news was that he hadn’t seen me yet. I pivoted and tried to lift my wedge heel off the floor so I could quietly tiptoe out.
“Are my eyes deceiving me or is that the beautiful and talented Sophie Katz?”
Shit! I turned around again and was confronted by Scott’s teasing smile. “What do you know, it is you!” he continued. The Japanese couple was now climbing the creaking staircase to check out the second floor. “Of all the open houses in the world you had to walk into mine.”
I grimaced and made a sweeping gesture with my hand. “You’re the agent representing this mess?”
“Apparently you didn’t read the ad I ran in the paper.” He handed me a promotional flyer detailing the house’s few saving graces. “It’s not a mess, it’s an opportunity.”
I almost smiled. Almost. “Save your BS for the couple upstairs. I’m out of here.”
Once again I turned to leave, but Scott quickly jogged in front of me so that I had to stop to keep myself from slamming into his chest. “Sophie, we haven’t seen each other in over ten years. You can’t still be angry at me.”
“I’m pretty sure I can be.”
“Nah, you just think you are.” Scott’s hazel eyes were twinkling with mischief. That’s usually what they did when they weren’t red from getting stoned. “You’re really mad at the old Scott. The kid you were married to. But we’re both grown-ups now, old enough to understand the value of forgiveness. Remember, grudges always have a greater effect on the lives of those who carry them than on the lives of those they’re carried against.”
“Wow, that’s pretty deep, Scott,” I said solemnly. “So let me think about this. During the time that I’ve been holding this grudge, I’ve become an internationally published bestselling author. I have wonderful friends. My family is healthy and reasonably happy. I have a fantastic cat and a boyfriend whom I adore. I’d say this grudge is working pretty well for me. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’ve been calling you?”
After ten years of no contact, Scott had, as of five months ago, taken to calling me every few weeks and leaving messages on my answering machine. Of course I wanted to know why, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my curiosity. Instead I shrugged and retorted, “Don’t you want to know why I haven’t been returning those calls?”
He chuckled, apparently finding humor in my irritation. “I think the answer to your question is a lot more obvious than the answer to mine,” he said.
I hesitated a moment and studied the countenance of this new “grown-up Scott.” He had the beginnings of crow’s-feet, but other than that he looked exactly the same. He had the same blond wavy hair that was always a little mussed, and of course he still had one dimple in his left cheek and that golden skin tone that suggested he spent his days surfing off China Beach. Once upon a time I had thought that his looks were the perfect complement to my darker, more exotic appearance. My father was black and my mother has the fair complexion common to her Eastern European Jewish ancestry. People were always confused and delighted by my ethnicity. They usually don’t know exactly “what” I am yet they find my very existence to be a sign of hope for the improvement of race relations everywhere. However, the attention I get now is a pittance compared to the attention I got when I was with Scott. Together we were a walking Benetton ad. Of course I get a certain amount of attention when I go out with my current fair-skinned, Russian-born boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky. But our differences are less visually dramatic thanks to Anatoly’s dark hair and brown eyes.
“I got your latest book, The Lighter Side of Death. It’s good.” He inched a little closer. “I’ve also been reading about you in the papers. Sounds like you’ve become quite the amateur sleuth. According to the Chronicle you apprehended your own stalker, you helped figure out who killed your brother-in-law, and you even had a hand in bringing down the guy who killed that political aide in Contra Costa County.” He gave me an approving once-over. “Sounds like you’ve turned into a real-life Charlie’s Angel. Of course, you’ve always been an angel in my eyes….”
“Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I think I’ve just been slimed. I’m going now.”
I started to walk around him, but Scott quickly sidestepped in front of me. “What if I told you that I had a brand-new listing for a recently renovated Ashbury Heights three-bedroom Victorian.”
I hesitated. “How recently renovated?”
“Five years ago.”
Only five years ago? Not bad. “Floors?”
“Hardwood. The owner has a thing for Persian rugs so the floors have been covered and protected.”
“Seriously?” I was still focused on the door, but my feet didn’t follow my gaze. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the owner, and why is he selling?”
“The owner’s name is Oscar Crammer, and he’s selling because he thinks the place is haunted.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Was anyone ever murdered in the house? Because if it’s a site of a recent homicide it should be selling for at least ten thousand below market.”
“Sophie, the owner’s only asking for $980,000.”
I broke out in a full laugh. “Yeah, right, a renovated, three-bedroom Ashbury Heights Victorian selling for under a million? Tell me, Scott, does it come with its own leprechaun, too?”
“I know it doesn’t sound possible, but it’s true.” He hesitated before adding, “I think the guy selling may have the beginnings of Alzheimer’s.”
“You want me to take advantage of some guy with Alzheimer’s?” I snapped.
“It has a two-car garage, Sophie.”
My heart skipped a beat, but my sense of morality would not allow me to be tempted by this alluringly wicked proposal. “I won’t scam a sick man, Scott. Not even for parking.”
“Oscar’s old money. He’s got at least ten to twenty million in the bank and his son, Kane, has made millions more in the stock market. He sold off his investments in 2007, before the Dow got squirrelly. Plus I know for a fact that Kane has been trying to get Oscar to sell the house and move into a retirement home ever since the old man became a widower. So by buying this place you’d be doing everybody a favor.”
I turned all of this info over in my mind. It still wasn’t ethical to take advantage of an old man with a possibly fatal illness but…it had a two-car garage!
The Japanese couple came down the stairs and headed into the kitchen just as an Armani-clad gentleman stepped into the entryway. Scott smiled at the latter and nodded at the former before leaning in a little closer and whispering, “I just got the listing this morning. If you want to be the first to see it we could meet there at eight-thirty tonight.”
“Eight-thirty?” I asked in a voice much louder than his. “What kind of real-estate agent shows houses at eight-thirty at night?”
“One who is trying to get his ex-wife to give up an outdated grudge,” Scott said. “Tomorrow I have to tell all my other clients about this, and at that price you know they’re going to descend upon it like a bunch of hungry hyenas. But since I do kinda owe you…”
“You kinda owe me?” I parroted. “While we were married you spent my entire inheritance on gambling, alcohol and the various sluts you were screwing. You more than kinda owe me.”
“I’ll show it to you before anyone else,” Scott continued, ignoring my brief tirade. “If you’re the first to make an offer the old man might take it before a bidding war has a chance to break out. The guy is motivated with a capital M.”
I chewed on my lower lip and glanced at the Armani guy who was now knocking on one of the walls—probably testing to see if it could withstand the impact. This is what $1.4 million could buy you in San Francisco. I had written six New York Times bestselling novels and yet I could barely afford to buy this moldy rat hole with a view. With that in mind how could I not take Scott up on this once-in-a-lifetime offer?
Another couple walked in and Scott flashed them one of his most charming smiles while whispering through his teeth, “So, we on for tonight or not?”
I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to make the only rational decision available to me. “We’re on. Give me the address and I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”
I drove my Audi through the residential streets of Ashbury Heights. Victorian after Victorian blurred into one another as I sped by. There were few pedestrians out although there were probably more than you could count several blocks over where the local shops and restaurants populate Cole Street. I was tempted to turn my car around and head that way now. I could play quarters with some bartender and laugh at the knowledge that my evil ex was standing around an empty house waiting for me. It would be petty, though perversely sweet entertainment. But as I brought the car to a halt at each stop sign, my mind came screeching back to the conversation Scott and I had earlier. I didn’t have a problem with being petty, but stupidity was not something I was comfortable with. I had to at least see the place.
It was 8:40 p.m. when I found the address Scott had given me. He’d told me to park in the driveway, but for a moment I found myself idling my car in the middle of the quiet street and staring at the building to my left. The windows were all dark, but the streetlamp illuminated the details of the exterior. It was no bigger than the houses to the left or right, but still, it was superior. Unlike its neighbors, this house was not painted in pastels, but in a color that hovered between tan and a muted lilac. Its gabled shingled roof shielded its angled bay windows from the hazy evening sky. It was beautiful and oddly familiar. I must have passed it before and somehow taken notice of it. As my eyes traveled from the roof to the foundation I spotted Scott huddled between the Greek-styled columns bordering the front entrance. Watching me and toying with the zipper of his insulated brown suede jacket, his presence surprised me. When I had been married to Scott we had both considered punctuality a dirty word. Slowly, I pulled into the driveway, which was so narrow that it barely accommodated the width of my car.
“How long have you been waiting?” I asked as I slipped out of the car and trotted up the front steps.
“Got here at eight-twenty.” He got to his feet and brushed some nonexistent dirt from his jeans. “I figured you’d be late, but I thought I should get here early just in case you’d changed.” He smiled, bringing his dimple into view. “I’m glad to see that you’re still the same ol’ Soapy.”
I let out a disdainful puff of air. Soapy was the pet name he had assigned to me after we had gotten into a soapsuds fight while washing my old car. It brought back irritatingly fond memories.
“Let’s see the house,” I said coolly. As front doors went, this house had a pretty nice one. Tastefully carved without being too ornate or flowery. “Where’s the owner staying?”
“Hotel Nikko,” Scott said as he fiddled with the key.
“Really? Why doesn’t he just stay here until it sells…oh, Scott!” I exclaimed as he opened the door to reveal the foyer. “Are those crown moldings?”
“Better believe it, baby. Crown moldings fit for a queen.” As we stepped inside he sniffed the air suspiciously. “That’s Pine-Sol,” he said slowly. “Oscar must have cleaned before leaving.”
I barely registered Scott’s comment. I was in the living room looking at the bay windows and the lovely upholstered window seat. The furniture wasn’t my style, very flowery in a Victorian kind of way, but I wasn’t buying the furniture. The gorgeous built-in mahogany bookcases though, those would be mine!
“That’s strange.”
I turned at the sound of Scott’s voice behind me. I had almost forgotten he was there. “What’s strange…wait, that doesn’t look fake.” I pointed at the fireplace behind him. “It’s not just decorative? It’s real? A real honest-to-God fireplace that you can set fires in?”
“Gas starter, too,” Scott confirmed. “But that’s not what’s weird. What’s weird is that Oscar seems to have rearranged all the furniture. This place has been totally redecorated since this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s weird…is that a formal dining room?” I ran past Scott into the next room. Sure enough, it was a dining room, and it was stunning. Not huge, but certainly bigger than anything I’d ever had. Right now it contained an antique oak sideboard complete with carved winged griffins and a beveled mirror. It also held a table that was long and rectangular and covered with a white lace tablecloth. In fact, the table was set as if someone had been preparing for a dinner party of six. There were two beautiful silver candleholders holding long, tapered cream candles, and each place setting shone with Victorian rose-patterned fine china.
“He set the table?” Scott choked.
“Guess he thought that setting the table would give the place a little more ambiance or something,” I muttered, glancing over at the door that led to the kitchen. There had to be a problem with the kitchen, right? No house was perfect.
I carefully stepped inside and broke into a grin—a totally charming kitchen. The cabinets were white, and while I usually prefer a natural wood finish, this white actually worked well with the Victorian ambiance. There wasn’t a huge amount of counter space, which would be a problem for Anatoly, who loved to cook almost as much as I loved to eat, but I could always put in an island or something.
The thought tickled me. Last month, Anatoly and I had been on the Marina watching the ferries riding over the bay. He had kissed my cheek and then my neck while mumbling about the way the salt water tasted on my skin. Then, out of the blue he had taken my hand and suggested we move in together. He wanted to wake up with me in the morning…every morning. Only a year ago he had expressed discomfort with the level of commitment implied by the words boyfriend and girlfriend and now he wanted to share his life with me. It had almost made me cry.
Almost. The truth was that I didn’t want to move him into my apartment, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to move into his. I have come to believe that domestic partnerships have a higher chance of success when they exist within spacious houses. Conversely, cramped quarters and limited closet space is a recipe for domestic violence. But Anatoly made significantly less money than I did, so if my dreams of romance and elbow room were going to come to fruition I was going to have to find a house that fit my budget. He could help me with the mortgage if he chose (and I knew he would), but the down payment was a burden I would have to bear alone. I hadn’t detailed my objections for Anatoly, knowing that he would have dismissed them. Instead, I had stalled for time with whispered abstract promises of future arrangements. He hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t been happy, either.
I glanced at a paned glass door in the back of the room and was hit by yet another wonderful revelation. “Scott, this place has a yard? Why didn’t you tell me?” I ran to the door and flung it open. Yes, the yard was about the size of your average master bathroom, but in San Francisco any house that came with grass was a huge commodity.
“He took his small appliances with him.” Scott was now standing in the doorway. “The man took his appliances to the Nikko.”
“Or maybe he moved them into a storage unit,” I suggested, not really caring what had happened to some soon-to-be ex-owner’s toaster oven. I walked across the room and opened a door discreetly adjacent to the pantry. “Or maybe he put them in here with the washer and dryer.”
“Huh?” Scott peeked inside and noted the coffee machine, blender and a few other basic kitchen tools on the floor of the laundry room. “Why would he do this?”
“Why are you so freaked out by it? The guy wants to sell his house so he spruced it up a bit. That’s normal, Scott. As a real-estate agent I would think you would know that.”
“Sophie, the reason I got this listing is because I know the owner. Oscar and I…travel in some of the same circles.”
My eyes slanted in suspicion. “You, the man who once speculated that life after sixty wouldn’t be worth living—you travel in the same circles as a seventy-year-old with the beginnings of Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s a friend of…a friend. He called me at, like, six this morning all agitated and upset, insisting that I come over immediately and help him sell this place. I made him wait until eight and then I sat and listened to him rant about the ghosts who were driving him out of his house. He’s not well, Sophie. In addition to the mental stuff he’s got a heart condition. There’s no way he has the physical strength to move the furniture around. This is just weird.”
“Maybe he just called another friend…someone who travels in his eclectic circles, and asked him to help fix the place up. Really, Scott, for a man who has mastered the fine art of lying you sure don’t have a very good imagination.” I shut the door to the laundry room. “Show me the bedrooms.”
Scott’s expression morphed again, this time into something that made my stomach churn. “Soapy, I thought you’d never ask.”
He showed me the one downstairs bedroom (which would make a great office) and half bath, then led me up the staircase and brought me to the second bedroom and full bath. They were both beautiful. The house was so underpriced it was sick. But sick in a good way. I could deal with this kind of sick.
With each room Scott made another comment about how everything was different from this morning. When we looked at the second bedroom he shook his head and pointed to a ceramic vase that hadn’t been there before. “It’s weird,” he insisted again. “It’s like he tried to make this place look more…” He snapped his fingers a few times as if trying to command the word he was looking for to pop into his mouth. “Victorian,” he finally said. “He made the place look more Victorian.”
“It’s a Victorian house, Scott. What did you expect? That he would try to make the place look art deco?”
“I didn’t expect anything, that’s the point! I thought he was just going to leave and let me deal with fixing it up for the sale. You should have seen him this morning. He didn’t even feel comfortable hanging around here to talk. Now I’m supposed to believe that he spent the day here redecorating and cleaning?”
“Are you going to show me the master bedroom or are you going to just stand here flipping out over a vase?”
“Right, the master bedroom…let’s just hope he didn’t get rid of the bed, I’d really like to show you that….” But the flirtation lacked conviction. Oscar the redecorator had thrown Scott off his game.
The door to the master bedroom was closed and for a second I entertained a disturbing thought. “You don’t suppose he’s in there, do you? Maybe he’s been sleeping the whole time we’ve been wandering around his house.”
“Oscar assured me that he would be out of here by six at the latest.” He reached forward and opened the door to reveal a charming, if somewhat foul-smelling, room with delicate moldings and paned glass doors that were left open to reveal a pretty little deck—and there was Oscar…sitting on the bed…mouth wide-open…face tilted up toward the ceiling. It didn’t look like a natural position and he didn’t acknowledge us.
He didn’t move at all.
“Oscar?” There was a slight tremor in Scott’s voice.
I crept toward him. “Hello?” I whispered, although I had an ugly suspicion that I could scream and not get a reaction out of Oscar. Something crinkled under my foot and I realized that I had just stepped on a bunch of antique photos. They had that lovely golden glow that always made me think of horse-drawn wagons and Ellis Island immigrants. But these photos weren’t of people, they were of rooms. I was tempted to take a moment to examine them more closely, but I knew that was just my natural inclination to put off the inevitable. “Oscar? I’m Sophie…can you hear me?” I got a little closer and very carefully checked for a pulse. Nothing.
I pulled my hand away and stared at the two white prints the pressure of my fingers had left on the corpse’s flesh.
“Scott, I think he’s dead.”
“You think?” Scott asked.
I looked down at Oscar’s lower half and realized his pants were wet with urine, which explained the smell. “He’s definitely dead.”
I waited for Scott to respond and when he didn’t I turned to look at him.
“Scott?”
He held up a finger as if to indicate that he needed a minute, then ran to the attached bathroom where I could hear him promptly regurgitate whatever it was that he’d had for dinner.
And now I was alone with a dead stranger. Hesitantly, I turned back to Oscar. I didn’t see any blood or sign that he had struggled with someone, although the expression on his face was anything but peaceful. He looked kind of horrified, like he had seen the grim reaper. My eyes traveled to his left hand. His fingers were curled around a piece of jewelry. I leaned over, not wanting to touch him again, and realized that the jewelry was actually an antique brooch with a cameo. Little goose bumps materialized all over my skin and I tried to suppress the anxiety building within me. I wished Scott would pull himself together and handle this. But I expected that would take a while. Scott liked to deal in fantasies and what-ifs. Death was one of those things that was just too real for him.
I turned my back to the body. Actually, this was a little too real for me, too. With shaky hands, I gathered up the photos I had stepped on. One Victorian room after another…a bedroom, a dining room…this bedroom, this dining room. These were pictures of the house as it once was. The furniture had been different, obviously, but not the placement. Oscar had rearranged his furniture to fit the images in these pictures. Even the table setting was similar. Mechanically, I turned back around.
“How did you die, Oscar?” I whispered. I reached over and tentatively touched the brooch in his hand. It was cold, colder than the dead hand holding it. The colorless depiction of the woman on the cameo was surely meant to be flattering, but to me her sharp chin and unseeing eyes appeared sinister. It was then that I became vaguely aware that I was frightened.
At that moment Scott stumbled out of the bathroom and looked purposely at the floor. “So,” he said in a scratchy voice, “do you still want the house?”
“Report this,” I said pointing to the phone on the nightstand closest to Scott. “Dial 911 and tell them we found a dead man.”
Scott looked up at the phone, noted its proximity to the bed and then quickly looked away. “Didn’t I read that you discovered a body in Golden Gate Park a few years back?” he asked hopefully. “You have more experience with this kind of thing. Why don’t you call?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, be a man, Scott,” I said, once again inching away from the body.
“I am a man! I just happen to be a man who suffers from necrophobia.”
“What?”
“I have a fear of dead things. I’m working on overcoming it. Still, this,” he waved toward the bed without looking at it, “is a bit much for me to deal with.”
“You weren’t necrophobic when we were married.”
“Yes, I was, we just didn’t talk about it. Remember how upset I got when we went to that restaurant and they served us the fish with its head still on? That was a traumatic moment for me, Sophie.”
“Wow, Scott. I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Now suck it up and call the police.” I stared at the floor. The urine was getting to me. The smell had been bad when we first entered the room, but now that I knew what it was and why it was there, it had become unbearable. I had to get out of the room.
Scott swallowed hard and then pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll call from this.” He walked over to the bedroom door and motioned for me to exit with him, which I gladly did. I left the pictures where I had found them.
As we walked down the stairs Scott dialed 911 and I used my cell phone to dial Anatoly’s number.
“Hey there.” The lightness of Anatoly’s tone was jarring considering my circumstances. “I was just thinking about you. A minute ago I accepted another case and it turns out my new client is a huge fan of your books.” Anatoly was a P.I. and lately it seemed that everybody in San Francisco wanted his services. Businesses wanted to prove that their employees were stealing, wives wanted to prove that their husbands were cheating and so on and so forth. But right now all of those problems seemed paltry and inconsequential.
“Anatoly, I’m in Ashbury Heights.” It was amazing how I could keep my voice smooth even as my hands shook. “A Realtor was just giving me a tour of this Victorian he’s representing and—”
“Now? It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, I know it’s unusual, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, the owner’s here and he’s sort of…dead.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a Russian curse. “You found another dead body.”
“It would seem that way, yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yeah, I’m here with the real-estate agent and he’s calling 911.” Scott and I had now reached the bottom of the stairs and he was standing by the bay windows answering some dispatcher’s questions. “The owner was old so he probably died of natural causes. Still, could you come over? I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been through something like this, you know that and…well, you’d think it would get easier, but…”
“Tell me how to get there and I’ll come over immediately.”
I looked up at Scott. He was describing the state of the body to someone on the phone and gagging between sentences. Thank God for Anatoly because I was pretty sure Scott wasn’t going to be that big of a comfort to me.
2
Smart Agoraphobics Invest in Real Estate.
—The Lighter Side of Death
LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES LATER, A POLICE CAR AND AN AMBULANCE arrived. The paramedics and one of the two officers immediately went upstairs to check out the body while the other officer, a sergeant with salt-and-pepper hair and a face like Paul McCartney, lingered in the living room to ask Scott and me a few questions. He introduced himself as Sergeant Poplar, but in my head he was Sergeant Pepper. After giving him a quick rundown of why we were there and what we had found, his partner (a cute blond woman who looked more cheerleader than cop) appeared at the top of the stairs and said something about it looking like “natural causes,” at which point Sergeant Pepper asked us to stick around while he took a look for himself. Once both officers were out of sight, Scott and I simultaneously collapsed on the couch and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
“Well,” Scott said dully, “I’ve never had a house showing like this before.”
“Did you know Oscar well?” I asked. The cushions on the couch were overstuffed to the point of discomfort, but neither Scott nor I moved to find a better seat.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s more Venus’s friend.”
“Who’s Venus?”
But before he could answer Anatoly burst through the door. His hands were still encased in the thick black gloves he so frequently wore while riding his Harley, and he creased his forehead in concern. Without a second thought I went to him and he received me with a tight embrace. “You seem to have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he scolded, but his tone was gentle and comforting.
“I just wanted to see the house,” I said, my words muffled by his shirt.
Anatoly pulled back slightly and took in his surroundings. “Nice,” he noted before his eyes landed on Scott. “I take it you’re the Realtor?”
Scott nodded and wiped his palm sweat on his designer jeans before extending his hand to Anatoly. “Scott Colvin, Sophie’s Realtor, friend and ex-husband.”
Anatoly’s smile of greeting froze midhandshake.
“He’s lying,” I said quickly. “At least about being my Realtor, or my friend for that matter.”
“And the ex-husband part?” Anatoly asked, keeping his eyes on Scott. He hadn’t let go of his hand yet, and judging from Scott’s expression, Anatoly’s grip had gotten a little tighter than necessary.
“That part’s true.”
Anatoly released Scott and turned to me. “You came to this house in the middle of the night with your ex-husband?”
“Eight-thirty’s the middle of the night?” Scott asked. “Guess you must be an early-to-bed guy. Sophie and I have always been night owls.”
“We haven’t seen each other in ten years, Scott,” I hissed. “You have no idea what my sleeping habits are like now.” The cool damp breeze coming in from the open door was beginning to get to me and I rubbed the back of my arms in an attempt to increase my circulation.
Scott cocked his head to the side, and shot me the first real grin since we had discovered Oscar. “There’s no way you’ve turned into an early bird. Not my Soapy.”
“Soapy?” Anatoly raised his eyebrows.
“You didn’t tell him about that nickname?” Scott chuckled and refocused on Anatoly. “Man, you’re going to love how she got it. We were washing her car and she was wearing these Daisy Duke shorts and this sheer white tank top—”
“They were regular denim shorts and the tank was not sheer,” I snapped. “I can’t believe you’re trying to play juvenile head games while the paramedics upstairs are trying to determine the cause of death of one of your friends.”
“Whose friend is dead?” a Kathleen Turner–type voice demanded.
We all turned toward the front door and standing there was a human hanger.
Actually “human hanger” was my friend Dena’s term. She used it for runway models and those who looked like them; in other words, women who were too skinny, angular and narrow in the hips to look sexy in lingerie, but managed to make clothes look fabulous. This particular hanger was hanging a delicate off-white long-sleeve top under a spaghetti-strap charcoal-gray empire wool dress. The outfit would have made me look like a matronly dwarf. She, on the other hand, looked ethereal. She glided over to Scott and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Scott, darling, who’s dead?”
“Venus, what are you doing here?” he croaked.
She pulled back, her height enabling her to look him in the eyes without tilting her head. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, darling. I asked you who was dead. That is what you said, isn’t it?” she asked, whirling around to look at me. “You said that there were paramedics upstairs determining the cause of someone’s death.”
“I think you should answer your girlfriend’s questions, Scott,” Anatoly suggested. “This woman is your girlfriend, right?”
Scott nodded mutely.
“Then why don’t you explain to her what Sophie was talking about. Fill her in on what’s happened and what it was you said that got Sophie so irritated.”
“Your name is Sophie?” Venus asked. She truly was beautiful. Her skin was a creamy-white and her chestnut hair, which was pulled into a loose, low ponytail, had enough sheen to make an Herbal Essence model jealous. Her features were kind of perfect, to the point that I had to wonder if she had been crafted by genetics, or a very talented plastic surgeon. When I stared directly at her I could see that she was wearing makeup, perhaps a lot of it, but everything was so perfectly blended and the tones so muted that it managed to look natural. The only things that didn’t quite fit were her hands, which were a little too big to match an otherwise delicate figure. However even this inconsistency served her well, making her seem a bit more powerful than her heart-shaped mouth would suggest.
But she wasn’t nice. I could just tell. Something about the icy sheen in her green eyes hinted at a foul temperament.
“What’s your last name?” she demanded, not waiting for me to answer her first question.
I inched a little closer to Anatoly. “My last name is Katz.”
“This is your ex-wife, Scott,” Venus said slowly. “How interesting.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile. “Now, someone is going to tell me why we’re all here and why there’s a police car and ambulance outside. I know Oscar’s staying at the Nikko tonight so—”
Scott put a firm hand on her shoulder and turned her back around to face him. “Venus, Oscar didn’t get to the Nikko.”
I couldn’t see Venus’s face, but her body had gone absolutely still.
“I’m so sorry, love. We found him in his bed and—”
“Stop.” Venus’s voice was shaky and discordant. She moved away from Scott and farther into the house, pausing before the fireplace. As skinny as she was she still had the presence to fill up the spacious room. “I don’t want to hear this from you. I want to hear it from Oscar.”
Anatoly and I gave Scott a questioning look. “Right…” Then Scott looked longingly at the door. “Venus, um, sees dead people.”
“Feel,” Venus corrected. “I can feel them. The circumstances in this room aren’t right for a ghost to actually make an appearance right now.”
Anatoly stared at her for a few seconds before pulling me closer so my ear was near his lips. “Why don’t I take you home and we’ll let your ex deal with the crazy woman.”
