How to Survive a Killer Seance (10 page)

“Yeah.” He studied them a moment. “What is it—a poem of some sort?”

“They’re quotes from Shakespeare’s works.”

He read the words aloud:
“ ‘Wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts.
’ What’s it supposed to mean?”

“I found a site on the Internet that suggests they’re clues into Mrs. Winchester’s bizarre life.”

“How so?”

I pulled out my notebook where I’d placed a printout of the lines in their context. “It’s from
Troilus and Cressida
. That section goes:

“Still don’t get it,” Jonathan said, shrugging.

“The guy on the site thinks they reflect what Sarah Winchester believed—that she was misunderstood. He says the Shakespeare play begins with a romantic view of love and war, then ends with violence and death. He thinks maybe it expresses her feelings of grief and loss, and growing bitterness.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Or maybe she just liked Shakespeare.”

I ignored him and turned to the other window. “This one is from
Richard II
.” I read it aloud.

Jonathan frowned. “So what’s she talking about in that one?”

“Again, you need the context.” I read the computer printed words from the second play.

“I get it. She feels like a prisoner in her own house,” Jonathan summarized.

“Maybe. According to the site, King Richard II was imprisoned and created his own world, populated by his thoughts. But if you put the two quotes together, you supposedly get an image of an isolated, grief-stricken woman who blames herself for the deaths of her loved ones. And yet she’s determined to create a new life—in her mind.”

“You sound like my English teacher. I fell asleep during that class.”

I folded my notes and put them away, with a twinge of disappointment. It appeared that Jonathan wasn’t interested in exploring Sarah Winchester’s past and motives. He only wanted to use her for his own means.

“You know, you’re as smart as you are pretty,” he added, moving closer to me. He took my hand and leaned in as if to kiss me, but I slipped out of his grasp, whirled around and escaped through the ballroom door.

Maybe Brad was right about Jonathan Ellington after all.

 

Back at the gift shop, we found Jonathan’s wife, Lyla, standing at the cash register, handing over a gold credit card. Two staff members were wrapping logoed mugs, plates, salt and pepper shakers, miniature mansions, and other tacky knickknacks. It looked as if she’d bought out the place.

Levi spotted us from the café table and began packing up his laptop. Stephanie followed suit, and as soon as Lyla had her packages, we all walked to the parking lot.

“I think we’re on the same page now,” Jonathan said, after opening the car door for his wife. Stephanie and Levi got into the backseat of the beige Mercedes. “Let’s touch base tomorrow and hash out a few more details, now that we’ve moved the party to the ballroom.”

I hate jargon. I wanted to say “Roger that” or “10-4,” but bit my tongue. I seemed to be doing a lot of tongue biting for this party.

“I’ll call Mia and let her know we want the ballroom,” Jonathan added.

As I stepped away from Jonathan’s car to head for my own car, I heard the screech of tires coming from behind me. I turned in time to see a late-model BMW driving right at me. Before I could even think about fleeing, the car swerved to the side at the last second, hitting the Mercedes’s rear bumper and knocking the car several feet forward.

My heart was beating like a frightened rabbit as I stood frozen to the spot. Letting out my breath, I realized I would have been killed if the BMW hadn’t veered at the last minute. Jonathan came flying out of his car, his face red, his hands in fists.

“You asshole!” he shouted at the driver of the other car, which had come to a stop several feet away. Not bothering to check on the condition of his wife or employees, Jonathan stormed over toward the BMW, waving his fist, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed obscenities.

Before Jonathan could reach the car, the driver of the BMW reversed, jammed on the gas pedal, and sped away on screeching tires, leaving burned-rubber skid marks on the parking lot pavement.

“Oh my God,” I said when I got my voice back. “That guy almost killed me!”

Jonathan shook his head as he watched the car disappear down the street. “You were never in any real danger, Presley, believe me.”

My jaw dropped at his arrogance. Did he think by yelling a few profanities at the guy, he’d saved my life?

“But he was headed right toward me!” I insisted. “Didn’t you see him?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Jonathan said, cocking his jaw. “It was me he was trying to kill.”

My heart was still racing from my near-death experience when the mansion security guard arrived moments later. Apparently he’d heard the crash and the ensuing commotion and come running.

“What happened?” he said, puffing a little after his sprint to the parking lot. Fortysomething, he wore dark clothes instead of a classic uniform. His name tag read MARK PHILIP. Behind him I caught a glimpse of Mia striding toward us, looking bewildered.

“Nothing. It was just an accident,” Jonathan explained.

I stared at him. “But you said—”

He shot me a look. “The driver probably lost control of his car,” he continued, interrupting me. He gestured toward the back end of his car, where Lyla now stood talking on her cell phone. Levi was hunched down, examining the fender. Stephanie had remained in the car. “He clipped my bumper, then drove off. Luckily everyone’s okay.”

“Maybe
you
are . . .” I started to say. Jonathan shot me another fierce look. What was wrong with him?

“Looks like a hit-and-run,” the guard said, stating the obvious as he glanced around.

“Mark, notify the police,” Mia ordered.

