by Jenn Bennett
“My brother’s new wife is a spirit medium—you met her at the train station. Apparently she can call up spirits of the dead and channel them long enough for their loved ones to find out where the family jewels are hidden. Or, in this case, a treasure map. And all that’s needed to establish a connection is an object owned by the deceased.”
Hadley lifted her coat sleeve to reveal her diamond bracelet. “Like this?”
“I suppose. Were you close to your mother? Would it bother you to speak with her again, as it were?”
“I was eight when she died and never really spent a lot of time with her.” She shrugged. “I was closer to my nanny, if you want to know the truth.”
A little sad. Lowe had beautiful memories of his mother. He still missed her.
He stopped in front of his house. Winter’s red and black limousine wasn’t in the driveway. He’d mentioned running out to oversee some big delivery at a hotel. Which meant he wasn’t home, but with any luck, Aida was.
“What do you say? Are you curious?”
Hadley’s head tilted to survey the Magnussons’ gray green Queen Anne. Not the marble Flood mansion, not reputable, not society-approved, but easily the most expensive house on the block. And it must’ve been impressive enough to meet Hadley’s standards, because she turned to him with a sly little smile and said, “Lead the way.”
• • •
“Winter will bite my head off if he knows I’m channeling. He’s worried the baby will be born with multiple souls,” Aida joked as she closed the door. “So we’d better make it fast. He’ll be back in an hour. A fisherman’s day is never done.” She winked and sat down on an antique Arabian chair across from Lowe and Hadley. An enormous brindled mastiff—Aida’s dog, Sam, who was big as a small horse and blind in one eye—curled up around her feet.
The main floor parlor had been dubbed the Sheik Room by his baby sister. It was his mother’s favorite space, and she’d had most of the furniture shipped from overseas. Lowe watched Hadley’s gaze darting around the Arabian decor. She perched on the edge of the sofa with her back so straight, she might’ve been balancing an invisible book on her head. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
Hadley nodded. “I’m sure.”
“All I need is the object owned by your mother,” Aida said.
Hadley struggled to undo the bracelet’s clasp with one hand.
“Here,” Lowe offered, wanting an excuse to touch her. He bent over her wrist and used the edge of his fingernail to pry it open. As it fell in her lap, he ran a thumb over her pulse, greedy to feel the soft skin there. He swore she shivered, but she jerked her hand away and wouldn’t look him in the eye, just handed the bracelet to Winter’s wife.
“Very nice,” Aida remarked as she turned it over in her freckled fingers. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Vera Murray Bacall.”
Aida shook her head. “All right. Give me a minute or so to sink into a light trance. I’ll call out to your mother’s spirit and try to pull her across the veil. Depending on her spirit’s strength, she might occupy my body for a few seconds or a few minutes. Just depends. I normally advise my clients to question the spirit about something only the two of them would know—just to validate their identity.”
“I can’t think of anything like that,” Hadley said.
“That’s okay. It’s more for your peace of mind. But if the information you need is as important as Lowe says it is, then you might want to ask your question straightaway. If you want to chitchat after, feel free. I’ll try to hold her as long as possible. Any questions?”
“Will you hear the conversation?” Hadley asked.
“I will. But I hear a lot of conversations—hundreds this past year alone. That’s a lot of secrets. What happens during a channeling is between you and the spirit. I don’t yap about it to Winter in bed before we go to sleep.” Her lips curled. “We have better things to do.”
Lowe laughed. He liked Aida more and more. Hadley wasn’t nearly as amused.
“All right. Try to remain quiet now,” Aida said. “Let’s begin.”
The spirit medium closed her eyes as she gripped the bracelet in one hand. For a moment, he listened to distant voices deep within the house, dishes clanking in the kitchen, and creaking floorboards above. Then he slouched so he could watch Hadley without her knowledge.
Her lily was wilting, and the sparkling pin that kept it anchored to her black waves had slipped. How nice it would be to straighten it for her. Or remove it altogether. Work the pin down, then sink his fingers into her bobbed hair while he leaned in and put his mouth against her throat. The skin would be as soft as it was on her pale wrist. Would she like to be kissed there, right beneath her ear? He imagined her making little pleasured noises in response.
In the middle of his wandering fantasy, his mind fixed on something she’d said outside. She was eight years old when her mother died in ’06. That meant she was twenty-nine. Four years older than him. An older woman. An educated society woman. And strong enough to rip a chandelier off the ceiling with—well, he didn’t know how. But the muse in his head conjured an image of her using that strength to pin him to a bed while she climbed on top of him wearing nothing but that peacock-feathered chemise—
Hadley made a small noise and grabbed his arm.
Shit.
Was she a mind reader?
“Vera Murray Bacall.”
Lowe sat up straight. Aida’s breath was a white cloud, as if she’d stepped outside in winter and exhaled cold air. Helvete. It was just as Astrid said. And Hadley wasn’t reading his salacious thoughts after all—she was just reacting to Aida, completely mesmerized.
And for good reason.
Aida’s breath changed. Her eyes snapped open.
