Happy Medium: (Intermix) (19 page)

“Keep looking for the love token,” Skag intoned. “And you should smash that locket, just as a precaution.”

“Right.”

“When she calls, tell Rose we have work to do. She and Delwin need to stop gadding about. And tell her to call off her twice-damned dog.” The voice seemed to come from almost empty space now.

“I’ll pass it along.”

“Do that.”

Ray stared at the now empty space in front of the fireplace. He really wished he could pretend the entire conversation had been a dream, but he knew it had been all too real. Plus his bare feet were getting cold.

He glanced back up the stairs. On the other hand, there was nothing dreamlike about Emma, still lying his bed where he’d left her. And that was good news all around. He headed back up the stairs two at a time.

***

Emma entered the King William Historical Society with a definite spring in her step. Waking up in Ray’s bed was the sort of thing that started the day off right, even if he did seem to be a restless sleeper. She thought about asking him why he’d gotten up in the middle of the night, but decided against it. Lord knows they both had enough reasons to develop insomnia.

She settled reluctantly at one of the computers. She felt honor-bound to check the history on the other owners of the Hampton house, even though she was pretty certain Livingston Grunewald and Amina Becker were the couple who were responsible for the haunting. The other owners were probably the kind of people she’d expect to live in the King William District. The kind of people who’d be scandalized by Amina and her relationship with Livingston.

But apparently not by Siobhan Riordan or her daughter. Emma frowned, staring at the computer. Siobhan and Caroline had both been mediums, famous enough to have made it into a book about San Antonio legends. And yet they hadn’t been shunned by their neighbors, at least not so far as she’d been able to determine.

But, of course, they were the “right” kind of medium.

She leaned back in her chair. Who would be the “wrong” kind of medium? Where would Amina have gone to find someone to help her? How had people found Siobhan and Caroline when they wanted a good medium, given that Google wasn’t available? Did mediums advertise? Where would they do that?

She turned back to the computer again. Currently she had the
San Antonio Light
for 1946 up on the screen. She scrolled to the classified advertising. There was, of course, no category for supernatural help. She glanced through the various headings for goods and services, not finding much of anything. Finally she reached the personals section.

Most of them were blandly routine—some very careful requests for companionship, small advertisements for hair-restorers and energy tonics, cryptic messages that probably made sense to somebody at the time but didn’t make any sense to Emma now. Toward the bottom of the column, she saw an ad for Madame Constantine, Personal Consultant.

Personal Consultant
could mean anything. She checked further down the column and came to another ad. “Senora Suerte, Sees All, Knows All.”

That was more like it. She kept going. Madame Noire, Miss Desiree, La Feliz. In all, there were eight classified ads for women who looked like fortune-tellers. Emma rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Even the air-conditioned sections of the historical society seemed humid.

Emma checked Miss Desiree’s ad again. “Readings, Advice, Charms.”

Charms
. She leaned back in her chair, frowning. What if the keepsake came from the “wrong medium” rather than being a present from Livingston? Maybe it wasn’t a token of love for one lover to give another. Maybe it was a charm to make sure love lasted.

What kind of charm would a medium have given to Amina to keep Livingston around? She paused, considering. A four-leaf clover would be long gone by now and she really couldn’t see Amina toting a horseshoe around town. What kind of charm went with love? Or obsession?

She stared at the screen again, willing inspiration to come and feeling fairly certain it wasn’t going to. Somewhere on one of the lower floors a buzzer sounded. Emma checked her watch.

Good Lord, how had it gotten to be four forty-five so quickly? She glanced at her cell phone a little guiltily—she’d turned it off when she’d walked in. It was a rule in the historical society, but she had a feeling Gabrielle wouldn’t see it that way if she’d tried to call and gotten a voicemail.

Emma pulled her printouts together, tucking them into her tote bag. At least she might have something to tell Ray this evening, although it wasn’t enough to really count for much. Gracie was gathering her own belongings together when she got to the front desk.

“Find what you needed, sweet cakes?” she asked without really looking up.

“Yes, I did.” Emma started toward the door, then turned back. “I don’t suppose you know anything about fortune-tellers who practiced in town during the twenties?”

Gracie shrugged. “We’ve always had fortune-tellers around here. The twenties wouldn’t have been any different.”

“Anybody in King William?”

She shook her head. “They’d be downtown. Or over on the west side. King William wouldn’t have put up with it.”

Only with the right kind of medium
. Emma sighed.

Gracie pulled the pencil out of her topknot. “Why do you need to know about old-time fortune-tellers?”

“I need to know what they might have given a woman who was looking for a love charm.”

Gracie’s lips curved up. “Ray Ramos not treating you right, sweet cakes?”

