Grave Phantoms (6 page)

“Mrs. Cushing apparently feels so bad about lending out the boat to Miss Richards,” Bo said, “that she's offered to house her and the other survivors until they can—”

“Ridiculous,” Greta interrupted, her face pinched in disbelief. “What wealthy lady lets her maid borrow a luxury yacht?”

Huh. She was probably right. Bo certainly couldn't imagine, say, Greta asking to use one of Winter's boats for a weekend outing. The proud housekeeper would just as soon set herself on fire.

“Maybe it was a special reward,” Aida suggested.

Greta crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh
ja
,” she said sarcastically. “I will just please ask Winter”—which she pronounced more like
Veen-ter
with her lilting accent—“if I can borrow the Pierce-Arrow limousine for a big-time champagne weekend with my friends.”

Bo smiled to himself. He rather liked it when Greta got
agitated. But she'd made her point, a good one—not to mention that it had temporarily distracted everyone from thinking about Astrid's trip to the hospital.

“The whole story stinks,” Astrid said. “Those survivors are lying. And Mrs. Cushing knows something about it, because Greta's ab-so-
lute
-ly right about the maid borrowing that yacht.”

“It doesn't make much sense,” Aida admitted. “All of them with memory loss . . .”

Astrid folded her arms over her chest. “My nurse said two of them acted like they were familiar with each other. And that Cushing lady got ticked off when the police chief said they needed to inspect the yacht, right, Bo?” Astrid looked at him again for the first time since she'd walked into the dining room.

“Yes, that's right.” He glanced at her wrist and made sure she saw his gaze linger there. But she only looked away again, damn her!

Winter sighed heavily. “If anyone cares about my opinion, I think you should just forget all about it. The yacht's gone. We don't know any of those people. And I, for one, am staunchly opposed to anything magical or cursed or haunted.”

Aida cleared her throat.

Winter winked his scarred eye at her. “Except you, of course, darling.”

“And your daughter,” Aida reminded him.

“I'm still hoping that maybe we'll get lucky with her,” he admitted with a grin. “One medium in this family is enough.”

A maid poked her head into the dining room to inform Winter he had a long-distance telephone call from Canada. “That'll be the captain with the Scotch,” he said, pushing away from the table to stand. “But as for you—”

“Yes,” Astrid said defiantly. “What about me?”

Winter shook his head. “Just try not to give me a heart attack while you're home. And no more drinking,” he called out over his shoulder as he left the room.

Bo slouched in his chair. That went better than he'd hoped. But he wasn't entirely convinced he wouldn't hear more about it later, when Winter and Bo were at work.

Aida straightened the baby's bib. “Well, you heard Mr. Grumpy. But if it were
me
, and I daresay I'm more knowledgeable about supernatural matters than my dear husband, I would certainly want to know what kind of ritual those people were doing on that boat. Magic is a funny thing. You might feel fine now, Astrid, but you don't know what kind of energy you absorbed from that turquoise idol.”

“Well, let's hope it's out of my system, because I don't have time for any more weirdness right now,” Astrid said. “I have a new dress that looks terrific on me, and I'm meeting friends tonight. We're going to catch up and go dancing before the whole city floods.”

Oh, was that so? Bo didn't like the sound of her dancing in a terrific dress. In fact, he damn well loathed it, even though he couldn't get the enticing image out his head. Was she
trying
to make him jealous, or was he so far gone that he'd lost the ability to function rationally around her without his emotions bouncing all over the place?

Aida just smiled. “That sounds nice. By the way, I was admiring that new wristwatch of yours. Wherever did you get it?”

Shit.

Aida knew. He could tell by the careful, teasing way she'd said it. She saw too much. Noticed too much. And now Astrid's response was coming many seconds too late, which would only confirm Aida's suspicions.

“This?” Astrid twisted her arm to look at the watch. If she admitted Bo had given it to her, then it would be out in the open. Casual. Nothing important. It wasn't lingerie, after all, or even a necklace. It was just a damn watch.

However, if Astrid lied about it, that meant she thought of the gift as something more. Because that's when he knew things had changed between them—when the lies started. When she started telling Winter that she'd spent the
afternoon with friends instead of strolling along the docks with Bo. When she made up silly errands to run and insisted Bo drive her—only to end up asking him to take her out for subgum in Chinatown, so that they could share a booth in a restaurant together in one of the handful of places in the city at which it was acceptable for them to do so.

Lying meant there was something to cover up.

