How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  When the EMTs arrived moments later, Mother and I backed out of their way. I saw tears form in my mother’s eyes as she stood a few feet from the ailing man. Grasping her hand, I pulled her over to another booth and sat her down. She’d recently lost three of her friends—two from the care center and one a longtime friend from her partying days—and each time the deaths had hit her hard. I wondered how much Stephen had come to mean to her in such a short time. And whether or not she could take another loss.

  One of the EMTs questioned Jonathan about his father’s previous condition, while the other gave Stephen oxygen and started an IV. Moments later the older man was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled out to the ambulance waiting at the curb.

  Jonathan followed, giving me a quick glance on the way out. I nodded in return. After he disappeared into the back of the ambulance, I turned to Mother who had regained her composure. Together we listened, stunned, to the sound of fading sirens.

  “Oh, Presley, do you think Stephen’s going to be all right?” she asked, rising from her seat. “He’s such a nice man. Oh dear.” Again her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mom,” I reassured her. “The doctors will take good care of him. Let’s get you home.” My words felt hollow. I knew nothing about strokes, other than one of my stepfathers, Van, had died from one. I was only five at the time.

  I held the diner door open and Mother shuffled through, clutching her Coach handbag as if it were a lifeline.

  As we walked up the street, she kept repeating the word “fast.” I could tell she was agitated when she rattled on like that.

  “Mother, are you all right?”

  “Yes, darling. I’m fine.”

  “You keep saying ‘fast.’ Are you in a hurry?”

  “No, no. I’m just remembering what we were taught in our CPR class. The signs of a stroke.”

  “Fast?”

  “Yes, it’s an acronym, to help us remember more easily. I have trouble with my memory at times, you know.” She held up a fist, then uncurled one finger at a time, counting off each letter in the acronym. “FAST: F for facial paralysis, A for arm weakness, S for speech difficulties, and T for time to act fast.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “Yes, I got an A in that class. You should take it. You not only learn the signs, but you learn what to do. For example, if you suspect the victim has facial paralysis, you ask him to smile. If he’s had a stroke, he can’t smile easily and the mouth often droops on one side.”

  “Huh.” I’d noticed a little drooping on one side of Stephen’s mouth.

  “For arm weakness,” she continued, “you ask the person to raise both arms. He usually can’t raise one.”

  I recalled Stephen’s left arm dangling at his side.

  “S is for speech difficulties. Many stroke victims slur their words or can’t speak at all.”

  “And I assume ‘time to act fast’ means call nine-one-one,” I offered.

  She nodded. “Apparently there’s a window of time when the victim can receive some medication that may increase his chances of surviving a stroke. Unfortunately, we didn’t know all of this when Van died.”

  When we reached my mother’s place, which she called her “hotel” rather than care facility, I escorted her to her room. She said she was tired and needed a midmorning nap after all she’d witnessed. I helped her slip out of her bright clothes and into a comfortable velour jogging suit, then tucked her into bed.

  “I’ll call you later, Mom,” I said, standing.

  She reached out and took my hand. “Presley?”

  I squeezed it. “Yes, Mom?”

  She looked up at me. “Will you do it?”

  “Do what, Mom? Take the CPR class? Of course. Don’t worry.”

  “No, not that. Will you take the job? For Stephen’s sake?”

  “Uh . . .” I stammered. “Under the circumstances, I doubt they’ll want to—”

  “Please, Presley. For me.”

  I patted her arm. “Okay, Mom. If it means that much to you—and if Jonathan still wants me—I’ll take the job. But I’m guessing he’s got more important things to think about right now, with his father on the way to the hospital.”

  Mother closed her eyes. “Thanks, darling. Now, would you turn off the light on your way out?”

  I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at me. Flipping off the light switch by the door, I whispered, “Have a nice nap,” and quietly shut the door behind me.

  As I walked back to my car, I marveled at my mother’s big heart. Hosting a party had always been her way of showing people how much she cared about them. For me, it was more of a business and a way to contribute to worthy causes. As much as I had initially disliked Jonathan, he’d stepped up when his father had fallen ill, and I admired him for that. But surely he wouldn’t want to proceed with his party plans now.

  And even if he did, I wasn’t sure I still had a party business.

  After all, my party stuff was currently locked up in a condemned building.

  I only hoped it hadn’t been hauled out and tossed into the nearest Dumpster.

  Chapter 3

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #3

  To set the stage for your séance, you need to create an eerie mood. For example, unplug noisy appliances, darken the room, and light candles. And most important, turn off all cell phones. The dead still don’t use them to communicate with the living.

  I drove back to Treasure Island, my thoughts spinning as fast as my MINI Cooper’s little wheels. So much had happened in a single morning. I’d been locked out of my office building (condemned!), nearly hired for a job (a séance?), hit on by an egomaniac (albeit a rich and good-looking one), and watched an old man suffer a stroke.

  And it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. What else could happen before lunch?