Emma felt the blush from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “I’m looking for what someone might have gotten in the twenties.”

Gracie’s eyes narrowed as she thought. “Maybe something like a rabbit’s foot or a clover?”

“I thought of that. But I’m looking for something that might still be around—something you might find in a historic house.”

“Jewelry, then. Or something like a watch fob.”

Jewelry. Like a gold locket.
Emma nodded. “Maybe.”

“But if your fortune-teller’s got any kind of black magic roots, it might be more like gris-gris.”

“Gris-gris?” Emma frowned.

“Comes from voodoo—New Orleans style. It’s a little bag with magic stuff inside.”

“Magic stuff like what?”

Gracie shrugged. “Depends on the person, from what I hear. Sometimes it’s a doll that’s supposed to represent whoever you want to charm. Sometimes it’s just things that belong to somebody—a piece of cloth or a lock of hair or a pebble from somebody’s garden.”

“And they go in this bag?”

Gracie shrugged again. “Bag or leather pouch. That’s something a fortune-teller might pass on. Something sort of magical. Impress the customer.”

“I can see that.” Emma nodded. “That sounds right.”

“Glad to oblige. Now run on home to Ramos. I got to lock up.”

Emma stepped outside in the setting sun, digging for her car keys. Gris-gris might not be any more likely to be the keepsake than the locket they already had. The locket that didn’t give her any kind of feeling when she touched it. Still, at least the gris-gris idea gave her something new to look for.

She flipped her phone on and saw six calls from the same number. Gabrielle. She grimaced. Whatever she and Ray were going to do, they’d better do it soon. She was willing to bet Gabrielle would make good on her threat and be headed down to San Antonio by the end of the week.

Chapter 18

“Gris-gris?” Ray narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe. I mean, Gracie was the one who brought it up.” Emma shrugged, wishing now she hadn’t mentioned it. The whole gris-gris thing sounded a little weird when she tried to describe it in the warm light of Rosie’s kitchen. “Have you heard of it before?”

“Gris-gris? Sure. Most people in South Texas have headed over to New Orleans once or twice, including me. But I’m not so sure about a voodoo practitioner setting up business here in town, even in the twenties. We’re more into
curanderismo
in South Texas.” He smiled a little tentatively. “The fortune-teller angle sounds more likely, though.”

Emma shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be a real gris-gris, but it could be something like that. Something of Livingston’s that Amina took to the fortune-teller, maybe to get a spell put on it.”

He nodded. “I can see that, but I’m not sure how it helps us. If it’s a piece of cloth or a button, we may never find it.”

“Yeah, the locket still seems like a better bet. But if we go in the fortune-teller direction, maybe we shouldn’t toss anything out without taking a good long look.”

He gave her a flat smile. “You mean aside from those eight boxes of magazines and newspapers I already put out for recycling pickup?”

She grimaced. “No. Well, not exactly. I mean, I can’t see her taking a newspaper to the fortune-teller. And besides, those were all from later than 1927.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. This has been a long day.”

“Did you finish the rooms you were working on?”

He nodded. “Most of them. Everything except for the room I was sleeping in. I’ve still got to take down the wallboard in there. I’ll try and get a crew in here to start redoing the walls once the filming is over.”

“About that . . .”

Ray turned toward her, narrowing his eyes. “What?”

“Gabrielle wants me to find another table we can rent for the séance in the dining room. She’s decided she doesn’t like the one I found before. I’ve got an appointment with an antique dealer tomorrow to see if he’s got anything I can rent. Then I need to get the tables switched out before she shows up next weekend.”

“What kind of table are we talking about here?”

“Oh you know . . .” She drew an invisible circle with her fingers. “Big, round, spooky.”

“Spooky?” His lips quirked up.

“You know—heavy, carved. Sort of medieval looking.”

“Oh yeah, nothing says ghost like the middle ages.” His grin broadened.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Are you making fun of me here? Or are you trying to get me to lighten up?”

“Maybe a little of both.” He reached across the table, catching her hand in his. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.” She turned her hand over so that her palm rested against his. “Maybe I should give this a rest for a while.”

“Which ‘this’ are we talking about?” His grin stayed wide, but his eyes seemed to go watchful.

“You know, ghosts and hauntings and séances and Gabrielle. Maybe just give it a rest.”

“Sounds good to me.” The warmth in his gaze turned sultry. “I’m better at action anyway.”

She felt a blush coming on.
Geez, get a grip.
“I know,” she muttered.

The blush was suddenly even hotter.

Ray threw his head back and laughed. “Emma, love, you’ll never be able to cover up anything you’re thinking about. That gorgeous complexion will give you away every time.”

