How to Survive a Killer Seance (22 page)

His eyes flared. “How did you—”

“Did you kill Wells and make it look like a suicide?”

He sat up, his face red. “No!”

“Did you do it to embarrass Jonathan? Or frame him?”

Zachary threw his hands up. “Shut up! I didn’t kill anyone. I have no idea what happened to George. I didn’t know he was suicidal. His death surprised me as much as anyone.”

“Okay, so what
do
you know?”

“Listen, I’m asking the questions here.” He bowed his head as if collecting his thoughts, then said, “Look. I’m the one who invented 4-D for Hella-Graphics. It took me years, but I came up with the original idea, built a prototype, and made it work. I figured I was worth something for that.”

“Like more money?”

“Sure, more money. 4-D was going to make Jonathan and Hella-Graphics a hella lot of money.”

“But Jonathan wouldn’t pay you anything more, right? No bonus, no extra stock options, nada.” The pieces were coming together. I just didn’t quite have the big picture.

He nodded.

“And because you wanted more, you were fired?”

Zachary glanced out the window. “Not exactly.”

“Why then?”

He shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “I told him he needed to pay me or I’d . . .”

“You’d what?”

“Tell.”

“Tell what?”

“I’d tell everyone about his ‘hobby.’ ”

“You’re not talking about stamp collecting, I gather. Jonathan’s affairs?”

“I had no choice,” he said. “Besides, the guy was a jerk to women.” His words and tone sounded both defensive and angry.

So Zachary was trying to blackmail Jonathan. A light went on in my head. “Zachary . . . were you the one who caused that glitch in the séance program, when Sarah Winchester’s voice suddenly changed and she started telling everyone Jonathan’s little secret?”

Zachary remained silent, staring out the side window at the Hella-Graphics building.

Thinking out loud, I said, “So when your blackmail scheme didn’t work and Jonathan wouldn’t pay you off, you got even by hacking into the program and having Sarah Winchester expose him. For revenge.”

Zachary glanced at me. I saw a glimmer of pride in his eyes.

“How did you do it?”

“Simple. I created a separate workstation in another room in the mansion, hacked into the computer, took control, and made the old lady say what I wanted her to.”

“You were in the house the night of the Séance Party?”

He shrugged noncommittally.

“So you got your revenge against Jonathan.”

“Yes, but not by killing him, although believe me, there were times when I thought about it. And not by killing Levi.”

I still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a murderer, but he hadn’t killed me yet, so I had to consider the possibility he was telling the truth.

“So what do you want from me?” I asked.

“I told you. I have to find Jonathan.”

“Why go after him now? You’ve had your revenge. The police are looking for him. They’ll find him. They think he killed Levi, so let them handle it.”

“You don’t understand.”

I stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In this case, a ratty-looking athletic shoe.

“I was . . . having an affair with Lyla.”

My jaw dropped again. Zachary Samuels hardly looked like the Lothario type. He might have been good-looking under all that dirt and behind that stubble, but why on earth would Lyla fool around with him?

He seemed to read my mind. “Lyla has a thing for smart guys. Brains turn her on,” he said.

“So you screwed him a couple of ways,” I said. “Did Jonathan know about you and Lyla?”

“I don’t know. I have a feeling Lyla might have told him she was two-timing him with me after she learned about all his affairs.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you want to find Jonathan.”

Zachary’s face drained of color. “I think Jonathan killed Levi. And if he did, then he’s capable of killing his cheating wife.”

And Lyla could be in serious trouble.

 

“Damn it!” Zachary finally said after staring out the window a few moments. He seemed to be focused on the Hella-Graphics building. “Damn security guard. He’s coming this way.”

I turned to see a man in a khaki uniform headed toward us. I wondered if someone reported seeing a couple of suspicious-looking people sitting in a car in the parking lot.

“I’m outta here.” He grabbed the handle on the passenger seat, pushed the backseat forward, and prepared to bolt the MINI.

“Wait!” I said, grabbing the back of his hoodie. I had one more question I’d almost forgotten to ask. “Who let you into the building?”

He jerked out of my grasp and ran, disappearing down a small hill. I glanced back at the security guard, who was talking on his walkie. He broke into a run, and gave chase, also disappearing out of sight.

I started the engine, wanting to avoid answering a bunch of questions when the guard returned. By the time I reached the street, I saw the guard in my rearview mirror, trudging back up the hill.

He was alone.

As I drove back to Treasure Island around noon, I thought about everything Zachary had said. Had he been telling the truth? Or was he just a good liar? He and Lyla seemed like a bizarre pair, but then so were Drew Barrymore and Tom Green, Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett, my mother and a number of her husbands. Who knew what attracted one person to another? Apparently, in Zachary’s case, it wasn’t always love, but revenge.

One of the many questions he hadn’t answered was who had let him into the Hella-Graphics compound via a side door. I ruled out Jonathan, although he could be hiding inside somewhere and let him in. In fact, he could be living there, what with all the amenities the place offered. But wouldn’t he be discovered at some point? And why would he let Zachary in—unless he was being blackmailed.

If it wasn’t Jonathan at the door, then who? Stephanie? She’d kept me waiting quite a while before finally seeing me. Had she been meeting with Zachary? Why?

Then again, maybe it was one of the several women who’d been sleeping with Jonathan, including his administrative assistant, Violet Vassar. Or maybe Zachary was also having multiple affairs like his mentor.