“I heard that,” Venus called over her shoulder. She turned around again to face us, her posture upright and her head high. A single tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and she allowed it to slide down her cheek, unchecked. Most people are uncomfortable with the idea of shedding tears in front of strangers, but Venus wore hers like a badge of honor. The effect was disconcerting because instead of making her seem vulnerable, the pride she seemed to have in her own grief made her appear stronger and maybe even a little bit unnatural. She reached a hand out to Scott and he was instantly by her side as she whispered, “I knew he wasn’t well, but I thought he had more time than this. It was a…natural death, wasn’t it? No one did him harm?”
“I think it was natural,” Scott said quietly. “Venus, why did you come here?”
But before she could answer, the police and the paramedics came down the stairs. The paramedics went out to the ambulance to fetch a stretcher while the police officers stayed to talk to us. “It was most likely a stroke or a massive heart attack,” Sergeant Pepper explained after establishing Anatoly’s and Venus’s identity and collecting all of our phone numbers and addresses. “We’ll need to do an autopsy, but there’s no evidence of homicide here.”
“Someone needs to tell his son,” Venus said. “Poor Kane will be devastated. I don’t believe he’s ever even recovered from the death of his mother.”
“Do you know how we can reach Mr. Crammer’s son?” the female cop asked.
“I have his number stored in my cell phone.” Venus glanced down at her hands as if expecting to find the cell there. “I must have left it in the car.” She gestured toward the door and a moment later she had Scott and both officers escorting her to her parking spot.
“So if Scott isn’t your real-estate agent, why did you come here with him?” Anatoly asked as we stepped aside to allow the paramedics to come in with a stretcher.
“He was the agent representing the open house I went to this afternoon,” I said once the paramedics were upstairs again. “It was a total coincidence.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question, Sophie.”
“He told me about a house that just went on the market this morning and when he described it I knew I had to see it. I mean, look around you! This place is so me!”
Anatoly scanned the living room with disinterest. “Real-estate agents usually don’t give tours after dark.”
“He wanted to show me the house before anyone else and I agreed because he said that if I made the first bid I might be able to get it for nine-eighty.”
Anatoly’s head snapped in my direction. “This house is worth a million-seven easy.”
“Oscar wanted out of the house.” I walked over to the bookcases and fingered a hardbound edition of Jean-Paul Sartre’s plays. It was the most contemporary of all the literature held by the mahogany shelves. “He said it was haunted.”
Anatoly snorted. “Didn’t Scott tell him to up the price?”
“My guess is he was planning on making the suggestion, but probably not if I was the prospective buyer. Apparently Scott grew a conscience in the ten years since our divorce and now he wants to make up for all the wrongs he’s committed against me by setting me up in my very own Ashbury Heights three-bedroom.” My voice faded off at the end of my sentence. I had been so disturbed by the discovery of Oscar’s body I hadn’t yet thought about how his death was going to affect the deal. This house now belonged to Oscar’s son. What if he didn’t want to sell it? And even if he did, he probably wouldn’t want to do it for only $980,000. My hand moved from the book to the bookshelf and I clutched it so hard my thumb began to cramp, as if I could make this house mine if I just held on to it.
“It’s for the best,” Anatoly said, correctly reading my thoughts. “If you were to buy this place it would come with strings attached. By not convincing Oscar to sell at market, Scott was giving up on at least $20,000 of commission. Men don’t make those kinds of sacrifices because they want to make amends for the past. Those kinds of sacrifices are only made when men think they will be repaid with power or sex.”
“Well, obviously.” I spun around to face him. “That’s what makes my possible inability to buy this house all the more painful. How fabulous would it have been if I had been able to cheat Scott out of a huge commission and then turn around and reject him? Do you have any idea how much I wanted to inflict that kind of pain and suffering on that bastard? He used my distress over my father’s death as a way to worm his way into my life and then he screwed me over in every way you can think of. Do you know that he sold a diamond pendant my father gave me to a pawnshop just to keep some bookie from breaking his legs? And the bookie’s name was Vinny! Everybody knows you’re not supposed to borrow money from bookies named Vinny! He was not only a bastard, but he was a stupid bastard!”
Anatoly opened his mouth to respond, but then abruptly closed it when the paramedics reappeared. They were carrying Oscar on the stretcher and his body was covered in a white sheet. With his face hidden, the corpse took on an anonymity that scared me. The body being carried down the stairs could have been anybody. In fact, my father’s body had looked just like that when they put a sheet over him and carried him out of my parents’ house twelve years ago.
That isn’t my father, I reminded myself. I pulled up the image of Oscar’s countenance and held it in my mind as Anatoly and I watched the stretcher go out the door. This was the body of a stranger who had been foolish enough to rearrange all his heavy furniture despite his age and reportedly bad health. No wonder he had a stroke.
My eyes moved to the couch. When I had first seen it all, I could think of was how unstylish it was. But I hadn’t thought about its mass.
I walked over to the armrest and threw all my weight into trying to push it forward. It moved, but only a half of an inch.
“What are you doing?” Anatoly asked.
“I couldn’t move this,” I said slowly. “Not by myself.”
“So don’t,” Anatoly wisely suggested.
“I won’t, but Oscar did. He had to have had help.”
“Excuse me.” Sergeant Pepper was standing in the doorway looking bored and irritated. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave the house.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s not yours,” he said. “If you stay you’ll be trespassing.”
With that statement my potential loss hit me with renewed force. I had already fallen in love with this place. I wanted it, and I wasn’t good at walking away from things that I wanted.
3
One of the unfortunate side effects of my medication is that it hinders my ability to act crazy.
—The Lighter Side of Death
“HE DIED OF A HEART ATTACK. WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” DENA REACHED around the wood pole that held the yellow oversize umbrella above our outside table and handed me back the obituary that I had brought along for her to look at during our lunch date at MarketBar. She took a moment to peel off her fitted leather blazer before continuing. “You know you’re just obsessing over this to distract yourself from the fact that you might not get the house.”
“Bite your tongue,” I muttered, even though I knew she was partially right. It’s not that Oscar’s death hadn’t actually affected me. It had. I had seen Oscar’s pale, dead face in my dreams on more than one occasion since I’d found him. The cameo, the smell, the photographs…it all came together to create a scene that was as harsh as it was ominous. But I had seen worse and I had learned how to tuck my fears away into the dark corners of my mind that I rarely explored. But the house…that house had dominated my thoughts ever since I had laid eyes on it.
In a few minutes Scott would be here to tell me my future. Would I be buying the home of my dreams from Oscar’s son, Kane, at a price I could afford or was I fated to buy some $1.4-million-dollar rat hole on a fault line? I had called Dena and asked her to join me for lunch before this pronouncement of destiny, and to stay with me during its actual telling. My reasons for this were obvious to both of us. I needed my best friend for support and I needed her to help me stay grounded despite my agitation.
Dena took a sip of the cappuccino she had ordered in place of dessert and then licked the foam off her burgundy painted lips. “I don’t suppose you ever found out why Scott was calling you before?”
“Nope, and I’m not going to ask him about it.” I let my gaze linger on the clock tower that soared above us only fifty feet away. Time seemed to be passing slower than usual. “The goal here is to get the house and then get Scott out of my life—for the second time.”
Dena nodded and took a moment to ogle the cute Eurasian busboy who was clearing off a nearby table. He wasn’t really my type, although I recognized his beauty. He was tall and sinewy, almost feminine in his grace. She reached forward and emptied her previously untouched glass of water in three consecutive gulps.
“Okaaay.” I reached forward and tapped her empty water glass. “Are you suffering from diabetes or something?”
Dena smiled wickedly. “I have my reasons.” Just then the busboy crossed to our table to refill her glass. “Thank you,” Dena purred. “I was hoping you’d come over here and quench my thirst.”
The busboy looked up from the glass, surprised, and then, noting Dena’s expression, his eyes widened with understanding. “No problem,” he said uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder, presumably to ensure that he wasn’t the cause of the giggles coming from the women at the nearby table. But the women were deeply involved in their own conversation and he turned back to us with more confidence. “I’m Kim. Just call me over if you need anything else.”
“What a wonderful invitation, Kim,” Dena said. “It seems only right that I should reciprocate.” She pulled a business card out of her purse and wrote her home number on the back. “Obviously I’m attracted to you,” she said simply. “However I’m not looking for a serious relationship and I don’t tolerate chauvinists. If you’re okay with casual and you’re not a sexist then you can call me over and I’ll…show you what’s on my menu.” She slipped her card into his hand and added, “If you’re opinionated and smart I might even take you out for a nice dinner first.”
The busser flushed and then turned even redder after noting what it was that Dena did for a living. “Sole proprietor of Guilty Pleasures? Is that a…you know…a—”
“We sell upscale lingerie, sex toys and things like that,” Dena said matter-of-factly. “Some of it’s rather tame and romantic. Some of it would make Fergie Ferg blush.”
For a moment it appeared that Dena had rendered Kim speechless. “I think you may be the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life.”
Dena lifted her thick Sicilian eyebrows in amusement. “We’ve only just met.”
“Yeah, but you just basically told me that you want to…to…have an affair!”
“So all I had to say was that I wanted to mess around with you and I become the most amazing woman you’ve ever met? That doesn’t say a lot for your sex life, Kim.”
“No, I mean…most women are more coy and, you know…”
“I don’t do coy, and I don’t play games.”
Kim turned his gaze to me.
“Yes,” I said, reading the question in his eyes. “She’s for real.” Kim’s shock was a totally natural reaction. I should have been shocked, too. But I had become so accustomed to Dena’s brand of insanity that it honestly didn’t faze me anymore.
“Okay,” Dena said, running her hands through her short dark hair. “You have my number both literally and figuratively. What’s yours?”
“You mean my phone number or…”
“Who are you? What’s your story?” Dena clarified.
“Right,” he said grinning sheepishly. “I guess I’m sort of smart. I’m in my last year at SF State.”
“What are you studying?” Dena asked.
“I’m a radio and television major with an emphasis on audio production and recording.”
“Really?” Dena asked. “So what’s it going to be, radio or television?”
“I’m thinking about music production. I DJ a couple nights a week now and I’m always mixing my own stuff. I think maybe I can make a real career out of it. I’m going to try anyway. Either way it’s a hell of a lot of fun.”
Dena threw an arm over the low back of her chair and nodded approvingly. “See, that’s a conversation topic that could get us through a long dinner at a three-star restaurant.”
Kim lit up and then caught sight of a man watching him from the other side of the restaurant and immediately straightened his posture. “My manager’s watching me, but I’ll call you tonight,” he whispered. I noticed Dena didn’t bother leaning back when he reached for her plate, thus causing him to “accidentally” brush her right breast. He blushed again before hurrying away under his manager’s watchful eye.
“I arrived with the expectation of meeting with one incredibly beautiful woman, but here I find two!”
Dena and I both looked up to see Scott standing a few feet away. He stood with his left hand tucked away in the pocket of his dark denim jacket and the bulk of his weight on the corresponding leg, a still figure against the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk and street behind him. The passing tourists probably thought he was pausing to admire the outdoor café, but I knew he was posing for the benefit of the women in the area, and the knowledge made me queasy. Perhaps he noted my disgust because he broke into a self-conscious chuckle and strode over to our table. “Dena Lopiano,” he boomed, “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Yeah,” Dena said wistfully, “those were great years.”
Scott laughed again and sat down between the two of us. “Any chance you two would agree to a few drinks and small talk before we get down to business?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” Dena and I said in unison.
“Very well.” He contorted his face into an exaggerated frown before relaxing back into his trademark Rembrandt-White smile. “Here’s the deal with the house. If Kane has to list it, he’s going to list it for $1.75 million with the expectation of having to reduce it to as low as $1.6. Personally, I think he stands a good chance of getting the full listing price.”
“Shit!” I seethed. I did some quick math in my head. I might be able to swing it if I got a really big loan from a bank at an extremely low interest rate. I gazed at my wineglass. Goodbye fine wines, hello cheap wine coolers.
“But if you buy it,” Scott continued, “and you make an offer right now, he’ll sell it to you for the original price of $980,000.”
Dena and I exchanged confused looks. This was fantastic news, but it didn’t make sense. “Scott, are you playing a game with me?”
“Kane is sentimental about that house. He grew up there, and when he heard his father had died, he briefly considered moving back in. But as it stands he’s already living in the house he inherited from his grandparents. He doesn’t want two houses and he doesn’t want to be a landlord or deal with property managers. Still, he doesn’t want to sell to just anyone.”
“But I’m just anyone,” I pointed out. “I’ve never met Kane. I have no relation to him. Nothing connects us at all.”
“On the surface, you’re right,” Scott said. “But Kane doesn’t see it that way. He knows that under normal circumstances I wouldn’t give a potential buyer a night tour of a residence. And normally you wouldn’t come within fifty feet of me, in the day or night. Hell, I haven’t even been able to get you to return my calls. But then, out of the blue, Oscar calls me up and tells me he wants me to sell his place ASAP. On that same day you show up at the open house I was holding in the Marina, and I convince you to come to see Oscar’s place at eight-thirty that night, the night Oscar died.”
“So?” Dena asked.
“So Kane thinks that means something,” Scott explained, still addressing me. “He knows you want the house, but he also thinks the house wants you.”
I brought my fingers to my temples in an attempt to massage away the headache that was beginning to form there. “If I understand you correctly,” I said, “you’re telling me that Kane is crazy.”
“Poor people are crazy, Sophie,” Scott corrected. “Kane is eccentric.”
“I see. Are his eccentricities ones that can be medicated?”
“Probably, although I don’t think Kane approves of drugs that aren’t recreational. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that you can have the house, and you’re getting it for a song—at least by San Franciscan standards.”
“This is too good to be true,” Dena said. She was looking at Scott, but her eyes had become so narrowed with suspicion that it was questionable if she was able to see anything beyond her own eyelashes. “There’s got to be a major catch.”
“A major catch?” Scott scoffed. “He wants to sell you a house for over $600,000 below market. There are militant vegetarians who would eat a truckload of Big Macs just to get a crack at the deal I’m offering you. All Kane wants from you is a one-month escrow, your word that you’ll treat the house well and your commitment to become a lifetime member of the San Francisco Specter Society.”
“Excuse me?” Scott had said the last part so fast that I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. I certainly hoped I hadn’t.
On the sidewalk some man was screaming obscenities, but none of us turned to see what the problem was. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Scott said in a voice that was something less than convincing. “It’s a group of people who get together twice a month for about an hour or so just so they can hang out, schmooze and, um, try to talk to ghosts.”
Dena burst out laughing while I tried to digest this unexpected request. “Scott,” I said slowly, “please tell me this isn’t a deal breaker.”
“You won’t have to go to every meeting,” Scott quickly assured me. “Just go regularly for the first year or so and then if you can only make it to a meeting every two or three months after that I’m sure Kane will be okay with it. The group really isn’t as weird as its name implies. Venus is a member and so is Kane. Even Oscar came to a few meetings, although he hasn’t for a long time.”
“That’s what you meant when you said Oscar and you traveled in the same circles,” I said slowly as I pieced everything together. “Your current circles consist of a bunch of ghost-loving freaks. Really, Scott, isn’t it a little bizarre for a necrophobic to hang with people who are trying to raise the dead?”
“First of all, they’re not freaks,” Scott said defensively. “I’m not even convinced that all of the members believe in ghosts even though they all say they do. They just like listening to ghost stories. I’ve been to over twenty meetings with Venus and they haven’t been able to channel a single disembodied spirit. Trust me, if they had, I wouldn’t attend no matter how much Venus insisted. And Sophie,” he paused to wave a hovering bee away from his face, “it is a deal breaker.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Why is it so important to Kane that some stranger joins his precious society?”
“I keep trying to tell you, Sophie, Kane doesn’t see you as a stranger. He thinks your discovery of his father connects you in some peculiar way and he thinks…okay, try not to laugh, but he thinks that if he’s going to successfully channel his parents’ spirits the people who found his father right after his death need to be part of the séance.”
“Really?” Dena asked, her curiosity overcoming her mirth. “Is that some kind of Wiccan rule?”
“I have no idea,” Scott grumbled. “What I do know is that I’m stuck going to these meetings for at least another year. But really, they’re not that bad,” he said switching back into salesman mode. “And Enrico Risso is a member so we usually get to sample some dish that he’s thinking about adding to his menu.”
“Hold up.” Dena’s chair audibly scratched against the concrete floor as she scooted forward. “Are we talking about Enrico Risso, the executive chef at Sassi? The man who was just voted one of the nation’s twenty best chefs in Gourmet Magazine?”
“The one and only.”
Dena blinked and then turned to me. “I’m not saying you should join, but if you do you should invite me to one of the meetings. Enrico’s risotto is enough to make you cream your panties.”
Scott shot Dena a bemused smile. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?”
“Before I agree to any of this I’m going to need to have a contractor come out and look at the pipes, foundation and whatnot,” I interjected. I really didn’t want to dwell on Dena’s panties remark.
“Naturally,” Scott agreed. “You can have a contractor come out anytime. Kane’s already moved all his father’s things into storage so it’ll be easy to check out all the floors and walls.”
“He’s already moved everything out?” I asked. “That was fast.”
“Kane’s efficient. But before you call a contractor you should take another look at the place. Make sure you really want it.”
Scott said the last words suggestively, implying that I might want more than just real estate from him. I didn’t. But I’ll admit I was pleased to know he still desired me. It put me in a position of power, and with Scott it was always important to keep the upper hand. “When can I look at it again?”
Scott glanced at his watch. “What are you doing right now?”
After saying my goodbyes to Dena I got in my car and followed Scott to Ashbury Heights. Well, follow isn’t really the right word because Scott got a significant early lead on me thanks to his Tango. It was the same electric vehicle George Clooney drove. Scott said he got it last Christmas—it was Venus’s version of a stocking stuffer. Apparently Venus’s parents owned and ran Organically Yours, the food product line that sold energy bars and whole grain cereals all over the country. That bit of information explained their entire relationship to me. Scott was a gold digger and Venus was his sugar-mommy. They were a perfect match.
So by the time I got to the house Scott had already parked and was presumably inside. I pulled my car into the driveway and climbed the steps. My hand was shaking with excitement as I pushed on the front door that was already open a crack. The place no longer smelled of Pine-Sol. The floral couch and overstuffed armchairs were gone and the beautiful mahogany bookcases were empty. It took me a moment to adjust to the change. I hadn’t liked the furniture, but I didn’t realize how much it had detracted from the strength of the architecture. The vaulted ceilings felt higher now and the wide, dark wood staircase had a boldness of design that I hadn’t noticed before. In fact the whole house felt bolder…no, bold was the wrong word. Power. That was better. The house seemed to have a power all its own. Yet its power had a magnanimous quality. The ambiance of the room seemed to embrace me and despite what I had found upstairs only weeks earlier, the place made me feel safe. I almost believed that the house was going to take care of me—like a father.
Suddenly I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. I had been here, not weeks before, but years before; before I had ever heard of Oscar or even Scott.
But that was impossible. My mind had to be playing tricks on me. Yet the sense of déjà vu didn’t go away and oddly enough made me want the house more than ever. It was calling to me.
And then I heard the footsteps of my father. He was walking through the dining room toward the living room. But that, too, was impossible. I turned my head in the direction of the sound.
It definitely wasn’t my father. Scott was standing next to a guy with an army-camouflage T-shirt and brownish-red hair cut close to his scalp. He was wearing rubber-soled sneakers, which explained why I had only heard the one set of footsteps.
“Sophie, this is Kane,” Scott said, patting the man on the back.
I smiled and shook his hand. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“And I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he said. “Seems fate wanted us to meet. More proof that this is all meant to be, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” I struggled to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I was one of those people who firmly believed in coincidences.
I started to pull my hand away, but Kane held on to it firmly. His expression had become serious and I found myself unable to break eye contact. “Do you feel anything?”
“Umm…the palm of your hand?” I said, unsure if he was playing some kind of game with me.
Something crossed Kane’s face. I couldn’t read the emotion, but I had a feeling it wasn’t a good one. But before I had a chance to come up with a better answer he released me and eased his mouth into a lazy grin. “Guess my parents aren’t around right now. But they’ll make an appearance soon. I’m sure of it.”
“Right, well, if I see them I’ll be sure to let you know,” I assured him.
“So there you have it,” Scott said with what seemed to be forced enthusiasm. “Sophie’s the person you should sell to. Not only is she a believer, but she’s willing to notify you if she makes contact.”
What the hell was he talking about? But one look from Scott told me that if I wanted the house I’d be wise to play along—at least for a while. I swallowed and stepped around them into the formal dining room. “This really is a great property.” I flicked on the light switch and watched the chandelier illuminate.
“You still want it?” Scott asked hopefully.
“I’m going to do a walk-through,” I said absently as I furnished the room in my mind. “But yeah, I want it. I’ll have a contractor out here in the next few days.”
Kane walked over to one of the windows and peered out into the street. “You should move in soon, before escrow closes.”
I did a quick double take. “Um, wouldn’t that sort of complicate things?”
“I have a sense about you, Sophie,” Kane said. “I do think you’ll treat this house with the care it deserves. I just have to be sure of that.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Yeah,” Scott said, suddenly uncertain, “What are you suggesting, Kane?”
“Just one more stipulation written into the escrow agreement. Nothing major, but I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here during that month that we wait for escrow to close. If you don’t treat the house with respect I’d like to have the option to back out of the arrangement.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it before slamming the back of my hand against Scott’s arm. “You knew about this, didn’t you! You just brought me here to fuck with me!”
I whirled around and started for the door. Scott reached out and held me back and I made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but I was afraid that if I put too much effort into fighting him I wouldn’t have enough strength left to hold back the tears. So I just stood there, stoically facing the door.
“Sophie,” Scott said urgently, “no one is fucking with you…not that I wouldn’t like—”
“Don’t even start!” I snapped.
“Right, what I meant was that everyone here is serious about the sale, right, Kane?” he said, pronouncing his question like a warning. “You don’t expect Sophie to agree to move in here and go through all the trouble and stress of escrow knowing that you could call the whole thing off and throw her out at any moment for something as ambiguous as her not respecting the place. That would be crazy and we all know you’re not crazy. You’re a businessman. A reasonable businessman.”
I heard the house exhale in a roar as hot air rushed through the vents. Central heating. Was there anything that this place didn’t have? I imagined myself standing up against those vents on the coldest of days, letting the air press against my feet and ankles until they prickled from the heat. Somehow I had to make this work.
“I’m sorry you think I’m being unreasonable,” Kane said, seemingly nonplussed. “I certainly don’t want you to think I’m not earnest in my intent to sell to you. How about this, we’ll let an attorney find a word that’s more to your liking than respecting. I’ll pay for all the utilities during that month…in fact, why don’t we cut escrow in half and make it two weeks. And we’ll put in a clause stating that if I do put an end to our deal before escrow closes I’ll have to pay you…how about twenty grand? That should cover the rent for your apartment for almost a year, right?”
Now I did turn around, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how to speak.
Scott had no such problem. “Yeah,” he said, his voice an octave higher than normal, “that’ll work.”
Kane beamed. “Great! Then get the contractor out here so you can start moving in.”
“I feel there has to be a catch,” I choked out.
Kane laughed. It was the least contagious laugh in the world. “Sophie,” he said, “I may be a bit different, but I’m not so peculiar that I relish the idea of giving huge amounts of money away at the drop of a hat. If I thought there was a good chance that I would need to pay you the $20,000 I wouldn’t be making the offer. But this was once my mother’s house. It was her dream home. I just need to be assured that whoever ends up here will love it the way she did and not just flip it the moment the market improves. Can you understand that?”
No. I didn’t understand anything about Kane. But how could I say no to this? “When’s the first Specter Society meeting?” I asked.
Kane’s grin widened. “In three weeks,” Kane said. “Why don’t we have it here? It could be your first social gathering in your new home.” Kane ran his hands along the wall with the gentleness that one usually reserves for a lover. “It would be a great way for you to introduce yourself to all the members…and to anything else that might make an appearance.”
Anything else. I understood his meaning, but it didn’t bother me. It was, after all, the most conventional thing he had said in the five minutes I had known him. “I’m going to want my own lawyer to go through this escrow agreement with a fine-toothed comb,” I said.
“Of course, Sophie,” Kane said. “Whatever it takes to get you to trust me.”
I tried not to smile. I’d sooner trust my ex-husband. But if a lawyer gave me a thumbs-up it really was a spectacular deal. If I could get a contractor and a lawyer to work with me right away, I might be able to start the escrow process in about two weeks, which meant that in four weeks I would either get a fantastic house well below market or I would get $20,000.
What did I have to lose?
4
Dinner parties would be so much more fun if you were allowed to actually throw your dinner at the guests!
—The Lighter Side of Death
I DIDN’T WASTE A MOMENT. I HAD A CONTRACTOR COME OUT TO THE HOUSE and a lawyer storm Scott’s office. And as soon as I was told that both the house and the escrow agreement were in good condition I signed on the dotted line. I had moved over the furniture from my apartment, and although many of the pieces didn’t really suit the new space at least they were mine. In a fit of optimism, I had put the bulk of my belongings in boxes and brought them over, as well.
During the first week of escrow Kane had come over for a visit, and while he seemed slightly disappointed that I hadn’t heard any thumps in the night, he did praise the passion I had for the house. I was just one week away from officially owning my own home, and now I was preparing to pay for it. Not with money, but with a combination of time and lies; time that I would spend at my first Specter Society meeting and lies that I would tell to convince my guests and fellow members that I desired their company. Scott had explained to me that if I wanted escrow to go through I had to pretend to believe in ghosts and the mystical power of the séances that supposedly called them to this world. It was a stupid but acceptable compromise of my integrity.
Of course the gathering required some planning and for that I had called in the big guns—or to be more accurate, the big gun, my sister and special-event-coordinator-extraordinaire, Leah. At my request she had spent most of the afternoon (and the better part of the past week) setting up for the séance I would be holding that evening. All my unpacked boxes had been moved into the bedrooms and the garage and there was a rented round table in the middle of the living room covered with a white linen tablecloth. In its center were three thick beeswax candles that Leah had strong-armed me into buying despite their ridiculously high price point. And in front of ten antique wood dining chairs there were metal place-card holders molded into the shape of fallen leaves. Many of the names they held were foreign to me and the few that I knew—Venus, Scott and Kane—didn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy. Enrico was the only person I was looking forward to meeting. I had spoken to him on the phone several times in the last few days, and now Leah and I were waiting for him to arrive before the others, with trays of delicacies that would undoubtedly make the rest of the evening a bit more tolerable.
Mr. Katz let out a mew of protest as Leah removed him from one of the chairs and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor.
“Hey, be careful with my baby,” I admonished.
“The only baby here is sitting on the couch,” she said distractedly as she rearranged the candles one more time, pulling at their wicks until they stood up like little soldiers trying to impress a drill sergeant. Of course she was referring to her two-year-old son, Jack, who was at that moment quietly watching her every move. It was unclear to me if his gaze was one of admiration or calculation. His pudgy little hands looked innocent enough while they rested on his lap, but they had often been used as the instruments of destruction and torture, like the time he had tried to clean my cat with Clorox or when he pulled out a fistful of hair from his swim instructor’s chest.
“It’s a shame I can’t stay for the actual event,” Leah said, although we both knew she was grateful for the exclusion. Scott had explained that the number of people in attendance had to be an even number and if Leah took part in the proceedings there would be eleven of us. Leah couldn’t have handled the quiet meditative atmosphere of a séance anyway. We were both sure that spirits could not be summoned, which meant that any communication with the dead would be imaginary. The imaginings of other people cannot be monitored or predicted and Leah didn’t like events that she couldn’t control.