Bo held his breath, waiting to hear what Astrid would say. Had college changed her feelings? Were all those men she talked about in her letters a ploy to make him jealous, or was it just a spoiled girl wanting attention, unaware of how much it hurt him?

“Isn't it simply gorgeous?” Astrid finally said to Aida, fidgeting with the rectangular dial. “I saw it in a shop in Westwood. It was love at first sight, and I just had to have it, no matter the price. Please don't tell Winter I blew all my pin money on it.”

Happiness flooded his limbs, warming the space left behind by his fleeing pessimism. He didn't dare look at her face, just slid his shoe near the side of hers beneath the table and pressed.

She pressed back.

Aida made a choked sound. Bo jerked his foot away from Astrid, but soon realized he wasn't the cause of Aida's distress. Winter's wife stumbled away from the table and raced out of the dining room.

“Watch Karin,” Bo told Astrid before he strode after Aida. He found her doubled over the toilet on the floor of the powder room, wiping her mouth on a hand towel.

“Aida?” he said, kneeling down beside her.

“Oh dear,” she mumbled weakly.

“You're ill.”

“I suppose that's one way of looking at it.” A guilty look spread over her pallid face as she whispered, “Please don't tell Winter.”

By nine that evening, the slow drizzle that had fallen on the city most of the day had turned into a steady rain. Astrid dodged streaming puddles after Jonte dropped her off in North Beach, a couple blocks from Chinatown. The Gris-Gris Club, much like the Magnussons' home, sat upon a steep hill. Here, cable cars braved the foul weather, climbing Columbus Avenue, but she'd heard on the radio that tomorrow it may not be running for long: the cable car turnaround at the bottom of the hill was on the verge of flooding too deep for service.

The rain was spoiling everything. Only two of her old friends had agreed to brave the weather to meet her tonight, and now she wasn't even sure she felt like being out herself. She'd originally suggested they all meet here at Gris-Gris because her brother supplied their liquor, and their family was friendly with the owner; Winter had even met Aida when she was doing a spiritualism show here a year and half ago, before he started knocking her up left and right.

Normally the streets would be lined with cars and a
long line would have formed around the unmarked speakeasy. But tonight only the occasional car dotted the curb, and Astrid was able to walk straight up to the door. A tiny window in the door slid open as she shook off her umbrella. “Membership card,” the doorman said through it.

“Miss Astrid Magnusson,” she answered confidently.

The door swung open and a tuxedoed man with a chest as broad as an icebox greeted her. “Mr. Magnusson's baby sister?”

“I am.”

He nodded slowly. “You look more like the younger brother. The treasure hunter.”

“Lowe,” she supplied.

He snapped his fingers and grinned handsomely. “That's him. If you're here to see Velma, she's busy at the moment. But I can have Daniels seat you, if you'd like. Get yourself out of that rain.”

Festive boughs of holly and the muffled sound of hot jazz welcomed her as she stepped inside the speakeasy lobby. A few patrons mingled, smoking cigarettes and chatting near a newly installed coin-operated telephone. Her friends were supposed to be here already, but she didn't see them. And when she asked Daniels about them, she found they hadn't arrived, so she followed him into the dark club to wait.

Gris-Gris was a swank place with a great house band and an interesting rotation of stage acts, from clairvoyants to acrobats to flashy dancers. But the best thing about it was that it was a black-and-tan club. And that meant societal restrictions went unheeded here. You could dine with who you wanted. Dance with who you wanted. No one cared about anything as long as you had cash. Bo came here a lot, so she made sure to mention at breakfast that she'd be coming tonight, hoping he'd get the hint and drop by. She wasn't sure he would. He'd left for work with Winter before she could speak to him alone.

The tables that clustered around Gris-Gris's stage were
half empty tonight, and Astrid didn't see anyone she knew. She certainly wasn't going to sit around waiting for her friends, so she joined the people lined up along the dance floor who were cheering on two couples doing a new dance called the Lindy Hop, with wild swing-outs and kicks. Astrid cheered them on and soon found herself seduced by the infectious beat of the snare drum and joined in when a man offered to teach her the moves. She initially fumbled, laughing at herself, but soon picked up the steps. It was exciting and fun—so fun that she forgot about the rain and her errant friends. She changed partners twice, and then danced with another girl, laughing breathlessly as the musicians onstage sped through another song. And another.

And another.

When the house band took a break, she was ready for one, too, and plopped down at a table to cool off with a glass of ice water.

