by Jenn Bennett
“Oh sure. Noble. Failing every class really proved my independence.”
“You certainly aren’t simpleminded, Astrid. But you have to attend class to learn.”
“I know. I just . . .” She stared at her hands and let the words spill out. “I hate it there. I hate the city. Hate the school. I don’t know what I’m doing there—don’t know why I’m even going. Everyone around me seems to know what they’re good at. You and Lowe have Egypt, and Winter and Bo have the businesses. My dormitory mate, Jane, wants to be a teacher. I don’t know what I’m good at. All my female friends are either engaged, married, or working until they find someone to marry. And everyone at college wants a career. But me? I just feel like my life is spiraling out of control.”
Hadley pulled Astrid’s chin up with two fingers. “It is not, I promise you. It only feels that way. Perhaps the southern campus is not for you. And marriage isn’t something one does with their life.”
Easy for her to say. No laws prevented her from being with Lowe. But Astrid didn’t say this. They weren’t that close.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Hadley said. “Marriage is a beautiful, wonderful thing, when done for the right reason, but it’s not a substitute for finding your place in this world. You are brimming with possibility. You just need to figure out what it is you want to do. That won’t happen overnight.”
“What if it never happens?”
“Think about it over the holidays. If you want to meet with me at the museum, my door is open. Easier to sit down and talk about it when”—she nodded toward the boys—“no one’s listening. But one more thing I have to ask. Have you ever thought about asking Aida to channel your mother? You mentioned that she would be disappointed in you, but I doubt that’s true. And you have a rare opportunity to find out.”
Astrid stuffed the university letter in her coat pocket. “I don’t know. Aida’s offered to do that for all of us, but it might be . . . strange. Greta says the dead should stay that way, and maybe the old battle-ax is right.”
Hadley gave her a soft smile. “Maybe she is.”
ELEVEN
Bo sneaked a glance at Astrid when he was waiting to pull out of the Anthropology annex parking lot. She was upset, but he couldn’t figure out why. Only that she’d been distressed when she was speaking privately with Hadley . . . and that she’d been speaking privately with Hadley. Since when had the two of them become confidantes? Though he’d come to know and appreciate Hadley’s cool demeanor—which was not as cool as she wanted you to believe—he couldn’t for the life of him think what the two of them were discussing.
“Planning on following in your brother’s footsteps and digging up mummies?”
“What’s that?”
“You and Hadley.”
“Oh no. That was nothing.”
“The same kind of nothing that is bothering you now?”
She nodded and stared out the window.
After several blocks of silence, he said, “You used to talk to me about those things.”
“Yes, well, everything I do or say is likely to be reported to Lowe or Winter, so . . .”
“That’s not true. I didn’t tell Winter about Gris-Gris last night. And I damn well should have, because a man attacked you, and what would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“He didn’t have a weapon.”
“So he couldn’t have possibly hurt you.”
“Magnussons don’t cower. That’s what Pappa always told me.”
“Cower, no. But chucking caution out the window is just plain stupid. I don’t want you going out alone in the city until we find out who the hell Max is and what he wants. It’s not safe.”
Anger tightened her eyes. “Since when did you become the boss of me?”
“Since when did you stop caring about my opinion?”
Sulking, she turned her head and ran a gloved finger over her fogged-up window. After a long moment she said, “We never finished our conversation last night.”
Yes, he knew. He hadn’t forgotten for even a moment. “Mm.”
“Is Sylvia your girlfriend?” she asked calmly.
“I already told you. She’s just a friend.”
“Have you slept with her?”
He paused too long. He knew it, and yet . . . he didn’t know what to say. She’d never asked him anything so personal.
He slowed at a stop sign and turned the corner. The flooding was worse here, so he drove in the middle of the road to avoid pools of water. “I shouldn’t have brought her to Gris-Gris. I was . . . I don’t know. There was the wristwatch, but then you were going dancing, and I was confused. You always confuse me.”
“You always confuse me.”
He slanted a glance toward her face and restrained a smile. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“That depends,” she said, adjusting the fit of her glove. “Am I the chicken or egg?”
“I think maybe we’re both chickens.”
She snorted a little laugh and relaxed against the seat. “You might be right.”
Neither of them said anything else until he pulled into the Magnussons’ driveway. He put the car in idle and they both stared ahead.
“I guess I better be heading to work now.” He considered telling her that the nurse at the hospital had given him Mrs. Cushing’s address, but she’d want to accompany him if he admitted that he was heading over there to see what he could find out. The protective part of him worried that it wasn’t safe for her to be seen there. So he said nothing.
“Bo?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s what?”
“Pardon?”
“Last night you started to say something to me. You said ‘Let’s,’ and then Greta . . .”
The screen door on the side porch slammed. Winter was heading toward the car—probably wanting a ride to the warehouse. Bo cursed the big man’s timing.
“Never mind,” Astrid said glumly.
“Wait.” Bo grabbed her arm as she reached for the door handle. “Let’s pretend we’re other people. That’s what I was going to say.”
