Grave Phantoms (5 page)

The neighbors had mixed feelings about their living here. Her family was new money, her brother a well-known criminal. They didn't hide their success. Their turreted Queen Anne mansion took up two lots to most of the other homes' one, and several fine cars lined their gated driveway, including Winter's black-and-red Pierce-Arrow limousine. They kept a sizable staff, mostly Swedish immigrants, and Winter employed several hundred workers across the city.

They were not poor, and they were not humble. But whatever the neighbors said about her family behind their closed doors, they were all smiles in public. Astrid had learned the value of holding her head high. And as the silhouette of their imposing home came into view through the light-falling rain, a rush of relief made her shoulders relax and gave her a brief respite from the evening's odd events.

On the car ride here, Bo had told Astrid about his brief talk outside the hospital with the widow, Mrs. Cushing. He said she was polite when he approached her, promising she'd have someone move the yacht in the morning. The police chief, on the other hand, was insistent that no one touch the boat until they'd had a chance to look through it in the daylight.

“And she didn't seem happy about this, not at all,” Bo said. “Went from gracious to frosty”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. Definitely someone who is used to getting her way.”

Astrid didn't know what to make of this. She'd told Bo what she'd learned from the nurse, but by the time they'd made it home, she was weary of thinking about all of it.

Bo parked his car behind the others in the driveway, and they quietly entered the house through a side porch. Inside, the Queen Anne was dark. Astrid took off her ruined wet pumps and carried them by the heels as she padded down a chevron-patterned runner. Bo followed. After a dozen steps, a narrow hallway opened up to a large foyer that smelled of orange oil and lilies. Home.

A dog as big as a small horse shuffled across the floor, claws clicking on the hardwood, and greeted her with a wagging tail.

“Hello, Sam,” she said, bending to scratch his ear. The brindled mastiff officially belonged to Winter's wife—though Winter treated it like a second child—and was an excellent guard dog. He nuzzled Astrid's hand and then rubbed his head against Bo's leg and left a trail of wiry hair, which Bo complained about beneath his breath—but not without giving the dog an affectionate pat on the rump. Then the mastiff shuffled back the way he came and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Bo and Astrid alone in the empty foyer.

An awkward silence grew between them. Now that the shock of the night's events was receding, Astrid's mind circled back to where it had all started, and hurt feelings
began to reemerge. She didn't want to fight with him anymore. She just wanted him to give her a rational explanation for why he'd been ignoring her.

And an apology. One that he meant.

“Suppose I'm going to head downstairs,” Bo finally said in a low voice. The help's quarters were down there, as well as Bo's room. “I guess you better get some sleep, too.”

“Are you going to tell Winter?”

“Tomorrow.” Which was probably only a couple of hours away. He stuck his hands in his pockets and jingled loose coins. “Not much of a birthday.”

“Oh,
now
you remember?”

“You still mad at me?”

“Probably. Are you planning on ignoring me again for no reason?”

“What makes you think I didn't have a reason?”

Her breath stilled. “Do you?”

He didn't answer, and she couldn't see his face very well in the dim light. After a long moment, he just said, “Go get some sleep, Astrid.”

If he thought she was going to keep pressing, he was sorely mistaken. Without another word, she strode toward the grand staircase at the back of the foyer. Next to it sat a small birdcage elevator fashioned with wrought-iron whiplash curves—a luxury Pappa had installed before he died. But it made enough noise to wake the dead, so she walked past it to climb the stairs. A hand gripped her arm on the first step.

She spun around and stared at Bo, his face all sharp lines.

“Have you been up to the top of the turret yet?” he whispered.

“No,” she said, unsure why he'd be asking that.

“When you go, check the hiding spot.” He released her arm and faded into the dark foyer, leaving her speechless.

When she was sure he was gone, she raced up the stairs to the second floor. Her room was on the right. Everything
was just how she'd left it when she went to Los Angeles in the fall: pale pink rose patterns on the four-poster bed, the rugs, and the curtains. A little too feminine, she'd decided earlier today when she'd first arrived home from the train station. But she didn't care about that now. She dumped her handbag and ruined heels on the floor and headed down the second-floor hallway in stockinged feet to the back stairs.

This particular staircase was rarely used; after the elevator was installed, most of the house's activity had shifted to the western side, and, consequently, the primary staircase near the kitchen—which began near Bo's room and ascended to the third floor, stopping outside Winter's study. However, the back stairs that she now climbed went all the way to up the attic, a low-ceilinged half story at the top of the house that her father had begun renovating for her mother, and which included the top of the Queen Anne's “witch hat” style turret.

The top of the turret, though stuffy in the hotter months, had the best view of the Bay and the rooftops of Pacific Heights. And it was here that Astrid bent down in front of a window seat, eager to find what Bo had left her.