Chills trickled down the back of Lowe’s neck and blanketed his arms.
“Who are you?” The voice was Aida’s, but the tone damn sure wasn’t.
“Is this it?” Hadley murmured to him. Her knee pressed firmly against his leg. She’d scooted closer? When had that happened?
“Do you see her breath?” he murmured to Hadley.
“Yes,” Hadley whispered. “Good God.”
Lowe cleared his throat. “Are we speaking to, uh, Mrs. Bacall?”
“Is Archie here? Or Noel?”
Archie must be her husband, Archibald Bacall, but who was Noel?
Hadley released his arm and straightened her shoulders. “No, but I am your daughter.”
“You couldn’t be . . . Hadley?”
“Yes.”
“You were so small. I can hardly believe it.”
If Hadley was emotional about this reunion, she didn’t show it. She delivered her words with the passion one might give placing an order at a restaurant. “I have an important question for you and little time. You hid four pieces of the mythical Backbone of Osiris amulet. I need to know where they are.”
“The amulet is dangerous.”
“I understand its purpose,” Hadley said. “Just tell me where you hid the pieces.”
“I didn’t hide them. I gave them away to keep them separated.”
Was she speaking in riddles or being difficult? Regardless, they might be going about this the wrong way. Perhaps it was best to follow Dr. Bacall’s original instructions. “Did you make a map of their locations?” he asked.
“A map?” The late Mrs. Bacall laughed with Aida’s mouth. “Yes, I made a map, if that’s what you choose to call it. A record of my great endeavor to keep Archie and Noel from killing each other, I suppose.”
Ah, Noel was the partner, then.
“Listen closely, and I’ll tell you where you can look for my map. You can find it in the Seine’s cold quays, in the fields of gazing grain, on night’s Plutonian Shore, and on a painted ship.”
More riddles.
“You’d do well to leave it be,” the spirit said before a short pause. “My darling. Your hair is blacker than pitch and impossibly thick. Just like mine.”
“Please speak plainly and tell me where you’ve hidden the map,” Hadley answered with a frustrated edge to her voice.
“Why, I have spoken plainly. Think about it a little, and you’ll figure it out. You were always so bright. Seems fitting that you’d follow my trail of bread crumbs. A bit like Isis scouring the earth to find the scattered limbs of Osiris.”
“This is a game to you?”
“Everything in life is a game. Listen, my dear, I can feel a dark presence attached to you. I hope that doesn’t mean I passed the curse along. If I could go back and make different decisions, I would.”
Hadley looked embarrassed.
Her mother’s spirit then asked, “Was the base of the amulet located?”
No one answered.
“The object’s purpose is no myth. That kind of magic is dangerous. The ancient priestesses stored the pieces in different temples for a reason, which is why I followed their example. Your father cannot be allowed near it. If you manage to find the crossbars and rejoin them to the base, under no circumstances whatsoever can you allow him to possess it.”
Unless he was waving a hundred-grand check around. No disrespect to the dead, but Lowe was still alive, and he needed that cash.
“Noel either,” she added. “I did my best to protect your father from him, but I fear what could happen if they were to compete again. Keep it away from the two of them. Please promise me.”
“Why?” Hadley asked, but a strangled sound was the only answer given. Aida jerked and gulped air. And on her next exhalation, the eerie white breath had disappeared.
The late Mrs. Bacall had left the room.
“Whew, that one made me a little dizzy,” Aida said, as if what she’d just done was no more miraculous than standing up too fast after a long nap. The mastiff never once lifted his big head. “Was anything she said helpful?”
“Not really,” Lowe said at the exact moment Hadley answered, “Extremely.”
Lowe squinted. “It was?”
“I’d say so.” She stood and collected her coat from where it was draped on a tasseled silk cushion. “I do believe I know exactly where my mother hid that map.”
TEN
“I’LL TAKE A TAXI,” Hadley told Lowe after they strode into the foyer. She glanced around to get her bearings and spotted the spirit medium and her great beast of a dog entering a birdcage elevator that flanked a grand staircase.
The Magnusson home was spacious and well kept. Impressive, even. Much more welcoming than either her apartment or her father’s house. Livelier, too. She’d wondered what it would be like to live in a home like this, where a radio played from the servants’ hall and laugher seeped through the ceiling from a room above.
“You want to take a taxi,” Lowe repeated.
“If I can just borrow your telephone.”
“Like hell you will. Where’s the map?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why?” Lowe tilted his head to catch her gaze. “I’ll tell you why. Because we made a deal.”
“Yes, a deal that I wouldn’t tell my father. And I won’t.”
“No, no, no—this is my treasure hunt, not yours.”
“All right. Go find the map yourself then.”
“I will. As soon as you tell me where to look.”
“Seems we’re at a standstill.”
A girl’s voice called out a name from the second floor. The handsome young Chinese man she’d met at the train station, Bo, passed through the hallway behind Lowe and gave her a curious look before hiking up the staircase.