“At least you’ll get to taste the appetizers. Enrico promised me he’d make enough so that you could bring a few home with you.”
“Sweet of him.” She glanced at the metal hands of my walnut-finished clock and the smooth skin between her eyebrows wrinkled in disapproval. “He should have been here by now. We want to make sure that we have time to clean up after any last-minute preparations before the guests arrive. Nothing undermines a party as quickly as a messy kitchen.”
Clearly the parties Leah attended were a lot tamer than the ones I went to. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I said sweetly.
“Mmm, well, since we can’t do anything else until he arrives, let me take this moment to give you your housewarming gift.”
“Housewarming gift?” I repeated. Visions of Pottery Barn throw pillows danced in my head.
She grinned and crossed to the large UPS box she had placed on my window seat. Full of props and decorative items upon her arrival, I had assumed it was now empty. But from it she pulled out a carefully wrapped large rectangular gift.
The paper was a pale gold and gleamed in the dwindling light coming from the window. I found a weak spot and pierced the paper with my fingernail then tore into the wrapping. Shreds of gold fell to the floor like oversize confetti.
And when the covering was gone I was left with a black-and-white photograph of myself as a little girl. My hair was the same unruly challenge it was now and my features hadn’t changed much, but the eyes of the child-me lacked the cynical skepticism that I had cultivated over the years. It was me in my own age of innocence. My arms were wrapped around the neck of the man who gave me that hair. His own curls were cut short and a cluster of them embraced his chin in a well-trimmed beard.
“Thank you. I forgot about this picture,” I whispered, although this very photo had graced our mother’s dresser for at least ten years. “I’ll have to find a good place for it.” I turned it over and touched the cool black metal that held the photo in place. A silver wire stretched from one side to the other, waiting to be draped over a nail.
“There, over the side table with the other pictures,” Leah said without hesitation.
I looked at the newly mounted images on the wall. There was a small picture of a blue jay swooping down to snatch a peanut out of my friend Mary Ann’s hand. Next to that a framed newspaper article, the first critical review my work had ever received. I had highlighted the words highly enjoyable and then blacked out but at times trite. Then the nighttime picture Dena had taken of our friend Marcus, his hand extended up into the air so that it looked like he held the moon in the sky. There was also a picture of Leah holding Jack shortly after his birth. In that picture my mother bent over the swaddled infant, her lips shaped into an exaggerated kiss. But all these people were alive. Even the review referred to a book that I still had access to. What I held in my hand was a tribute to a man who was gone. It felt like the Sophie-child in the picture was laughing at me, saying, “Remember this? Remember what it was like to touch him? Remember what it was like to feel safe?”
I did remember, and it made me heart-achingly sad and I had no desire to hang my grief on my living-room wall.
Leah waited a respectable amount of time for me to come up with an excuse for why the picture shouldn’t be placed with the others before taking it from me and holding it up above the fireplace. “Fine, we’ll put it here. He’s been gone for twelve years, Sophie. It’s time you said goodbye to the man and hello to your memories. Besides,” she glanced at the staircase and pressed her full lips together as if working out some complicated equation, “he belongs here. I don’t know why, but it just feels like some part of him should be here.”
“Some part of him?” I repeated. “That sounds like the premise of some part of a poltergeist movie.”
“Not literally a part of his body, but this.” She pressed the picture against the wall and admired it. “This belongs here.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Give me a hammer and a couple of nails.”
“I only have one left,” I said. “Wait ’til I go to the hardware store later this week. You know how hard it is to hang a picture straight with just one nail.”
“Well, we’ll just have to try to make it work. Bring me the one nail.”
I suppressed a couple of swear words and reluctantly brought her what she asked for. I turned away as the hammer struck the nail and reached for my cell phone. Leah was right about one thing; Enrico should have been here by now. He picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
It took me a second to respond. Enrico had always been warm on the phone and the question he had used to replace a greeting jarred me. “Enrico?”
“Yes?” he said again, this time with even less patience. Behind me Leah was banging the hammer in a quick but steady rhythm.
“Um, it’s Sophie Katz. I was just wondering if you were on your way?”
“What? Is it so late? I did not realize.” I could hear his irritation, but whether it was directed at me, himself or something else was anybody’s guess.
“Sooo, are you? On your way, I mean?” I didn’t want to be pushy, but he was only one of nine people coming over and the only food I had in the house was made by Kellogg’s.
“Yes, I come. Things have happened that are not so good, but still, I come.”
The pounding of the hammer stopped and I turned to see Leah’s handiwork. The frame was crooked, not horribly, but enough that anyone looking at it would note the imperfection. Last time I had spoken to Enrico his English had been similarly imperfect, but now it was considerably worse. Was he drunk? Tired? Or were the “things that had happened” so disconcerting that he had literally forgotten how to speak English? “Enrico, is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay. Today I am…how do you say…I am haunted. Yes, this is right, I am being haunted by the past.” His voice sounded weak and far away. He must have been speaking into the phone, but I had a feeling that he was really talking to himself.
“Uh-huh…so when you say haunted, do you mean that something you’ve done has come back to haunt you? Or do you mean that you’ve been visited by Casper or one of his not-so-friendly associates?”
“Casper? The cartoon character? Are you mocking me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “That was insensitive.”
“What—? But…you fucking bitch!”
“Excuse me? That was totally uncalled for!” I waited for Enrico to explain himself, but instead he must have thrown the phone down on the ground. I heard it clatter against a hard surface and in the background I thought I heard another noise—a squawking, like the sound of a distressed bird. “Enrico?” I yelled. “Are you still there? You owe me an apology!”
But he said nothing. I heard another squawk, a loud thump and then the line went dead. “He hung up on me!” I snapped.
“Well, what did you expect?” Leah shrugged and adjusted the frame once again. It was still crooked, but now it leaned toward the left rather than the right. “I heard your end of the conversation, Sophie. You were flippant with him.”
“I was trying to engage him in friendly banter! And he didn’t just hang up on me, he also called me a fucking bitch!”
“That’s extreme,” she admitted. “But…well, he is a chef. You know how they are—artistic temperaments and all.”
“So what are you saying? That it’s okay to call women you’ve never met before bitches as long as you can make a good pâté?”
“No, of course not, but—Where’s Jack?” We both looked at the empty couch. I immediately scanned the room for Mr. Katz and sighed in relief when I spotted him on the window seat. At that moment Jack came toddling out of the bathroom, buoyant and seemingly unharmed. “Mommy, Mommy! Auntie Sophie has sandbox and she hides chocolate in it!”
“A sandbox?” Leah threw me a questioning look.
“Um, noooo, but I do keep Mr. Katz’s litter box in there.”
Jack’s mouth spread out into what might actually have been a shit-eating grin.
“Call poison control!” Leah snapped.
“But there’s nothing in his teeth,” I pointed out.
“I save it,” Jack explained, still beaming. “See, I save for dessert.” His little fist removed and offered a cat turd to Leah, who stumbled back, aghast.
“Put it back,” she screeched, “before you get some kind of weird cat disease!” She grabbed his arm and dragged him back into the bathroom, screaming something incomprehensible about antibacterial soap. I went to the doorway and watched her scrub his hands as he struggled to free himself.
“What if Enrico doesn’t show up?” I asked.
“Waiters on Wheels,” Leah said, too busy to look at me while she spoke. “Call and have them deliver appetizers from Sassi. But call him back first and try to smooth things over. Apologize to him for being insolent.”
“Are you kidding me? He called me a fucking bitch!”
Jack giggled and jumped up and down. “Auntie Sophie has potty mouth!”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to eat out of a litter box.”
“That’s it, we’re leaving.” Leah swooped Jack up in her arms and headed for the door, pausing briefly to retrieve her jacket and purse from my coatrack.
“Don’t go,” I pleaded. “If Enrico doesn’t come there will only be nine of us and we need ten. You could be part of this.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Why don’t you call Mary Ann, I’m sure she’ll come.”
“Mary Ann’s in Italy. She scored a killer assistant makeup artist job for Milan’s Fashion week and when she’s done with that she’s going to take a few extra weeks to do some Cathedral hopping around Europe. You, on the other hand, are right here. Come on, Leah, it could be fun.”
“Sophie, I love you, but I absolutely refuse to make merry with a bunch of people at a séance.”
“Fine, but if they call up the ghost of Emily Post you’ll be sorry!”
“Emily Post isn’t dead,” Leah yelled over her shoulder as she walked out.
I watched her carry my nephew down the stairs like a sack of potatoes. As a general rule I preferred to limit my time with the two of them to a couple of hours a week, but now I would have done almost anything to get Leah to stay. Bad things happened in threes, the unpleasantness exponentially increasing in severity. I was counting Enrico’s obscenities as one and I had a horrible feeling that bad thing two and three were going to pop up before the day was done.
I tried to call Enrico back, but all I got was the steady and grating pulse of a busy signal. He had seemed so normal when we talked on other occasions, but apparently he had a dark side. I ordered food from his restaurant and it was delivered within an hour. After setting it up there was nothing to do but sit on the window seat and watch the colors of a sunset try to struggle through the dense fog. When the sky finally went black my doorbell rang. I hadn’t seen anyone walk up the steps. At that time I had been focused on my cat curled up on my lap. I pushed him off and he repaid me by dragging the tips of his claws across my thighs. It was exactly six-thirty. Whoever had come was punctual.
I opened the door unsure if I was going to be greeted by Kane, Scott, Venus or a stranger. But all those predictions were wrong. The man in front of me wasn’t Kane or Scott, but I did know him. His pointed goatee and piercing eyes had made an impression on me years ago.
“Jason Beck,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Dena had so many exes it was hard to keep track of them all, but Jason had been more memorable than most. Perhaps it was his penchant for velvet (right now he wore velvet jeans and an open, untucked white dress shirt over a T-shirt that read Chaos Rules. But as original as his look was, it was his belief in vampires that had held my attention. Jason thought that Anne Rice was not a novelist but a biographer, and that Count Dracula was a lot more than a dead SOB who had earned himself a dubious place in Transylvanian folklore.
“You’re the Sophie who’s buying this house?” he asked, sounding just as surprised as I was.
I looked past him at the empty sidewalk and the silent street and tried to find the logic in our meeting. “You didn’t know I lived here?” I asked. “You came—to visit the house?”
“I came for the Specter Society meeting.”
Of course. I nearly slapped my forehead in a vaudeville demonstration of my own idiocy. “They told me a Jason was coming,” I said. “I have your name on a place card, but I would never have guessed it was you.”
“And I never could have guessed that you would be hosting a séance. You’re not a believer.”
I smiled wryly. “You want to know if I’ve ditched my…what did you call it? Oh, right, my spiritually closed-minded, excessively materialistic world view.”
Jason smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Have you?”
“It’s a long story,” I hedged. Scott had insisted that all of the members of the group must think that I’m a believer, but Jason had come through for me in the past, and despite our years of separation I counted him as a friend. I didn’t lie to my friends.
I ushered him inside. He walked to the center of my living room and stared at the table. A cold breeze tickled the back of my neck, and I felt my skin prickle with goose bumps. For a second I thought the temperature had dropped for no reason, but that of course was not the case. I had been so overwhelmed by the surprise of Jason that I had forgotten to close the door behind him. I turned to do so, but my doorway was no longer empty. Framed by the streetlight was a character from the musical Hair. At least that’s how she appeared to me. Her mountains of untamed curls fell to her waist and her rainbow rayon skirt grazed her ankles, revealing Birkenstocks and pink toenails.
“I’m Amelia,” she said, not waiting for my question, and without warning pulled me into a hearty embrace and pressed her lips against my cheek. “Thank you so much for inviting us into your home!” she gushed, then broke away and skipped to where Jason stood. She pressed herself into his back and encircled his waist with her arms. “Whoa, this is one of the fanciest séance tables I have ever seen! Who are we trying to summon? Rockefeller?”
“My sister helped me put this together.”
“Leah,” Jason said and I saw the spark of memory twinkle in his eyes. He had never met Leah, but had heard about her from both me and Dena. More to the point, he had heard tales of her devious offspring.
I closed the door and led them to the food and wine. Before I had even finished pouring the first glass the doorbell rang again. I excused myself and went to welcome my next visitor. This time it was Venus, Scott and Kane. Venus was boldly ignoring the weather by going coatless in a knee-length pencil skirt and an asymmetrical sleeveless top made of a material that resembled crinkly paper. Her hair was pulled into the same low ponytail she had worn on our first meeting. Kane was less adventurous in chinos and a wool sweater that had the look of being handmade. Scott looked like Scott—well dressed, hair purposely and attractively disheveled, an impish smile. Later I would notice that he only aimed his smile in my direction when Venus had her back to him.
It was Venus who said hello first as she stepped inside, letting her massive presence ooze into every corner of my home until the room was so full of her that I wondered if there would be enough space for the rest of us. She raised her arms, her fingertips touching like a ballerina preparing to dance. She then gracefully spread her arms wide, inhaling deeply. But that’s where the dance ended. She coughed and brought her hands to her flat chest. “This is all wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” Kane asked anxiously. But Scott didn’t seem perturbed by her announcement at all. If anything he looked bored.
“The arrangement of the furniture,” she explained. “The feng shui—it’s not right.”
“My mother never decorated in accordance to feng shui,” Kane snapped. “And she still felt the spirits.”
“But she didn’t see them,” Venus said evenly. “She didn’t know how to direct the energy of the house.”
“There were reasons why the spirits couldn’t come to my mother.” Kane stepped in front of Venus, invading her personal space. “But those reasons had nothing to do with interior decorating. Feng shui means nothing to those in the world beyond.”
A light laugh escaped her lips. “Kane,” she said, cupping his chin with her workmanlike hand. “You are not an expert in these matters. You can barely summon your own dog, let alone a ghost.”
Kane didn’t move and for a second I thought that Venus might be in danger. I shot a questioning look at Scott. He no longer looked bored, but neither did he seem to have any intention of intervening.
But then Kane stepped back, just out of her reach. They continued to stare at one another, not speaking. From the dining room I could hear Amelia’s cheerful chatter, and then she rushed into the room, her eyes dancing with a vivacious energy that seemed incongruous with the mood of the other guests. “Hello!” Her salutation echoed in the silent room. Then she went around to each of the three new arrivals and gave Kane and Scott the same hug and kiss she had given me. Kane tolerated this with what appeared to be strained patience, but Scott clearly enjoyed the close female contact and their hug lasted a half a minute too long. It was Amelia who broke away first. She then smiled nervously at Venus. “Did you get a load of that séance table?” she asked, her joviality suddenly seeming a little forced. “Those candles are beeswax, Venus. I haven’t seen anything this fancy since the last time you hosted an event.”
“You weren’t at the last event I hosted,” Venus said.
“No, but I was at the one before that.” She then turned toward the male guests. “Come to the dining room. Enrico outdid himself this time.” She paused right before disappearing back into the dining room and tilted her head in my direction. “Where is Enrico anyway? Did he go out for the perfect wine or something?”
I winced. I hadn’t yet told them that while the food was from Enrico’s restaurant it wasn’t actually made by Enrico. I wasn’t entirely clear on where I stood with Kane, but I was pretty sure that I was on Venus’s shit list. If she found out that Enrico and I had exchanged words she would blame me for his absence, even if I was the one in the right.
But before I could figure out how to address the situation the doorbell rang again. I sent up a quick silent prayer that it was Enrico, but to my disappointment it was a family of three. The man introduced himself as Al and the woman and Goth teenage boy as his wife, Lorna, and son, Zach. Three more names from my place cards.
They were a family, but as far as I could tell the only thing that unified them was proximity. The man was a clean-cut blonde with thinning hair. He wore a polo shirt and chinos and he appeared more resigned than happy to be there. His son was a whole other story. His hair, his clothes, his nails, all colored black. Even his eyes were outlined with a harsh black eyeliner, made all the more dramatic by his white powdered face. Around his neck he wore a velvet ribbon choker, and I was tempted to reach out and see if its unraveling would result in decapitation.
But it was the woman who interested me. Like her husband, she wore chinos and her cotton shirt was a pale pink. Her hair was a graying brown and cut neatly in a style that you would expect to see on the stereotypical suburban homemaker. Totally normal, yet, on her, the outfit, the haircut, even the mild-mannered smile, it all seemed like a costume: her hair too thick for such a neat cut where it should have been long and unruly, her skin too olive for the light-colored clothing, the determination in her eyes too strong to gel with the timid pink of her lip gloss.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I just ushered them in and closed the door behind them. Jason reentered the living room, a glass of red wine in his hand. “Looks like almost everybody’s here,” he said. “As soon as Enrico shows up we’ll have ten.”
This was the time to tell them. Venus already suspected something was amiss. I could tell by the way she was looking at me, her stare hinting at an underlying hostility.
I cleared my throat and went to the place card that bore Enrico’s name, fondling it like it had some kind of voodoo power that could call him forth. But of course that didn’t work. “I don’t think Enrico is coming,” I finally said.
“Not coming?” Scott asked. “But hasn’t he already been here? Isn’t he the one who brought the food?”
“Um, no. I ordered the food from his restaurant. See, I talked to him earlier today and he seemed a little…out of sorts.”
“How so?” Venus lowered herself onto my armchair with practiced casualness.
“He said he was, um, haunted.”
“Haunted!” Kane was immediately by my side, encasing both my hands in his. “Did he see something? Was he visited?”
“I…I don’t know. He just said he was haunted and that things were not so good.”
“Whoa, okay, this is really heavy,” Amelia said, taking a moment to examine each of our faces to make sure we all shared her sentiment. “Maybe he summoned something and he can’t make it go away. Maybe we should take this party to him and see if we can be of help.”
There was a chorus of protests although Kane and Scott both remained silent.
“I know Enrico better than the rest of you,” Venus said, her eyes still on me. “If he wanted us in his home he would have told us to come.”
“But maybe he didn’t think we’d accept the invitation,” Kane offered. “After all, he must know that some of us blame him for Maria’s departure from the group.”
“I didn’t say he would have invited us,” Venus said evenly. “I said he would have told us to come. There is a very big difference. Enrico may or may not have been aware of your feelings, Kane, and they are your feelings, but whether he was aware of them or not he would have still expected us to yield to his celebrity.”
“He’s a chef!” Amelia said with a laugh. “Not a movie star.”
“I think people in San Francisco like chefs more than movie stars. They’re more real,” Zach said. It was the first thing I’d heard him say and his voice sounded too young and innocent for his somber attire. I tried to get a sense of his age. It was hard to gauge considering all the white powder covering his face, but my guess was that he was around fifteen.
“Maybe we should just give him some space,” Lorna said softly. “Of course, there’s still the problem of our number. Someone will have to leave.”
Lorna leaned over and put a hand on Al’s knee. “I know you don’t really want to be here, darling. Why don’t you go get a beer at that pub you used to go to? The one around the corner. What’s its name again?”
“Jax, but I’m not going anywhere,” Al said shortly.
“But I just thought…”
“I know what you thought, but you were wrong,” he snapped. “Now is someone else going to leave or are we going to call this damn thing off?”
Lorna seemed to shrink into herself and Zach scowled at his father.
“I guess I could—” Amelia began, but she was interrupted by the doorbell. “Maybe it’s Enrico!” she exclaimed and rushed to see.
When she opened the door she revealed a woman dressed head to toe in Calvin Klein with her hair cut in a severe, short style. She peeled off her overcoat and threw it into Amelia’s unexpecting arms. “Tell Enrico I’m here.”
“Maria,” Kane said in a soft voice.
She blinked at the sound of her name and grabbed onto the door frame as if she expected someone to try to push her out. “Whatever you’re going to say about numerology or whatnot just…just save it,” she said. “I’m giving him our condo, our house in Tuscany, I’m even giving him the damned parrot, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give him my friends.” She glared at the occupants of the room. “You’re supposed to be my friends! I’m the true believer, not that fat, self-important, fettuccini-eating snob! How could you not invite me to this?”
“Some of us wanted to,” Kane whispered, then sent a scathing look at Venus who stared blankly back.
“Enrico’s a no-show, Maria,” Amelia said, struggling to give her a welcoming hug while holding her coat. “He’s being haunted.”
“Is that what he told you?” Maria said with a bitter laugh. “The only thing haunting that man is the last review he got from Michael Bauer. Did you read it? Three and a half stars. Not four, three and a half. That’s why he’s not here. The bastard is sulking, probably teaching that bird how to destroy a newspaper clipping.”
“That shouldn’t take a lot of training,” Scott said, somewhat bemused.
“I see that the table is all set up,” Maria noted. “Can we start this then? Or are you afraid I’ll taint the proceedings with my bitterness?”
“Nothing wrong with bitterness,” Scott said. “Just look what it does for chocolate, right, Soapy?” As soon as he said it you could see the regret spread across his features. It was as blatant as Venus’s scowl.
“Soapy,” she said slowly. “How adorable. Don’t you think it’s adorable, Kane?”
“We’d love it if you’d join us,” Kane said, directing his comments to Maria and ignoring Venus. “All that matters is belief.”
“And numbers,” Jason added, perhaps a bit sarcastically. “And candles and colors and fucking feng shui.”
“Feng shui has nothing to do with any of this!” Kane snapped.
“Hey, guys, remember Sophie got white candles so if this is going to work we’re all going to have to get in a peaceful state of mind!” Amelia chimed in. “At this rate we’re going to have to go out and buy some pink candles just so we can manage that, right, Sophie?”
“The pink candles are lame,” Zach sighed. “They never work.”
I raised my fingers to my temples. I had no idea what any of these people were talking about. Maria was Enrico’s ex, that much I understood. I also understood that Enrico had a parrot and Venus didn’t like me, but I was beginning to suspect that Venus disliked pretty much everybody. Other than that, I had no idea what was going on.
“I suggest we skip the meal and get right to the séance,” Venus said, staring at Scott. “Unless you would like some more time to chitchat with your Soapy.”
“I’m cool with skipping the meal,” he replied meekly. “It’s hard for me to think about food when I’m with you anyway, sweetie. All I can focus on is how flat-out gorgeous you are.”
Jason started to laugh, but managed to silence himself before Venus had a chance to whack him over the head with one of my candlesticks.
“Sophie,” Kane said, “you are the official host of this event and it sounds as if you bought the food yourself. Are you all right with our skipping the meal?”
“Absolutely, no problem at all.” I would have paid double the amount of the meal’s cost if it meant that I could have these people out of my house any more quickly.
“Well, I’m for it,” Zach said. “I think we’d all be better off talking to the dead than to each other.”
“Wise man,” Jason muttered, taking a seat next to the boy.
“I’m taking Enrico’s chair,” Maria declared.
We all took a seat and Venus announced that she was the medium. She looked at me, daring me to argue, but I didn’t. Let Venus call up her demons, I just wanted to get the whole thing over with.
Venus picked up one of the candles and held it up for everyone’s inspection. “As noted, all of the candles are white,” she said. “White symbolizes peace. Before I light them I will pass each candle around the table and when you hold it in your hands you must charge that candle. Visualize its power; visualize peaceful smoke curling from its wick, a warm peaceful glow emanating from it.”
She passed the first two candles to the left and one to the right. I shot Scott a look, but for once he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I had a feeling that he was suppressing a laugh.
Jason and Al looked equally skeptical. It was only Amelia, Lorna, Kane and Venus who appeared to be clearly enrapt. Zach’s expression remained unreadable under the white powder and Maria was still too angry to convey a different emotion. I let the first two candles pass from my hands without a second thought. But when my palms pressed against the third candle, thicker and heavier than its companions, I found myself wanting to follow Venus’s instructions. Not because I believed it would do any good, but because it was fun. I was hosting this damn thing so I might as well do it right. But the candle didn’t look like an instrument of peace. It was made of beeswax, for God’s sake. Bees are not peaceful. I passed the candle to Maria. Perhaps she would be able to charge it for both of us. Then again, when you consider her state of mind, I might have more luck finding peace in the Middle East.
When all the candles had been “charged” Venus lit each of them. She left the table long enough to turn off the other lights in the living room then returned to her seat.
“Join hands,” she instructed. “Now, breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Clear your mind of everything. Absorb the peace of the candles.”
I did as Venus asked and watched the shadows cast by the flames alter the appearance of my guests. Zach’s powdered white face, which only moments ago had seemed humorously overdone, now looked preternatural and shocking. Lorna’s dark circles disappeared and the light reflected in her eyes seemed to illuminate an emotion that I hadn’t noted before. Determination? Desperation? It was impossible to say. Kane, on the other hand, was easy to read. His breaths were deep and resonating, but he was not calm. No, Kane’s excitement was mounting with each second.
“Our beloved Andrea,” Venus began after several minutes had passed, “we ask that you commune with us and move among us.”
None of us said a word as we waited for some kind of response. I didn’t know who Andrea was. I had thought that we were going to try to call Oscar back, but the surprise didn’t bother me. She could have tried to call Elvis back for all the good it was going to do us.
Of course, Andrea didn’t make an appearance, so Venus repeated her request again and again. Eventually she rephrased the question, asking the spirit to rap once if she was among us. She was answered with silence. The wax from the candles dripped down in little molded teardrops, reminding all of us of the painfully slow movement of time. Kane’s mouth turned down with frustration. His eyes met mine and I realized that without speaking he was talking to me, trying to convey some kind of message that I could not decipher. An inexplicable chill ran up my spine and I felt an ache in my chest, dull and fleeting as it was. And then there was warmth, comfort and for a second I felt the peace that Venus had tried to get me to visualize.
“Say goodbye.”
My breath caught and I looked to Maria and then to Zach to see which of them had just spoken. But both of them were looking at the candles, distracted and oblivious to my change in mood.
“This isn’t working,” Venus said with a sigh. “Someone blow out the candles.”
“We’re giving up?” Lorna asked. “But we’ve only just begun! We could at least try to call Deb!”
“If this was going to work there would have been some kind of sign by now. Time is not the problem.” Venus looked pointedly at me as if to silently say that the problem lay with me, but I was too discombobulated to care about Venus’s deference of blame. I was still trying to figure out who had spoken before. Kane? Scott? Amelia? And then another disturbing realization hit me. I didn’t know if it had been a woman or a man who had spoken. The words had been completely clear, but the voice that said them had been completely abstract. What was that about? Fifty million questions were swirling around in my head and yet those questions didn’t make any sense even to me—and I was the one forming them! I gently touched my hand to my heart where I had felt that dull ache only moments before. The ache was gone, replaced with a rapid beating.
“Sophie, what is it?” Kane was leaning across the table, agitation gleaming in his eyes. “Did you feel something?”
The entire room fell silent as everyone focused on me, waiting for me to give them some kind of hope that their séance hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
“I didn’t feel anything,” I lied. “Just a little heartburn. I ate a lot of spicy food for lunch.”
A cloud of disappointment descended on the group, but I didn’t care. I had much bigger problems. After all, I was beginning to suspect that I might actually be losing my mind.
5
Life is like a box of chocolate, and I’m allergic.
