by Penny Warner
As for the séance, there was simply too much to do and not enough time to prepare. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to deal with Marianne’s Golden Gate Expo party until after the Winchester Mystery House party. I just hoped she didn’t evict me in the interim. I caught her flirting with Brad several times and had a feeling if she found out Brad and I were “together,” she’d send me back to the condemned barracks.
The Séance Party invitations had gone out three weeks ago. Jonathan suggested using a picture of the Winchester Mystery House on the cover of the card, with a superimposed 3-D holograph of Mrs. Winchester, who seemed to blink on and off the page, depending on how you held the card. I whipped up a prototype, he approved it, and off they went, with the party details, and promise of a “surprise” visit from a “special guest.” The invitation was apparently intriguing. In spite of the short notice, positive RSVPs streamed in. Jonathan was going to have a full 160-room house.
While the invitations went smoothly, the rest of the party planning wasn’t so stress-free. Jonathan kept changing his mind about who would lead the séance, how the ballroom would be set up, and what to serve as appetizers.
His wife, Lyla, was worse. She seemed to think the event was a reflection of her, rather than a showcase for her husband’s 4-D Projection. She insisted on hiring the chef from Hella-Graphics, Rodney Worth, instead of using my caterer, which didn’t make Rocco happy. We compromised by having both—Rodney in charge of appetizers, Rocco doing dessert. I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into the Battle of the Diva Chefs.
As for decorations, Lyla found a magic shop at Pier 39, and for some reason thought props and tricks from the store would provide the perfect atmospheric touches during a séance. “And they’ll make great party favors, Priscilla,” she said, still calling me by the wrong name. “After all, a séance is really nothing more than a magic show, right?”
At that point I gave up on trying to control the planning. This was essentially Jonathan’s party—and apparently his wife’s—and I was just there to choreograph the event. My only concern was his insistence on secrecy about everything from the guest list to the food. And the hope that Zachary Samuels—the guy who’d tried to run us down in the Winchester Mystery House parking lot—didn’t crash our killer bash.
When the day of the event dawned, I woke up from a nightmare where I was being chased by a faceless man in a black BMW. As I stood at the edge of a cliff, watching the car speed toward me I realized there was nowhere to go—but down. When the image of Sarah Winchester appeared hovering over the abyss, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. My startled cats leaped off the bed as if being chased by a rabid dog, and hid.
“It’s okay, guys,” I said, trying to reassure Thursby, Cairo, and Fatman. At the sound of kibble tinkling into their bowls, they came running from their various hiding places. Full bowls of gourmet cat food seemed to help calm their nerves, but mine were still on edge.
I peeked out of the kitchen window while waiting for my latte to brew. Touches of spring were evident in a couple of neighbors’ flowerpots, but the fog was thick, making it a great day for a haunting. I’ve become somewhat of an expert at identifying different types of fog in the San Francisco Bay Area, since I’ve lived with it all my life. Plus it impresses the tourists.
The most common is Radiation Fog, which sounds scary, and simply means there’s a layer of moist air near the ground. It’s also called Valley Fog but I call it Blanket Fog because that was what it looks like—a big blanket covering the ground. It usually goes away when the sun comes up.
Checking my watch for party countdown—fewer than twelve hours before the first guests would arrive at the Winchester House—I jumped into the shower to wash off the sweat from my nightmare. I dressed in torn work jeans and a “Will Teach For Food” T-shirt left over from my days teaching abnormal psychology at San Francisco State University before I was downsized. Slipping on my black Vans, I grabbed the long black dress and black Mary Janes I’d be wearing at the party, then stuffed some makeup, costume jewelry, and other necessities into a backpack. With a blueberry bagel in one hand and a latte to-go in the other, I said good-bye to my cats, hopped in my red MINI Cooper, and drove the short distance to Building One to gather a few last party items.
“Oh my God! You look fantastic!” I cried, as I entered the office I shared with Delicia. She was dressed in a red-and-purple velvet skirt, a billowing white blouse, with a knitted silk shawl around her small, slim shoulders. Her fingers, hands, and chest were laden with noisy costume jewelry. She’d wrapped a colorful scarf at the top of her long black hair. Black ballet slippers covered her tiny feet.
“Snap!” Berkeley Wong appeared in the office, snapping his fingers.
“Did you help her with this?” I asked him, indicating Dee’s costume.
Berk grinned proudly. “James is into vintage costumes,” he explained. James was Berk’s new love interest. They’d recently moved in together, which I thought was rather sudden, since they’d only met a few weeks ago. Talk about drama—the stories Berk shared about his new guy were better than an episode of Celebrity Housewives in Rehab.
Dee twirled around to give me a 360-degree view of the stunning creation. “Half of this stuff was James’s! The rest we got at Vintage 1920 in the Mission.”
“You look awesome—just like a medium. I think Jonathan will love it. Speaking of the devil, we need to get over to the mansion ASAP, before Lyla turns it into the Magic Castle with all her Houdini stuff. Berk, you’ve got your video camera?”
He saluted me as if I were some kind of dictator. Which I wasn’t.
I turned to Delicia. “Dee, you better change into your work clothes. I’ll need you to help me set up before you morph into the role of medium.”