Finally—the big question—what had Zachary been doing while he was inside the building? Trying to find Jonathan? Going through Jonathan’s desk? Stealing intellectual property—the 4-D to be specific? Or sabotaging Hella-Graphics in some way?

My mind raced with possibilities. Not a good thing for a person with ADHD. I needed to focus on the most logical points before I started off on another tangent.

I pulled up to my office, grabbed my phone from the backseat where Zachary had left it, and spent the rest of the day puzzling over unanswered questions, getting very little done on my upcoming parties. Completely baffled by Jonathan’s request to find out who killed Levi, I went around in circles until my head spun like a disco ball.

By seven o’clock, Brad still hadn’t come into his office, so I packed up my notes and purse and headed for my condo. The moonlit drive took me all of three minutes—I should have walked. I needed the exercise. Instead, I parked the MINI in the carport, stuck the house key into the lock, and opened the door. My three cats were waiting for me at the entryway—meowing for food, attention, or just for the hell of it.

“Hi, boys,” I said, giving each one a thorough head scratching. “What’s for dinner?”

Ha. I wish.

I filled their empty bowls, freshened their water, and then got myself a glass of merlot before I foraged for my own food in my nearly bare refrigerator.

Plopping onto couch with the wine and some Cheetos, I dug out my notebook and iPhone. I had three calls with no caller ID, just hang-ups, and wondered if they’d come from Jonathan. If so, he hadn’t left any messages. I wondered where he was and what he was doing.

The fourth call, also without an ID, sent shivers from my head to my toes.

“Presley Parker, I’m watching you.”

I held the phone out from my ear as if it had bit me and stared at it. Goose bumps broke out on my arms.

The message had been disturbing enough, but coupled with the fact that the voice was familiar, it nearly sent me diving under the proverbial covers.

It was Sarah Winchester. Or her evil twin.

A loud thud at the front door nearly gave me a heart attack. I jumped. The cats scrambled for their favorite hiding places—under the coffee table, on top of the refrigerator, and down the hall to my bedroom.

I waited, frozen to the couch, half expecting a poltergeist to start throwing forks or moving furniture around. Nothing.

After a few minutes of silence, I got off the couch and tiptoed to the front door. I opened it, leaving the chain attached, and peeked outside.

Dark. Nobody there.

I switched on the outside light but nothing happened.

Glancing up at the decorative light, I discovered what had caused the loud sound. Someone had thrown a large rock, hit the light, and broken it and the bulb. The rock lay on my porch along with broken glass.

I removed the chain and opened the door to see if anyone was lurking nearby.

Not a soul. Whoever it was had vanished.

I went around the side to see if they’d gotten the neighbor’s light as well, but there were no lights on at all, and the outdoor light fixture was intact.

I swept up the glass, tossed the rock, and with a last look around, I closed the door, locked, bolted, and chained it, and returned to my tiny kitchen to make a sandwich. That would calm my jangled nerves.

“Here, kitty, kitties. You can come out now.”

No sign of them, not even my attack cat.

I opened the fridge, pulled out some boysenberry jam, then got the chunky peanut butter from the cupboard and two slices of raisin bread from the countertop. I spread the jam and peanut butter on the slices, slapped the sandwich together, and sat down at my tiny table to eat.

Before I could take a bite, my iPhone rang. I looked at the caller ID: none. Jonathan or my crank caller posing as Sarah Winchester? There was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath and nervously answered the call, hoping it was Jonathan.

“Hello?”

“You were warned,” came the voice of evil Sarah Winchester again.

“Not funny!” I said, hoping to provoke whoever was calling. It was all bravado—my hands shook and my heart was beating at hyperspeed.

No response. The line went dead.

I cursed, set down the phone, then decided to try Brad. No answer. I left a message asking him to call, and returned to my sandwich, but my stomach was clinched and I felt nauseated. Instead, I made a soothing latte with double caffeine, changed into my cupcake-patterned pajamas, and headed for bed to read, hoping to get my mind off things that went bump in the night—and phone calls that came from a supposed spirit.

After reading a couple of chapters that detailed the Golden Gate World’s Fair of 1939, I yawned, snuggled under the covers and turned off the light. The latte did its trick of drugging me to sleep. I drifted off quickly.

The next thing I knew, I was awake, sitting upright, and covered in a cold sweat. The knocking sound at my door wasn’t part of the nightmare I’d been having.

I glanced at the clock: midnight. On the dot.

Who would be knocking on my door at this time of night? Brad, I hoped.

I slipped out of bed and armed myself, just in case, with an aerosol can of spray glitter glue and an air horn, both leftovers from past events. If it was some lunatic at the door, I figured the air horn would scare him away while the glitter glue would temporarily blind him.

I switched on the hall light, and then the front porch light, forgetting it had been broken. I peered through the peephole but it was too dark to see anything.

The knocking started again, this time at the back door on the other side of my condo.

Someone was trying to scare me.

And doing a pretty good job of it.

I switched on the living room light, grabbed my iPhone from the charger, and punched in Brad’s number. But before I could lift it to my ear, I heard more pounding, this time on one of the side walls. This was no gentle knock. It sounded as if someone was hitting the wall with a sledgehammer. Dropping the phone, I ran to the side window and tried get a glimpse outside, but it was pitch dark—not even moonlight could pierce the heavy layer of fog that had settled in.