Happy Medium: (Intermix)

by Meg Benjamin

  She stalked back to the hall, her stilettos echoing on the wooden floor. Ray only hoped she wasn’t leaving dents as she went.

  Emma turned to him, her eyes bleak. “That’s it, I’m afraid. She’s not going to change her mind.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. You tried. If she gets eaten by a succubus, it’s her tough luck.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Eaten . . .”

  “I’m kidding. I think. Come back here when you can. I’ll try to rustle up some chairs for you. But I’m leaving by four thirty. If you can’t get back by then, don’t come here. Go straight to Rosie’s.”

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be back before then. I’m sorry, Ray.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I know. Still.”

  “Emma, where are you? I need to get back to the hotel.” Gabrielle’s voice echoed irritably from the foyer. “I told you I had a dinner date. You can chat up the owner later.”

  Ray stiffened. All of a sudden letting the succubus have Gabrielle sounded like a fair idea, even though he couldn’t figure why the succubus would want her.

  “See you,” Emma said quickly. She turned and trotted down the hall, her sensible shoes clattering as she went.

  Ray sighed. He missed the flip-flops. And the jeans. And the T-shirts. And he sure as hell missed life without Gabrielle DeVere. The séance had every chance of being a disaster, but they’d still have to go through with it.

  He climbed the stairs and started pulling the few remaining chairs out of the bedrooms. Maybe removing the chairs from the upper level would mean the succubus would have nowhere to sit, assuming that ghosts ever sat. Anything to make life here less comfortable.

  Emma got back a little after four. She surveyed the dining room with a critical eye. “Gabrielle’s right, much as I loathe having to admit it. These walls look really barren. I guess I’ll grab some of the pictures from the storeroom and put them in here. Do you have anything to hang them with so we don’t have to pound nails?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some adhesive hooks. They should work as long as the pictures aren’t too heavy.”

  He dug through his toolbox for the hooks while she headed to the storeroom, returning with a stack of framed pictures. She glanced around the room when she came in, as if she was measuring the shadows. “We probably shouldn’t stay much longer. Let me see how these will work and then we can hang them tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

  She picked up the landscape with the heavy gold frame. The blobs that had looked like sheep before now looked more like patches of ice. Emma grimaced. “It’s ugly, but it fits the room. Anyway, the frame will probably get more attention than the picture.” She leaned the painting against one wall, then picked up one of the calendar illustrations, the one of the Scotties.

  Ray gave it a dubious look. “Really?”

  “Gabrielle won’t notice, trust me. And it’s big. It should fill up a sizeable chunk of the empty wall.” She propped it on the other side.

  He watched her dig through two or three more paintings, smaller ones that looked like they could be grouped effectively. She leaned them along the woodwork, squinting in the afternoon light. “These will make a nice background. We may want to put them where they’ll be in the shot along with Gabrielle and the séance table.”

  “Who else is going to be at this séance? She’s not going to make us do it, is she?” He shuddered. God only knew what they might call up if they combined forces again.

  Emma shook her head. “We’ve got people who write in to the show, wanting to be part of the séances. I’ve already contacted a couple of them who live in the area. The rest of the people at the table will be members of the crew. They do it all the time.”

  “How many in all?”

  She shrugged. “Four or five. With the size of the table, I’d guess four plus Gabrielle.”

  “Will they think it’s real?”

  “The visitors from around here may think so. The crew knows better.”

  “Or they did until now.” He grimaced.

  She sighed, then leaned down to sort through the pictures again, bringing up the hair flowers.

  Ray shook his head. “Good Lord, are you really going to use that one?”

  “It’s authentic.”

  “It’s gruesome.”

  She cocked her head, studying the flowers. “Maybe. Sort of. Although I don’t think this is one of the memorial ones that was made from a dead loved one’s hair. Those usually had the name of the dead person somewhere in the picture.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s one thing in its favor.”

  “Actually, I think Gabrielle might like it. It’s just macabre enough to appeal to her. She likes it when things get a little weird. Helps set the mood.” She propped the raised glass frame with the hair flowers on the far side of the room. “That should do it. I decided not to use Amina’s portrait.”

  His jaw tightened. “Yeah. I think that was probably a good decision.”

  “Should we go?”

  He nodded. “Best move on while the sun’s still up.” He slipped his hand under her jacket and put his arm around her waist. “You don’t have to wear a suit when you’re off duty, do you?”

  “Nope. I’ll put on my jeans and T-shirt as soon as we get back to Rosie’s.”

  “Good.” He settled his hand in the middle of her back, guiding her up the hall to the front door. “Let’s head back there now, then.”

  He paused after they’d stepped across the threshold to dig out his key. For a moment, he thought he saw movement in the shadows near the end of the hall at the entrance to the dining room. He started to lean closer, then stopped. There was really nothing there he wanted to see—not anymore. He pulled the door closed and twisted the key firmly in the lock.

  Chapter 21

  The setup at the Hampton house seemed to take a lot longer than it should have the next day. Emma had still hoped she might be able to get Gabrielle to shoot earlier in the afternoon, maybe by convincing Willis, the director, to try for some long shadows. But Willis complained bitterly about the natural light and the way it interfered with the “atmospherics” of the room, then set about blocking out as much of the backyard view as he could.