She was already removing her scarf by the time I was done speaking.
“I’ve got to check on Rocco. Be right back.” I stepped out of the office door, tried Brad’s door—locked—then backed up. “By the way, has anyone seen Brad?”
Dee and Berk exchanged an odd look.
“What?”
Dee shrugged and Berk shook his head. “Nope, no, huh-uh. Haven’t seen him,” he added.
I eyed them for a long moment, then headed for the kitchen on the second floor of the building to see how Rocco was coming along with the desserts. A large tray of little meringue ghosts greeted me as I entered. Their dotted chocolate eyes seemed to follow me as I made my way over to Rocco, who was carefully piping red flames atop miniature marzipan candles.
“Adorable!” I squealed like a little girl. “You’re amazing! I love the ghosts, and these candles are to die for!”
I regretted saying that the minute the words came out. At one of my other parties, someone had injected poison into some chocolates that Rocco had made. Luckily, Rocco didn’t seem to notice my tactlessness. He looked up at me from the delicate work he was doing, a streak of yellow frosting on his cheek. Tall, thin, and balding, he looked nothing like the cliché of the chef who ate all his own food. How he managed to stay so slim was a mystery to me.
“The wicks are licorice, so the whole thing is edible,” he said. “But getting the frosting to stick to the licorice is driving me nuts.”
“Can I help?” I asked, my mouth watering for a finger full of what looked like a bowl of chocolate frosting sitting idly by.
“Yes. By leaving me alone to finish these.” Never one to mince words—only garlic—he went back to his painstaking work. He wasn’t being rude; he was just being Rocco, the temperamental chef. That was part of what made him so good at his job—his attention to detail, his perfectionism. He’d pouted a little after learning he was doing only desserts for the party, especially when a competitor he loathed was handling the appetizers, but when he heard the amount of his paycheck, he bounced back quickly.
“Will you be ready to go over to the house soon?”
He grunted, and I made my escape.
On the way back to my office, I swung by the front desk where Raj
sat reading a copy of Us magazine. Apparently it was a slow day in the world of island security.
“Raj?”
He set the magazine down and straightened up. “Yes, Ms. Presley. What can I do for you?”
“You still available to help out at the party tonight? Make sure everything goes according to plan?”
He grinned, revealing his widely spaced white teeth. “Oh yes, I’m ready to come and make sure no one steals anything.”
“I doubt theft will be a problem. But I’ll just feel more comfortable if you are there, keeping an eye on . . . things.” Ever since the run-in with Zachary in the parking lot, and hearing more about him from Stephanie Bryson, the Hella-Graphics VP, I’d found myself looking over my shoulder. If the disgruntled employee from Hella-Graphics decided to show up at the séance, at least I’d have some backup with Raj there.
Raj nodded, a kind of yes-no combination head shake.
“Thanks, Raj. Whenever you get finished here is fine. I’ll e-mail you the directions. Raj?”
Raj was no longer looking at me. His eyes were focused on something behind me. I turned around to see Brad entering the building. He was holding the door for a woman dressed in a long madras skirt, a chemiselike purple blouse, and Birkenstock sandals. She was laughing and holding a white paper bag.
Marianne Mitchell, the building manager.
“Thanks for breakfast,” she said to Brad, touching his arm.
“My pleasure,” he replied, and watched her move toward the staircase at the far end of the vast lobby, her wispy skirt swaying. With the Séance Party taking up so much of my time, I hadn’t seen a lot of Brad in the past couple of weeks. Apparently he hadn’t missed me. Not with that cougar around.
“Presley!” he said, grinning. I was sure he’d caught me staring.
I turned back to Raj. “Thanks again, Raj. See you at the mansion.”
I started back to my office, when Brad caught my arm. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“I hardly see you anymore, Pres. Not since you took that séance job. How’s it going?”
“Great,” I said lightly. “How’s it going with you?”
“Busy, too.”
I glanced at the staircase where Marianne had disappeared. “I noticed.” I took another step for my office.
He laughed. “You’re not . . . jealous, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I huffed.
“How’s what’s his name?”
“Jonathan? He’s fine,” I said, glancing away as I remembered his lunge for me in the ballroom.
The tension between us was thick enough to cut with a machete. And all I had was my razor-sharp sarcasm.
“So, when’s that party?”
“Tonight.” I checked my watch. “I’m on my way now.”
“Wow, I completely forgot it was tonight. Need any help?”
“It’s not a crime scene . . . not yet, anyway.”
“How about someone to blow up balloons? Or make scary noises in the background? Or channel a spirit or two?” He brushed a hair out of my face and I just about melted on the spot.
“Already taken care of.”
Brad looked a little hurt at my lack of enthusiasm for his offers. I softened and said, “Sure. I always need last-minute help when everything goes wrong.”
“Great. How about I drive you and all your stuff? I can fit a lot in my SUV.”
I wondered how a Crime Scene Cleaners vehicle parked out front of the Winchester House would look. Might add some atmosphere.
“All right. Are you ready to go now?”
He gave my arm a squeeze. “I’ll go clear out some space.”