—The Lighter Side of Death
I COULDN’T WAIT FOR EVERYONE TO LEAVE. FORTUNATELY I DIDN’T REALLY have to. Once it was decided that the séance was a failure everyone left with the speed and enthusiasm of an audience who had just sat through a bad three-hour movie. Jason took the time to give me his number so we could “get together for coffee sometime.” Kane was the only one who lingered. He kept pestering me with questions about why I thought the séance didn’t work and if I knew who the disbeliever in the group was. He even asked me if I thought it would have helped to have red candles since it was Andrea’s favorite color. Like I was some kind of expert on all this. I didn’t say so, but I was pretty sure that the séance failed because séances don’t work and ghosts don’t exist.
But what about those words:
Say goodbye.
But I didn’t tell Kane about that and eventually he left, too, leaving me alone in my new house. It was just as well, Anatoly was supposed to come over later. I hadn’t asked him to move in yet—I had decided to wait until after escrow closed, but still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t help me keep the bed warm. And he could also distract me from what had turned into a rather disturbing evening.
Now alone, I turned on all the lights in every room and tried to focus on the more mundane aspects of life. I desperately needed to do laundry, but in order to physically reach my washer I’d have to relocate several heavy boxes. Then there were the boxes in the garage. Normally I would just leave those there and park my car on the street until I had a little more energy, but now I had Venus to consider. I knew from experience that it was impossible to be with Scott and not see other women as threats, fidelity not being his strong suit. Now Venus knew that Scott had been with me, after dark, in a house that he had expected to be empty, and to make matters worse he had called me Soapy right in front of her. Add that to the fact that she was obviously completely out of her mind, and I had to conclude that parking my car on the street might lead to a few slashed tires.
So when Anatoly finally showed up at 10:30 p.m. with his sexy half smile and a bottle of Merlot I was sweaty, exhausted and doggedly filling my living room with all my packed-up odds and ends.
“Interesting decorating choice,” he said as he navigated through a field of brown boxes with cryptic labels such as “Knickknacks” and “Miscellaneous.”
“I don’t know how I managed to collect so much stuff,” I said, wiping my hands on my clothes before leaning in for my kiss.
“Why did you move everything all at once? You still have your apartment until the end of next month. Why didn’t you take a little at a time?”
“I don’t know, anxious to get started, I guess.”
“Yes, you were quick to pack,” Anatoly acknowledged, taking in the scene. “It’s the unpacking that seems to have slowed you down.” He threw his jacket over one of the boxes and then found his way to an empty chair. “Is that because this isn’t your place yet?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it’s my place. I signed the papers.”
“For an escrow that won’t go through for another week, if at all. If you ask me, $20,000 is worth showing your new residence a lot of disrespect.”
“But I’m getting the house for hundreds of thousands of dollars below market, so it’s not like six of one, half dozen of the other,” I pointed out.
“Has Kane even transferred the utilities over to you yet?”
I swallowed and looked away. “He’s insisting on paying them until escrow goes through, but that doesn’t mean…”
“Sophie, you’re practically squatting.”
“Are you purposely trying to piss me off or do you really not get it?” I snapped. “I don’t want his $20,000. This is my house! I have always wanted to live here and now I finally do!”
“‘Always?’” Anatoly repeated. “‘Finally?’ Sophie you first saw this place five weeks ago.”
“Seven,” I said stubbornly, but I did see his point. Why did it feel like I had been fighting for this place for years? And why was I jumping all over Anatoly for pointing out the obvious? I did some quick calculations in my head, but that didn’t give me an explanation for my temper tantrum; I wasn’t due to get my period for another two weeks.
Anatoly considered me for a moment then lowered his gaze to the wine bottle as he shifted it from hand to hand. Something was bothering him, but instead of opening up he said, “So tell me, Sophie, how was the freak show?”
“What?” I asked, not following him at first. “Oh, the séance. Well, it was…weird—but I suppose weird’s normal for a freak show. You’re not going to believe this, but Jason Beck was there. He’s a bona fide member of the Specter Society.”
Anatoly looked at me blankly. “Who’s Jason Beck?”
“You remember Jason. One of Dena’s GBCs…you, know, Mr. Velvet Pants.”
“Right.” Anatoly laughed appreciatively. “How could I forget him? And GBC stands for…?”
“Glorified Booty Call.”
“Right. It makes sense that he would be part of that group, he was crazy enough.” He looked back down at the wine. “Did Scott give you any trouble?”
“No, he was fine. I still can’t believe he’s with Venus. I mean, yeah, she’s got money, but they’re such a mismatched couple. It’s like if Owen Wilson hooked up with Greta Van Susteren. It’s just strange.” Anatoly continued to study the wine bottle as if I hadn’t spoken. Something about his demeanor made me nervous. I took a few steps toward the window seat before changing my mind and converting one of the boxes closer to him into a temporary stool. “How was your stakeout?” I asked, grasping at the one question that I knew could get him talking again.
“Boring,” he sighed. “My client hired me to see if her ex is using. There’s a custody thing going on and she’s looking for ammunition. But as far as I can tell all his vices are legal. Women, alcohol, that kind of stuff. Nothing that will cost him his visitation rights.”
“It may be legal, but too much alcohol tends to hamper people’s ability to parent,” I pointed out. “That’s why I’ve chosen to remain childless.”
He laughed and I immediately relaxed. “Speaking of which, why don’t you open that wine,” I suggested.
“I can do that.” I waited as he went to fetch a corkscrew from the kitchen. My corkscrew and glasses were the first things I had unpacked. I had my priorities.
“Wine for two,” he announced as he returned with a couple of filled glasses.
I smiled gratefully. “Leah put some logs in the fireplace in case my guests wanted more ambiance. Shall we light it?” I asked, turning toward the fireplace as he came to my side. But then my smile froze on my face as I noted the photo above the mantel.
Anatoly turned to see what I was looking at. “What’s wrong?”
“That picture of me and my father…” I whispered.
“It’s new, right? I don’t remember seeing it before.”
“It’s new, but it’s also…straight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was crooked by, like, half an inch. And now it’s not.”
“Someone at your party must have fixed it for you.” Anatoly handed me the glasses before crouching by the fireplace and picking up the long matches that Leah had conveniently left there.
“I don’t think they did,” I said.
“Then perhaps it wasn’t crooked at all.” The fire sprang to life and Anatoly quickly closed the curtain as the sparks reached out for him. “Maybe you were just looking at it from the wrong angle.”
“No, I know it was crooked. Leah was the one who hung it and she was trying to even it out before she left.”
“And she succeeded.”
“No, she didn’t,” I said firmly.
“Sophie, what are you trying to say?” Anatoly straightened up and took his wineglass from me. “Do you think the picture was crooked and then it just magically corrected itself?”
I finally tore my eyes from the wall and looked at Anatoly. “No…no, of course that’s not what I’m saying.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “All I do know is that I’m going to need more than one glass of this.”
“You haven’t even started your first one.”
In three large gulps I downed my entire glass of wine.
Anatoly laughed appreciatively. “All right then, why don’t you take my wine and I’ll pour myself another. And then maybe I can talk you into a few more indulgences.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear before gently nibbling on the lobe. “A full body massage? I’ll start here—” he carefully cupped my left breast and let his fingers graze my hardening nipple “—and work my way down.”
“You just assumed that I invited you over for sex?” I asked with mock indignation. “Maybe I wanted to talk.”
“So talk,” he murmured. He slipped his hand under my shirt and resumed the massage.
I smiled and took another sip of wine, this time from his glass. “All right, I will. How was your day, Anatoly?”
“I already told you it was boring,” he reminded me. “The night looks a lot more promising.”
I laughed softly and drank more of his wine. I thought of the séance, of what I had heard, but hadn’t heard at all. I could talk to him about that. But as his other hand began to work its way up my inner thigh, the warmth of his skin burning through my jeans, I quickly dismissed the idea. I didn’t really want to talk or think. Right now I was content to just feel whatever it was that Anatoly planned to do to me.
And just as I began to relax, the wine and his touch finally lightening my mood, the doorbell rang. It was a melodic chime, but it might as well have been the obnoxious scream of a smoke alarm for all the irritation it provoked.
“Were you expecting someone?” Anatoly asked.
“Just you.”
He furrowed his brow and then reluctantly removed his hands and went to see who had interrupted us. He peeped out the little leaded, textured glass window built into the top of the door and frowned. “It’s a woman. Italian, I think.”
“Sophie?” I heard a muffled voice come from the other side of the door. “It’s Maria Risso. May I please come in? I must speak to you.”
Confused and slightly inebriated, I walked to the door as Anatoly opened it. “Did you forget something?” I asked as I acknowledged Maria.
“No, I…may I come in for a moment? I promise not to be long.”
I glanced at Anatoly who looked more than a little peeved at this point. Reluctantly, he stepped aside as I waved her in. She was frowning, intensifying the few wrinkles in her face.
“Maria, this is my boyfriend, Anatoly.”
Maria either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. “Did Enrico call and tell you why he wasn’t coming?” she asked, glancing at the round, rented table, now the only piece of furniture not holding a box.
“No,” I said carefully, not really wanting to relive that particular phone conversation. “He just said he was having a bad day.”
“Did he say he was going somewhere?”
“No.”
“Did he say he was feeling ill?”
“Why are you bothering me?” I asked bluntly. I was required to attend these people’s séances, but there was nothing in my escrow that stipulated that I had to play twenty questions.
She sucked in a sharp breath and toyed with the belt of her trench coat. “I went to see him.”
“So?” Anatoly asked impatiently.
“I still have the key to the building, so I let myself in, and when I was standing outside the door to his condo I smelled food and I could make out the sounds of Gabrieli playing on the stereo, but he didn’t respond to my knock or to the doorbell. When I called out to him, the only response I got was from that damn parrot.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want company tonight,” Anatoly suggested. “Maybe he has a guest over and he’s in the middle of enjoying some wine and other pleasures and your presence would have been an intrusion.”
I suppressed a smile. Subtlety was not something that Anatoly was comfortable with.
“I didn’t see any evidence of a guest.”
“How could you see evidence of anything when you’re standing outside a door?” Anatoly continued reasonably.
“Because I have the key to his apartment,” Maria admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “I tried to let myself in, but the chain lock was on. Enrico may want to avoid me, but my trying to come into the condo on my own accord should have thrown him into a rage. I expected a confrontation of some kind. But he didn’t scream at me or even acknowledge my attempt. I’d say that he might not have been home, but then he wouldn’t have left the CD player on.”
“And he wouldn’t have been able to chain lock the door,” I pointed out.
“Well, that would be explainable, but the music…”
Her voice trailed off and Anatoly and I exchanged looks. Last I checked it was a lot easier to leave a stereo on than chain lock a door from the outside. But I didn’t really want to argue the point.
“Maria, I don’t know where Enrico is or why he has his music on,” I said slowly. “All he essentially told me was that he was having a bad day. His exact words were that he was being haunted, whatever that means. He said he was going to be late and then we kind of got into it.”
“You got in an argument? What could you two possibly argue about? You don’t even know one another.” Then her eyes widened in horror. “You didn’t insult his food, did you? Or did you praise another chef? Perhaps you said something nice about Wolfgang Puck. Enrico is very jealous of Wolfgang Puck.”
“Wolfgang never entered into our conversation. I was just a little flippant when he said he was being haunted.”
“Enrico doesn’t believe in ghosts,” Maria said firmly. “He comes to the Specter Society meetings because he finds them amusing…although now I suspect his reasons for coming have more to do with me than anything else.”
“I don’t know anything about any of that,” I said. I was beginning to lose patience with this line of questioning. She was uninvited and she was preventing Anatoly from ravaging me. “All I know is that he told me he was haunted, I made a joke about that and then he called me a fucking bitch and hung up on me.”
“What!” Maria gasped. “But he only uses such profanity for food critics and diet gurus!”
“Yeah, well, I’m neither,” I said drily.
Maria now looked even more agitated than she had when she walked through my door. She started wandering around the room, weaving in and out of boxes like a confused rat aimlessly exploring a maze. “Something is amiss.”
“It might be,” Anatoly agreed. “But it’s not our problem. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
Maria glanced down at the empty wineglasses on the box near where I had been standing and comprehension spread across her countenance. Unfortunately, the comprehension didn’t seem to be mixed with even the slightest bit of acquiescence. “If you’re right,” she said, directing her comments to Anatoly, “if Enrico isn’t answering the door because he specifically doesn’t want to talk to me, then I’m going to need another person to act as my decoy.”
“Forget it,” Anatoly and I said in unison.
“I’ll pay you,” she said quickly. “A hundred dollars. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call him.”
“And if he doesn’t answer?” Anatoly asked.
“I’ll pay you two hundred more to go over to the house and find out what’s going on.”
“Excuse me, but I’m about to invest in a million-dollar property. Three hundred dollars isn’t even enough to pay for the sales tax on my upcoming furniture-shopping spree. If you want a decoy you’re going to have to find someone who is a little more desperate.”
“Me for instance,” Anatoly said.
“You?” I squeaked. “But you already have more business than you can handle!”
“This is a one-night job, correct?” Anatoly asked.
“Yes,” Maria said uncertainly. “Do you do this kind of thing often?”
“I’m a P.I.”
“Like Magnum,” she exclaimed.
I rolled my eyes. “You just gave away your age.”
Maria flushed, but kept her focus on Anatoly. “This is perfect,” she continued. “You can call him and if he’s not available then sneak over, break in and—”
“No,” Anatoly said quickly. “I’m not going to break the law for you. But I will find out if he has a guest.”
“You can do that without breaking in?”
“Of course.” Anatoly smiled. “Magnum did it all the time.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Anatoly mused as we followed Maria through the winding traffic.
Enrico hadn’t answered his phone, not even while Anatoly was leaving a message on his answering machine telling him that he believed someone was in the process of breaking into his restaurant. After that the three of us piled into two cars, Maria into her Mustang and Anatoly and I into my Audi, and we all went over to Enrico’s condo on Telegraph Hill. Since I had been the one doing all the drinking, I had given Anatoly the keys.
“I thought you wanted me to,” I lied. The truth was that I couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting home alone, thinking about the sex I wasn’t having. At least this was distracting. “Besides, it’s not like we’re trying to hunt down the Zodiac Killer,” I noted. “Maria basically hired you to knock on a door and ask if anybody’s home. I don’t see how I could screw that up for you.”
I saw the flash of white teeth as he laughed in the darkness. “You’re underestimating yourself. I’m sure you could screw up anything if you put your mind to it.”
I groaned as he pulled into a spot located only one block away from our destination. “I really hate you, you know that?” I asked lightly.
“I hate you, too,” he whispered. He kissed me and I felt his rough hands gently but firmly pulling my hair back from my face. Anatoly had incredible hands. Watching him knead bread dough was the equivalent of watching a porn flick.
We walked to the condo and found Maria in her car blocking the complex’s garage. She rolled down her window just low enough so she could reach her arm out and shove a set of keys at us. “The silver one’s to the building, the gold one’s to the condo itself. Come down and let me know what he’s up to as soon as you can.”
“No,” Anatoly said simply.
“No?” Maria repeated. “No, what?”
“If you want us to go in there you’re going to have to open the door for us.”
“But that’s preposterous! You yourself suggested that the whole reason Enrico didn’t answer the door earlier is because he didn’t want to see me. If he knows I’m there what’s to keep him from hiding out again?”
“I didn’t say you had to call out to him. But you have to be there. I’m assuming that the reason you have these keys is that this was, until recently, your home. You can argue that you have a legal right to burst into this condo unannounced. Sophie and I can’t make that same claim, not unless we’re there with you, as your guests.”
Maria lowered the window farther and glared up at Anatoly. “No one is that paranoid! What’s the real reason you’re insisting I accompany you?”
“That is a real reason,” he said. A streetlight flickered above us as if struggling to stay awake. “Another real reason,” he went on, “is that I find your motives for hiring me questionable. You’re divorcing Enrico, so why are you so concerned with his well-being? Do you still have feelings for him or did you do something to him and now you want someone else to find him and clean up the mess…or even take the blame?”
“I came to you for help and now you’re accusing me of some kind of crime?” Maria shrieked. “I have never been so insulted! How dare you! You’re completely full of…” Maria shook her head violently, too angry to continue.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is chutzpah,” Anatoly said with a smirk. “Are you coming or should Sophie and I go home and leave you to stew in your Mustang?”
Maria let out something that was between a scoff and a growl before raising her window and thrusting open her door. She didn’t even bother to look at Anatoly or me as she marched to the entrance of the building and unlocked it. She walked in without holding the door open for us.
“What have you gotten us into?” I muttered.
“I got myself into this,” he countered as we followed Maria up three flights of stairs. “I take no responsibility for your decision to come.”
When we reached the top floor of the four-story building, we paused. From the look of it there were only two apartments on this floor, and, as promised, the music of Gabrieli could be heard coming out of one of them. Maria went up to that door and pressed her hand against the wood. “Now what?” she whispered. I started to raise my finger to my lips, but then realized that the volume of the music would allow us to whisper without the fear of being overheard.
“Do you expect me to break through the chain lock for you?” Maria went on.
Instead of answering, Anatoly reached into his pocket and took out a small black object that looked like the kind of magnifying-glass used by jewelers. “What’s that for?” I asked.
“See for yourself.” He gestured for Maria to step aside and then put the object against the peephole. Silently, he invited me to look through it. Upon doing so I discovered that the device reversed the optics of a peephole, making it possible to look into the condo in the same way someone inside would have looked out into the hall. Little gizmos like that always delighted me. It was so very 007.
Anatoly smiled at my obvious pleasure and then took a turn looking through it.
“Well?” Maria asked in the same whispered hiss she had used before. “What do you see?”
“A parrot.”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut in an expression of disgust. “I hate that damn bird. Enrico’s trained it to torment me, you know. He used to instruct it to steal my soy nuts.”
I did a quick double take. “You’re not serious.”
“This would be a good time to open the door,” Anatoly said, locking eyes with Maria.
“I told you, the chain lock is on.”
“It was on,” Anatoly corrected. “There’s no reason to assume that’s still the case, unless you know something you’re not telling us.”
Maria’s glare became a little more venomous. In one swift movement she stuck her key in the lock and pushed the door open…or at least she opened it as much as possible, considering that the chain really was on.
“See?” she said with an I-told-you-so smirk. Anatoly shrugged and reached into the pocket of his jacket again. This time he took out a thin rectangular mirror that was roughly as long as his palm. He leaned against the doorjamb and stuck the mirror through the slit in the door.
“Can you see anything beyond the bird?” I asked.
“Not much—a sofa, the television. I can see the doorway leading to the kitchen and…uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?” Maria and I said at the same time. We were no longer whispering.
Anatoly withdrew the mirror and stood up. “Does Enrico usually take naps on the kitchen floor?”
“Of course not!” Maria replied. “Why do…My God, is he lying on the floor of the kitchen?”
Without waiting for Anatoly to answer she began to pound on the door. “Enrico! Enrico, answer me! This isn’t funny anymore. Open this door!” Then, she pursed her lips and whistled. “Giovanni, sweetie, open door. Open door, Giovanni.”
I looked at Anatoly. “Is she talking to the parrot?”
Anatoly didn’t answer. Instead he pushed Maria out of the way, took three steps back and in a rush of motion broke the chain on his first try.
Maria rushed past him to the kitchen where, from the front door you could see the loafered feet of a man lying on his back. For a split second I hoped that maybe Enrico was just passed out in a drunken stupor, but Maria’s scream put an end to my optimism. Anatoly went to her and when I heard him swear loudly in Russian I knew we had trouble.
Maria let out another penetrating scream and a man from the condo next door stepped out into the hall. “What’s going on?” he asked. A wet mat of gray hair clung to his scalp as he tightened the belt of his terry-cloth robe.
“Nothing good,” I said quietly. I reluctantly stepped in and, passing the impassive parrot, walked into the kitchen. Maria was hysterical and Anatoly was trying to drag her away from what was on the floor.
It was a body, presumably the body of Enrico. There was little question that he was dead. No one could lose that much blood and live. And the way that it caked on his throat, bringing grim attention to the gash that had been made there—it was too sick. And there was the murder weapon, lying beside him caked in the blood it had spilled. Not a knife, but an honest-to-God scythe. The kind that you would expect someone to carry while dressed up like the grim reaper on Halloween, except this blade wasn’t plastic. Above the globs of crusted red blood there was the unmistakable gleam of real steel.
“Maria, we have to call the police,” Anatoly was saying as he struggled not to slip in the pool of body fluids on the floor. “We don’t want to disturb the crime scene any more than we already have.” His hands were around her waist and, considering his significantly bigger size, he should have been able to pull her away easily. But Maria was flailing like a panicked swimmer on the verge of drowning. She was knocking things off the counter, a large bowl of washed arugola, a plate of half-made hors d’oeuvres, it all fell into the blood as she clamored to get free. I stepped around Enrico and grabbed one of her arms just as she reached back in an attempt to claw at Anatoly’s face.
“Let me go!” she cried. “I have to help him!”
“You can’t,” Anatoly breathed as he finally got a firmer hold of her and together we dragged her out of the room. “All you can do is calm down and call the police.”
She tried to claw at him again, but he managed to pin her to the floor. “Call the police, Sophie.”
“I think someone else may have already done that.” I gestured to the staircase and now, in addition to the little man still standing in his bathrobe, there was a small collection of people standing in the stairwell, looking aghast. “Did any of you call the police?” I asked.
It was a moment before anyone spoke, but eventually an elderly woman who couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-five pounds, stepped forward with her hands on her hips. “Why is your friend assaulting that poor woman?” she asked.
“I’m not assaulting her,” Anatoly yelled back. “I’m trying to keep her from messing up the crime scene. Now, if it hasn’t been done already, call the damn police!” But he clipped the last word short and his head immediately jerked up and he stared across the apartment.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Sophie, when you came in, did you see any open windows?”
“No. My guess is that if there was an open window the bird would have found it long before us.”
“But the bird didn’t find it,” Anatoly muttered. “And the chain lock was on the door.”
Maria wasn’t yelling or struggling anymore, and when Anatoly carefully released her she curled up in a little ball and began to sob.
“Do you think he’s still in there?” I asked.
“Who’s still in there?” screeched the old lady from the stairwell. “Was somebody robbed? We all didn’t haul ourselves out of bed for nothing, we want to know what’s going on!”
“Should we go in and check it out?” I asked. I was praying that the answer was no. I liked investigating crimes, but I didn’t like confronting murderers. It had been my experience that they weren’t very friendly people.
“That depends,” Anatoly said. “Has anyone called the police?”
“I have.” I turned to see a tall, heavyset man with small wire-rimmed glasses push his way past the other people. With effort, he managed to sit on the ground by Maria’s side. “Maria, they should be here soon. Are you all right?”
“Toby?” she croaked.
He let out a gentle laugh. “You lived here for years and never remembered my name. Now you’ve been out of the building for two months and it rolls off your tongue.”
“Can anyone tell me if there’s any other way out of this condo other than this door?” Anatoly called out.
“Just the door,” bathrobe man confirmed.
“Good, and I can see the fire escape from that window so no one can get on it without my noticing.” Anatoly pointed to the window at the other end of the hall. “If the killer’s in there he’s trapped. We’ll wait for the authorities to arrive. They’ll handle it.”
The word killer was echoed in a series of whispers throughout the stairwell.
“They murdered Enrico,” Maria whimpered. She was still in the fetal position and Toby was rubbing her back. “Someone…someone took my beloved amore from me!”
“So that’s it then?” Toby asked, looking up at us, “Enrico’s really dead?”
Anatoly nodded just as we heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. I silently prayed that the murderer was still around, hiding in the dark corners of Enrico’s condo. As creepy as it was to think that someone so violent could be so close, I was also aware of how all this was going to look to the police if they didn’t immediately catch the killer. If the fact that I had discovered two dead bodies in a short period of time bothered me, it was sure to bother the police even more.
“You fucking bitch.”
I jumped and then peered into Enrico’s apartment from where the voice came…not a human voice, but the voice of that seemingly mild-mannered bird now perched on top of the sofa. He stared at me with his sharp avian eyes and repeated, “You fucking bitch.”
The bird went out of focus as did everything else. For a moment all I could see was blurred colors and the vague forms of the things and people around me as I was transported back hours earlier to that phone call. “Anatoly,” I finally managed. “I heard it.”
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Kyra Davis
Mystery writer and dabbling recreational sleuth Sophie Katz is head over heels in love–with a three-bedroom Victorian.She's just got to have it, despite a few drawbacks. Her slimy ex is the Realtor. The rich, creepy seller wants her to join San Francisco's spirited Specter Society. And her first tour of the house reveals, well, a lifeless body clutching a cameo with a disturbing history of its own.There's no way Sophie is going to give up the ghost on her dreams of stained glass and original woodwork, though–even when things become officially weird. A Society member is found with a slashed throat, and Sophie's house might as well be yelling, "GET…OUT!"She's hearing footsteps, lights are turning themselves off and her stuff keeps moving inexplicably. To top it off, boyfriend Anatoly thinks it's all in her head. Sophie is 99 percent sure her problems are caused by someone six feet tall instead of six feet under, but the only way to be sure is to track down the killer–before he pushes her kicking and screaming to the other side….
Praise for the Sophie Katz novels of
KYRA DAVIS
SEX, MURDER AND A DOUBLE LATTE
“Part romantic comedy and part mystery, with witty dialogue and enjoyable characters…the perfect summer read.”
—The Oregonian
“A thoroughly readable romp.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A terrific mystery. Kyra Davis comes up with the right mix of snappy and spine-tingling, and throws in a hot Russian mystery man, too.”
—Detroit Free Press
PASSION, BETRAYAL AND KILLER HIGHLIGHTS
“A witty and engaging blend of chick lit, pop culture, and amateur-sleuth whodunit [that] will appeal not only to female readers but to any mystery fan who has an offbeat sense of humor…. Laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Barnes & Noble
“Davis spins a tale full of unexpected turns and fun humor.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
OBSESSION, DECEIT AND REALLY DARK CHOCOLATE
“Wry sociopolitical commentary, the playful romantic negotiations between Anatoly and Sophie and plenty of Starbucks coffee keep this steamy series chugging along.”
—Publishers Weekly
KYRA DAVIS
LUST, LOATHING AND A LITTLE LIP GLOSS
This book is for my son,
who has taught me more than I thought it was possible to learn.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PROLOGUE
I DIDN’T ALWAYS BELIEVE IN GHOSTS. MY SKEPTICISM WAS BASED ON MY religious and philosophical beliefs. I believe that there are only three things that we can count on to make this world bearable: good friends, a loving family (even when they’re as crazy as mine) and certain mood-altering substances, mainly caffeine and vodka. I also believe that God is good. So why would a good God force the souls of the dead to stick around in a world where they can no longer talk to their friends, be comforted by their families or drink espressotinis? That just doesn’t seem right.
But now I’m beginning to question myself. What if the souls of the dead don’t need to exchange words with those they love in order to be comforted? What if ghosts have access to better drugs, ones that don’t lead to insomnia or hangovers? And ghosts don’t have to deal with mortgage payments. Perhaps heaven is free quality housing.
Then again maybe good people get to move to a more celestial address and it’s only the bad people who become ghosts. Is it possible that it’s the souls of the evil that are forced to stay here, doomed to an eternity of loneliness?