When Winter first met Bo, he was a fourteen-year-old pickpocket in Chinatown. And because he was so good at it, having successfully stolen from Winter at a boxing gym, Winter hired him to do odd jobs—delivering messages and packages, spying, that sort of thing. But when Bo's uncle died of a heart attack two years later, Winter permanently took in the former pickpocket, and Bo proceeded to live with Winter and his first wife, who later died in the accident with Mamma and Pappa. And after that, when Winter moved back into the Queen Anne three and a half years ago, he brought Bo with him.

Astrid was fifteen when her parents died. And though she'd seen Bo off and on before that summer, when he moved into the Queen Anne with Winter, it was the first time she'd really talked to him—here in the top of the
turret, in fact. It was Mamma's favorite spot in the house, and Astrid found solace here, reading.

And chatting with Bo.

He'd lost his mother at an even younger age than Astrid, and it was easy to talk to him. Comforting, even. After school, she'd come up here and he'd teach her words in Cantonese or share childhood memories about growing up in Chinatown. Astrid especially liked the Chinese fables he'd learned from his mother, which he would retell to Astrid with enthusiastic irreverence, mischievously changing the stories to brighten her mood.

It was during one such retelling that Bo found the secret cubby below the window seat, quite by accident when he kicked it open one afternoon. And as their friendship grew, they began leaving small treasures for each other inside it. Notes. Candy. Found things. Pranks.

They hadn't used it in over a year.

Astrid's heart raced madly as she hit the top corner of the panel with her fist, once, twice, and then it popped off. Darkness filled the small hiding spot. Astrid stuck her arm inside, warily feeling around, until her hand touched something.

She pulled out a small box wrapped in rose-patterned silk fabric. The bow was almost too perfect to touch, but in her curiosity she tugged it open after a few reverent seconds. Inside, winking up at her in the darkness, was a silver wristwatch.

It was simple and beautiful. And of course it was, because Bo had excellent taste and was the best-dressed man she knew. But the most important thing was that it was from him. He'd read her letters, and he'd remembered her birthday, after all.

Her breath hitched. Joy flooded her chest. She gingerly picked up the dainty watch and traced the long, rectangular face and the mesh bracelet-style band. The pad of her fingertip felt something on the back plating. She flipped it over and held it up to the thin moonlight that filtered in from the window. Elongated script slanted over the metal. The engraving read:

One day, three autumns.

A Chinese idiom that Bo had taught her years ago. It meant,
When you miss someone, one day apart feels as long as three years.

Astrid pressed the watch to her breast and promptly fell apart.

Bo didn't sleep well that night. He'd kept the door to his room cracked for an hour after he left Astrid on the staircase, listening to the rain on the narrow window above his bed, half hoping she'd come down after she found the gift. In the past, she'd occasionally sneaked down the servants' stairwell to talk to him at night. There were six private rooms along this corridor, as well as a community room and dining area. And though his room wasn't the biggest—the head housekeeper, Greta, claimed that one—it was, by far, the most secluded, around a sharp corner from the stairwell, away from everyone else. Easy enough for Astrid to manage without getting the attention of other ears.

But she never came down.

Stupid of him to be wounded by that. Hours ago, he'd worried she might be dead or cursed. Well, he still wasn't sure about the cursed part, to be honest. But as for the other, she was exhausted. She probably just went to bed. It didn't mean she hated the wristwatch.

He'd spent too much money on it. His car had used up
most of his savings, so he needed to be careful. A difficult task when Astrid was involved.

When he'd felt certain she wasn't coming, he'd shut the door and sat up in bed, staring at the bookcase across the room. It was jam-packed with old magazines and books. Forty-two books, to be exact, and one ragged, ancient copy of
Webster's International Dictionary
that he often consulted to improve his vocabulary. Apart from that one, he'd read all the books several times over. Some were missing covers or their spines were broken. Water damaged and dog-eared. It didn't matter. They were his, bought with hard-earned money.

On the top shelf, bookending his five most cherished tomes, was one of the few things he'd salvaged from his childhood in Chinatown: a chipped ceramic white rabbit. His cheap bastard of an uncle said it once belonged to Bo's grandmother, who'd illegally emigrated from Hong Kong at the turn of the century as a bride for sale. She'd given it to Bo's mother, who'd died in the Spanish influenza epidemic ten years back, leaving him orphaned at the ripe old age of eleven—three years before he first spied Winter at a boxing club and picked the big man's pocket.

The day his life changed.

He didn't have any photographs of his mother. Only the rabbit remained. But he did have memories of her recounting old Chinese fables of animal spirits that played tricks on men. He loved those stories. After she died, he used to pretend that her spirit watched him from the rabbit's shiny black eyes. Perhaps he'd pretended so much that he actually believed it now.