She stared at him for a long moment, lips parted, cheeks stained pink. His wildly beating heart felt as if it were trying to outpace the quick rise and fall of her chest. And as Winter strolled around the front of the car, she slid her hand over his for a fleeting, impossibly brief moment (soft skin, slender fingers, gentle squeeze).
It was the smallest thing.
It was everything.
Permission.
Bo squeezed her hand in reply, and then she let go and exited in a whirl of flowing coat and skirt. The last things he saw were the delicate lines that ran down the backs of her stockings.
—
Mrs. Cushing lived in a grand sandstone-faced manor overlooking the Presidio. An hour after dropping off Astrid, Bo stared up at the manor from his car and knew he had no chance of getting inside. An ornate iron fence and sculpted bushes blocked most of the home’s entrance from the street, and standing guard at the gate beneath a gated portico were two bulky men.
Were the guards just to keep reporters at bay? Bo didn’t know. He also didn’t see any automobiles. No license plate numbers to trace. No sign of anyone at all, except for the guards.
And yet.
One of those guards looked familiar. Bo pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. “Little Mike?”
A tall, bald man leaned down and squinted into the car. “I’ll be damned. Bo Yeung,” he said with a wide smile. “What you doin’ down here, son?”
“Looking for someone. Thought you were working at Izzy Gomez’s speakeasy?”
“Still there. This is just a part-time job. Getting paid well to stand in the rain for five hours and tell reporters to hit the road. You here about the boat that was lost at sea? Heard it crashed
into your pier.”
“That it did. The owner of the boat, Mrs. Cushing—she employ the two of you?”
“Supposedly, but we’ve never met her. Fella by the name of Dan hired all of us. Her houseboy, from the looks of him. He tells us where to show up, pays us under the table.”
“Ever see a man around here named Max?” Bo asked.
“Is that one of them boat survivors?”
Bo described Max, and the guard’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah, that could be one of them, but his name isn’t Max—it’s Kit Manson. Deadbeat gambler who used to stir up trouble at Izzy Gomez’s. Had a dope habit. Heroin, I think. Last time I saw him was more than a year ago, but when they brought the survivors in here, I could’ve sworn it was him. Tried to say something to him, but he didn’t remember me. Either it’s his twin brother, or whatever happened to them at sea really messed up his mind.”
“You don’t say,” Bo muttered. “Been a year since you seen this Kit Manson fellow . . . You remember where he lived?”
“He didn’t have a permanent place. Whatever boardinghouse or room for rent he could find that would take him until he stopped paying. Last time I saw him, he said he got an invitation to a secret club in Jackson Square. Said it was going to change his life, make him rich.”
“Jackson Square?” That part of town used to be the red-light district—the infamous Barbary Coast. Gambling, whoring, drinking, dancing. Whatever your vice, the Barbary Coast had it for sale, once upon a time. “That whole area has been a ghost town since Prohibition started and the police cracked down on it.”
“That’s why I didn’t pay much attention to Kit when he said it. He was a dope fiend. He could’ve dreamed it all up. When he disappeared, we thought he’d finally overdosed, if you want to know the truth.”
“Did he say anything else about it? Where this secret club was?”
“Not really. Oh! He said the club was called Pieces of Eight, or some fool thing like that. Never could tell with Kit. He wasn’t always present up here,” the big man said, tapping his temple.
Pieces of Eight? Bo didn’t know what any of this meant, but it reminded him of a book he owned, sitting on the top shelf in his room: Treasure Island. Pirates and cursed Aztec gold. Astrid’s Aztec turquoise idol had golden eyes. And if it really was that Max fellow hanging around there, Bo wondered if this was the connection they hadn’t been able to fit together—rich widow, strange occult rituals, missing people . . .
He couldn’t wait to tell Astrid.
Do not think of her hand on yours. Focus.
Bo tried to pry more information out of the guard, but that was everything the man knew, so he finally asked, “So you never see any of the other boat survivors around here, either hanging around the house or coming and going?”
Little Mike tilted his head toward the other guard. “Jack says he heard from another hired man that they all left last night after dark.”
That surprised Bo. “Where did they go?”
“No idea. Dan might. Whether he’ll tell you is another story. He’s pretty tight-lipped. We aren’t allowed in the house, but I can knock on the servants’ entrance, ask if he’ll come out and talk.”
That sounded like a terrible idea. He didn’t want Mrs. Cushing to know he’d been snooping around, so he politely declined Little Mike’s offer. “I’d rather you never mention I was here. If anyone asks, I was just some hayseed who got turned around, looking for directions into the Presidio, yeah?”
“You got it, Bo.” The big man tipped his cap and gave him a smile. “You say jump, half the city asks how high.”
—
The next day, Bo left early to have a look around Jackson Square. Not much to see but several closed-up old dance halls and a few beggars. Two of the dance halls still operated, the Hippodrome and Babel’s Tower, but they were dives, constantly being raided. Not playlands for the wealthy. He wasn’t sure what he was even looking for—something that looked amiss, maybe. Or a place that didn’t look like it was ten years past its prime. But nothing caught his eye, and after he sat in his car, observing the half-flooded streets from afar for a couple of hours, he gave up and went back home to Pacific Heights.