She blinked as her pulse suddenly sped up to pounding.
Gorgeous. Emma, love.
Which probably didn’t mean anything. Probably just a turn of phrase. Or something.

Don’t see anything that isn’t there. Don’t plan on anything that won’t happen. Remember who you are.

He wasn’t grinning anymore, but she wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe . . . “Want something to eat?” She managed to murmur past the huge lump in her throat.

He watched her for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Sure. Eating’s good.”

She watched him smile again, her pulse thudding so loudly she wondered if he could hear it. She reached toward him almost without thinking, brushing a bit of plaster from his hair.

He frowned. “What?”

“Just a little schmutz.” She forced herself to smile, as she started to pull back again.

He caught her hand, turning it to drop a kiss on the palm. “Thanks.”

She nodded, licking her lips, then turned back toward the counter. Five days until Gabrielle arrived. Five more days until this was over.

You knew that. You’ve always known that.

True. But that didn’t make it any easier.

***

Ray wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do once he finished prying off the wallboard in his former bedroom at the Hampton house. He couldn’t start on any kind of heavy carpentry until after Gabrielle DeVere and company finished their little séance caper. He might be able to start repairing the molding, but he wanted to use a crew for tacking up the new walls so it wouldn’t take as long as the removal had.

He figured any crew work would have to wait until the filming was over. He didn’t like to think what would happen if his guys tried to work around a séance. And he didn’t like to think about what the ghost might decide to do if she found a bunch of men working in the rooms.

Maybe he could haul junk to the dump for the rest of the time until the filming was over. Lord knew the storeroom would have to be cleaned out at some point. Although Emma’s whole gris-gris thing had made him think getting rid of the contents might not be quite as cut and dried as he’d assumed it would be.

On the other hand, hauling away junk would mean Emma would be by herself in the house, or with Gabrielle DeVere in the house, which would be about as bad. He sighed. Unless he could take Emma with him, he wasn’t going anywhere.

At least by the end of the week Gabrielle would be headed back to Houston, and out of his hair. Of course, when Gabrielle headed back to Houston, she’d probably take Emma with her. He paused, staring down at the pry bar. He wouldn’t be waking up with Emma anymore after the show finished filming.

He blew out a breath, sliding the end of the bar under the edge of the wallboard. He’d always known she’d be leaving, hadn’t he? She was going to head back to Houston when this was over. Why had that fact slipped his mind? And why did it start this weird sort of ache in his gut? Houston wasn’t that far away—he could drive up for a weekend. She could come down here. They’d see each other.

But it wouldn’t be the same. Not like it was now.

He liked the way it was now.

Quickly, he bore down on the pry bar to pop loose another piece of wallboard. No point in dwelling on the whole thing. He had work to do. Work had a way of keeping him from getting too hung up on things he couldn’t change, as well as things he could change.

His cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he paused, glancing at the screen. Emma. He pulled down his dust mask as he put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

“I found a table at the antique dealer’s place.” Her voice sounded tinny, as if the connection wasn’t that good. “He may be able to have it delivered today. Are you going to be around to let them in?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got stuff to do here.”

“Great. I’ll try to set something up.”

“Okay. I’ll . . . see you later.”
Please.

“Sure. Gotta go.”

She disconnected and he stared at the phone for a moment before he slid it back into his pocket. Probably best not to think about changes right now unless he had some kind of plan. And planning had never been his strong suit.

On the other hand, getting rid of the shitty wallboard was a change he could actually do something about right now. He pulled off his iPod earphones so that he could hear the doorbell and got back to work.

Every so often during the afternoon he checked the front window, but no delivery trucks showed up. He thought about calling Emma as the day wore on but decided against it. She wasn’t in charge of the delivery schedule. And he didn’t want to start needing to hear the sound of her voice any more than he already did.

While he worked, he ran through his mental checklists for the next few weeks. Sanding the floors downstairs could go on while they hung the new wallboard upstairs. Plus they’d need to replace a couple of windows in the living room and dining room where the wood was beginning to go. He’d have to see if he could salvage the casing and apron so the new windows would fit with the old. The damaged plaster medallion needed to be taken down and repaired. The chewed-up molding needed to be taken down and repaired. The wood paneling in the living room needed to be taken down and used for kindling.

And he needed to find someone to check one window in the storeroom where he thought he might have seen some signs of carpenter ants. The house was certified for termites, but carpenter ants were separate. If he found them in one place, they’d need to inspect the wood for others.

If only it was as easy to get rid of this annoying ghost infestation.

