“Yes, but aren’t you coming in?”
“This is the part where I do some sneaking around.”
“They’ll catch you, they’ll think you’re a burglar!”
“You hired an expert. Look, we can’t go through the front so you can introduce me to everyone. It’ll put Bradford on his guard, and your sister will be within her rights to kick me out.”
“What will you do?”
“Exactly what’s needed to get rid of him-and for that
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Good for you. Whatever happens I want them to truthfully vouch that you were with them the whole time. This keeps you off the hook with Flora. I’m going to do my best to make Bradford look bad, so you have to be completely clear. Can you look innocent? Never mind, you’re a natural.” I checked my watch: twenty to nine. “I need a sketch of the floor plan.”
I pulled a shorthand pad from the glove compartment and gave her a pencil. A street lamp on the corner bled just enough light to work by as she plotted out an irregular shape, dividing it into squares and rectangles, putting a big
“That’s the ground floor.” She handed the pad over. “Kitchen, dining room, card room, music room, small parlor, large parlor, that’s where they have the seances. How will you-”
“Trade secret. You’ll get your money’s worth and then some, now beat it. Shuck those weeds and keep some witnesses around you. Don’t be alone for a minute.” She got out of the car quickly, coming around to the driver’s side. I rolled the window down. “One more thing… ”
She bent to be at eye-level. “Yes?”
“When the dust settles, don’t give your sister any ‘I told you so’s,’ okay?”
Abby got a funny look, and I thought she’d ask one more time about what I’d be doing, and I’d have to put her off, not being sure myself. Instead, she pecked me a solid one right on the mouth, and honest to God, I did
“Good luck!” she whispered, then scampered off.
No point in wiping away the lip color, she wasn’t wearing any. Dangerous girl. I felt old.
I took the car around the block once and found a likely place to leave it, close behind another that had just parked along the curb. A line of vehicles of various makes and vintages led to the Weisinger house. Partygoers, I thought. A well-bundled couple emerged and stalked carefully along the damp sidewalk toward the lights. Slouching down, I waited until five to nine, then got out and followed.
Not as many lights showed around the curtains now, but I could hear the noise of a sizable gathering within the walls. The possibility of sneaking in to blend with the crowd occurred, but I decided against it. Groups like the Psychical Society tended to be close-knit and notice outsiders. With his membership card Escott could get away with bluffing himself in (his English accent didn’t hurt, either), but I was a ready-made sore thumb. Better that they never see my face at all.
I took the long way around the house to compare it to Abby’s sketch. She’d not marked the windows, not that I needed to open any to get inside; they were just easier to go through than lath and plaster. Picking a likely one above the larger parlor, I vanished, floated up the wall, and seeped through by way of the cracks.
Bumbling around in the space on the other side I regretted not getting a sketch of the second story as well. The room was big and I sensed furniture shapes filling it. Though my hearing was muffled I determined no one else was there, and cautiously reformed, taking it slow. An empty, dark bedroom, and laid out on the bed was a man’s dressing gown. Neatly together on the floor were his slippers. The rest of the room was in perfect order, personal items set out on a bureau, no dust anywhere, and yet it didn’t feel lived-in. No one is ever this tidy when they’re actually using such things.
The hair went up on the back of my neck.
This stuff was too high quality to belong to the butler. The
The upstairs seemed to be deserted, but I crept softly along the hall, ready to vanish again if company came. The downstairs noise was loud from several conversations going at once, the same as for any party, but no music, no laughter.
Nosy, I opened doors. The one nearest Weisinger’s room led to Flora’s, to judge by the furnishings and metaphysical reading matter. I never understood why it was that rich couples sometimes went in for separate bedrooms, even when they really liked each other.
Her closet was stuffed with dark clothing, all the cheerful print dresses and light colors shoved far to either side. Women wore dark things in the winter, but this was too much. There was an out of place-looking portable record player on a table by the bed. The only record on the spindle was Kemp’s “Gloomy Sunday.”
Enough already, I got out before I had another damn twinge.
One of the hall doors opened to a sizable linen cupboard. I stepped in and put on the light. With my vision the night is like day to me if there’s any kind of illumination, but not so much in interior rooms with no windows. This place reminded me of the hidden room under Escott’s kitchen where I slept while the sun was up. It seemed safe enough, so I took off my overcoat and hat, putting them out of sight in the back on an upper shelf. I wanted to be able to move around quick, if required.
Sheets and towels filled other shelves, along with some white, filmy material that I figured out were spare curtains. When I was a kid my mom drafted me twice a year to help change the winter to summer curtains and back again. No matter that it was women’s work, I was the youngest and available.
I held the fabric up and it was just like what Mom used. In a lighted room you could see through it, but in a dark place with only a candle burning and imaginations at a fever pitch-yeah, I could make good use of it. The widest, longest piece folded up small, and I easily pushed it into the gap between my belt and shirt in the back.
But I wanted something more spectacular than a fun house spook. The items in Weisinger’s room would do it.
From his bureau I pocketed the hairbrush, a pipe, comb, some keys, and checked out a bottle of aftershave cologne. Aqua Velva was good enough for me, but rich guys had to be different. I shook some into my hands and gave myself a thorough slapping down, face, neck, hands, and lapels. Fortunately, it smelled pretty nice.
Downstairs, things suddenly went quiet. The seance must be starting.
No time for further refinements, I vanished and sank straight through the floor until I’d cleared its barrier and was sure it was now a ceiling. I hovered high, listening.
They sang “Happy Birthday.”
I could have done without that.
The mostly in-key singing ended, then a man gently urged, “Blow them out and make a wish for him, Flora.”
The soft applause that followed indicated success, then there was a general shuffling and scraping as they took seats. No one spoke, which was odd. People talked at parties.
Silence now, a long stretch of silence. I took the pause as an opportunity to explore the edges of the room. Certainly I bumped and brushed into people, and they’d shiver in reaction, because in this form I’d feel like a cold draft to them, but the silence held. Without too much trouble I found a corner and determined this was where Abby hid herself. She was absent, so I gradually re-formed.
The Chinese screen-and I didn’t have much experience with them-was seven feet tall and wide enough to conceal a sizable serving area. When holding formal receptions you didn’t have to see the servants messing with the dishes. There were spaces between the painted panels that I could peer through, though. Each sliver of space provided a different angle on things.
The large parlor was much bigger than I expected. A long table was set up in the middle and seated eight to a side. Each chair had an occupant, and they were a motley group: some wore formal clothes, others were artistically Bohemian.
An older, more polished, more somber version of Abby sat at one end on the side opposite me: Flora Weisinger.