“Do not look at me like that,
Ah-Ma
,” he said to the rabbit now, turning it around to face the wall so that it couldn't watch him being miserable. “I know I can't have the girl.”

Of course he knew this. He couldn't sit with Astrid in all but a handful of restaurants around town. He couldn't walk into a movie theater with her on his arm. Statewide anti-miscegenation laws said it was outright illegal for him
to marry her. Hell, he could be thrown in jail for even so much as holding her hand in public.

So, no.

Bo knew he shouldn't want her. Knew he couldn't have her.

But his rebellious heart refused to acknowledge any of this. It tormented him with whispered provocations, urging him to action and kindling hope.

His heart said: when have you ever given a damn about laws?

—

By some miracle, he finally fell asleep and woke much too late, rushing to bathe and dress at half past nine. His schedule was often nocturnal, but he was accustomed to being up early, no matter how much sleep he'd failed to get. But he especially wanted to be up early today because of Astrid.

And to deal with the yacht. Not Astrid at all, only the yacht. Though, he supposed he needed to tell Winter about Astrid's hospital trip . . . something he relished about as much as a hole in the head.

After shaving and combing back his damp hair with a touch of pomade, carefully arranging an elegant swoop in the front, he grabbed a fresh suit jacket off a wooden valet stand in the corner and raced upstairs to the main floor.

Clinking plates and chatter sounded from the dining room. He made his way there, slipping into his suit jacket as he strained to pick out the female voices. No Astrid. He strode through the arched doorway, half disappointed. The head housekeeper, Greta, was setting a plate of breakfast in front of Winter's wife, Aida, who tended to her wriggling baby in a high chair.

“Morning, Bo.” Aida smiled up at him with a sleepy, freckled face. As she held a tiny pewter spoon out of the baby's reach, the wide sleeve of her oriental silk robe fluttering around her elbow. Aida's shop was on the edge of Chinatown, and she often channeled spirits for the women who worked for one of Chinatown's tong leaders—Ju Wong,
who owned a sewing factory and ran a small prostitution business on the side; his seamstresses often paid Aida in clothes.

“All this rain must be slowing us down,” she said, stretching her back against the chair. “Everyone slept in this morning.”

“I did not,” a singsong voice with a heavy Swedish accent said. The silver-headed housekeeper held out a clean cloth for Aida; the baby was wearing most of the pureed fruit her mother was trying to spoon into her tiny, smiling mouth. “I was up at dawn.”

No surprise there. Greta hadn't slept past five
A.M.
since Bo had known her. She was proud, efficient, and took her duties
very
seriously. He'd never once seen her smile until the baby came along last spring. Seemed the solemn Swede had a soft spot for children.

He stuck his finger in the baby's bowl and tasted. “Pears,” he said, smiling down at nine-month-old Karin, who chirped a nonsensical, happy greeting and reached for him. The infant looked more and more like Aida every day, but when Winter showed them old photographs of Astrid at her age, it was clear that Karin had Magnusson eyes.

“No one wants you smearing your dirty fingers all over them, little beastie,” Aida told her as she tried to capture said dirty fingers with the cloth Greta had brought.

“Who knew girls were so messy,” he said as he lifted linen from a steaming basket and grabbed a warm biscuit. Greta's jaw clinched. If she had her way, he'd eat all his meals downstairs. He gave her a quick wink, and that only irked her further.

Aida scooted her untouched plate to the empty chair next to her. “Eat before the eggs get cold,” she said, tucking the front of her caramel-colored bob behind one ear. “I'll get another plate when Karin's done finger-painting the tablecloth.”

“Don't mind if I do.” He sat down and settled a napkin on his leg a few seconds before Winter strolled into the room.

“Oh, you're up,” Winter said to him, stretching as he passed. “The warehouse just telephoned. The sandbags are holding strong and that goddamn yacht's been moved this morning, hallelujah.”

Multiple things went through Bo's head at once. If the yacht was moved this morning, that meant Winter knew Bo hadn't moved it last night. And yet, Winter was in an easygoing mood, lazily rolling up his shirtsleeves as he sat across from his wife and smiled at his daughter. This also meant he probably hadn't heard about the hospital yet. Good.

“You feel okay, cheetah?” he said to his wife, brow wrinkling.

“All this rain makes me a little drowsy,” she said.

While Winter frowned at her, Bo asked, “Who moved the yacht?” Surely not Officer Bastard.

Winter settled a forearm on the edge of the table and leaned back in his seat. “The widow who owns it had it towed at dawn. Johnny said no one bothered to inform anyone at the pier—he would've slept through it if it weren't for the officer guarding it, who banged on the warehouse door, accusing them of moving it without his permission. Took several calls for the cop to get in touch with the tugboat operator and find out what had happened.”