If that’s true then I have a problem because I think the house I just bought might be haunted. That’s what I get for making a deal with the devil, aka my ex-husband, Scott Colvin. He’s the Realtor who sold me my beautiful San Francisco Victorian.
But whether this place is haunted or not, I’m not leaving. I love my house. It has oak floors, crown moldings and, most importantly, two-car parking. This is my home now and I’m willing to fight to the death to keep it.
Unfortunately, I think it might come down to that.
1
There are men worth dying for and others who really just need to die.
—The Lighter Side of Death
WHEN OUR MARRIAGE ENDED TEN YEARS AGO, I FIGURED THAT WAS IT. I would never see Scott Colvin again. I certainly didn’t expect him to be at the open house for this Marina District $1.4-million fixer-upper. But there he was, standing right in the middle of the living room, making it impossible for me to concentrate on the water-stained ceiling or broken light fixture. His body was angled away, so I could only make out a partial profile, but I had no doubt about his identity; that was Scott and the very sight of him brought on a slew of conflicting emotions. One of them was hope. Hope that someone had secretly dropped acid in my Frappuccino and that the thing that looked like Scott was nothing more than a messed-up hallucination.
I had taken hallucinogenics once before, during my freshman year in college. Perhaps if I hadn’t allowed a magic mushroom to trample all over my brain cells I might have had the presence of mind not to get married at nineteen. Fortunately my brain cells were working again by my twenty-first birthday and I celebrated their recovery by getting a divorce.
But this moment didn’t have the feel of a hallucination. The Frappuccino in my hand tasted real. The hopelessly out-of-date faux-wood paneling looked real. The mildew on the windows smelled real. And Scott looked like a real real-estate agent trying to convince a real middle-aged Japanese couple that the house we were all here to see really wasn’t contaminated with asbestos. People on drugs see diamonds in the sky and riders on the storm; they don’t see real-estate agents and overpriced four-bedroom houses that need new flooring. That meant that what I was hearing, seeing and smelling was all horribly real.
But the good news was that he hadn’t seen me yet. I pivoted and tried to lift my wedge heel off the floor so I could quietly tiptoe out.
“Are my eyes deceiving me or is that the beautiful and talented Sophie Katz?”
Shit! I turned around again and was confronted by Scott’s teasing smile. “What do you know, it is you!” he continued. The Japanese couple was now climbing the creaking staircase to check out the second floor. “Of all the open houses in the world you had to walk into mine.”
I grimaced and made a sweeping gesture with my hand. “You’re the agent representing this mess?”
“Apparently you didn’t read the ad I ran in the paper.” He handed me a promotional flyer detailing the house’s few saving graces. “It’s not a mess, it’s an opportunity.”
I almost smiled. Almost. “Save your BS for the couple upstairs. I’m out of here.”
Once again I turned to leave, but Scott quickly jogged in front of me so that I had to stop to keep myself from slamming into his chest. “Sophie, we haven’t seen each other in over ten years. You can’t still be angry at me.”
“I’m pretty sure I can be.”
“Nah, you just think you are.” Scott’s hazel eyes were twinkling with mischief. That’s usually what they did when they weren’t red from getting stoned. “You’re really mad at the old Scott. The kid you were married to. But we’re both grown-ups now, old enough to understand the value of forgiveness. Remember, grudges always have a greater effect on the lives of those who carry them than on the lives of those they’re carried against.”
“Wow, that’s pretty deep, Scott,” I said solemnly. “So let me think about this. During the time that I’ve been holding this grudge, I’ve become an internationally published bestselling author. I have wonderful friends. My family is healthy and reasonably happy. I have a fantastic cat and a boyfriend whom I adore. I’d say this grudge is working pretty well for me. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Don’t you want to know why I’ve been calling you?”
After ten years of no contact, Scott had, as of five months ago, taken to calling me every few weeks and leaving messages on my answering machine. Of course I wanted to know why, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my curiosity. Instead I shrugged and retorted, “Don’t you want to know why I haven’t been returning those calls?”
He chuckled, apparently finding humor in my irritation. “I think the answer to your question is a lot more obvious than the answer to mine,” he said.
I hesitated a moment and studied the countenance of this new “grown-up Scott.” He had the beginnings of crow’s-feet, but other than that he looked exactly the same. He had the same blond wavy hair that was always a little mussed, and of course he still had one dimple in his left cheek and that golden skin tone that suggested he spent his days surfing off China Beach. Once upon a time I had thought that his looks were the perfect complement to my darker, more exotic appearance. My father was black and my mother has the fair complexion common to her Eastern European Jewish ancestry. People were always confused and delighted by my ethnicity. They usually don’t know exactly “what” I am yet they find my very existence to be a sign of hope for the improvement of race relations everywhere. However, the attention I get now is a pittance compared to the attention I got when I was with Scott. Together we were a walking Benetton ad. Of course I get a certain amount of attention when I go out with my current fair-skinned, Russian-born boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky. But our differences are less visually dramatic thanks to Anatoly’s dark hair and brown eyes.
“I got your latest book, The Lighter Side of Death. It’s good.” He inched a little closer. “I’ve also been reading about you in the papers. Sounds like you’ve become quite the amateur sleuth. According to the Chronicle you apprehended your own stalker, you helped figure out who killed your brother-in-law, and you even had a hand in bringing down the guy who killed that political aide in Contra Costa County.” He gave me an approving once-over. “Sounds like you’ve turned into a real-life Charlie’s Angel. Of course, you’ve always been an angel in my eyes….”
“Ugh.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I think I’ve just been slimed. I’m going now.”
I started to walk around him, but Scott quickly sidestepped in front of me. “What if I told you that I had a brand-new listing for a recently renovated Ashbury Heights three-bedroom Victorian.”
I hesitated. “How recently renovated?”
“Five years ago.”
Only five years ago? Not bad. “Floors?”
“Hardwood. The owner has a thing for Persian rugs so the floors have been covered and protected.”
“Seriously?” I was still focused on the door, but my feet didn’t follow my gaze. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the owner, and why is he selling?”
“The owner’s name is Oscar Crammer, and he’s selling because he thinks the place is haunted.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Was anyone ever murdered in the house? Because if it’s a site of a recent homicide it should be selling for at least ten thousand below market.”
“Sophie, the owner’s only asking for $980,000.”
I broke out in a full laugh. “Yeah, right, a renovated, three-bedroom Ashbury Heights Victorian selling for under a million? Tell me, Scott, does it come with its own leprechaun, too?”
“I know it doesn’t sound possible, but it’s true.” He hesitated before adding, “I think the guy selling may have the beginnings of Alzheimer’s.”
“You want me to take advantage of some guy with Alzheimer’s?” I snapped.
“It has a two-car garage, Sophie.”
My heart skipped a beat, but my sense of morality would not allow me to be tempted by this alluringly wicked proposal. “I won’t scam a sick man, Scott. Not even for parking.”
“Oscar’s old money. He’s got at least ten to twenty million in the bank and his son, Kane, has made millions more in the stock market. He sold off his investments in 2007, before the Dow got squirrelly. Plus I know for a fact that Kane has been trying to get Oscar to sell the house and move into a retirement home ever since the old man became a widower. So by buying this place you’d be doing everybody a favor.”
I turned all of this info over in my mind. It still wasn’t ethical to take advantage of an old man with a possibly fatal illness but…it had a two-car garage!
The Japanese couple came down the stairs and headed into the kitchen just as an Armani-clad gentleman stepped into the entryway. Scott smiled at the latter and nodded at the former before leaning in a little closer and whispering, “I just got the listing this morning. If you want to be the first to see it we could meet there at eight-thirty tonight.”
“Eight-thirty?” I asked in a voice much louder than his. “What kind of real-estate agent shows houses at eight-thirty at night?”
“One who is trying to get his ex-wife to give up an outdated grudge,” Scott said. “Tomorrow I have to tell all my other clients about this, and at that price you know they’re going to descend upon it like a bunch of hungry hyenas. But since I do kinda owe you…”
“You kinda owe me?” I parroted. “While we were married you spent my entire inheritance on gambling, alcohol and the various sluts you were screwing. You more than kinda owe me.”
“I’ll show it to you before anyone else,” Scott continued, ignoring my brief tirade. “If you’re the first to make an offer the old man might take it before a bidding war has a chance to break out. The guy is motivated with a capital M.”
I chewed on my lower lip and glanced at the Armani guy who was now knocking on one of the walls—probably testing to see if it could withstand the impact. This is what $1.4 million could buy you in San Francisco. I had written six New York Times bestselling novels and yet I could barely afford to buy this moldy rat hole with a view. With that in mind how could I not take Scott up on this once-in-a-lifetime offer?
Another couple walked in and Scott flashed them one of his most charming smiles while whispering through his teeth, “So, we on for tonight or not?”
I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to make the only rational decision available to me. “We’re on. Give me the address and I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”
I drove my Audi through the residential streets of Ashbury Heights. Victorian after Victorian blurred into one another as I sped by. There were few pedestrians out although there were probably more than you could count several blocks over where the local shops and restaurants populate Cole Street. I was tempted to turn my car around and head that way now. I could play quarters with some bartender and laugh at the knowledge that my evil ex was standing around an empty house waiting for me. It would be petty, though perversely sweet entertainment. But as I brought the car to a halt at each stop sign, my mind came screeching back to the conversation Scott and I had earlier. I didn’t have a problem with being petty, but stupidity was not something I was comfortable with. I had to at least see the place.
It was 8:40 p.m. when I found the address Scott had given me. He’d told me to park in the driveway, but for a moment I found myself idling my car in the middle of the quiet street and staring at the building to my left. The windows were all dark, but the streetlamp illuminated the details of the exterior. It was no bigger than the houses to the left or right, but still, it was superior. Unlike its neighbors, this house was not painted in pastels, but in a color that hovered between tan and a muted lilac. Its gabled shingled roof shielded its angled bay windows from the hazy evening sky. It was beautiful and oddly familiar. I must have passed it before and somehow taken notice of it. As my eyes traveled from the roof to the foundation I spotted Scott huddled between the Greek-styled columns bordering the front entrance. Watching me and toying with the zipper of his insulated brown suede jacket, his presence surprised me. When I had been married to Scott we had both considered punctuality a dirty word. Slowly, I pulled into the driveway, which was so narrow that it barely accommodated the width of my car.
“How long have you been waiting?” I asked as I slipped out of the car and trotted up the front steps.
“Got here at eight-twenty.” He got to his feet and brushed some nonexistent dirt from his jeans. “I figured you’d be late, but I thought I should get here early just in case you’d changed.” He smiled, bringing his dimple into view. “I’m glad to see that you’re still the same ol’ Soapy.”
I let out a disdainful puff of air. Soapy was the pet name he had assigned to me after we had gotten into a soapsuds fight while washing my old car. It brought back irritatingly fond memories.
“Let’s see the house,” I said coolly. As front doors went, this house had a pretty nice one. Tastefully carved without being too ornate or flowery. “Where’s the owner staying?”
“Hotel Nikko,” Scott said as he fiddled with the key.
“Really? Why doesn’t he just stay here until it sells…oh, Scott!” I exclaimed as he opened the door to reveal the foyer. “Are those crown moldings?”
“Better believe it, baby. Crown moldings fit for a queen.” As we stepped inside he sniffed the air suspiciously. “That’s Pine-Sol,” he said slowly. “Oscar must have cleaned before leaving.”
I barely registered Scott’s comment. I was in the living room looking at the bay windows and the lovely upholstered window seat. The furniture wasn’t my style, very flowery in a Victorian kind of way, but I wasn’t buying the furniture. The gorgeous built-in mahogany bookcases though, those would be mine!
“That’s strange.”
I turned at the sound of Scott’s voice behind me. I had almost forgotten he was there. “What’s strange…wait, that doesn’t look fake.” I pointed at the fireplace behind him. “It’s not just decorative? It’s real? A real honest-to-God fireplace that you can set fires in?”
“Gas starter, too,” Scott confirmed. “But that’s not what’s weird. What’s weird is that Oscar seems to have rearranged all the furniture. This place has been totally redecorated since this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s weird…is that a formal dining room?” I ran past Scott into the next room. Sure enough, it was a dining room, and it was stunning. Not huge, but certainly bigger than anything I’d ever had. Right now it contained an antique oak sideboard complete with carved winged griffins and a beveled mirror. It also held a table that was long and rectangular and covered with a white lace tablecloth. In fact, the table was set as if someone had been preparing for a dinner party of six. There were two beautiful silver candleholders holding long, tapered cream candles, and each place setting shone with Victorian rose-patterned fine china.
“He set the table?” Scott choked.
“Guess he thought that setting the table would give the place a little more ambiance or something,” I muttered, glancing over at the door that led to the kitchen. There had to be a problem with the kitchen, right? No house was perfect.
I carefully stepped inside and broke into a grin—a totally charming kitchen. The cabinets were white, and while I usually prefer a natural wood finish, this white actually worked well with the Victorian ambiance. There wasn’t a huge amount of counter space, which would be a problem for Anatoly, who loved to cook almost as much as I loved to eat, but I could always put in an island or something.
The thought tickled me. Last month, Anatoly and I had been on the Marina watching the ferries riding over the bay. He had kissed my cheek and then my neck while mumbling about the way the salt water tasted on my skin. Then, out of the blue he had taken my hand and suggested we move in together. He wanted to wake up with me in the morning…every morning. Only a year ago he had expressed discomfort with the level of commitment implied by the words boyfriend and girlfriend and now he wanted to share his life with me. It had almost made me cry.
Almost. The truth was that I didn’t want to move him into my apartment, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to move into his. I have come to believe that domestic partnerships have a higher chance of success when they exist within spacious houses. Conversely, cramped quarters and limited closet space is a recipe for domestic violence. But Anatoly made significantly less money than I did, so if my dreams of romance and elbow room were going to come to fruition I was going to have to find a house that fit my budget. He could help me with the mortgage if he chose (and I knew he would), but the down payment was a burden I would have to bear alone. I hadn’t detailed my objections for Anatoly, knowing that he would have dismissed them. Instead, I had stalled for time with whispered abstract promises of future arrangements. He hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t been happy, either.
I glanced at a paned glass door in the back of the room and was hit by yet another wonderful revelation. “Scott, this place has a yard? Why didn’t you tell me?” I ran to the door and flung it open. Yes, the yard was about the size of your average master bathroom, but in San Francisco any house that came with grass was a huge commodity.
“He took his small appliances with him.” Scott was now standing in the doorway. “The man took his appliances to the Nikko.”
“Or maybe he moved them into a storage unit,” I suggested, not really caring what had happened to some soon-to-be ex-owner’s toaster oven. I walked across the room and opened a door discreetly adjacent to the pantry. “Or maybe he put them in here with the washer and dryer.”
“Huh?” Scott peeked inside and noted the coffee machine, blender and a few other basic kitchen tools on the floor of the laundry room. “Why would he do this?”
“Why are you so freaked out by it? The guy wants to sell his house so he spruced it up a bit. That’s normal, Scott. As a real-estate agent I would think you would know that.”
“Sophie, the reason I got this listing is because I know the owner. Oscar and I…travel in some of the same circles.”
My eyes slanted in suspicion. “You, the man who once speculated that life after sixty wouldn’t be worth living—you travel in the same circles as a seventy-year-old with the beginnings of Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s a friend of…a friend. He called me at, like, six this morning all agitated and upset, insisting that I come over immediately and help him sell this place. I made him wait until eight and then I sat and listened to him rant about the ghosts who were driving him out of his house. He’s not well, Sophie. In addition to the mental stuff he’s got a heart condition. There’s no way he has the physical strength to move the furniture around. This is just weird.”
“Maybe he just called another friend…someone who travels in his eclectic circles, and asked him to help fix the place up. Really, Scott, for a man who has mastered the fine art of lying you sure don’t have a very good imagination.” I shut the door to the laundry room. “Show me the bedrooms.”
Scott’s expression morphed again, this time into something that made my stomach churn. “Soapy, I thought you’d never ask.”
He showed me the one downstairs bedroom (which would make a great office) and half bath, then led me up the staircase and brought me to the second bedroom and full bath. They were both beautiful. The house was so underpriced it was sick. But sick in a good way. I could deal with this kind of sick.
With each room Scott made another comment about how everything was different from this morning. When we looked at the second bedroom he shook his head and pointed to a ceramic vase that hadn’t been there before. “It’s weird,” he insisted again. “It’s like he tried to make this place look more…” He snapped his fingers a few times as if trying to command the word he was looking for to pop into his mouth. “Victorian,” he finally said. “He made the place look more Victorian.”
“It’s a Victorian house, Scott. What did you expect? That he would try to make the place look art deco?”
“I didn’t expect anything, that’s the point! I thought he was just going to leave and let me deal with fixing it up for the sale. You should have seen him this morning. He didn’t even feel comfortable hanging around here to talk. Now I’m supposed to believe that he spent the day here redecorating and cleaning?”
“Are you going to show me the master bedroom or are you going to just stand here flipping out over a vase?”
“Right, the master bedroom…let’s just hope he didn’t get rid of the bed, I’d really like to show you that….” But the flirtation lacked conviction. Oscar the redecorator had thrown Scott off his game.
The door to the master bedroom was closed and for a second I entertained a disturbing thought. “You don’t suppose he’s in there, do you? Maybe he’s been sleeping the whole time we’ve been wandering around his house.”
“Oscar assured me that he would be out of here by six at the latest.” He reached forward and opened the door to reveal a charming, if somewhat foul-smelling, room with delicate moldings and paned glass doors that were left open to reveal a pretty little deck—and there was Oscar…sitting on the bed…mouth wide-open…face tilted up toward the ceiling. It didn’t look like a natural position and he didn’t acknowledge us.
He didn’t move at all.
“Oscar?” There was a slight tremor in Scott’s voice.
I crept toward him. “Hello?” I whispered, although I had an ugly suspicion that I could scream and not get a reaction out of Oscar. Something crinkled under my foot and I realized that I had just stepped on a bunch of antique photos. They had that lovely golden glow that always made me think of horse-drawn wagons and Ellis Island immigrants. But these photos weren’t of people, they were of rooms. I was tempted to take a moment to examine them more closely, but I knew that was just my natural inclination to put off the inevitable. “Oscar? I’m Sophie…can you hear me?” I got a little closer and very carefully checked for a pulse. Nothing.
I pulled my hand away and stared at the two white prints the pressure of my fingers had left on the corpse’s flesh.
“Scott, I think he’s dead.”
“You think?” Scott asked.
I looked down at Oscar’s lower half and realized his pants were wet with urine, which explained the smell. “He’s definitely dead.”
I waited for Scott to respond and when he didn’t I turned to look at him.
“Scott?”
He held up a finger as if to indicate that he needed a minute, then ran to the attached bathroom where I could hear him promptly regurgitate whatever it was that he’d had for dinner.
And now I was alone with a dead stranger. Hesitantly, I turned back to Oscar. I didn’t see any blood or sign that he had struggled with someone, although the expression on his face was anything but peaceful. He looked kind of horrified, like he had seen the grim reaper. My eyes traveled to his left hand. His fingers were curled around a piece of jewelry. I leaned over, not wanting to touch him again, and realized that the jewelry was actually an antique brooch with a cameo. Little goose bumps materialized all over my skin and I tried to suppress the anxiety building within me. I wished Scott would pull himself together and handle this. But I expected that would take a while. Scott liked to deal in fantasies and what-ifs. Death was one of those things that was just too real for him.
I turned my back to the body. Actually, this was a little too real for me, too. With shaky hands, I gathered up the photos I had stepped on. One Victorian room after another…a bedroom, a dining room…this bedroom, this dining room. These were pictures of the house as it once was. The furniture had been different, obviously, but not the placement. Oscar had rearranged his furniture to fit the images in these pictures. Even the table setting was similar. Mechanically, I turned back around.
“How did you die, Oscar?” I whispered. I reached over and tentatively touched the brooch in his hand. It was cold, colder than the dead hand holding it. The colorless depiction of the woman on the cameo was surely meant to be flattering, but to me her sharp chin and unseeing eyes appeared sinister. It was then that I became vaguely aware that I was frightened.
At that moment Scott stumbled out of the bathroom and looked purposely at the floor. “So,” he said in a scratchy voice, “do you still want the house?”
“Report this,” I said pointing to the phone on the nightstand closest to Scott. “Dial 911 and tell them we found a dead man.”
Scott looked up at the phone, noted its proximity to the bed and then quickly looked away. “Didn’t I read that you discovered a body in Golden Gate Park a few years back?” he asked hopefully. “You have more experience with this kind of thing. Why don’t you call?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, be a man, Scott,” I said, once again inching away from the body.
“I am a man! I just happen to be a man who suffers from necrophobia.”
“What?”
“I have a fear of dead things. I’m working on overcoming it. Still, this,” he waved toward the bed without looking at it, “is a bit much for me to deal with.”
“You weren’t necrophobic when we were married.”
“Yes, I was, we just didn’t talk about it. Remember how upset I got when we went to that restaurant and they served us the fish with its head still on? That was a traumatic moment for me, Sophie.”
“Wow, Scott. I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Now suck it up and call the police.” I stared at the floor. The urine was getting to me. The smell had been bad when we first entered the room, but now that I knew what it was and why it was there, it had become unbearable. I had to get out of the room.
Scott swallowed hard and then pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll call from this.” He walked over to the bedroom door and motioned for me to exit with him, which I gladly did. I left the pictures where I had found them.
As we walked down the stairs Scott dialed 911 and I used my cell phone to dial Anatoly’s number.
“Hey there.” The lightness of Anatoly’s tone was jarring considering my circumstances. “I was just thinking about you. A minute ago I accepted another case and it turns out my new client is a huge fan of your books.” Anatoly was a P.I. and lately it seemed that everybody in San Francisco wanted his services. Businesses wanted to prove that their employees were stealing, wives wanted to prove that their husbands were cheating and so on and so forth. But right now all of those problems seemed paltry and inconsequential.
“Anatoly, I’m in Ashbury Heights.” It was amazing how I could keep my voice smooth even as my hands shook. “A Realtor was just giving me a tour of this Victorian he’s representing and—”
“Now? It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, I know it’s unusual, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, the owner’s here and he’s sort of…dead.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a Russian curse. “You found another dead body.”
“It would seem that way, yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yeah, I’m here with the real-estate agent and he’s calling 911.” Scott and I had now reached the bottom of the stairs and he was standing by the bay windows answering some dispatcher’s questions. “The owner was old so he probably died of natural causes. Still, could you come over? I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been through something like this, you know that and…well, you’d think it would get easier, but…”
“Tell me how to get there and I’ll come over immediately.”
I looked up at Scott. He was describing the state of the body to someone on the phone and gagging between sentences. Thank God for Anatoly because I was pretty sure Scott wasn’t going to be that big of a comfort to me.
2
Smart Agoraphobics Invest in Real Estate.
—The Lighter Side of Death
LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES LATER, A POLICE CAR AND AN AMBULANCE arrived. The paramedics and one of the two officers immediately went upstairs to check out the body while the other officer, a sergeant with salt-and-pepper hair and a face like Paul McCartney, lingered in the living room to ask Scott and me a few questions. He introduced himself as Sergeant Poplar, but in my head he was Sergeant Pepper. After giving him a quick rundown of why we were there and what we had found, his partner (a cute blond woman who looked more cheerleader than cop) appeared at the top of the stairs and said something about it looking like “natural causes,” at which point Sergeant Pepper asked us to stick around while he took a look for himself. Once both officers were out of sight, Scott and I simultaneously collapsed on the couch and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
“Well,” Scott said dully, “I’ve never had a house showing like this before.”
“Did you know Oscar well?” I asked. The cushions on the couch were overstuffed to the point of discomfort, but neither Scott nor I moved to find a better seat.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s more Venus’s friend.”
“Who’s Venus?”
But before he could answer Anatoly burst through the door. His hands were still encased in the thick black gloves he so frequently wore while riding his Harley, and he creased his forehead in concern. Without a second thought I went to him and he received me with a tight embrace. “You seem to have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he scolded, but his tone was gentle and comforting.
“I just wanted to see the house,” I said, my words muffled by his shirt.
Anatoly pulled back slightly and took in his surroundings. “Nice,” he noted before his eyes landed on Scott. “I take it you’re the Realtor?”
Scott nodded and wiped his palm sweat on his designer jeans before extending his hand to Anatoly. “Scott Colvin, Sophie’s Realtor, friend and ex-husband.”
Anatoly’s smile of greeting froze midhandshake.
“He’s lying,” I said quickly. “At least about being my Realtor, or my friend for that matter.”
“And the ex-husband part?” Anatoly asked, keeping his eyes on Scott. He hadn’t let go of his hand yet, and judging from Scott’s expression, Anatoly’s grip had gotten a little tighter than necessary.
“That part’s true.”
Anatoly released Scott and turned to me. “You came to this house in the middle of the night with your ex-husband?”
“Eight-thirty’s the middle of the night?” Scott asked. “Guess you must be an early-to-bed guy. Sophie and I have always been night owls.”
“We haven’t seen each other in ten years, Scott,” I hissed. “You have no idea what my sleeping habits are like now.” The cool damp breeze coming in from the open door was beginning to get to me and I rubbed the back of my arms in an attempt to increase my circulation.
Scott cocked his head to the side, and shot me the first real grin since we had discovered Oscar. “There’s no way you’ve turned into an early bird. Not my Soapy.”
“Soapy?” Anatoly raised his eyebrows.
“You didn’t tell him about that nickname?” Scott chuckled and refocused on Anatoly. “Man, you’re going to love how she got it. We were washing her car and she was wearing these Daisy Duke shorts and this sheer white tank top—”
“They were regular denim shorts and the tank was not sheer,” I snapped. “I can’t believe you’re trying to play juvenile head games while the paramedics upstairs are trying to determine the cause of death of one of your friends.”
“Whose friend is dead?” a Kathleen Turner–type voice demanded.
We all turned toward the front door and standing there was a human hanger.
Actually “human hanger” was my friend Dena’s term. She used it for runway models and those who looked like them; in other words, women who were too skinny, angular and narrow in the hips to look sexy in lingerie, but managed to make clothes look fabulous. This particular hanger was hanging a delicate off-white long-sleeve top under a spaghetti-strap charcoal-gray empire wool dress. The outfit would have made me look like a matronly dwarf. She, on the other hand, looked ethereal. She glided over to Scott and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Scott, darling, who’s dead?”
“Venus, what are you doing here?” he croaked.
She pulled back, her height enabling her to look him in the eyes without tilting her head. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, darling. I asked you who was dead. That is what you said, isn’t it?” she asked, whirling around to look at me. “You said that there were paramedics upstairs determining the cause of someone’s death.”
“I think you should answer your girlfriend’s questions, Scott,” Anatoly suggested. “This woman is your girlfriend, right?”
Scott nodded mutely.
“Then why don’t you explain to her what Sophie was talking about. Fill her in on what’s happened and what it was you said that got Sophie so irritated.”