  She couldn’t see any particular atmospherics herself—the room still looked dull and vaguely shabby even after she and Ray had hung the pictures on the walls. On the other hand, it looked a little more like a room someone might have once lived in. And possibly died in, given the bleak backyard with its dead tree and occasional owl.

  “Where’s Gabrielle?” Willis snapped. “She needs to make some decisions about sequencing and we need to shoot the exteriors. Did you finish the script for the lead-in?”

  The lead-in was the section of the show where Gabrielle laid out the story of the house and the ghosts that supposedly lived there. Writing it was Emma’s job once she’d finished her research on the location. She’d worked on it last night after dinner, but it still wasn’t right.

  She dug into her tote bag. “I wrote it yesterday. Gabrielle hasn’t seen it yet. Or approved it.”

  Willis took it from her and glanced at the opening line. His lips flattened into a dry smile as he began to read aloud, dropping his voice to sound more dramatic.

  “San Antonio’s King William District—a prestigious address from the nineteenth century until the present. But hiding behind these beautiful facades you’ll find tragedy, and sometimes shocking scandal as well.” He raised an eyebrow. “‘Shocking scandal’?”

  Emma shrugged. “It was shocking in 1927, okay?”

  Willis narrowed his eyes as he began to read again. “That’s the case in the mysterious death of Amina, the scorned lover.” He glanced at Emma again. “Why no last name? Is she real?”

  “She was very real, b
ut the guy she was involved with still has family living around here. I didn’t think we wanted to get them upset. They might head for a lawyer. Besides, not using last names gives it a kind of old-timey feel.” Or she hoped it did. She had no idea if the remaining San Antonio Grunewalds were actually related to Livingston, but she was betting they were. It wasn’t exactly a common name.

  Willis grimaced, but kept on reading. “Here in this house, the beautiful Amina became the mistress of the debonair Livingston. They lived happily throughout the late 1920s until the neighbors caught on to their love nest and notified Livingston’s wealthy father. Daddy laid down the law—the mistress had to go. How did Livingston tell Amina about his father’s orders? We don’t know. But we do know he broke her heart when he did.” Willis paused to raise an eyebrow again before he went on reading. “That night Livingston returned from an evening on the town to find his former mistress hanging from a noose in the bedroom they’d once shared. He left the house a broken man. But did Amina leave? Or does she remain, still waiting for Livingston to come back to her? Perhaps tonight we’ll find out when we try to reach her on American Medium. I’m Gabrielle DeVere. Join me in our séance in San Antonio’s colorful King William District.”

  Willis looked like he’d just bitten into something sour, but he shrugged. “No more melodramatic than usual, I guess. And melodrama is our specialty.”

  Something thumped to the floor behind them, and Emma jumped.

  “Sorry. Must have slipped.” A crew member leaned down to pick up a heavy bronze vase she’d rented from the same furniture store that had supplied the table.

  Emma took a deep breath to calm her hammering pulse, then retrieved her script from the table where Willis had tossed it. She’d spent a lot of time trying to decide whether to include the murder in the lead-in. Calling Amina’s death a suicide was relatively safe. After all, she’d found a reference to it from the detective who’d supposedly investigated the case, although that investigation had turned out to be pretty lame. Livingston’s relatives might complain about his reputation being sullied, but the suicide was on record.

  The murder, on the other hand, was dicey, given that their source was a ghost. A ghost with intimate knowledge, but a ghost nonetheless. Emma had decided to settle for a few vague innuendos about Amina’s death being mysterious. Maybe Gabrielle could play up the mystery even if they didn’t spell out exactly what was so mysterious about it.

  She wandered back through the house, watching the production crew set up, wondering if there was any way they could get through the evening without a disaster.

  Ray had disappeared upstairs almost as soon as they’d arrived. Now she could hear the sound of his hammer occasionally. Maybe he was warding the other rooms—not that it would do much good if the succubus decided to put in an appearance. She could just imagine the response she’d get if she tried to explain that the voluptuous lady offering her favors to the crew was something out of a nightmare.

  Gabrielle finally strolled into the house at two, wearing another one of the outfits she used when she wanted to look like a medium—a full skirt, long sleeves with trailing cuffs, and a low-cut bodice with a dangling pendant that looked vaguely antique. Her hair was up in a deliberately messy French twist, and she wore chandelier earrings that sparkled in the sunlight. If she could bring herself to smile for a few seconds, she might actually look glamorous.

  On the other hand, expecting her to smile was apparently a nonstarter. Her dinner date last night must have included some cosmos and perhaps a glass or two of champagne. Today she looked slightly green around the edges. She glanced over the lead-in script, and then handed it back to Emma, shaking her head. “Why is it so vague? I thought the woman hung herself and then came back as a ghost. Why don’t we just say so?”

  Emma gathered her patience. “There were some questions about whether she really committed suicide or was killed by her lover, only we can’t be too explicit because the lover’s family still lives in the area and they might be upset if we implied that their ancestor was a murderer.”