He checked for delivery trucks again, then went on pulling wallboard, stacking it at the side, cleaning up what dust he could as he set up schedules in his mind. He realigned them as he mentally worked out the crew he’d need. They might be able to finish most of the heavy work by the end of the month if they worked dawn to dusk.

Dusk. He paused in the act of fitting the pry bar behind another piece of board. How long had he been working while he waited for the delivery anyway?

He stared out the window at the street, the shadows from the live oaks and pecans, the dimming light at the west.

Twilight. Threshold time.
Shit
.

He tossed the pry bar down and crossed the floor in two strides. If Emma came to meet him here, she’d walk in without a thought. He needed to get downstairs and preferably outside before she showed up.

As he started to step into the hall, he paused. Something pale seemed to shimmer in the shadows at the end. He braced his hands on either side of the door, leaning forward cautiously while keeping his feet inside the warded room.

A gray shape swirled in the shadows now—part of the darkness, part of the dim light. His eyes strained to make it out while his brain told him it was nothing, just a reflection from the hall window.

Not nothing. Definitely not nothing.

The light seemed to change as he watched, flickering dimly like the silhouette of a branch moving in the wind. It trembled, swirled, coalesced into a single column of gray that slowly, slowly became a dress, arms, shoulders, a head, a face.

An oddly familiar face. He stared at the woman who drifted nearer as his pulse pounded in his ears. Her hair was parted down the middle, falling in soft curls around her ears, a thin braid thrown onto her shoulder. She had almond-shaped eyes that turned up slightly at the ends. Her generous lips spread in a faintly teasing smile.

“Amina Becker,” he murmured, stepping back from the door. His palms felt damp. He wiped them across his thighs.

“Finally, you’re here,” she purred, smiling from the shadows. “Why not come out in the hall with me? Or you could invite me in.” Something flickered behind her eyes for an instant, some kind of dark light. “We could have an interesting time together.”

His jaw firmed. “Not a chance.”

“Pity.”

She moved closer, her body swaying slightly. The movement was sort of like Skag’s, but . . . not. He tried to think what it was she reminded him of. A doll maybe. Or a puppet.

A puppet trying to mimic the way real humans moved. As if someone were trying on a body for size after a long time without one.

His hands tightened on the sides of the doorframe again. “You’re not really Amina Becker, are you?”

“I was.” Her lips moved into another slow smile. “For a while.”

He managed to keep his voice level even as his throat tightened. “You possessed her?”

She moved again, more smoothly now. Apparently she was learning how to be lifelike again. “Only when she wanted to be possessed. Such an inexperienced little thing. And she wanted to keep him. She was the housemaid. Fresh off the farm. He was her first. And her last, as it turned out.”

Ray narrowed his eyes. “He seduced her.”

Her shoulders moved slightly, a shrug or the semblance of one. “She wasn’t unwilling. But she wanted him to love her.” Her lips twisted as if she’d tasted something sour.

“What’s wrong with that?”

He moved back as she came closer. He was fairly certain she couldn’t cross the wards he’d pounded into the doorframe, but he didn’t want to take a chance.

She smiled mockingly, as if she’d noticed his retreat. “Livingston Grunewald couldn’t love anyone. He didn’t even love himself. She’d have been far better off to have just accepted that and used the sex. I gave her the power. She could have held him with that for as long as she wanted. She should have. That’s why she called me, after all.”

“She called you? Conjured you?” He took a breath. Might as well try a little push. “Controlled you?”

The black light flashed again behind Amina Becker’s sad eyes. “No one controls me. She wanted me to come to her. Once I’m called, I can’t be sent back. She wanted what I could provide. I gave it to her.”

“And then you took her?”

The shoulders moved again, more easily now, the human resemblance becoming more natural. “Every desire has a price. I gave her what she asked for, and she paid for her request.”

Succubi have a talent for locating weaknesses. Oh yes
. “And then you sucked her dry until she killed herself? Is that the way it worked?”

Amina showed her teeth in a savage smile. “I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t have wasted her energy. She still had years of power I could have used. He killed her.”

“He drove her to suicide, you mean?”

“No.” The smile became more like a snarl. “He strangled her, then made it look as if she’d hung herself. No one cared enough to find the truth.”

Ray’s shoulders went taut. “Livingston killed Amina? Why?”

“She frightened the stupid git. He wasn’t used to wanting anything that badly, needing it to live. I gave him delight, but he didn’t want delight. He wanted boredom, so long as he controlled the boredom. Still, he couldn’t bear to leave her, even with his father threatening them both. The only alternative he could see was to kill her, to end the hold she had over him.” Her lips moved into that mocking smile once again. “The fool didn’t understand that it wouldn’t stop with her death. Her hooks were sunk too deep in him.”