I turned around and headed for my office, when I saw Delicia standing in our office doorway, and Berk standing in his. They immediately disappeared inside.
What was up with them?
My entourage and I arrived by caravan at the Winchester Mystery House around eleven. The fog had lifted—or we’d left it behind in San Francisco—and the day was turning out to be sunny and warm with a light breeze. As usual there were plenty of cars in the parking lot of the tourist attraction; I recognized Jonathan’s Mercedes, minus the ding. Apparently he and his own entourage had beaten us there.
We entered the gift shop and I spotted Lyla, dressed in obscene black Spandex pants and a bright red tube top that defied gravity. She was talking on the phone, while another woman—young, pretty, also with long blond hair—stood nearby with a large shopping bag from Houdini’s House, the magic shop. She introduced herself as Violet Vassar, Jonathan’s administrative assistant. She hardly looked the admin type, but then Jonathan seemed to surround himself with attractive young women, all practically clones of his wife.
Mia arrived from her office, wearing a short blue skirt and a tight maroon top, a contrast to her previous business attire. I was stunned at the change, which included more eye makeup (blue eye shadow) and dangling earrings (blue stars). Her tennis shoes had been replaced by open-toed high heels.
“Welcome,” she said. “Jonathan’s already in the ballroom. If you’re ready, I’ll take you there. We have to take the back way to avoid the tour groups.”
We followed her through yet another secret passageway to the lavish ballroom, where I spotted Stephanie Bryson sitting in a folding chair, her electronic notepad in her lap. She looked up, waved, and smiled, then returned to the tiny computer. On the other side of the grand room I saw Jonathan, who appeared to be in a heated discussion with Levi, pointing and gesturing as he spoke to the bespectacled balding guy.
I put my crew to work. Rocco unloaded his goodies in the adjoining butler’s pantry that led to the kitchen. Berk scouted for a place to set up his video camera. Raj took a tour of the ballroom and neighboring rooms to check security. And Brad helped set up the large round séance table that had been delivered by a party supply company.
I set down the box of candlesticks I was carrying and headed out for more supplies, hoping I didn’t get lost. On my way back, as I entered the ballroom again, I thought I saw something white dart across the butler’s pantry opening.
A ghost, I thought, amusing myself.
I knew there was no such thing. But the little hairs on my arms didn’t quite believe me. I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the fleeting vision, but everyone was focused on their tasks. Only Brad had stopped what he was doing to look over at me.
“Did you see that?” I asked him, setting down a box of candles and pointing toward the pantry.
“See what?” he said.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
I returned to the entryway and studied the pantry opening. Supposedly it led to the kitchen. I decided to take a look. Following a narrow hallway that ran parallel to the pantry, I arrived in the vast kitchen, where I found Rocco cursing under his breath.
“Rocco, did you see—” I started to say.
“What?” Rocco snapped as he removed a couple of meringue ghosts that had broken on the ride over.
“Uh . . . never mind.”
I started to return to the ballroom—I had work to do—but out of the corner of my eye, I saw another streak of white move past a window on the other side of the kitchen. Dashing out, I zipped down the hall and caught a glimpse of someone—or something—disappearing around a corner.
“Wait!” I called out.
No response.
I moved around the corner and followed the passageway around until it came to a pair of paneled, sliding doors. The smell of onions and garlic wafted through the crack. I slid one door open and found myself in another kitchen.
And there stood my ghost: A man, thirtysomething, dressed in loose white pants, a white shirt, with black patent-leather shoes that matched his jet-black hair, black mustache, and black-rimmed glasses. He was bent over a plastic container filled with something pungent that made my mouth water.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man straightened up and turned t
o me.
“I’m . . . Joe Thornton. Who are you?” he returned, smoothing down his mustache.
“Presley Parker. I’m the event planner for the Séance Party tonight. What are you doing here?”
“Working,” he replied, shoving his glasses back on his face and returning to the bowl of what had to be roasted garlic and onions. In a few seconds, I was going to need a napkin to wipe off the drool.
“Where’s Rodney, the chef Lyla hired to make the appetizers?”
“Here,” a deep, scratchy voice said from behind. I turned to see a burly man wearing chef’s whites and a once-white apron, holding a large pot. “Rodney Worth, at your service. Joe is one of my waiters tonight. What can I do for you?”
I reintroduced myself. The chef nodded, only half listening, as he peered over his waiter’s shoulder and into the open container. “What are you doing?” he said to Joe.
The bewildered waiter took a step back. “Nothing. Just checking it.” He smoothed his mustache again. The guy seemed to have a lot of nervous tics.
“Leave it alone,” Rodney barked. “I told you to bring in all the supplies, not open containers and check them. Where have you been? There’s a bunch of stuff still in the van I need. Now.”
Joe nodded in acquiescence, but his eyes narrowed and I could see his clenched jaw before he headed out to do his boss’s bidding.
“He’s new,” Rodney said with a sigh. “My sous-chef got him from craigslist or somewhere. Spends more time wandering around this place or talking on his cell phone than working. When will I learn.”
“Well, I’ll get out of your way. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Some competent help would be nice,” he said. “These cheese and crab amuse-bouches aren’t going to make themselves.”