“Your name is Sophie?” Venus asked. She truly was beautiful. Her skin was a creamy-white and her chestnut hair, which was pulled into a loose, low ponytail, had enough sheen to make an Herbal Essence model jealous. Her features were kind of perfect, to the point that I had to wonder if she had been crafted by genetics, or a very talented plastic surgeon. When I stared directly at her I could see that she was wearing makeup, perhaps a lot of it, but everything was so perfectly blended and the tones so muted that it managed to look natural. The only things that didn’t quite fit were her hands, which were a little too big to match an otherwise delicate figure. However even this inconsistency served her well, making her seem a bit more powerful than her heart-shaped mouth would suggest.
But she wasn’t nice. I could just tell. Something about the icy sheen in her green eyes hinted at a foul temperament.
“What’s your last name?” she demanded, not waiting for me to answer her first question.
I inched a little closer to Anatoly. “My last name is Katz.”
“This is your ex-wife, Scott,” Venus said slowly. “How interesting.” Her mouth curved into a wry smile. “Now, someone is going to tell me why we’re all here and why there’s a police car and ambulance outside. I know Oscar’s staying at the Nikko tonight so—”
Scott put a firm hand on her shoulder and turned her back around to face him. “Venus, Oscar didn’t get to the Nikko.”
I couldn’t see Venus’s face, but her body had gone absolutely still.
“I’m so sorry, love. We found him in his bed and—”
“Stop.” Venus’s voice was shaky and discordant. She moved away from Scott and farther into the house, pausing before the fireplace. As skinny as she was she still had the presence to fill up the spacious room. “I don’t want to hear this from you. I want to hear it from Oscar.”
Anatoly and I gave Scott a questioning look. “Right…” Then Scott looked longingly at the door. “Venus, um, sees dead people.”
“Feel,” Venus corrected. “I can feel them. The circumstances in this room aren’t right for a ghost to actually make an appearance right now.”
Anatoly stared at her for a few seconds before pulling me closer so my ear was near his lips. “Why don’t I take you home and we’ll let your ex deal with the crazy woman.”
“I heard that,” Venus called over her shoulder. She turned around again to face us, her posture upright and her head high. A single tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and she allowed it to slide down her cheek, unchecked. Most people are uncomfortable with the idea of shedding tears in front of strangers, but Venus wore hers like a badge of honor. The effect was disconcerting because instead of making her seem vulnerable, the pride she seemed to have in her own grief made her appear stronger and maybe even a little bit unnatural. She reached a hand out to Scott and he was instantly by her side as she whispered, “I knew he wasn’t well, but I thought he had more time than this. It was a…natural death, wasn’t it? No one did him harm?”
“I think it was natural,” Scott said quietly. “Venus, why did you come here?”
But before she could answer, the police and the paramedics came down the stairs. The paramedics went out to the ambulance to fetch a stretcher while the police officers stayed to talk to us. “It was most likely a stroke or a massive heart attack,” Sergeant Pepper explained after establishing Anatoly’s and Venus’s identity and collecting all of our phone numbers and addresses. “We’ll need to do an autopsy, but there’s no evidence of homicide here.”
“Someone needs to tell his son,” Venus said. “Poor Kane will be devastated. I don’t believe he’s ever even recovered from the death of his mother.”
“Do you know how we can reach Mr. Crammer’s son?” the female cop asked.
“I have his number stored in my cell phone.” Venus glanced down at her hands as if expecting to find the cell there. “I must have left it in the car.” She gestured toward the door and a moment later she had Scott and both officers escorting her to her parking spot.
“So if Scott isn’t your real-estate agent, why did you come here with him?” Anatoly asked as we stepped aside to allow the paramedics to come in with a stretcher.
“He was the agent representing the open house I went to this afternoon,” I said once the paramedics were upstairs again. “It was a total coincidence.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question, Sophie.”
“He told me about a house that just went on the market this morning and when he described it I knew I had to see it. I mean, look around you! This place is so me!”
Anatoly scanned the living room with disinterest. “Real-estate agents usually don’t give tours after dark.”
“He wanted to show me the house before anyone else and I agreed because he said that if I made the first bid I might be able to get it for nine-eighty.”
Anatoly’s head snapped in my direction. “This house is worth a million-seven easy.”
“Oscar wanted out of the house.” I walked over to the bookcases and fingered a hardbound edition of Jean-Paul Sartre’s plays. It was the most contemporary of all the literature held by the mahogany shelves. “He said it was haunted.”
Anatoly snorted. “Didn’t Scott tell him to up the price?”
“My guess is he was planning on making the suggestion, but probably not if I was the prospective buyer. Apparently Scott grew a conscience in the ten years since our divorce and now he wants to make up for all the wrongs he’s committed against me by setting me up in my very own Ashbury Heights three-bedroom.” My voice faded off at the end of my sentence. I had been so disturbed by the discovery of Oscar’s body I hadn’t yet thought about how his death was going to affect the deal. This house now belonged to Oscar’s son. What if he didn’t want to sell it? And even if he did, he probably wouldn’t want to do it for only $980,000. My hand moved from the book to the bookshelf and I clutched it so hard my thumb began to cramp, as if I could make this house mine if I just held on to it.
“It’s for the best,” Anatoly said, correctly reading my thoughts. “If you were to buy this place it would come with strings attached. By not convincing Oscar to sell at market, Scott was giving up on at least $20,000 of commission. Men don’t make those kinds of sacrifices because they want to make amends for the past. Those kinds of sacrifices are only made when men think they will be repaid with power or sex.”
“Well, obviously.” I spun around to face him. “That’s what makes my possible inability to buy this house all the more painful. How fabulous would it have been if I had been able to cheat Scott out of a huge commission and then turn around and reject him? Do you have any idea how much I wanted to inflict that kind of pain and suffering on that bastard? He used my distress over my father’s death as a way to worm his way into my life and then he screwed me over in every way you can think of. Do you know that he sold a diamond pendant my father gave me to a pawnshop just to keep some bookie from breaking his legs? And the bookie’s name was Vinny! Everybody knows you’re not supposed to borrow money from bookies named Vinny! He was not only a bastard, but he was a stupid bastard!”
Anatoly opened his mouth to respond, but then abruptly closed it when the paramedics reappeared. They were carrying Oscar on the stretcher and his body was covered in a white sheet. With his face hidden, the corpse took on an anonymity that scared me. The body being carried down the stairs could have been anybody. In fact, my father’s body had looked just like that when they put a sheet over him and carried him out of my parents’ house twelve years ago.
That isn’t my father, I reminded myself. I pulled up the image of Oscar’s countenance and held it in my mind as Anatoly and I watched the stretcher go out the door. This was the body of a stranger who had been foolish enough to rearrange all his heavy furniture despite his age and reportedly bad health. No wonder he had a stroke.
My eyes moved to the couch. When I had first seen it all, I could think of was how unstylish it was. But I hadn’t thought about its mass.
I walked over to the armrest and threw all my weight into trying to push it forward. It moved, but only a half of an inch.
“What are you doing?” Anatoly asked.
“I couldn’t move this,” I said slowly. “Not by myself.”
“So don’t,” Anatoly wisely suggested.
“I won’t, but Oscar did. He had to have had help.”
“Excuse me.” Sergeant Pepper was standing in the doorway looking bored and irritated. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave the house.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s not yours,” he said. “If you stay you’ll be trespassing.”
With that statement my potential loss hit me with renewed force. I had already fallen in love with this place. I wanted it, and I wasn’t good at walking away from things that I wanted.
3
One of the unfortunate side effects of my medication is that it hinders my ability to act crazy.
—The Lighter Side of Death
“HE DIED OF A HEART ATTACK. WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” DENA REACHED around the wood pole that held the yellow oversize umbrella above our outside table and handed me back the obituary that I had brought along for her to look at during our lunch date at MarketBar. She took a moment to peel off her fitted leather blazer before continuing. “You know you’re just obsessing over this to distract yourself from the fact that you might not get the house.”
“Bite your tongue,” I muttered, even though I knew she was partially right. It’s not that Oscar’s death hadn’t actually affected me. It had. I had seen Oscar’s pale, dead face in my dreams on more than one occasion since I’d found him. The cameo, the smell, the photographs…it all came together to create a scene that was as harsh as it was ominous. But I had seen worse and I had learned how to tuck my fears away into the dark corners of my mind that I rarely explored. But the house…that house had dominated my thoughts ever since I had laid eyes on it.
In a few minutes Scott would be here to tell me my future. Would I be buying the home of my dreams from Oscar’s son, Kane, at a price I could afford or was I fated to buy some $1.4-million-dollar rat hole on a fault line? I had called Dena and asked her to join me for lunch before this pronouncement of destiny, and to stay with me during its actual telling. My reasons for this were obvious to both of us. I needed my best friend for support and I needed her to help me stay grounded despite my agitation.
Dena took a sip of the cappuccino she had ordered in place of dessert and then licked the foam off her burgundy painted lips. “I don’t suppose you ever found out why Scott was calling you before?”
“Nope, and I’m not going to ask him about it.” I let my gaze linger on the clock tower that soared above us only fifty feet away. Time seemed to be passing slower than usual. “The goal here is to get the house and then get Scott out of my life—for the second time.”
Dena nodded and took a moment to ogle the cute Eurasian busboy who was clearing off a nearby table. He wasn’t really my type, although I recognized his beauty. He was tall and sinewy, almost feminine in his grace. She reached forward and emptied her previously untouched glass of water in three consecutive gulps.
“Okaaay.” I reached forward and tapped her empty water glass. “Are you suffering from diabetes or something?”
Dena smiled wickedly. “I have my reasons.” Just then the busboy crossed to our table to refill her glass. “Thank you,” Dena purred. “I was hoping you’d come over here and quench my thirst.”
The busboy looked up from the glass, surprised, and then, noting Dena’s expression, his eyes widened with understanding. “No problem,” he said uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder, presumably to ensure that he wasn’t the cause of the giggles coming from the women at the nearby table. But the women were deeply involved in their own conversation and he turned back to us with more confidence. “I’m Kim. Just call me over if you need anything else.”
“What a wonderful invitation, Kim,” Dena said. “It seems only right that I should reciprocate.” She pulled a business card out of her purse and wrote her home number on the back. “Obviously I’m attracted to you,” she said simply. “However I’m not looking for a serious relationship and I don’t tolerate chauvinists. If you’re okay with casual and you’re not a sexist then you can call me over and I’ll…show you what’s on my menu.” She slipped her card into his hand and added, “If you’re opinionated and smart I might even take you out for a nice dinner first.”
The busser flushed and then turned even redder after noting what it was that Dena did for a living. “Sole proprietor of Guilty Pleasures? Is that a…you know…a—”
“We sell upscale lingerie, sex toys and things like that,” Dena said matter-of-factly. “Some of it’s rather tame and romantic. Some of it would make Fergie Ferg blush.”
For a moment it appeared that Dena had rendered Kim speechless. “I think you may be the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life.”
Dena lifted her thick Sicilian eyebrows in amusement. “We’ve only just met.”
“Yeah, but you just basically told me that you want to…to…have an affair!”
“So all I had to say was that I wanted to mess around with you and I become the most amazing woman you’ve ever met? That doesn’t say a lot for your sex life, Kim.”
“No, I mean…most women are more coy and, you know…”
“I don’t do coy, and I don’t play games.”
Kim turned his gaze to me.
“Yes,” I said, reading the question in his eyes. “She’s for real.” Kim’s shock was a totally natural reaction. I should have been shocked, too. But I had become so accustomed to Dena’s brand of insanity that it honestly didn’t faze me anymore.
“Okay,” Dena said, running her hands through her short dark hair. “You have my number both literally and figuratively. What’s yours?”
“You mean my phone number or…”
“Who are you? What’s your story?” Dena clarified.
“Right,” he said grinning sheepishly. “I guess I’m sort of smart. I’m in my last year at SF State.”
“What are you studying?” Dena asked.
“I’m a radio and television major with an emphasis on audio production and recording.”
“Really?” Dena asked. “So what’s it going to be, radio or television?”
“I’m thinking about music production. I DJ a couple nights a week now and I’m always mixing my own stuff. I think maybe I can make a real career out of it. I’m going to try anyway. Either way it’s a hell of a lot of fun.”
Dena threw an arm over the low back of her chair and nodded approvingly. “See, that’s a conversation topic that could get us through a long dinner at a three-star restaurant.”
Kim lit up and then caught sight of a man watching him from the other side of the restaurant and immediately straightened his posture. “My manager’s watching me, but I’ll call you tonight,” he whispered. I noticed Dena didn’t bother leaning back when he reached for her plate, thus causing him to “accidentally” brush her right breast. He blushed again before hurrying away under his manager’s watchful eye.
“I arrived with the expectation of meeting with one incredibly beautiful woman, but here I find two!”
Dena and I both looked up to see Scott standing a few feet away. He stood with his left hand tucked away in the pocket of his dark denim jacket and the bulk of his weight on the corresponding leg, a still figure against the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk and street behind him. The passing tourists probably thought he was pausing to admire the outdoor café, but I knew he was posing for the benefit of the women in the area, and the knowledge made me queasy. Perhaps he noted my disgust because he broke into a self-conscious chuckle and strode over to our table. “Dena Lopiano,” he boomed, “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Yeah,” Dena said wistfully, “those were great years.”
Scott laughed again and sat down between the two of us. “Any chance you two would agree to a few drinks and small talk before we get down to business?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” Dena and I said in unison.
“Very well.” He contorted his face into an exaggerated frown before relaxing back into his trademark Rembrandt-White smile. “Here’s the deal with the house. If Kane has to list it, he’s going to list it for $1.75 million with the expectation of having to reduce it to as low as $1.6. Personally, I think he stands a good chance of getting the full listing price.”
“Shit!” I seethed. I did some quick math in my head. I might be able to swing it if I got a really big loan from a bank at an extremely low interest rate. I gazed at my wineglass. Goodbye fine wines, hello cheap wine coolers.
“But if you buy it,” Scott continued, “and you make an offer right now, he’ll sell it to you for the original price of $980,000.”
Dena and I exchanged confused looks. This was fantastic news, but it didn’t make sense. “Scott, are you playing a game with me?”
“Kane is sentimental about that house. He grew up there, and when he heard his father had died, he briefly considered moving back in. But as it stands he’s already living in the house he inherited from his grandparents. He doesn’t want two houses and he doesn’t want to be a landlord or deal with property managers. Still, he doesn’t want to sell to just anyone.”
“But I’m just anyone,” I pointed out. “I’ve never met Kane. I have no relation to him. Nothing connects us at all.”
“On the surface, you’re right,” Scott said. “But Kane doesn’t see it that way. He knows that under normal circumstances I wouldn’t give a potential buyer a night tour of a residence. And normally you wouldn’t come within fifty feet of me, in the day or night. Hell, I haven’t even been able to get you to return my calls. But then, out of the blue, Oscar calls me up and tells me he wants me to sell his place ASAP. On that same day you show up at the open house I was holding in the Marina, and I convince you to come to see Oscar’s place at eight-thirty that night, the night Oscar died.”
“So?” Dena asked.
“So Kane thinks that means something,” Scott explained, still addressing me. “He knows you want the house, but he also thinks the house wants you.”
I brought my fingers to my temples in an attempt to massage away the headache that was beginning to form there. “If I understand you correctly,” I said, “you’re telling me that Kane is crazy.”
“Poor people are crazy, Sophie,” Scott corrected. “Kane is eccentric.”
“I see. Are his eccentricities ones that can be medicated?”
“Probably, although I don’t think Kane approves of drugs that aren’t recreational. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that you can have the house, and you’re getting it for a song—at least by San Franciscan standards.”
“This is too good to be true,” Dena said. She was looking at Scott, but her eyes had become so narrowed with suspicion that it was questionable if she was able to see anything beyond her own eyelashes. “There’s got to be a major catch.”
“A major catch?” Scott scoffed. “He wants to sell you a house for over $600,000 below market. There are militant vegetarians who would eat a truckload of Big Macs just to get a crack at the deal I’m offering you. All Kane wants from you is a one-month escrow, your word that you’ll treat the house well and your commitment to become a lifetime member of the San Francisco Specter Society.”
“Excuse me?” Scott had said the last part so fast that I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. I certainly hoped I hadn’t.
On the sidewalk some man was screaming obscenities, but none of us turned to see what the problem was. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Scott said in a voice that was something less than convincing. “It’s a group of people who get together twice a month for about an hour or so just so they can hang out, schmooze and, um, try to talk to ghosts.”
Dena burst out laughing while I tried to digest this unexpected request. “Scott,” I said slowly, “please tell me this isn’t a deal breaker.”
“You won’t have to go to every meeting,” Scott quickly assured me. “Just go regularly for the first year or so and then if you can only make it to a meeting every two or three months after that I’m sure Kane will be okay with it. The group really isn’t as weird as its name implies. Venus is a member and so is Kane. Even Oscar came to a few meetings, although he hasn’t for a long time.”
“That’s what you meant when you said Oscar and you traveled in the same circles,” I said slowly as I pieced everything together. “Your current circles consist of a bunch of ghost-loving freaks. Really, Scott, isn’t it a little bizarre for a necrophobic to hang with people who are trying to raise the dead?”
“First of all, they’re not freaks,” Scott said defensively. “I’m not even convinced that all of the members believe in ghosts even though they all say they do. They just like listening to ghost stories. I’ve been to over twenty meetings with Venus and they haven’t been able to channel a single disembodied spirit. Trust me, if they had, I wouldn’t attend no matter how much Venus insisted. And Sophie,” he paused to wave a hovering bee away from his face, “it is a deal breaker.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Why is it so important to Kane that some stranger joins his precious society?”
“I keep trying to tell you, Sophie, Kane doesn’t see you as a stranger. He thinks your discovery of his father connects you in some peculiar way and he thinks…okay, try not to laugh, but he thinks that if he’s going to successfully channel his parents’ spirits the people who found his father right after his death need to be part of the séance.”
“Really?” Dena asked, her curiosity overcoming her mirth. “Is that some kind of Wiccan rule?”
“I have no idea,” Scott grumbled. “What I do know is that I’m stuck going to these meetings for at least another year. But really, they’re not that bad,” he said switching back into salesman mode. “And Enrico Risso is a member so we usually get to sample some dish that he’s thinking about adding to his menu.”
“Hold up.” Dena’s chair audibly scratched against the concrete floor as she scooted forward. “Are we talking about Enrico Risso, the executive chef at Sassi? The man who was just voted one of the nation’s twenty best chefs in Gourmet Magazine?”
“The one and only.”
Dena blinked and then turned to me. “I’m not saying you should join, but if you do you should invite me to one of the meetings. Enrico’s risotto is enough to make you cream your panties.”
Scott shot Dena a bemused smile. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?”
“Before I agree to any of this I’m going to need to have a contractor come out and look at the pipes, foundation and whatnot,” I interjected. I really didn’t want to dwell on Dena’s panties remark.
“Naturally,” Scott agreed. “You can have a contractor come out anytime. Kane’s already moved all his father’s things into storage so it’ll be easy to check out all the floors and walls.”
“He’s already moved everything out?” I asked. “That was fast.”
“Kane’s efficient. But before you call a contractor you should take another look at the place. Make sure you really want it.”
Scott said the last words suggestively, implying that I might want more than just real estate from him. I didn’t. But I’ll admit I was pleased to know he still desired me. It put me in a position of power, and with Scott it was always important to keep the upper hand. “When can I look at it again?”
Scott glanced at his watch. “What are you doing right now?”
After saying my goodbyes to Dena I got in my car and followed Scott to Ashbury Heights. Well, follow isn’t really the right word because Scott got a significant early lead on me thanks to his Tango. It was the same electric vehicle George Clooney drove. Scott said he got it last Christmas—it was Venus’s version of a stocking stuffer. Apparently Venus’s parents owned and ran Organically Yours, the food product line that sold energy bars and whole grain cereals all over the country. That bit of information explained their entire relationship to me. Scott was a gold digger and Venus was his sugar-mommy. They were a perfect match.
So by the time I got to the house Scott had already parked and was presumably inside. I pulled my car into the driveway and climbed the steps. My hand was shaking with excitement as I pushed on the front door that was already open a crack. The place no longer smelled of Pine-Sol. The floral couch and overstuffed armchairs were gone and the beautiful mahogany bookcases were empty. It took me a moment to adjust to the change. I hadn’t liked the furniture, but I didn’t realize how much it had detracted from the strength of the architecture. The vaulted ceilings felt higher now and the wide, dark wood staircase had a boldness of design that I hadn’t noticed before. In fact the whole house felt bolder…no, bold was the wrong word. Power. That was better. The house seemed to have a power all its own. Yet its power had a magnanimous quality. The ambiance of the room seemed to embrace me and despite what I had found upstairs only weeks earlier, the place made me feel safe. I almost believed that the house was going to take care of me—like a father.
Suddenly I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. I had been here, not weeks before, but years before; before I had ever heard of Oscar or even Scott.
But that was impossible. My mind had to be playing tricks on me. Yet the sense of déjà vu didn’t go away and oddly enough made me want the house more than ever. It was calling to me.
And then I heard the footsteps of my father. He was walking through the dining room toward the living room. But that, too, was impossible. I turned my head in the direction of the sound.
It definitely wasn’t my father. Scott was standing next to a guy with an army-camouflage T-shirt and brownish-red hair cut close to his scalp. He was wearing rubber-soled sneakers, which explained why I had only heard the one set of footsteps.
“Sophie, this is Kane,” Scott said, patting the man on the back.
I smiled and shook his hand. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“And I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he said. “Seems fate wanted us to meet. More proof that this is all meant to be, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” I struggled to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I was one of those people who firmly believed in coincidences.
I started to pull my hand away, but Kane held on to it firmly. His expression had become serious and I found myself unable to break eye contact. “Do you feel anything?”
“Umm…the palm of your hand?” I said, unsure if he was playing some kind of game with me.
Something crossed Kane’s face. I couldn’t read the emotion, but I had a feeling it wasn’t a good one. But before I had a chance to come up with a better answer he released me and eased his mouth into a lazy grin. “Guess my parents aren’t around right now. But they’ll make an appearance soon. I’m sure of it.”
“Right, well, if I see them I’ll be sure to let you know,” I assured him.
“So there you have it,” Scott said with what seemed to be forced enthusiasm. “Sophie’s the person you should sell to. Not only is she a believer, but she’s willing to notify you if she makes contact.”
What the hell was he talking about? But one look from Scott told me that if I wanted the house I’d be wise to play along—at least for a while. I swallowed and stepped around them into the formal dining room. “This really is a great property.” I flicked on the light switch and watched the chandelier illuminate.
“You still want it?” Scott asked hopefully.
“I’m going to do a walk-through,” I said absently as I furnished the room in my mind. “But yeah, I want it. I’ll have a contractor out here in the next few days.”
Kane walked over to one of the windows and peered out into the street. “You should move in soon, before escrow closes.”
I did a quick double take. “Um, wouldn’t that sort of complicate things?”
“I have a sense about you, Sophie,” Kane said. “I do think you’ll treat this house with the care it deserves. I just have to be sure of that.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Yeah,” Scott said, suddenly uncertain, “What are you suggesting, Kane?”
“Just one more stipulation written into the escrow agreement. Nothing major, but I think it would be a good idea if you stayed here during that month that we wait for escrow to close. If you don’t treat the house with respect I’d like to have the option to back out of the arrangement.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it before slamming the back of my hand against Scott’s arm. “You knew about this, didn’t you! You just brought me here to fuck with me!”
I whirled around and started for the door. Scott reached out and held me back and I made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but I was afraid that if I put too much effort into fighting him I wouldn’t have enough strength left to hold back the tears. So I just stood there, stoically facing the door.
“Sophie,” Scott said urgently, “no one is fucking with you…not that I wouldn’t like—”
“Don’t even start!” I snapped.
“Right, what I meant was that everyone here is serious about the sale, right, Kane?” he said, pronouncing his question like a warning. “You don’t expect Sophie to agree to move in here and go through all the trouble and stress of escrow knowing that you could call the whole thing off and throw her out at any moment for something as ambiguous as her not respecting the place. That would be crazy and we all know you’re not crazy. You’re a businessman. A reasonable businessman.”
I heard the house exhale in a roar as hot air rushed through the vents. Central heating. Was there anything that this place didn’t have? I imagined myself standing up against those vents on the coldest of days, letting the air press against my feet and ankles until they prickled from the heat. Somehow I had to make this work.
“I’m sorry you think I’m being unreasonable,” Kane said, seemingly nonplussed. “I certainly don’t want you to think I’m not earnest in my intent to sell to you. How about this, we’ll let an attorney find a word that’s more to your liking than respecting. I’ll pay for all the utilities during that month…in fact, why don’t we cut escrow in half and make it two weeks. And we’ll put in a clause stating that if I do put an end to our deal before escrow closes I’ll have to pay you…how about twenty grand? That should cover the rent for your apartment for almost a year, right?”
Now I did turn around, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how to speak.
Scott had no such problem. “Yeah,” he said, his voice an octave higher than normal, “that’ll work.”
Kane beamed. “Great! Then get the contractor out here so you can start moving in.”
“I feel there has to be a catch,” I choked out.
Kane laughed. It was the least contagious laugh in the world. “Sophie,” he said, “I may be a bit different, but I’m not so peculiar that I relish the idea of giving huge amounts of money away at the drop of a hat. If I thought there was a good chance that I would need to pay you the $20,000 I wouldn’t be making the offer. But this was once my mother’s house. It was her dream home. I just need to be assured that whoever ends up here will love it the way she did and not just flip it the moment the market improves. Can you understand that?”
No. I didn’t understand anything about Kane. But how could I say no to this? “When’s the first Specter Society meeting?” I asked.
Kane’s grin widened. “In three weeks,” Kane said. “Why don’t we have it here? It could be your first social gathering in your new home.” Kane ran his hands along the wall with the gentleness that one usually reserves for a lover. “It would be a great way for you to introduce yourself to all the members…and to anything else that might make an appearance.”
Anything else. I understood his meaning, but it didn’t bother me. It was, after all, the most conventional thing he had said in the five minutes I had known him. “I’m going to want my own lawyer to go through this escrow agreement with a fine-toothed comb,” I said.
“Of course, Sophie,” Kane said. “Whatever it takes to get you to trust me.”
I tried not to smile. I’d sooner trust my ex-husband. But if a lawyer gave me a thumbs-up it really was a spectacular deal. If I could get a contractor and a lawyer to work with me right away, I might be able to start the escrow process in about two weeks, which meant that in four weeks I would either get a fantastic house well below market or I would get $20,000.
What did I have to lose?
4
Dinner parties would be so much more fun if you were allowed to actually throw your dinner at the guests!
—The Lighter Side of Death
I DIDN’T WASTE A MOMENT. I HAD A CONTRACTOR COME OUT TO THE HOUSE and a lawyer storm Scott’s office. And as soon as I was told that both the house and the escrow agreement were in good condition I signed on the dotted line. I had moved over the furniture from my apartment, and although many of the pieces didn’t really suit the new space at least they were mine. In a fit of optimism, I had put the bulk of my belongings in boxes and brought them over, as well.
During the first week of escrow Kane had come over for a visit, and while he seemed slightly disappointed that I hadn’t heard any thumps in the night, he did praise the passion I had for the house. I was just one week away from officially owning my own home, and now I was preparing to pay for it. Not with money, but with a combination of time and lies; time that I would spend at my first Specter Society meeting and lies that I would tell to convince my guests and fellow members that I desired their company. Scott had explained to me that if I wanted escrow to go through I had to pretend to believe in ghosts and the mystical power of the séances that supposedly called them to this world. It was a stupid but acceptable compromise of my integrity.