“No!” Jonathan said loud enough to wake the dead. He softened his tone. “No, really . . . it’s fine. Besides, I don’t have time to wait around for the cops to take a useless report. My insurance company will cover it. And like I said, we’re okay.” He turned to his wife. “Right, sweetheart?”

She nodded absently, still talking to someone on her phone. Levi, on the other hand, looked pale, as if he’d seen Sarah Winchester’s ghost. The permanent crease in his brow was now cavernous and dotted with sweat.

Jonathan didn’t bother to ask me how I was. He checked his watch and turned to Mia. “I’ve really got to run. Presley and my VP will fill you in on our new plans.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to file a report?” the guard asked.

Jonathan shook his head and motioned for his passengers to get back in the car. He climbed into the driver’s seat and with a wave drove off, leaving me in the parking lot, puzzled and a little angry.

 

I checked my watch: a little after three p.m. Instead of returning home, I pulled up directions to Hella-Graphics on my iPhone GPS app and drove back to the city determined to talk to Jonathan about the parking lot incident. Why had he lied to the guard about the hit-and-run? He’d told me he thought the driver of the other car had aimed for him. If that was true, wouldn’t he have wanted to involve the police? And why had Levi looked so spooked—as if he’d seen an apparition—while Lyla seemed entirely unaffected?

I barely noticed the fog softly rolling in until I reached the Presidio address of Hella-Graphics. I passed a statue of Yoda, surrounded in the mist and looking as if he’d just stepped out of his swampy home. Behind him was one of George Lucas’s buildings where movie magic was made. He’d moved his company to the former army base and established his state-of-the-art filmmaking company, Industrial Light and Magic, there. Aside from a
Star Wars
museum that was open to the public, most of the ILM campus was off-limits to curious tourists, Luke Skywalker fans, and nosy party planners.

Jonathan’s company, Hella-Graphics, was located in a similar white clapboard building that looked as if it might have been officers’ quarters at some point. Like the other buildings nearby, it sported only an address; nothing that would indicate what was inside.

I parked the MINI in a free space next to a rack packed with bicycles and trespassed my way up to the front entrance, passing mostly BMWs and Priuses. I noticed Jonathan’s Mercedes parked in a reserved space close to the building, still sporting the damage from the “accident” at the Winchester Mystery House.

Stepping up to the double glass doors, I tried the door handle. Locked.

I spotted a buzzer on the side of the entryway and pressed it. A voice came over the intercom: “Yes?”

No greeting. No mention of the company. No doubt their way of discouraging drop-bys and looky-loos.

“Uh, this is Presley Parker, from Killer Parties. I’m here to see Jonathan Ellington.”

Silence, except for some faint hissing. Then, “Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, not exactly, but I’m working with him on an upcoming event and have a few questions.”

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

“Look, I was just talking with him a short time ago and . . .” I paused. The faint hissing of the intercom had ceased. The woman who’d been speaking to me was no longer listening.

Great.

Now what?

I stood on the doorstep, pulled out my iPhone, and punched in Jonathan’s number.

Great.

Voice mail.

Time for a little industrial magic of my own, I thought, and quickly Googled the main number of Hella-Graphics. An automated voice answered, requiring me to punch in the first three letters of the last name of the person I wished to speak to.

Damn. What was Levi’s last name? Strauss? Nope. Jeans maker. Stubbs? No. Former Idol contestant. Levi . . .

I’d forgotten. Or maybe Jonathan had never mentioned it.

Great.

I was about to give up when a woman in a tailored gray suit, Burberry scarf, and a crystal dangling from her neck came walking up to the door from the direction of another building on the campus. It was Stephanie, Jonathan’s VP.

Without looking at me, she swiped the pass card that hung around her neck over a small metal square next to the intercom.

“Stephanie?” I asked.

“Presley!” Stephanie seemed to light up at seeing me. “What are you doing here?”

Before I could answer, she went on. “Jonathan just thinks you’re the greatest party planner on the planet! He wouldn’t stop talking about you all the way back to the office.”

“Oh, well, I’m flattered. I’m glad he’s happy with the plans so far. Not that we have many yet. That’s why I’m here. I still have more questions. Would it be possible to see him? I can’t seem to get my foot in the door without an appointment and I can’t reach him by phone.”

“No problem,” Stephanie said. “I’ll escort you in.” She slid her card over the metal square again and the door clicked open. “Security is tight around here, as you can imagine. We get mostly tourists who are curious about the Presidio campus, but you can never be too careful. Believe it or not, there are industrial spies everywhere, and they’d kill to get hold of one of our prototypes. Especially the one Zach—I mean Levi—has been working on.”

She held the door for me and I entered a wonderland of fantastical 3-D images. On one side of the lobby stood a large clear container on a pedestal that held what looked like mice. These mice, however, were multicolored and the size of cats, and they were standing upright, dancing. On the other side an identical container housed what could only be described as miniature people, no bigger than the cat-sized mice across the room. Tinted red, blue, green, and yellow, they nevertheless looked human, all talking or interacting with one another.