  I pulled into the barracks parking lot and glanced at the front door of the office building as I gathered my purse. The chain and lock had been removed. Brad really did have magical powers. In more ways than one, I thought, remembering with a tingle the night we’d spent together recently.

  I headed up the steps, then picked up the orange notice I’d wadded into a ball in a fury and uncurled it.

  Placard of CONDEMNATION

  City of San Francisco—Inspections Division In accordance with Chapter 3, Section 5150 of the Building Maintenance Code of the City of San Francisco, the premises, building, and structure hereon located at:

  ____Barracks B—Fifth & HStreets___are hereby condemned because

  ___It has been determined by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the State Department of Toxic Substances Control to be dilapidated and unsafe, due to contamination with asbestos, plutonium, radium, and other substances, which are known to cause cancer.

  Premises must be vacated within 72 hours, by ___4/14____

  Housing Inspector’s Number___916-837-7089____

  Gripping the placard in my hand, I turned the knob—unlocked—and passed through the reception area on my way to my office. Maneuvering around several cardboard boxes, I noticed Brad had stacked a bunch near the door to his office. The rest of his room was stripped bare—except for Brad. Unfortunately, I thought, wickedly.

  “You’re already packed?”

  “Yep,” he said, adding one last box to a precarious pile. “We’ve got seventy-two hours to vacate. Found us some empty offices in the admin building, thanks to Marianne.”

  Instead of thank you, I said, “So how much is that going to cost me?”

  “I got a deal. Promised to clean a few carpets and remove some mold now and then for a lower rent.”

  “That’s great for you, but what have I got to offer in trade? Free balloons?”

  Brad rubbed his chin. “About that . . .”

  “Oh no. You didn’t promise them an event!”

  He grinned. “She’s psyched!”

  I crossed my arms, mostly to keep from slapping him.

  “And guess what kind
of party she wants,” Brad continued, deliberately ignoring my fury.

  “A hootenanny?”

  He laughed. I got the feeling he enjoyed tormenting me. In fact, I knew it. “They want a mini Golden Gate Expo, like the one that was held here back in ’thirty-nine. The Island will be celebrating seventy-five years soon and she wants the public to come and visit the place. I think it’s a great idea. And right up your alley.”

  “Of course you do. You don’t know the amount of work involved in putting on a party of that magnitude.”

  “That’s the point. You can deduct your time from the rent. At least for a while.”

  The anger left me as my mind started whirling, something it always does when a possible party plan pops into my head. Coming up with new ideas related to the theme was the most fun—the rest was work. But bringing back the “Magic City,” as most had called it back then, would be a blast . . . if I could pull it off. I entered my office full of possibilities, and sat down at my computer.

  Brad leaned in the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be packing?”

  “In a minute . . .” I said, preparing to do a search for details of the 1939 Golden Gate Expo. Instead, my eye caught on a local Yahoo! headline: “Man hangs himself at high-tech company.” To the side was a photo of the man featured on the news that morning. I was certain I knew him. Curious, I clicked on the link. The information was sparse, but shocking.

  “George Wells, a computer programmer at Hella-Graphics, apparently hanged himself over the weekend at the up-and-coming high-tech company. Details are being withheld by the San Francisco Police Department, pending a complete investigation.”

  George Wells. I knew that name. I pulled open a file drawer and searched the W’s for the name. There it was. I yanked out the file and flipped it open on my desk.

  I had given a party for George Wells—a surprise “Over the Hill” Sixtieth Birthday Party for him only a couple of months ago. During the planning stages, I’d gotten to know his wife, Teddi, well. She’d welcomed me into her grand Pacific Heights home, even invited me on their yacht.

  He’d hanged himself? The news wouldn’t compute and I sat holding the file, stunned.

  Jonathan Ellington never said a word about it this morning. “Presley?” I heard my name called from what seemed far away. I looked up. Brad was standing right next to me. “Are you all right?”

  I shook away the image of George Wells, a rope tied around his neck . . .

  “Uh, yeah, fine,” I said. “I just found out one of my former clients committed suicide over the weekend.”

  “The hanging?” Brad asked.

  I blinked. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I cleaned up after it yesterday.”

  Oh my God. “You were at Hella-Graphics?” I asked.

  “Did you know him pretty well?” Brad asked.

  “A little. I know his wife. We just had coffee the other day. She was planning another party, this time for one of her daughters. I can’t believe he hung himself.” I looked down at the file. “You and Detective Melvin are tight. Did he have any theories on why George did it?”

  “Nope. In fact, Melvin isn’t completely convinced it’s a suicide, but there was no evidence of foul play.”

  If Detective Luke Melvin, my nemesis at the San Francisco Police Department, was suspicious, perhaps there was a reason.

  “Hmmm,” I said. Jonathan Ellington hadn’t said a word this morning about the death of his employee. But then, it wasn’t exactly breakfast conversation. Still, he hadn’t looked particularly affected.

  “Hmmm, what?” Brad asked, sitting on the corner of my desk.

  “I met his boss this morning at breakfast—Jonathan Ellington. And he didn’t mention anything about it.”

  “What were you doing having breakfast with Ellington?”