Lowe stepped closer. Her mind conjured an image of him stroking the flower in her hair, which temporarily disabled the more civilized parts of her brain. He spoke in a lowered voice. “Allow me to propose a compromise. On one hand, you know where the map is, and your mother seems to think you’re smart enough to figure out her puzzle. On the other hand, you’re not even supposed to know about the map or the pieces. I’m the one being paid to do the job, and I’m not so shabby with riddles myself. I did find the base.”
Why did he have to smell so good? “Go on.”
“Two heads might be better than one. So if you help me find the amulet pieces, I’ll talk to your father and ensure that you get the department head position at the museum.”
She snorted. “Like you have the power to do that.”
“I can be persuasive when I want to be.”
“Father’s too smart to believe your silly stories.”
“And too smart to disregard my request if I withhold the amulet in exchange for you getting the job?”
Hmm. He might actually have something there. Clearly after tonight’s public betrayal—and her hotheaded reaction—Father wasn’t interested in bargaining with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d lashed out at him in anger with the Mori, but since he’d lost his sight, he was less trusting of her. Tonight might’ve been the final straw. She could appeal to the board for a chance at the position, but they’d never go against her father’s wishes.
“We work as partners,” she said after a long moment. “I help you, you help me. We keep everything honest between us. No lying to me about the hunt. No working behind each other’s backs. You get the money, I get the job. And all of this is contingent on whether I’m right about the map’s hiding place.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you want to start right now?” she asked.
“It just so happens that a falling chandelier has cleared my schedule.”
She looked up. A copper and stained-glass Craftsman pendant hung from the ceiling. “The night’s young,” she said, giving Lowe a small smile.
He leaned in to murmur near her ear. “I really do like the way you flirt, Miss Bacall.”
Before she could protest, he called out to the kitchen, informing them that he’d be home later. Then he shucked off his tuxedo jacket and exchanged it for a leather jacket snagged from a coat rack. “This way.” He steered her into a hall that led to a covered side porch. On the other side of the railing stretched a driveway packed with cars. But Lowe was striding toward the red motorcycle. “Where are we headed?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dusting off the passenger seat,” he said, brushing a small plank of wood that floated above the back tire. The rickety thing looked to be held in place by a few spindly scraps of metal and a couple of nuts and bolts.
“I’m not riding on that. Are you crazy?”
“Don’t call her a ‘that.’ This is Lulu, and she’s a custom-made Indian motorcycle. Goes ninety miles an hour on a straightaway. But no need to worry—I don’t push her like that in the city. Astrid rides with me all the time on the second seat.”
Lulu? How ridiculous. “My dress—”
“Will be protected by that million-dollar fur of yours. Just pull it tight around your legs so it doesn’t get caught up in the wheel.”
“There are several respectable cars here. Surely we can take one of them.”
“Thought you wanted to be treated like a man, not a princess.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Her emotions hovered between frustration and fear.
“Come on. It’s perfectly safe.”
She highly doubted that.
A dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll go slow.” He held out his hand and nodded toward the motorcycle.
She reluctantly accepted. While he steadied the bike, she followed his instructions, stepping up on a small footrest jutting out from the wheel before throwing her leg over to straddle the seat. A metal handle shaped like a croquet wicket arched between her seat and his. She grabbed it for balance. “This won’t work. My dress is too tight.”
Using the heel of his shoe, Lowe roughly bore down on the starter lever near her right leg. The bike angrily rumbled to life like a bear awakened in the middle of a long winter nap, vibrating every bone in her body. No choice in the matter now. She quickly adjusted her dress and pulled her coat tight, tucking it around her thighs.
“Got everything out of harm’s way?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“This will never work,” she repeated as she gripped the handle harder. “You’ll kill me.”
“Then we’ll be even. Where to?”
She exhaled a long breath. “The museum.”
He nodded, showing no surprise for their destination—just popped the kickstand and glided the bike down the driveway. Not so bad. Until he headed onto the street. The pavement seemed to peel away when the motorcycle sped into the night. Cool air rustled the hairs of the mink as they raced past the mansions on Broadway.
When he turned down a road that sloped toward the Bay, she lost faith in the handle and threw her arms around Lowe’s torso, holding on for dear life. Her stomach dropped. Her heart drummed against her ribs. She pressed her cheek against his back and held on more tightly, wanting to scream for help or maybe even joy—joy? How was that possible?
But it was. An exhilarating sort of joy that bordered on madness. And even through the cantankerous roar of the engine, she could hear laughter rumbling inside his chest. He was deliciously warm and solid beneath her arms—so much so, she didn’t care about the rickety wicket of a handle uncomfortably jabbing her stomach, or the sharp scent of gasoline and motor oil wafting past her face, or her no-touching rule. Nothing mattered but the shape of him—a living, breathing anchor. And while city lights blurred along the foggy roads they traveled, she did her best to memorize how it felt to hold on to something so reassuringly sturdy.
It didn’t last long enough, because she soon recognized the familiar lawns of Golden Gate Park. And when he parked by the administrative offices, she nearly fell off the motorcycle trying to disentangle herself from him while quickly shifting her dress into place.