Her friends weren't coming. Traitors. She wouldn't care so much if an older man a few tables away would stop staring at her. She'd first noticed him on the dance floor, but now he was making her feel uncomfortable—especially when he looked as if he was headed over to talk to her.

Absolutely not.

She took the long way around to the bar at the back of the speakeasy and wasted several minutes ordering a fresh drink and chatting with the bartender before taking another route back to her table. She thought the man was long gone.

He wasn't.

“Your fella leave you high and dry, sweetheart?”

Astrid glanced up to see the older man leaning against a nearby column. He flicked a cigarette into a potted palm and smiled. He had full, fetching lips and an interesting nose with a prominent bridge. He was also twice her age and drunk as a fish.

“Just waiting for some friends,” she answered, hoping if she didn't look him in the eye, he'd get the message and move on to another woman. No such luck.

“You've been waiting for a good while now. Think you've been forgotten.” He pulled out the chair next to her and plopped down, smoothing his light brown hair. “Pretty little gal like you shouldn't be alone. Especially not during the holidays. Don't worry, Max will keep you company.”

His eyes were so glassy, she expected him to reek of booze, but all she smelled was smoke and a fruity cologne. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Max—”

“That's my given name,” he said. “I'm not a stickler for old-fashioned formalities. Everyone just calls me Max. What do they call you?”

“If they call me anything, there's a good chance my brothers will put them in the bottom of the Bay.”

His laugh was nasal and lazy. “Where are these brothers of yours tonight, hm?”

She reminded herself that the club was perfectly safe. All she had to do was raise her voice and Daniels or Hezekiah or one of the bouncers would come get her. Hopefully. She glanced up at the big window on the upper tier, where Velma normally watched the floor from her office, but it was dark. Astrid rather wished it wasn't.

“Look,” she said. “I'll be straight with you. I don't keep company with men your age.”

The votive candle on the table cast flickering shadows on his face that sharpened when he turned his head. “I'm twenty-three, sweetheart.”

She started to laugh, but when she took a closer look at his face was surprised to see that, indeed, he might be only twenty-three. Maybe boozing aged him. Her friend Mary's mother drank too much and easily looked twenty years older. And where the hell was Mary, anyway? Astrid thought of the new public telephone in the lobby and wondered if she should try to ring her.

“Let's try this again,” he said, flashing her a charming smile. “I'm Max, and you, I believe, are Miss Magnusson.”

Her fingers stilled around her glass. “How do you know that?”

“Your family's infamous. And I asked one of the
waiters,” he added, hunching over the small table to speak in a lower voice. A gaudy signet ring on his finger flashed in the candlelight when he set his hand on the table, inching closer. “You are the Viking Bootlegger's baby sister, yes?”

The warning bells that had dinged inside her head when he first mentioned her name now grew louder. He was toying with her, and she didn't like the edgy eagerness in his eyes. Maybe he was one of her brother's business rivals. Winter and Bo had both warned her a hundred times to be cautious in public. Being in Los Angeles had made her forget to be guarded. She remembered now.

“If you're hoping for a discount, I'm sorry to disappoint you,” she said, pulling away from him while trying to keep her voice light.

“No, no discount. I've got more cash than I know what to do with and plenty of booze back home.” His suit looked expensive enough, so maybe that was true. Glassy blue eyes squinted as he smiled down at her. “I'm only interested in you.”

“Me?”

“Indeed,” he assured her, rapping his knuckles on the table to underscore the word. There was something awfully familiar about the design on that ring, but she couldn't quite place it. “Tell me more about you, Miss Magnusson.”

“Not much to tell.”

“I doubt that's true. Word is you were at your brother's warehouse last night when that yacht crashed into the pier. That had to be interesting.”

She didn't like where this was going. Maybe he was a reporter. Magnussons do not speak to reporters. That was one of Winter's (many) house rules.

“Hold that thought,” she all but shouted at Max, pasting on a fake smile as she clinked the melting ice in her glass. “I just decided I need some gin. I'll be right back, and then we can chat.”

She all but leapt away from the table in her rush to get away from him and wove around tables looking for Daniels, who was nowhere in sight. She glanced over her
shoulder to see if Max was watching her. He was. She waved and darted behind a column. A small crowd of people had descended on the bar. She'd have trouble getting the bartender's attention. She also couldn't make a dash for the lobby, because it was in Max's line of vision. Her anxious gaze fell on the door to the ladies' restroom—out of sight, and that was good enough for her. She stepped inside the bright room, leaving behind the chatter and smoky haze of the club.