Of course the gathering required some planning and for that I had called in the big guns—or to be more accurate, the big gun, my sister and special-event-coordinator-extraordinaire, Leah. At my request she had spent most of the afternoon (and the better part of the past week) setting up for the séance I would be holding that evening. All my unpacked boxes had been moved into the bedrooms and the garage and there was a rented round table in the middle of the living room covered with a white linen tablecloth. In its center were three thick beeswax candles that Leah had strong-armed me into buying despite their ridiculously high price point. And in front of ten antique wood dining chairs there were metal place-card holders molded into the shape of fallen leaves. Many of the names they held were foreign to me and the few that I knew—Venus, Scott and Kane—didn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy. Enrico was the only person I was looking forward to meeting. I had spoken to him on the phone several times in the last few days, and now Leah and I were waiting for him to arrive before the others, with trays of delicacies that would undoubtedly make the rest of the evening a bit more tolerable.
Mr. Katz let out a mew of protest as Leah removed him from one of the chairs and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor.
“Hey, be careful with my baby,” I admonished.
“The only baby here is sitting on the couch,” she said distractedly as she rearranged the candles one more time, pulling at their wicks until they stood up like little soldiers trying to impress a drill sergeant. Of course she was referring to her two-year-old son, Jack, who was at that moment quietly watching her every move. It was unclear to me if his gaze was one of admiration or calculation. His pudgy little hands looked innocent enough while they rested on his lap, but they had often been used as the instruments of destruction and torture, like the time he had tried to clean my cat with Clorox or when he pulled out a fistful of hair from his swim instructor’s chest.
“It’s a shame I can’t stay for the actual event,” Leah said, although we both knew she was grateful for the exclusion. Scott had explained that the number of people in attendance had to be an even number and if Leah took part in the proceedings there would be eleven of us. Leah couldn’t have handled the quiet meditative atmosphere of a séance anyway. We were both sure that spirits could not be summoned, which meant that any communication with the dead would be imaginary. The imaginings of other people cannot be monitored or predicted and Leah didn’t like events that she couldn’t control.
“At least you’ll get to taste the appetizers. Enrico promised me he’d make enough so that you could bring a few home with you.”
“Sweet of him.” She glanced at the metal hands of my walnut-finished clock and the smooth skin between her eyebrows wrinkled in disapproval. “He should have been here by now. We want to make sure that we have time to clean up after any last-minute preparations before the guests arrive. Nothing undermines a party as quickly as a messy kitchen.”
Clearly the parties Leah attended were a lot tamer than the ones I went to. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I said sweetly.
“Mmm, well, since we can’t do anything else until he arrives, let me take this moment to give you your housewarming gift.”
“Housewarming gift?” I repeated. Visions of Pottery Barn throw pillows danced in my head.
She grinned and crossed to the large UPS box she had placed on my window seat. Full of props and decorative items upon her arrival, I had assumed it was now empty. But from it she pulled out a carefully wrapped large rectangular gift.
The paper was a pale gold and gleamed in the dwindling light coming from the window. I found a weak spot and pierced the paper with my fingernail then tore into the wrapping. Shreds of gold fell to the floor like oversize confetti.
And when the covering was gone I was left with a black-and-white photograph of myself as a little girl. My hair was the same unruly challenge it was now and my features hadn’t changed much, but the eyes of the child-me lacked the cynical skepticism that I had cultivated over the years. It was me in my own age of innocence. My arms were wrapped around the neck of the man who gave me that hair. His own curls were cut short and a cluster of them embraced his chin in a well-trimmed beard.
“Thank you. I forgot about this picture,” I whispered, although this very photo had graced our mother’s dresser for at least ten years. “I’ll have to find a good place for it.” I turned it over and touched the cool black metal that held the photo in place. A silver wire stretched from one side to the other, waiting to be draped over a nail.
“There, over the side table with the other pictures,” Leah said without hesitation.
I looked at the newly mounted images on the wall. There was a small picture of a blue jay swooping down to snatch a peanut out of my friend Mary Ann’s hand. Next to that a framed newspaper article, the first critical review my work had ever received. I had highlighted the words highly enjoyable and then blacked out but at times trite. Then the nighttime picture Dena had taken of our friend Marcus, his hand extended up into the air so that it looked like he held the moon in the sky. There was also a picture of Leah holding Jack shortly after his birth. In that picture my mother bent over the swaddled infant, her lips shaped into an exaggerated kiss. But all these people were alive. Even the review referred to a book that I still had access to. What I held in my hand was a tribute to a man who was gone. It felt like the Sophie-child in the picture was laughing at me, saying, “Remember this? Remember what it was like to touch him? Remember what it was like to feel safe?”
I did remember, and it made me heart-achingly sad and I had no desire to hang my grief on my living-room wall.
Leah waited a respectable amount of time for me to come up with an excuse for why the picture shouldn’t be placed with the others before taking it from me and holding it up above the fireplace. “Fine, we’ll put it here. He’s been gone for twelve years, Sophie. It’s time you said goodbye to the man and hello to your memories. Besides,” she glanced at the staircase and pressed her full lips together as if working out some complicated equation, “he belongs here. I don’t know why, but it just feels like some part of him should be here.”
“Some part of him?” I repeated. “That sounds like the premise of some part of a poltergeist movie.”
“Not literally a part of his body, but this.” She pressed the picture against the wall and admired it. “This belongs here.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. Give me a hammer and a couple of nails.”
“I only have one left,” I said. “Wait ’til I go to the hardware store later this week. You know how hard it is to hang a picture straight with just one nail.”
“Well, we’ll just have to try to make it work. Bring me the one nail.”
I suppressed a couple of swear words and reluctantly brought her what she asked for. I turned away as the hammer struck the nail and reached for my cell phone. Leah was right about one thing; Enrico should have been here by now. He picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
It took me a second to respond. Enrico had always been warm on the phone and the question he had used to replace a greeting jarred me. “Enrico?”
“Yes?” he said again, this time with even less patience. Behind me Leah was banging the hammer in a quick but steady rhythm.
“Um, it’s Sophie Katz. I was just wondering if you were on your way?”
“What? Is it so late? I did not realize.” I could hear his irritation, but whether it was directed at me, himself or something else was anybody’s guess.
“Sooo, are you? On your way, I mean?” I didn’t want to be pushy, but he was only one of nine people coming over and the only food I had in the house was made by Kellogg’s.
“Yes, I come. Things have happened that are not so good, but still, I come.”
The pounding of the hammer stopped and I turned to see Leah’s handiwork. The frame was crooked, not horribly, but enough that anyone looking at it would note the imperfection. Last time I had spoken to Enrico his English had been similarly imperfect, but now it was considerably worse. Was he drunk? Tired? Or were the “things that had happened” so disconcerting that he had literally forgotten how to speak English? “Enrico, is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay. Today I am…how do you say…I am haunted. Yes, this is right, I am being haunted by the past.” His voice sounded weak and far away. He must have been speaking into the phone, but I had a feeling that he was really talking to himself.
“Uh-huh…so when you say haunted, do you mean that something you’ve done has come back to haunt you? Or do you mean that you’ve been visited by Casper or one of his not-so-friendly associates?”
“Casper? The cartoon character? Are you mocking me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “That was insensitive.”
“What—? But…you fucking bitch!”
“Excuse me? That was totally uncalled for!” I waited for Enrico to explain himself, but instead he must have thrown the phone down on the ground. I heard it clatter against a hard surface and in the background I thought I heard another noise—a squawking, like the sound of a distressed bird. “Enrico?” I yelled. “Are you still there? You owe me an apology!”
But he said nothing. I heard another squawk, a loud thump and then the line went dead. “He hung up on me!” I snapped.
“Well, what did you expect?” Leah shrugged and adjusted the frame once again. It was still crooked, but now it leaned toward the left rather than the right. “I heard your end of the conversation, Sophie. You were flippant with him.”
“I was trying to engage him in friendly banter! And he didn’t just hang up on me, he also called me a fucking bitch!”
“That’s extreme,” she admitted. “But…well, he is a chef. You know how they are—artistic temperaments and all.”
“So what are you saying? That it’s okay to call women you’ve never met before bitches as long as you can make a good pâté?”
“No, of course not, but—Where’s Jack?” We both looked at the empty couch. I immediately scanned the room for Mr. Katz and sighed in relief when I spotted him on the window seat. At that moment Jack came toddling out of the bathroom, buoyant and seemingly unharmed. “Mommy, Mommy! Auntie Sophie has sandbox and she hides chocolate in it!”
“A sandbox?” Leah threw me a questioning look.
“Um, noooo, but I do keep Mr. Katz’s litter box in there.”
Jack’s mouth spread out into what might actually have been a shit-eating grin.
“Call poison control!” Leah snapped.
“But there’s nothing in his teeth,” I pointed out.
“I save it,” Jack explained, still beaming. “See, I save for dessert.” His little fist removed and offered a cat turd to Leah, who stumbled back, aghast.
“Put it back,” she screeched, “before you get some kind of weird cat disease!” She grabbed his arm and dragged him back into the bathroom, screaming something incomprehensible about antibacterial soap. I went to the doorway and watched her scrub his hands as he struggled to free himself.
“What if Enrico doesn’t show up?” I asked.
“Waiters on Wheels,” Leah said, too busy to look at me while she spoke. “Call and have them deliver appetizers from Sassi. But call him back first and try to smooth things over. Apologize to him for being insolent.”
“Are you kidding me? He called me a fucking bitch!”
Jack giggled and jumped up and down. “Auntie Sophie has potty mouth!”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to eat out of a litter box.”
“That’s it, we’re leaving.” Leah swooped Jack up in her arms and headed for the door, pausing briefly to retrieve her jacket and purse from my coatrack.
“Don’t go,” I pleaded. “If Enrico doesn’t come there will only be nine of us and we need ten. You could be part of this.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Why don’t you call Mary Ann, I’m sure she’ll come.”
“Mary Ann’s in Italy. She scored a killer assistant makeup artist job for Milan’s Fashion week and when she’s done with that she’s going to take a few extra weeks to do some Cathedral hopping around Europe. You, on the other hand, are right here. Come on, Leah, it could be fun.”
“Sophie, I love you, but I absolutely refuse to make merry with a bunch of people at a séance.”
“Fine, but if they call up the ghost of Emily Post you’ll be sorry!”
“Emily Post isn’t dead,” Leah yelled over her shoulder as she walked out.
I watched her carry my nephew down the stairs like a sack of potatoes. As a general rule I preferred to limit my time with the two of them to a couple of hours a week, but now I would have done almost anything to get Leah to stay. Bad things happened in threes, the unpleasantness exponentially increasing in severity. I was counting Enrico’s obscenities as one and I had a horrible feeling that bad thing two and three were going to pop up before the day was done.
I tried to call Enrico back, but all I got was the steady and grating pulse of a busy signal. He had seemed so normal when we talked on other occasions, but apparently he had a dark side. I ordered food from his restaurant and it was delivered within an hour. After setting it up there was nothing to do but sit on the window seat and watch the colors of a sunset try to struggle through the dense fog. When the sky finally went black my doorbell rang. I hadn’t seen anyone walk up the steps. At that time I had been focused on my cat curled up on my lap. I pushed him off and he repaid me by dragging the tips of his claws across my thighs. It was exactly six-thirty. Whoever had come was punctual.
I opened the door unsure if I was going to be greeted by Kane, Scott, Venus or a stranger. But all those predictions were wrong. The man in front of me wasn’t Kane or Scott, but I did know him. His pointed goatee and piercing eyes had made an impression on me years ago.
“Jason Beck,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Dena had so many exes it was hard to keep track of them all, but Jason had been more memorable than most. Perhaps it was his penchant for velvet (right now he wore velvet jeans and an open, untucked white dress shirt over a T-shirt that read Chaos Rules. But as original as his look was, it was his belief in vampires that had held my attention. Jason thought that Anne Rice was not a novelist but a biographer, and that Count Dracula was a lot more than a dead SOB who had earned himself a dubious place in Transylvanian folklore.
“You’re the Sophie who’s buying this house?” he asked, sounding just as surprised as I was.
I looked past him at the empty sidewalk and the silent street and tried to find the logic in our meeting. “You didn’t know I lived here?” I asked. “You came—to visit the house?”
“I came for the Specter Society meeting.”
Of course. I nearly slapped my forehead in a vaudeville demonstration of my own idiocy. “They told me a Jason was coming,” I said. “I have your name on a place card, but I would never have guessed it was you.”
“And I never could have guessed that you would be hosting a séance. You’re not a believer.”
I smiled wryly. “You want to know if I’ve ditched my…what did you call it? Oh, right, my spiritually closed-minded, excessively materialistic world view.”
Jason smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Have you?”
“It’s a long story,” I hedged. Scott had insisted that all of the members of the group must think that I’m a believer, but Jason had come through for me in the past, and despite our years of separation I counted him as a friend. I didn’t lie to my friends.
I ushered him inside. He walked to the center of my living room and stared at the table. A cold breeze tickled the back of my neck, and I felt my skin prickle with goose bumps. For a second I thought the temperature had dropped for no reason, but that of course was not the case. I had been so overwhelmed by the surprise of Jason that I had forgotten to close the door behind him. I turned to do so, but my doorway was no longer empty. Framed by the streetlight was a character from the musical Hair. At least that’s how she appeared to me. Her mountains of untamed curls fell to her waist and her rainbow rayon skirt grazed her ankles, revealing Birkenstocks and pink toenails.
“I’m Amelia,” she said, not waiting for my question, and without warning pulled me into a hearty embrace and pressed her lips against my cheek. “Thank you so much for inviting us into your home!” she gushed, then broke away and skipped to where Jason stood. She pressed herself into his back and encircled his waist with her arms. “Whoa, this is one of the fanciest séance tables I have ever seen! Who are we trying to summon? Rockefeller?”
“My sister helped me put this together.”
“Leah,” Jason said and I saw the spark of memory twinkle in his eyes. He had never met Leah, but had heard about her from both me and Dena. More to the point, he had heard tales of her devious offspring.
I closed the door and led them to the food and wine. Before I had even finished pouring the first glass the doorbell rang again. I excused myself and went to welcome my next visitor. This time it was Venus, Scott and Kane. Venus was boldly ignoring the weather by going coatless in a knee-length pencil skirt and an asymmetrical sleeveless top made of a material that resembled crinkly paper. Her hair was pulled into the same low ponytail she had worn on our first meeting. Kane was less adventurous in chinos and a wool sweater that had the look of being handmade. Scott looked like Scott—well dressed, hair purposely and attractively disheveled, an impish smile. Later I would notice that he only aimed his smile in my direction when Venus had her back to him.
It was Venus who said hello first as she stepped inside, letting her massive presence ooze into every corner of my home until the room was so full of her that I wondered if there would be enough space for the rest of us. She raised her arms, her fingertips touching like a ballerina preparing to dance. She then gracefully spread her arms wide, inhaling deeply. But that’s where the dance ended. She coughed and brought her hands to her flat chest. “This is all wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” Kane asked anxiously. But Scott didn’t seem perturbed by her announcement at all. If anything he looked bored.
“The arrangement of the furniture,” she explained. “The feng shui—it’s not right.”
“My mother never decorated in accordance to feng shui,” Kane snapped. “And she still felt the spirits.”
“But she didn’t see them,” Venus said evenly. “She didn’t know how to direct the energy of the house.”
“There were reasons why the spirits couldn’t come to my mother.” Kane stepped in front of Venus, invading her personal space. “But those reasons had nothing to do with interior decorating. Feng shui means nothing to those in the world beyond.”
A light laugh escaped her lips. “Kane,” she said, cupping his chin with her workmanlike hand. “You are not an expert in these matters. You can barely summon your own dog, let alone a ghost.”
Kane didn’t move and for a second I thought that Venus might be in danger. I shot a questioning look at Scott. He no longer looked bored, but neither did he seem to have any intention of intervening.
But then Kane stepped back, just out of her reach. They continued to stare at one another, not speaking. From the dining room I could hear Amelia’s cheerful chatter, and then she rushed into the room, her eyes dancing with a vivacious energy that seemed incongruous with the mood of the other guests. “Hello!” Her salutation echoed in the silent room. Then she went around to each of the three new arrivals and gave Kane and Scott the same hug and kiss she had given me. Kane tolerated this with what appeared to be strained patience, but Scott clearly enjoyed the close female contact and their hug lasted a half a minute too long. It was Amelia who broke away first. She then smiled nervously at Venus. “Did you get a load of that séance table?” she asked, her joviality suddenly seeming a little forced. “Those candles are beeswax, Venus. I haven’t seen anything this fancy since the last time you hosted an event.”
“You weren’t at the last event I hosted,” Venus said.
“No, but I was at the one before that.” She then turned toward the male guests. “Come to the dining room. Enrico outdid himself this time.” She paused right before disappearing back into the dining room and tilted her head in my direction. “Where is Enrico anyway? Did he go out for the perfect wine or something?”
I winced. I hadn’t yet told them that while the food was from Enrico’s restaurant it wasn’t actually made by Enrico. I wasn’t entirely clear on where I stood with Kane, but I was pretty sure that I was on Venus’s shit list. If she found out that Enrico and I had exchanged words she would blame me for his absence, even if I was the one in the right.
But before I could figure out how to address the situation the doorbell rang again. I sent up a quick silent prayer that it was Enrico, but to my disappointment it was a family of three. The man introduced himself as Al and the woman and Goth teenage boy as his wife, Lorna, and son, Zach. Three more names from my place cards.
They were a family, but as far as I could tell the only thing that unified them was proximity. The man was a clean-cut blonde with thinning hair. He wore a polo shirt and chinos and he appeared more resigned than happy to be there. His son was a whole other story. His hair, his clothes, his nails, all colored black. Even his eyes were outlined with a harsh black eyeliner, made all the more dramatic by his white powdered face. Around his neck he wore a velvet ribbon choker, and I was tempted to reach out and see if its unraveling would result in decapitation.
But it was the woman who interested me. Like her husband, she wore chinos and her cotton shirt was a pale pink. Her hair was a graying brown and cut neatly in a style that you would expect to see on the stereotypical suburban homemaker. Totally normal, yet, on her, the outfit, the haircut, even the mild-mannered smile, it all seemed like a costume: her hair too thick for such a neat cut where it should have been long and unruly, her skin too olive for the light-colored clothing, the determination in her eyes too strong to gel with the timid pink of her lip gloss.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I just ushered them in and closed the door behind them. Jason reentered the living room, a glass of red wine in his hand. “Looks like almost everybody’s here,” he said. “As soon as Enrico shows up we’ll have ten.”
This was the time to tell them. Venus already suspected something was amiss. I could tell by the way she was looking at me, her stare hinting at an underlying hostility.
I cleared my throat and went to the place card that bore Enrico’s name, fondling it like it had some kind of voodoo power that could call him forth. But of course that didn’t work. “I don’t think Enrico is coming,” I finally said.
“Not coming?” Scott asked. “But hasn’t he already been here? Isn’t he the one who brought the food?”
“Um, no. I ordered the food from his restaurant. See, I talked to him earlier today and he seemed a little…out of sorts.”
“How so?” Venus lowered herself onto my armchair with practiced casualness.
“He said he was, um, haunted.”
“Haunted!” Kane was immediately by my side, encasing both my hands in his. “Did he see something? Was he visited?”
“I…I don’t know. He just said he was haunted and that things were not so good.”
“Whoa, okay, this is really heavy,” Amelia said, taking a moment to examine each of our faces to make sure we all shared her sentiment. “Maybe he summoned something and he can’t make it go away. Maybe we should take this party to him and see if we can be of help.”
There was a chorus of protests although Kane and Scott both remained silent.
“I know Enrico better than the rest of you,” Venus said, her eyes still on me. “If he wanted us in his home he would have told us to come.”
“But maybe he didn’t think we’d accept the invitation,” Kane offered. “After all, he must know that some of us blame him for Maria’s departure from the group.”
“I didn’t say he would have invited us,” Venus said evenly. “I said he would have told us to come. There is a very big difference. Enrico may or may not have been aware of your feelings, Kane, and they are your feelings, but whether he was aware of them or not he would have still expected us to yield to his celebrity.”
“He’s a chef!” Amelia said with a laugh. “Not a movie star.”
“I think people in San Francisco like chefs more than movie stars. They’re more real,” Zach said. It was the first thing I’d heard him say and his voice sounded too young and innocent for his somber attire. I tried to get a sense of his age. It was hard to gauge considering all the white powder covering his face, but my guess was that he was around fifteen.
“Maybe we should just give him some space,” Lorna said softly. “Of course, there’s still the problem of our number. Someone will have to leave.”
Lorna leaned over and put a hand on Al’s knee. “I know you don’t really want to be here, darling. Why don’t you go get a beer at that pub you used to go to? The one around the corner. What’s its name again?”
“Jax, but I’m not going anywhere,” Al said shortly.
“But I just thought…”
“I know what you thought, but you were wrong,” he snapped. “Now is someone else going to leave or are we going to call this damn thing off?”
Lorna seemed to shrink into herself and Zach scowled at his father.
“I guess I could—” Amelia began, but she was interrupted by the doorbell. “Maybe it’s Enrico!” she exclaimed and rushed to see.
When she opened the door she revealed a woman dressed head to toe in Calvin Klein with her hair cut in a severe, short style. She peeled off her overcoat and threw it into Amelia’s unexpecting arms. “Tell Enrico I’m here.”
“Maria,” Kane said in a soft voice.
She blinked at the sound of her name and grabbed onto the door frame as if she expected someone to try to push her out. “Whatever you’re going to say about numerology or whatnot just…just save it,” she said. “I’m giving him our condo, our house in Tuscany, I’m even giving him the damned parrot, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give him my friends.” She glared at the occupants of the room. “You’re supposed to be my friends! I’m the true believer, not that fat, self-important, fettuccini-eating snob! How could you not invite me to this?”
“Some of us wanted to,” Kane whispered, then sent a scathing look at Venus who stared blankly back.
“Enrico’s a no-show, Maria,” Amelia said, struggling to give her a welcoming hug while holding her coat. “He’s being haunted.”
“Is that what he told you?” Maria said with a bitter laugh. “The only thing haunting that man is the last review he got from Michael Bauer. Did you read it? Three and a half stars. Not four, three and a half. That’s why he’s not here. The bastard is sulking, probably teaching that bird how to destroy a newspaper clipping.”
“That shouldn’t take a lot of training,” Scott said, somewhat bemused.
“I see that the table is all set up,” Maria noted. “Can we start this then? Or are you afraid I’ll taint the proceedings with my bitterness?”
“Nothing wrong with bitterness,” Scott said. “Just look what it does for chocolate, right, Soapy?” As soon as he said it you could see the regret spread across his features. It was as blatant as Venus’s scowl.
“Soapy,” she said slowly. “How adorable. Don’t you think it’s adorable, Kane?”
“We’d love it if you’d join us,” Kane said, directing his comments to Maria and ignoring Venus. “All that matters is belief.”
“And numbers,” Jason added, perhaps a bit sarcastically. “And candles and colors and fucking feng shui.”
“Feng shui has nothing to do with any of this!” Kane snapped.
“Hey, guys, remember Sophie got white candles so if this is going to work we’re all going to have to get in a peaceful state of mind!” Amelia chimed in. “At this rate we’re going to have to go out and buy some pink candles just so we can manage that, right, Sophie?”
“The pink candles are lame,” Zach sighed. “They never work.”
I raised my fingers to my temples. I had no idea what any of these people were talking about. Maria was Enrico’s ex, that much I understood. I also understood that Enrico had a parrot and Venus didn’t like me, but I was beginning to suspect that Venus disliked pretty much everybody. Other than that, I had no idea what was going on.
“I suggest we skip the meal and get right to the séance,” Venus said, staring at Scott. “Unless you would like some more time to chitchat with your Soapy.”
“I’m cool with skipping the meal,” he replied meekly. “It’s hard for me to think about food when I’m with you anyway, sweetie. All I can focus on is how flat-out gorgeous you are.”
Jason started to laugh, but managed to silence himself before Venus had a chance to whack him over the head with one of my candlesticks.
“Sophie,” Kane said, “you are the official host of this event and it sounds as if you bought the food yourself. Are you all right with our skipping the meal?”
“Absolutely, no problem at all.” I would have paid double the amount of the meal’s cost if it meant that I could have these people out of my house any more quickly.
“Well, I’m for it,” Zach said. “I think we’d all be better off talking to the dead than to each other.”
“Wise man,” Jason muttered, taking a seat next to the boy.
“I’m taking Enrico’s chair,” Maria declared.
We all took a seat and Venus announced that she was the medium. She looked at me, daring me to argue, but I didn’t. Let Venus call up her demons, I just wanted to get the whole thing over with.
Venus picked up one of the candles and held it up for everyone’s inspection. “As noted, all of the candles are white,” she said. “White symbolizes peace. Before I light them I will pass each candle around the table and when you hold it in your hands you must charge that candle. Visualize its power; visualize peaceful smoke curling from its wick, a warm peaceful glow emanating from it.”
She passed the first two candles to the left and one to the right. I shot Scott a look, but for once he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I had a feeling that he was suppressing a laugh.
Jason and Al looked equally skeptical. It was only Amelia, Lorna, Kane and Venus who appeared to be clearly enrapt. Zach’s expression remained unreadable under the white powder and Maria was still too angry to convey a different emotion. I let the first two candles pass from my hands without a second thought. But when my palms pressed against the third candle, thicker and heavier than its companions, I found myself wanting to follow Venus’s instructions. Not because I believed it would do any good, but because it was fun. I was hosting this damn thing so I might as well do it right. But the candle didn’t look like an instrument of peace. It was made of beeswax, for God’s sake. Bees are not peaceful. I passed the candle to Maria. Perhaps she would be able to charge it for both of us. Then again, when you consider her state of mind, I might have more luck finding peace in the Middle East.
When all the candles had been “charged” Venus lit each of them. She left the table long enough to turn off the other lights in the living room then returned to her seat.
“Join hands,” she instructed. “Now, breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Clear your mind of everything. Absorb the peace of the candles.”
I did as Venus asked and watched the shadows cast by the flames alter the appearance of my guests. Zach’s powdered white face, which only moments ago had seemed humorously overdone, now looked preternatural and shocking. Lorna’s dark circles disappeared and the light reflected in her eyes seemed to illuminate an emotion that I hadn’t noted before. Determination? Desperation? It was impossible to say. Kane, on the other hand, was easy to read. His breaths were deep and resonating, but he was not calm. No, Kane’s excitement was mounting with each second.
“Our beloved Andrea,” Venus began after several minutes had passed, “we ask that you commune with us and move among us.”
None of us said a word as we waited for some kind of response. I didn’t know who Andrea was. I had thought that we were going to try to call Oscar back, but the surprise didn’t bother me. She could have tried to call Elvis back for all the good it was going to do us.