He had plans.
After searching the Queen Anne, he found Astrid in the top of the turret, curled up on the cushioned window seat that housed their secret hiding place, reading a local fashion magazine. And though he knew she must hear him approaching—no one ever came up here except the two of them and the occasional maid—she turned the magazine’s pages faster and faster, preening the soft blond waves that were molded against her head and styled back behind her ears, until she could pretend no longer and blinked up at him with those almond-shaped blue eyes of hers.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your literary time.”
Her expression shifted to comically feigned reproach as she snapped the magazine shut. “I looked for you this morning at breakfast, but Greta said you took off at dawn. Thought maybe you regretted what you said yesterday.”
“Not one bit,” Bo said, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped closer and peered down at her. “Do you? Regret it, that is.”
“Not one bit,” she repeated. She was dressed in aquamarine today. Long strands of faceted beryl beads hung between softly swelling breasts. Do not linger here, he warned himself. He checked her wrist—he just couldn’t help himself—and was rewarded with the flash of silver he yearned to see.
Permission.
“What would you say to spending a couple of hours in a jungle?” he asked.
“A jungle?”
He nodded, waiting for her to catch on. “You’ve been cooped up in here for too long. If we can’t enjoy this cheery drizzle outside, we can . . . pretend we’re outside in a tropical garden.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Golden Gate Park. Wait, what if it’s flooded? Hadley said the lake was.”
“I telephoned. It’s open. And ‘deader than a doornail,’ according to the woman who answered. What do you say? I’ll tell you all about what I was doing this morning on the way over there.” He waggled his brows, and said in a low voice, “It involves a pirate club.”
Now he had her. She rose to her feet and stood inches away from him. For a moment, his brain went loopy, and he considered pulling her up against him and kissing the daylights out of her. Distant muffled chatter from the floor below them reminded him that this might not be the wisest of plans.
“Take me to the jungle,” she said in a soft, throaty voice, and his heart roared with excitement.
TWELVE
Sitting atop a hill studded with palms, the domed Conservatory of Flowers was a great, frilly skeleton of white wood and glass. When Bo was younger, and had just started making deliveries for Winter—deliveries that took him into new parts of the city he’d never seen—he’d thought the Victorian-era building looked like an enormous wedding cake. Today it looked decidedly less festive, streaked with rain and bereft of visitors, but just as inviting as ever. Especially with Astrid on his arm.
He huddled under an umbrella with her as they sloshed from their parking space, traipsing past manicured lawns puddling with water. Fields of pansies were flooded, and a display of flowers on the face of a hill that had once been carefully groomed to spell out MERRY CHRISTMAS 1928 now looked like a drowned rat with a head cold.
None of that mattered, though. Because inside the gabled entry it was dry and warm, and the bored docent at the ticket desk who may or may not have discreetly turned Bo away on a busier day didn’t even give him a second look. She only momentarily came to life when Bo plopped down a bill five times the entry fee and told her to keep the change. They were given a printed brochure describing the exhibits, and then forgotten. And upon stepping inside the main gallery, Bo quickly realized:
They were the on
ly visitors.
And they were completely alone.
In public.
Buddha, Osiris, and Jehovah were all smiling down upon him.
“Ooaf,” Astrid said, peeling off her damp coat in the steamy heat that dripped water onto ferns and primeval jungle plants. “I forgot how warm it is in here. Feels marvelous. And it’s so beautiful. I don’t know what to look at first. Can you imagine living in a world like this? I can practically imagine dinosaurs hiding behind that . . . whats-a-doodle. Oh, the sign says ‘philodendron.’ Fifty years old! How marvelous . . .”
Bo couldn’t hold back his smile. For maybe the first time since she’d come home, Astrid was spilling words faster than she could think. She was radiant, head tilting this way and that as her gaze scanned the thousands of glass panels circling the conservatory’s dome above and the lush tropical foliage below.
She was happy.
And in Bo’s proud mind, he gave all of this to her—him, Yeung Bo-Sing. It didn’t belong to the city; it was his. His to share with her. To provide escape from the all the nastiness of the turquoise idol and the gruesome visions, all the anguish and uncertainty they’d faced in reuniting. All the long months they’d spent apart.
It all just lifted away with the tropical steam.
“What’s the plan?” Astrid said, running her hand over a fern frond.
“Plan?”
“Well, you said no more talking about the idol and the survivors and the pirate club once we got here. You said it was an adventure, and you said yesterday we should pretend we’re other people, so we must be playing roles. The real Bo would never ask me out on a date.”
She had that wrong. The real him would. The real him would have already married her and whisked her off on a yearlong honeymoon around the world. Society and circumstance did not allow him to be himself.
“Let’s see. If we didn’t already know each other, how would we have met? I think it must have been at Gris-Gris,” Astrid said, deciding upon their story. “You were staring at me dancing. I was so enchanting, you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.”