  “Murder is much more interesting. And it was almost a hundred years ago. I really doubt the family will object. Let’s go with that.”

  Emma started to argue, but then found herself shrugging. It was Gabrielle’s show. If she got sued, it would be her problem.

  Gabrielle sauntered past her toward the dining room. “Rewrite it now, Emma. I want it in ten minutes so that we can start getting set up outside. Or maybe in back. Under that dead tree. Maybe we could hang a noose from one of the branches.”

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment. Never let it be said that we let good taste get in the way of a good scandal. Good taste never seemed to be much of a concern on American Medium. She added a couple of sentences to the script, then tracked Gabrielle down in the dining room.

  She was regarding the table critically, her head on one side. “Oh dear, this still isn’t right. It looks like something out of someone’s basement.”

  Emma drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. “I rented it from an antique store here in town. It’s from the 1920s—from the King William District, in fact.”

  “Well, perhaps you can use a tablecloth or something to cover it up. I can’t work with a table that looks tacky. I won’t be able to do anything—it will interfere with my concentration. I’m not really happy with the rest of the room either, but at least you got something on the walls.” She took a brief survey of the pictures. “What is that thing?”

  Emma shrugged. “Hair flowers. Probably from the nineteenth century.”

  Gabrielle grimaced. “Ugly as handmade sin, as my grandmother used to say.” She gestured toward the oil painting in the ornate frame. “What’s that a picture of?”

  “I’m not sure. Sheep?”

  Gabrielle narrowed her eyes. “Oh dear, it looks like Scotland. I told you English ghosts were no good.”

  Emma gritted her teeth. There was really no point in getting into that argument again. “I added some sentences at the end of the script. Do you want to look them over?”

  “Let me see.” Gabrielle extended a taloned hand. She’d gone with the hot pink nail polish this time.

  Emma handed her the sheet, then watched Gabrielle read it over. After a moment, she turned to the room, one hand pressed to her chest as she read.

  “That’s one version of the story,” she intoned. “Others have said that Livingston took matters into his own hands and killed Amina when she wouldn’t leave him, staging her death to look like a suicide. The police were content to believe that the unhappy mistress killed herself, and Livingston left the house a broken man. But did Amina leave? Or does she remain, waiting for Livingston to come back to her? Perhaps tonight we’ll find out the truth when we try to reach her on American Medium. I’m Gabrielle DeVere. Join me in our séance in San Antonio’s colorful King William District.”

  Gabrielle sighed. “Oh well, it’s cheesy, but I suppose that will have to do.”

  Emma bit down hard to keep from asking when cheesy had been considered a bad thing at American Medium.

  Across the room, a candleholder fell from the mantle, smashing on the hearth in front of the fireplace.

  “Damn it, who put that candleholder on the edge like that where it could tip over? That was from the property room in Houston. I brought it down myself. Now we’ll have to find another one to replace it.” Gabrielle stalked back down the hall, shouting for Willis.

  Emma stood rooted in place, both hands pressed to her lips. The candleholder hadn’t been on the edge, and it hadn’t tipped over. It had taken the slightest of hops and then flown to the floor, shattering on impact.

  She closed her eyes. If this room wasn’t safe, what room was?

  You’re nothing. You’re less than nothing, the voice whispered. He’ll leave you soon.

  Emma stiffened. “I know it’s you,” she muttered. “This won�
��t work.”

  He’ll leave you because you’re nothing, the voice hissed viciously. You’re pitiful. Look at yourself. A fat frump. He doesn’t want you.

  Emma’s shoulders tightened. She shook her head.

  He’ll leave you. Why would he stay? What could possibly make him want you?

  Her breath rattled in her throat, her hands fisting at her sides.

  I could help you. I could make him want you. The voice was smoother now. Almost seductive. Once he’d experienced what I can do, he’d never leave.

  Emma shook her head, her heart hammering almost painfully. “Like you helped Amina? No thanks.”

  An image flashed through her mind—Ray naked beneath her, staring up with glazed, adoring eyes. He’d never leave. She’d never have to worry. She’d have him always, all hers. No matter how fat she was. No matter how ugly.

  All hers. Until the succubus consumed them both.

  Emma closed her eyes. “No. I won’t. No.”

  You’re nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  She turned toward the door, running, half-blind with tears.

  One of the crew members appeared with a broom and dustpan to sweep up the broken glass from around the fireplace. He stared at her curiously, but tears weren’t all the unusual around Gabrielle.

  Emma took a breath, bracing her hand against the doorjamb as she stepped into the hall. Pull it together. If she moved fast, she might be able to get upstairs to talk to Ray before Gabrielle came back. He needed to know that the wards weren’t working, at least not on this floor. That the succubus was in the séance room.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t move quickly enough. Gabrielle reappeared at the end of the hall, followed by Willis.

  “After he finishes cleaning that mess, we’ll need a fire.” She gestured toward the crew member sweeping up the glass slivers. “A big one. Something that casts lots of good shadows.”

  Emma blinked. “It’s ninety-seven degrees outside.”

  “Well, we’ll just turn up the air-conditioning. I want a fire.” Gabrielle shook her head, turning back to the director. “What kind of blocking can we do in here?”