  There was an undertone to his voice—was it jealousy? Or something else?

  “Oh, my mother has this idea about hosting a party for his new product. But with his dad in the hospital—”

  “His father’s in the hospital?”

  “Long story,” I said. “Anyway, it’s moot at this point. I don’t think there’s going to be any party. Good thing, I guess, now that you’ve tossed me this Expo event.”

  “Yeah, well, my advice is, stay away from Jonathan Ellington. He’s not the kind of guy you want to get mixed up with.”

  Before I could respond, Brad was out the door, leaving me totally confused . . . and a little curious.

  While Brad started loading boxes into his SUV, I tried to continue my search for details from the Expo, but my thoughts kept returning to George Wells’s wife, Teddi. I picked up the file, found her number, and punched it into my iPhone.

  George’s deep, disembodied voice came on the line, startling me.

  “This is the Wells family. Leave a message or call back.” Click.

  Blunt and to the point. When I’d met him George seemed like a no-nonsense kind of guy. The type of guy to commit suicide?

  I stumbled through a message, something about, “Sorry about George . . . If you want to talk . . . let me know if there’s anything I can do . . .” then hung up, wishing there really was something I could do.

  My phone rang—the theme from the movie Halloween—and I checked the caller ID. None—just a familiar phone number. The number I had just called.

  “Hello?”

  “Presley?” A woman’s voice, weak and scratchy.

  I felt a pang in my gut. “Teddi? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sorry I didn’t answer. I’m screening. I’ve had so many annoying calls from the press.”

  I hope I hadn’t added to that annoyance. “I . . . I’m so sorry to hear about George. Is there anything I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  Her response surprised me. “Uh, sure. Anything. You name it.”

  “I’m certain George didn’t kill himself. There’s no way he would commit suicide. He didn’t leave a note or anything. . . .” Her voice cracked, and I heard sniffles. She was crying. I wanted to reach out and hug her through the phone.

  “Uh”—I didn’t know how to respond—“are you sure?”

  “I have no proof, if that’s what you mean. But you offered to help. I know you’ve helped solve a couple of recent murders. I’ve been reading about you in the paper. I want you to look into George’s death. Would you do that for me?”

  “I—” I had no idea what to say. “I’m not a cop, Teddi. I’m sure they’ll—”

  She cut me off. “No one believes me,” she sobbed. “I don’t know what else to do. His life insurance is canceled if his death is ruled suicide. I’ll be left with nothing . . .” She sniffled again.

  I thought about her assets. If it came to that, she could sell her palatial home, the yacht. But this was not the time to tell her that. Besides, George had probably left a will that provided for Teddi and her girls.

  “Teddi, it’s going to be okay,” I said, trying to soothe her.

  “Listen, I know a detective. I’ll see what I can find out, all right?”

  I heard Teddi blow her nose.

  “Thank you, Presley. Thank you. . . .” She hung up, leaving me still holding the phone to my ear.

  “Parker! Let’s go!” Brad stood in the doorway holding the last of his moving boxes. “I want to be out of here by the end of the day. Stop chatting on the phone and start packing.”

  I put my phone in my purse, closed the Wells file with a mental note to have a talk with Detective Melvin about George’s death, then put it in one of the empty cardboard boxes, along with the rest of my files. I know most people have a hard time accepting that a relative would commit suicide. They either don’t see the signs or they ignore them—until it is too late. But with the rate of suicides growing each year, it was not something to be ignored. Most were linked to mental illness or drugs and alcohol. And more men were successful at suicide, using “guaranteed” methods like gunshot or hanging, even though three times
as many women attempted suicide. Was George one of the statistics?

  His wife, Teddi, didn’t think so.

  “Presley?” Brad said, interrupting my thoughts. “You ready?”

  I pushed George and Teddi Wells from my mind and tried to focus on the task at hand.

  “Almost. What about the others? Delicia? Rocco? Raj? Berkeley?” I asked, referring to my office mates and part-time assistants.

  Brad nodded toward the back offices. I walked down the hall, peering into the windows of each one. They were all empty. Everyone was gone. Vanished.

  I looked at Brad, dumbfounded. “Where’d they all go?”

  “Cleared out early this morning while you were at your breakfast date. They’ve already set up shop in their new digs. I got them offices at Building One, too.”

  “That’s great. But doesn’t Rocco need a kitchen?”

  Brad nodded, shifting the boxes in his bulging arms. “There’s one on the second floor.”

  “Raj?”

  “He got the first office, behind the front desk. He’ll be manning that desk when he’s not patrolling the area.”

  “Delicia? Berkeley? Duncan?”

  “Yep. They’re sharing office space to save on rent.”

  “So we’ll all be together!” I said as I returned to my office. I began pulling party supplies off the shelves and putting everything in boxes Brad had set out for me.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Brad said.

  I stopped filling a box with ornate candlesticks I’d once used as props for a murder mystery party, and turned to Brad, still holding one of the candlesticks in my hand. “What do you mean you were hoping I’d say that?”