“Mrs. Cushing had it moved without the chief's permission?”

“Is that the widow's name? I suppose so. Good riddance, I say. Let the police deal with it far away from us.” He accepted the morning newspaper from Greta with a nod. “We'll have to wait and see if any reporters are snooping around today. If it looks clear, we'll go ahead and stage tonight's runs at the pier. But either way, I'm probably going to need you to take a runabout to the Marin County dock this afternoon and deal with that new Canadian captain.”

“And by ‘deal with,' you mean . . . ?”

“See if you can talk him down on the price of that Scotch he's hoarding.”

“All right. Rough him up, got it.”

“Bo,” Aida scolded with a soft smile.

“Oh,
no
roughing up. Let me just write that down so I don't forget.”

Winter surveyed the front of the newspaper. “Wonderful. The damn yacht's already making headlines. ‘Lost-at-sea Mystery Yacht Reappears,'” he read out loud, then skimmed a short article that had little-to-no information. “Our pier number is mentioned, but not our name, so that's something, I suppose. I take it you couldn't get the yacht running last night?”

Bo's fork hovered over his eggs. “About that . . . Have you talked to Astrid?”

“Haven't seen her.”

Aida snorted. “She informed us yesterday that she wouldn't be getting up before noon during the holidays.”

That sounded like Astrid, all right. He thought of the gift again and a little pang went through his chest. He ate a bite of lukewarm egg and had difficulty swallowing. Time to get it over with.

“About last night,” he began, keeping his eyes on his plate. “Astrid and I ran into a strange . . . situation on the yacht.”

Newspaper crinkled. Bo glanced up to find Winter's sharp eyes trained on him. “Why was Astrid on the yacht?”

“A valid question,” Bo said diplomatically. “And believe me, I wish she hadn't been—”

“What is wrong?” Greta asked as she set down a carafe of hot coffee.

“Everything's fine,” Bo assured all of them.

Bobbed hair appeared in the doorway, blond against the dark polished wood. Astrid's gaze met his for a brief moment, but for once, he couldn't read her. And that made him more anxious than he already was.

“Good morning, everyone.” The youngest Magnusson sibling flounced around Greta in a blue and white striped top and a skirt that skimmed her curvy hips. Apart from mildly bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath them,
which he could just make out beneath a heavy layer of powder, she seemed cheery. Certainly wider awake than the rest of them.

She set down a stack of newspapers and magazines and parked herself in the chair next to Winter, directly across from Bo. “Gotta catch up on all the local gossip I missed while I was gone,” she said when Winter looked at her as she was rapping her knuckles on the stack of newspapers. “Did you know that Darla McCarthy threw her husband out of their Russian Hill house in nothing but his underclothes? Good for her, I say. That man is a dog.”

“What is wrong?” Greta repeated to Astrid.

“Not a thing,” Astrid said. “I'll have what everyone is having. It smells delightful. Oh good. Coffee. Wait, have we got any smoked salmon? I missed that in Los Angeles. The cafeteria breakfast on campus is just dreadful, and—”

“Why were you on the yacht, Astrid?” Winter said, his easygoing mood heading downhill, fast. “And what the hell happened?”

She poured coffee into a china cup with a gilded rim and handle. “Stop being so grumpy. I'm here, aren't I?”

“Astrid fainted on the yacht,” Bo said in calm voice. “But she's okay now.”

“Fainted?” Winter said, completely abandoning the newspaper.

“I knew it.” Greta cupped a hand to Astrid's cheek and frowned. “It was all that champagne.”

“It was not,” Astrid said, pushing her hand away. Silver glinted on her wrist.

The watch. She was wearing it.

That was good!

And also horrible.

Why was she flaunting it out here, where God and everyone else could see? Bo suddenly felt overwarm and guilty, as if every single perverted, obscene fantasy he'd had about Astrid was on display—and he'd had
plenty
of them.

And yet . . .

She was wearing the wristwatch. That had to mean something. She wouldn't wear it out of pity; he knew that for a fact. He'd worried the engraving on the back was too sentimental—that it said too much about how he felt. About her. About them. About his despair over the possibility of a future together. Oh, for the love of God, why wouldn't she look at him again?

“Bo?”

He blinked. Winter's mismatched blue and gray eyes stared at him expectantly.

“What's that? Oh yes. The yacht. Well, this is what happened . . .”

Bo told the whole story, forcing himself to talk over Winter's rising anger and the suspicion that his boss's twitching fingers were seconds away from strangling Bo's neck. But after Winter was assured that Astrid was, by all appearances, healthy and in one piece, he finally relaxed and ate his breakfast. And no one made any other remarks until Bo mentioned the part about the yacht's owner identifying her maid at the hospital.