Of course, Andrea didn’t make an appearance, so Venus repeated her request again and again. Eventually she rephrased the question, asking the spirit to rap once if she was among us. She was answered with silence. The wax from the candles dripped down in little molded teardrops, reminding all of us of the painfully slow movement of time. Kane’s mouth turned down with frustration. His eyes met mine and I realized that without speaking he was talking to me, trying to convey some kind of message that I could not decipher. An inexplicable chill ran up my spine and I felt an ache in my chest, dull and fleeting as it was. And then there was warmth, comfort and for a second I felt the peace that Venus had tried to get me to visualize.
“Say goodbye.”
My breath caught and I looked to Maria and then to Zach to see which of them had just spoken. But both of them were looking at the candles, distracted and oblivious to my change in mood.
“This isn’t working,” Venus said with a sigh. “Someone blow out the candles.”
“We’re giving up?” Lorna asked. “But we’ve only just begun! We could at least try to call Deb!”
“If this was going to work there would have been some kind of sign by now. Time is not the problem.” Venus looked pointedly at me as if to silently say that the problem lay with me, but I was too discombobulated to care about Venus’s deference of blame. I was still trying to figure out who had spoken before. Kane? Scott? Amelia? And then another disturbing realization hit me. I didn’t know if it had been a woman or a man who had spoken. The words had been completely clear, but the voice that said them had been completely abstract. What was that about? Fifty million questions were swirling around in my head and yet those questions didn’t make any sense even to me—and I was the one forming them! I gently touched my hand to my heart where I had felt that dull ache only moments before. The ache was gone, replaced with a rapid beating.
“Sophie, what is it?” Kane was leaning across the table, agitation gleaming in his eyes. “Did you feel something?”
The entire room fell silent as everyone focused on me, waiting for me to give them some kind of hope that their séance hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
“I didn’t feel anything,” I lied. “Just a little heartburn. I ate a lot of spicy food for lunch.”
A cloud of disappointment descended on the group, but I didn’t care. I had much bigger problems. After all, I was beginning to suspect that I might actually be losing my mind.
5
Life is like a box of chocolate, and I’m allergic.
—The Lighter Side of Death
I COULDN’T WAIT FOR EVERYONE TO LEAVE. FORTUNATELY I DIDN’T REALLY have to. Once it was decided that the séance was a failure everyone left with the speed and enthusiasm of an audience who had just sat through a bad three-hour movie. Jason took the time to give me his number so we could “get together for coffee sometime.” Kane was the only one who lingered. He kept pestering me with questions about why I thought the séance didn’t work and if I knew who the disbeliever in the group was. He even asked me if I thought it would have helped to have red candles since it was Andrea’s favorite color. Like I was some kind of expert on all this. I didn’t say so, but I was pretty sure that the séance failed because séances don’t work and ghosts don’t exist.
But what about those words:
Say goodbye.
But I didn’t tell Kane about that and eventually he left, too, leaving me alone in my new house. It was just as well, Anatoly was supposed to come over later. I hadn’t asked him to move in yet—I had decided to wait until after escrow closed, but still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t help me keep the bed warm. And he could also distract me from what had turned into a rather disturbing evening.
Now alone, I turned on all the lights in every room and tried to focus on the more mundane aspects of life. I desperately needed to do laundry, but in order to physically reach my washer I’d have to relocate several heavy boxes. Then there were the boxes in the garage. Normally I would just leave those there and park my car on the street until I had a little more energy, but now I had Venus to consider. I knew from experience that it was impossible to be with Scott and not see other women as threats, fidelity not being his strong suit. Now Venus knew that Scott had been with me, after dark, in a house that he had expected to be empty, and to make matters worse he had called me Soapy right in front of her. Add that to the fact that she was obviously completely out of her mind, and I had to conclude that parking my car on the street might lead to a few slashed tires.
So when Anatoly finally showed up at 10:30 p.m. with his sexy half smile and a bottle of Merlot I was sweaty, exhausted and doggedly filling my living room with all my packed-up odds and ends.
“Interesting decorating choice,” he said as he navigated through a field of brown boxes with cryptic labels such as “Knickknacks” and “Miscellaneous.”
“I don’t know how I managed to collect so much stuff,” I said, wiping my hands on my clothes before leaning in for my kiss.
“Why did you move everything all at once? You still have your apartment until the end of next month. Why didn’t you take a little at a time?”
“I don’t know, anxious to get started, I guess.”
“Yes, you were quick to pack,” Anatoly acknowledged, taking in the scene. “It’s the unpacking that seems to have slowed you down.” He threw his jacket over one of the boxes and then found his way to an empty chair. “Is that because this isn’t your place yet?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it’s my place. I signed the papers.”
“For an escrow that won’t go through for another week, if at all. If you ask me, $20,000 is worth showing your new residence a lot of disrespect.”
“But I’m getting the house for hundreds of thousands of dollars below market, so it’s not like six of one, half dozen of the other,” I pointed out.
“Has Kane even transferred the utilities over to you yet?”
I swallowed and looked away. “He’s insisting on paying them until escrow goes through, but that doesn’t mean…”
“Sophie, you’re practically squatting.”
“Are you purposely trying to piss me off or do you really not get it?” I snapped. “I don’t want his $20,000. This is my house! I have always wanted to live here and now I finally do!”
“‘Always?’” Anatoly repeated. “‘Finally?’ Sophie you first saw this place five weeks ago.”
“Seven,” I said stubbornly, but I did see his point. Why did it feel like I had been fighting for this place for years? And why was I jumping all over Anatoly for pointing out the obvious? I did some quick calculations in my head, but that didn’t give me an explanation for my temper tantrum; I wasn’t due to get my period for another two weeks.
Anatoly considered me for a moment then lowered his gaze to the wine bottle as he shifted it from hand to hand. Something was bothering him, but instead of opening up he said, “So tell me, Sophie, how was the freak show?”
“What?” I asked, not following him at first. “Oh, the séance. Well, it was…weird—but I suppose weird’s normal for a freak show. You’re not going to believe this, but Jason Beck was there. He’s a bona fide member of the Specter Society.”
Anatoly looked at me blankly. “Who’s Jason Beck?”
“You remember Jason. One of Dena’s GBCs…you, know, Mr. Velvet Pants.”
“Right.” Anatoly laughed appreciatively. “How could I forget him? And GBC stands for…?”
“Glorified Booty Call.”
“Right. It makes sense that he would be part of that group, he was crazy enough.” He looked back down at the wine. “Did Scott give you any trouble?”
“No, he was fine. I still can’t believe he’s with Venus. I mean, yeah, she’s got money, but they’re such a mismatched couple. It’s like if Owen Wilson hooked up with Greta Van Susteren. It’s just strange.” Anatoly continued to study the wine bottle as if I hadn’t spoken. Something about his demeanor made me nervous. I took a few steps toward the window seat before changing my mind and converting one of the boxes closer to him into a temporary stool. “How was your stakeout?” I asked, grasping at the one question that I knew could get him talking again.
“Boring,” he sighed. “My client hired me to see if her ex is using. There’s a custody thing going on and she’s looking for ammunition. But as far as I can tell all his vices are legal. Women, alcohol, that kind of stuff. Nothing that will cost him his visitation rights.”
“It may be legal, but too much alcohol tends to hamper people’s ability to parent,” I pointed out. “That’s why I’ve chosen to remain childless.”
He laughed and I immediately relaxed. “Speaking of which, why don’t you open that wine,” I suggested.
“I can do that.” I waited as he went to fetch a corkscrew from the kitchen. My corkscrew and glasses were the first things I had unpacked. I had my priorities.
“Wine for two,” he announced as he returned with a couple of filled glasses.
I smiled gratefully. “Leah put some logs in the fireplace in case my guests wanted more ambiance. Shall we light it?” I asked, turning toward the fireplace as he came to my side. But then my smile froze on my face as I noted the photo above the mantel.
Anatoly turned to see what I was looking at. “What’s wrong?”
“That picture of me and my father…” I whispered.
“It’s new, right? I don’t remember seeing it before.”
“It’s new, but it’s also…straight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was crooked by, like, half an inch. And now it’s not.”
“Someone at your party must have fixed it for you.” Anatoly handed me the glasses before crouching by the fireplace and picking up the long matches that Leah had conveniently left there.
“I don’t think they did,” I said.
“Then perhaps it wasn’t crooked at all.” The fire sprang to life and Anatoly quickly closed the curtain as the sparks reached out for him. “Maybe you were just looking at it from the wrong angle.”
“No, I know it was crooked. Leah was the one who hung it and she was trying to even it out before she left.”
“And she succeeded.”
“No, she didn’t,” I said firmly.
“Sophie, what are you trying to say?” Anatoly straightened up and took his wineglass from me. “Do you think the picture was crooked and then it just magically corrected itself?”
I finally tore my eyes from the wall and looked at Anatoly. “No…no, of course that’s not what I’m saying.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “All I do know is that I’m going to need more than one glass of this.”
“You haven’t even started your first one.”
In three large gulps I downed my entire glass of wine.
Anatoly laughed appreciatively. “All right then, why don’t you take my wine and I’ll pour myself another. And then maybe I can talk you into a few more indulgences.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear before gently nibbling on the lobe. “A full body massage? I’ll start here—” he carefully cupped my left breast and let his fingers graze my hardening nipple “—and work my way down.”
“You just assumed that I invited you over for sex?” I asked with mock indignation. “Maybe I wanted to talk.”
“So talk,” he murmured. He slipped his hand under my shirt and resumed the massage.
I smiled and took another sip of wine, this time from his glass. “All right, I will. How was your day, Anatoly?”
“I already told you it was boring,” he reminded me. “The night looks a lot more promising.”
I laughed softly and drank more of his wine. I thought of the séance, of what I had heard, but hadn’t heard at all. I could talk to him about that. But as his other hand began to work its way up my inner thigh, the warmth of his skin burning through my jeans, I quickly dismissed the idea. I didn’t really want to talk or think. Right now I was content to just feel whatever it was that Anatoly planned to do to me.
And just as I began to relax, the wine and his touch finally lightening my mood, the doorbell rang. It was a melodic chime, but it might as well have been the obnoxious scream of a smoke alarm for all the irritation it provoked.
“Were you expecting someone?” Anatoly asked.
“Just you.”
He furrowed his brow and then reluctantly removed his hands and went to see who had interrupted us. He peeped out the little leaded, textured glass window built into the top of the door and frowned. “It’s a woman. Italian, I think.”
“Sophie?” I heard a muffled voice come from the other side of the door. “It’s Maria Risso. May I please come in? I must speak to you.”
Confused and slightly inebriated, I walked to the door as Anatoly opened it. “Did you forget something?” I asked as I acknowledged Maria.
“No, I…may I come in for a moment? I promise not to be long.”
I glanced at Anatoly who looked more than a little peeved at this point. Reluctantly, he stepped aside as I waved her in. She was frowning, intensifying the few wrinkles in her face.
“Maria, this is my boyfriend, Anatoly.”
Maria either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. “Did Enrico call and tell you why he wasn’t coming?” she asked, glancing at the round, rented table, now the only piece of furniture not holding a box.
“No,” I said carefully, not really wanting to relive that particular phone conversation. “He just said he was having a bad day.”
“Did he say he was going somewhere?”
“No.”
“Did he say he was feeling ill?”
“Why are you bothering me?” I asked bluntly. I was required to attend these people’s séances, but there was nothing in my escrow that stipulated that I had to play twenty questions.
She sucked in a sharp breath and toyed with the belt of her trench coat. “I went to see him.”
“So?” Anatoly asked impatiently.
“I still have the key to the building, so I let myself in, and when I was standing outside the door to his condo I smelled food and I could make out the sounds of Gabrieli playing on the stereo, but he didn’t respond to my knock or to the doorbell. When I called out to him, the only response I got was from that damn parrot.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want company tonight,” Anatoly suggested. “Maybe he has a guest over and he’s in the middle of enjoying some wine and other pleasures and your presence would have been an intrusion.”
I suppressed a smile. Subtlety was not something that Anatoly was comfortable with.
“I didn’t see any evidence of a guest.”
“How could you see evidence of anything when you’re standing outside a door?” Anatoly continued reasonably.
“Because I have the key to his apartment,” Maria admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “I tried to let myself in, but the chain lock was on. Enrico may want to avoid me, but my trying to come into the condo on my own accord should have thrown him into a rage. I expected a confrontation of some kind. But he didn’t scream at me or even acknowledge my attempt. I’d say that he might not have been home, but then he wouldn’t have left the CD player on.”
“And he wouldn’t have been able to chain lock the door,” I pointed out.
“Well, that would be explainable, but the music…”
Her voice trailed off and Anatoly and I exchanged looks. Last I checked it was a lot easier to leave a stereo on than chain lock a door from the outside. But I didn’t really want to argue the point.
“Maria, I don’t know where Enrico is or why he has his music on,” I said slowly. “All he essentially told me was that he was having a bad day. His exact words were that he was being haunted, whatever that means. He said he was going to be late and then we kind of got into it.”
“You got in an argument? What could you two possibly argue about? You don’t even know one another.” Then her eyes widened in horror. “You didn’t insult his food, did you? Or did you praise another chef? Perhaps you said something nice about Wolfgang Puck. Enrico is very jealous of Wolfgang Puck.”
“Wolfgang never entered into our conversation. I was just a little flippant when he said he was being haunted.”
“Enrico doesn’t believe in ghosts,” Maria said firmly. “He comes to the Specter Society meetings because he finds them amusing…although now I suspect his reasons for coming have more to do with me than anything else.”
“I don’t know anything about any of that,” I said. I was beginning to lose patience with this line of questioning. She was uninvited and she was preventing Anatoly from ravaging me. “All I know is that he told me he was haunted, I made a joke about that and then he called me a fucking bitch and hung up on me.”
“What!” Maria gasped. “But he only uses such profanity for food critics and diet gurus!”
“Yeah, well, I’m neither,” I said drily.
Maria now looked even more agitated than she had when she walked through my door. She started wandering around the room, weaving in and out of boxes like a confused rat aimlessly exploring a maze. “Something is amiss.”
“It might be,” Anatoly agreed. “But it’s not our problem. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
Maria glanced down at the empty wineglasses on the box near where I had been standing and comprehension spread across her countenance. Unfortunately, the comprehension didn’t seem to be mixed with even the slightest bit of acquiescence. “If you’re right,” she said, directing her comments to Anatoly, “if Enrico isn’t answering the door because he specifically doesn’t want to talk to me, then I’m going to need another person to act as my decoy.”
“Forget it,” Anatoly and I said in unison.
“I’ll pay you,” she said quickly. “A hundred dollars. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call him.”
“And if he doesn’t answer?” Anatoly asked.
“I’ll pay you two hundred more to go over to the house and find out what’s going on.”
“Excuse me, but I’m about to invest in a million-dollar property. Three hundred dollars isn’t even enough to pay for the sales tax on my upcoming furniture-shopping spree. If you want a decoy you’re going to have to find someone who is a little more desperate.”
“Me for instance,” Anatoly said.
“You?” I squeaked. “But you already have more business than you can handle!”
“This is a one-night job, correct?” Anatoly asked.
“Yes,” Maria said uncertainly. “Do you do this kind of thing often?”
“I’m a P.I.”
“Like Magnum,” she exclaimed.
I rolled my eyes. “You just gave away your age.”
Maria flushed, but kept her focus on Anatoly. “This is perfect,” she continued. “You can call him and if he’s not available then sneak over, break in and—”
“No,” Anatoly said quickly. “I’m not going to break the law for you. But I will find out if he has a guest.”
“You can do that without breaking in?”
“Of course.” Anatoly smiled. “Magnum did it all the time.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Anatoly mused as we followed Maria through the winding traffic.
Enrico hadn’t answered his phone, not even while Anatoly was leaving a message on his answering machine telling him that he believed someone was in the process of breaking into his restaurant. After that the three of us piled into two cars, Maria into her Mustang and Anatoly and I into my Audi, and we all went over to Enrico’s condo on Telegraph Hill. Since I had been the one doing all the drinking, I had given Anatoly the keys.
“I thought you wanted me to,” I lied. The truth was that I couldn’t stomach the idea of sitting home alone, thinking about the sex I wasn’t having. At least this was distracting. “Besides, it’s not like we’re trying to hunt down the Zodiac Killer,” I noted. “Maria basically hired you to knock on a door and ask if anybody’s home. I don’t see how I could screw that up for you.”
I saw the flash of white teeth as he laughed in the darkness. “You’re underestimating yourself. I’m sure you could screw up anything if you put your mind to it.”
I groaned as he pulled into a spot located only one block away from our destination. “I really hate you, you know that?” I asked lightly.
“I hate you, too,” he whispered. He kissed me and I felt his rough hands gently but firmly pulling my hair back from my face. Anatoly had incredible hands. Watching him knead bread dough was the equivalent of watching a porn flick.
We walked to the condo and found Maria in her car blocking the complex’s garage. She rolled down her window just low enough so she could reach her arm out and shove a set of keys at us. “The silver one’s to the building, the gold one’s to the condo itself. Come down and let me know what he’s up to as soon as you can.”
“No,” Anatoly said simply.
“No?” Maria repeated. “No, what?”
“If you want us to go in there you’re going to have to open the door for us.”
“But that’s preposterous! You yourself suggested that the whole reason Enrico didn’t answer the door earlier is because he didn’t want to see me. If he knows I’m there what’s to keep him from hiding out again?”
“I didn’t say you had to call out to him. But you have to be there. I’m assuming that the reason you have these keys is that this was, until recently, your home. You can argue that you have a legal right to burst into this condo unannounced. Sophie and I can’t make that same claim, not unless we’re there with you, as your guests.”
Maria lowered the window farther and glared up at Anatoly. “No one is that paranoid! What’s the real reason you’re insisting I accompany you?”
“That is a real reason,” he said. A streetlight flickered above us as if struggling to stay awake. “Another real reason,” he went on, “is that I find your motives for hiring me questionable. You’re divorcing Enrico, so why are you so concerned with his well-being? Do you still have feelings for him or did you do something to him and now you want someone else to find him and clean up the mess…or even take the blame?”
“I came to you for help and now you’re accusing me of some kind of crime?” Maria shrieked. “I have never been so insulted! How dare you! You’re completely full of…” Maria shook her head violently, too angry to continue.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is chutzpah,” Anatoly said with a smirk. “Are you coming or should Sophie and I go home and leave you to stew in your Mustang?”
Maria let out something that was between a scoff and a growl before raising her window and thrusting open her door. She didn’t even bother to look at Anatoly or me as she marched to the entrance of the building and unlocked it. She walked in without holding the door open for us.
“What have you gotten us into?” I muttered.
“I got myself into this,” he countered as we followed Maria up three flights of stairs. “I take no responsibility for your decision to come.”
When we reached the top floor of the four-story building, we paused. From the look of it there were only two apartments on this floor, and, as promised, the music of Gabrieli could be heard coming out of one of them. Maria went up to that door and pressed her hand against the wood. “Now what?” she whispered. I started to raise my finger to my lips, but then realized that the volume of the music would allow us to whisper without the fear of being overheard.
“Do you expect me to break through the chain lock for you?” Maria went on.
Instead of answering, Anatoly reached into his pocket and took out a small black object that looked like the kind of magnifying-glass used by jewelers. “What’s that for?” I asked.
“See for yourself.” He gestured for Maria to step aside and then put the object against the peephole. Silently, he invited me to look through it. Upon doing so I discovered that the device reversed the optics of a peephole, making it possible to look into the condo in the same way someone inside would have looked out into the hall. Little gizmos like that always delighted me. It was so very 007.
Anatoly smiled at my obvious pleasure and then took a turn looking through it.
“Well?” Maria asked in the same whispered hiss she had used before. “What do you see?”
“A parrot.”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut in an expression of disgust. “I hate that damn bird. Enrico’s trained it to torment me, you know. He used to instruct it to steal my soy nuts.”
I did a quick double take. “You’re not serious.”
“This would be a good time to open the door,” Anatoly said, locking eyes with Maria.
“I told you, the chain lock is on.”
“It was on,” Anatoly corrected. “There’s no reason to assume that’s still the case, unless you know something you’re not telling us.”
Maria’s glare became a little more venomous. In one swift movement she stuck her key in the lock and pushed the door open…or at least she opened it as much as possible, considering that the chain really was on.
“See?” she said with an I-told-you-so smirk. Anatoly shrugged and reached into the pocket of his jacket again. This time he took out a thin rectangular mirror that was roughly as long as his palm. He leaned against the doorjamb and stuck the mirror through the slit in the door.
“Can you see anything beyond the bird?” I asked.
“Not much—a sofa, the television. I can see the doorway leading to the kitchen and…uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?” Maria and I said at the same time. We were no longer whispering.
Anatoly withdrew the mirror and stood up. “Does Enrico usually take naps on the kitchen floor?”
“Of course not!” Maria replied. “Why do…My God, is he lying on the floor of the kitchen?”
Without waiting for Anatoly to answer she began to pound on the door. “Enrico! Enrico, answer me! This isn’t funny anymore. Open this door!” Then, she pursed her lips and whistled. “Giovanni, sweetie, open door. Open door, Giovanni.”
I looked at Anatoly. “Is she talking to the parrot?”
Anatoly didn’t answer. Instead he pushed Maria out of the way, took three steps back and in a rush of motion broke the chain on his first try.
Maria rushed past him to the kitchen where, from the front door you could see the loafered feet of a man lying on his back. For a split second I hoped that maybe Enrico was just passed out in a drunken stupor, but Maria’s scream put an end to my optimism. Anatoly went to her and when I heard him swear loudly in Russian I knew we had trouble.
Maria let out another penetrating scream and a man from the condo next door stepped out into the hall. “What’s going on?” he asked. A wet mat of gray hair clung to his scalp as he tightened the belt of his terry-cloth robe.
“Nothing good,” I said quietly. I reluctantly stepped in and, passing the impassive parrot, walked into the kitchen. Maria was hysterical and Anatoly was trying to drag her away from what was on the floor.
It was a body, presumably the body of Enrico. There was little question that he was dead. No one could lose that much blood and live. And the way that it caked on his throat, bringing grim attention to the gash that had been made there—it was too sick. And there was the murder weapon, lying beside him caked in the blood it had spilled. Not a knife, but an honest-to-God scythe. The kind that you would expect someone to carry while dressed up like the grim reaper on Halloween, except this blade wasn’t plastic. Above the globs of crusted red blood there was the unmistakable gleam of real steel.
“Maria, we have to call the police,” Anatoly was saying as he struggled not to slip in the pool of body fluids on the floor. “We don’t want to disturb the crime scene any more than we already have.” His hands were around her waist and, considering his significantly bigger size, he should have been able to pull her away easily. But Maria was flailing like a panicked swimmer on the verge of drowning. She was knocking things off the counter, a large bowl of washed arugola, a plate of half-made hors d’oeuvres, it all fell into the blood as she clamored to get free. I stepped around Enrico and grabbed one of her arms just as she reached back in an attempt to claw at Anatoly’s face.
“Let me go!” she cried. “I have to help him!”
“You can’t,” Anatoly breathed as he finally got a firmer hold of her and together we dragged her out of the room. “All you can do is calm down and call the police.”
She tried to claw at him again, but he managed to pin her to the floor. “Call the police, Sophie.”
“I think someone else may have already done that.” I gestured to the staircase and now, in addition to the little man still standing in his bathrobe, there was a small collection of people standing in the stairwell, looking aghast. “Did any of you call the police?” I asked.
It was a moment before anyone spoke, but eventually an elderly woman who couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-five pounds, stepped forward with her hands on her hips. “Why is your friend assaulting that poor woman?” she asked.
“I’m not assaulting her,” Anatoly yelled back. “I’m trying to keep her from messing up the crime scene. Now, if it hasn’t been done already, call the damn police!” But he clipped the last word short and his head immediately jerked up and he stared across the apartment.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Sophie, when you came in, did you see any open windows?”
“No. My guess is that if there was an open window the bird would have found it long before us.”
“But the bird didn’t find it,” Anatoly muttered. “And the chain lock was on the door.”
Maria wasn’t yelling or struggling anymore, and when Anatoly carefully released her she curled up in a little ball and began to sob.
“Do you think he’s still in there?” I asked.
“Who’s still in there?” screeched the old lady from the stairwell. “Was somebody robbed? We all didn’t haul ourselves out of bed for nothing, we want to know what’s going on!”
“Should we go in and check it out?” I asked. I was praying that the answer was no. I liked investigating crimes, but I didn’t like confronting murderers. It had been my experience that they weren’t very friendly people.
“That depends,” Anatoly said. “Has anyone called the police?”
“I have.” I turned to see a tall, heavyset man with small wire-rimmed glasses push his way past the other people. With effort, he managed to sit on the ground by Maria’s side. “Maria, they should be here soon. Are you all right?”
“Toby?” she croaked.
He let out a gentle laugh. “You lived here for years and never remembered my name. Now you’ve been out of the building for two months and it rolls off your tongue.”
“Can anyone tell me if there’s any other way out of this condo other than this door?” Anatoly called out.
“Just the door,” bathrobe man confirmed.
“Good, and I can see the fire escape from that window so no one can get on it without my noticing.” Anatoly pointed to the window at the other end of the hall. “If the killer’s in there he’s trapped. We’ll wait for the authorities to arrive. They’ll handle it.”
The word killer was echoed in a series of whispers throughout the stairwell.
“They murdered Enrico,” Maria whimpered. She was still in the fetal position and Toby was rubbing her back. “Someone…someone took my beloved amore from me!”
“So that’s it then?” Toby asked, looking up at us, “Enrico’s really dead?”
Anatoly nodded just as we heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. I silently prayed that the murderer was still around, hiding in the dark corners of Enrico’s condo. As creepy as it was to think that someone so violent could be so close, I was also aware of how all this was going to look to the police if they didn’t immediately catch the killer. If the fact that I had discovered two dead bodies in a short period of time bothered me, it was sure to bother the police even more.
“You fucking bitch.”
I jumped and then peered into Enrico’s apartment from where the voice came…not a human voice, but the voice of that seemingly mild-mannered bird now perched on top of the sofa. He stared at me with his sharp avian eyes and repeated, “You fucking bitch.”
The bird went out of focus as did everything else. For a moment all I could see was blurred colors and the vague forms of the things and people around me as I was transported back hours earlier to that phone call. “Anatoly,” I finally managed. “I heard it.”
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Kyra Davis
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Mystery writer and dabbling recreational sleuth Sophie Katz is head over heels in love–with a three-bedroom Victorian.She′s just got to have it, despite a few drawbacks. Her slimy ex is the Realtor. The rich, creepy seller wants her to join San Francisco′s spirited Specter Society. And her first tour of the house reveals, well, a lifeless body clutching a cameo with a disturbing history of its own.There′s no way Sophie is going to give up the ghost on her dreams of stained glass and original woodwork, though–even when things become officially weird. A Society member is found with a slashed throat, and Sophie′s house might as well be yelling, «GET…OUT!»She′s hearing footsteps, lights are turning themselves off and her stuff keeps moving inexplicably. To top it off, boyfriend Anatoly thinks it′s all in her head. Sophie is 99 percent sure her problems are caused by someone six feet tall instead of six feet under, but the only way to be sure is to track down the killer–before he pushes her kicking and screaming to the other side….