How to Survive a Killer Seance (3 page)

After hearing my mother’s plan, I choked on the strawberry I’d been eating. Wiping my mouth as delicately as I could with a napkin, I took a catch-up breath and said, “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, dear,” my mother responded.

“No, I mean, excuse me, as in, what did you just say?”

Mother flashed Stephen a beaming smile. “It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? You hold a party at an old haunted mansion like the Winchester Mystery House, give it a séance theme, and then contact the eccentric—and long-dead—former owner of the house, Sarah Winchester, to showcase the new product!”

Stephen turned his crooked grin on me. “Yes, you see, the project my son is working on is the latest in 3-D technology. He calls it ‘4-D Projection.’ ” Stephen made finger quotes around the phrase. “I don’t understand how it works exactly, but he says it has plenty of applications, especially for the movie industry. That’s why I thought hosting a party that shows those Hollywood producers what this gizmo does would be perfect. And your mother said you’re the go-to girl when it comes to parties.”

Go-to girl? Up to this point I’d said little, listening in stunned silence to their preposterous idea. They wanted to rent the Winchester House—one of the biggest tourist attractions in the San Francisco Bay Area—for a Séance Party. To bring back the spirit of eccentric Sarah Winchester, dead for nearly a century.

Ludicrous. I wished I had a crystal ball so I could see where all of this was headed. But I needed the money, and according to Stephen Ellington, his son was willing to spend “a wad” to debut his latest creation. Now that my office was temporarily off-limits, I had to find another place quickly—and that meant a hike in rent, for sure. But the idea of raising the dead at my next party . . . ? I shuddered, recalling a recent party where a guest had actually died. What was it my mother had said at the time? Oh yes. “A corpse is not a party favor, Presley.” Ya think?

“And your son . . .” I started to say.

“Jonathan,” Stephen filled in.

“Jonathan, he’s on board with this?”

“Oh yes. Jon said if I could find someone good to host the party, he’d love to do it.” Stephen gave me a half grin. I could see why my mother was charmed by him. Gentle, friendly, and obviously proud of his son, he reminded me of one of those distinguished stars from the golden age of movies—William Powell? Laurence Olivier?

“I don’t know . . .” I said, stalling. “The Winchester House may not be rentable. And if it is, it could be extremely expensive. Besides, I’ve never done a Séance Party . . .”

“Ah, but Veronica assures me you can handle this,” Stephen said, glancing at Mother with affection. Or was that lust?

In spite of being in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, Mother had kept up her appearance and was still an attractive and vivacious woman. No wonder she’d hooked up with another handsome, charismatic man.

The bell over the door to the diner chimed, announcing a new customer. Stephen turned to look at the young man who entered, then raised an arm and waved the man over. He was about my age—thirtysomething—a younger version of Stephen with blond instead of gray hair, smooth rather than lined skin, and jeans with a blue button-down shirt, instead of the tweed jacket and khaki slacks his father wore. Both had on brown Sperry Top-Siders—rich, stylish, and good-looking, like father and son.

Stephen started to rise.

“Don’t get up, Dad,” the man I’d guessed was Jonathan Ellington said. He leaned down to embrace his father, then straightened up, reached out a hand to my mother, and said, “You must be Veronica. My father has told me so much about you. I’m Jonathan.” My mother blushed as she took his tanned hand.

There was no mistaking the resemblance between father and son. They had the same sparkling blue eyes, the same perfectly sculpted thick hair, and the same tall, slim physiques. The only real difference was the years between them.

Jonathan turned to me and grasped my outstretched hand. He held it a little longer than was comfortable as he said, “And you’re Presley Parker, the ‘party queen.’ It’s great to meet you.”

For a moment I thought he was going to kiss the back of my hand. I pulled it away before he had the chance.

He flashed a white, toothy grin. “Mind if I join you?” He slid into my side of the green vinyl booth.

O-kay.

I scrunched over, but Jonathan scooched up close enough for me to smell his minty breath and heavy aftershave. I tried to move over farther but was already up against the booth wall. Literally and figuratively.

“How did you know we were here?” I asked, figuring his arrival hadn’t been a coincidence.

Stephen spoke up. “I called him, while you were parking your car.” I remembered Stephen being on the phone when I’d returned from moving my MINI Cooper.

“You got here fast,” I said to Jonathan.

“I live in the city,” Jonathan replied. “Pacific Heights.”

“Actually, it was my idea,” Mother added, taking Stephen’s right hand. “I thought the four of us should meet and get this party started, as they say.”

Jonathan started to touch my hand in a similar fashion until he saw the knife I was holding. Instead, he picked up a menu. “That’s right. I jumped in my Benz and zipped on over. So what’s good here?”

While Mother praised the omelets, I quietly wondered what I was getting into. Once Jonathan ordered his Melburger, it didn’t take long to find out.

“So, as my dad probably told you, Presley, I’m founder and CEO of Hella-Graphics, the fastest-rising company in Northern California. . . .”

I tuned out as our food arrived. Jonathan continued to recite what sounded like a memorized speech, while I sipped my coffee and listened to “All Shook Up” that someone had selected on the jukebox. Could have been my ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) or his NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) but I checked out the fifties decor—old menus, posters of
American Graffiti
, pictures of carhops—until I felt a sharp-toed kick under the table. I glared at the smile pasted on my mother’s face as I caught Jonathan’s last words.

“. . . exciting new product, an incredibly realistic four-dimensional holographic projector my research department developed, called 4-D Projection. Dad said you’ve had a few mishaps at some of your recent parties, so I’m thinking this event will not only be a great way to impress my future investors, but will also help you get your party business back in the spotlight.”

Oh my God. What had Mother told them?

Now, after listening to the boring spiel in the pompous vocabulary he’d spewed—not to mention his condescension about my business—there was no way I could work with this egomaniacal player. And if my mother’s new beau dumped her because I didn’t take the job, then he wasn’t much of a prospect, Top-Siders or no Top-Siders.

“Well, I’m not sure it’s my kind of event—” I began explaining.

“Oh, I disagree,” Jonathan said, interrupting me. “Any event planner would kill to get this gig, but after all I’ve heard about you, you’re the one I want. Together I bet we could put on a great show. I’m sure your creative skills and my cutting-edge product will go hand in hand.”

On cue, he laid his hand on mine. Kill me now, I thought.

“In fact, not only will 4-D Projection revolutionize the movie industry—think Princess Leia-slash-
Avatar
popping up at our table here, fully formed and as real as your sparking eyes—it also has potential for use in medicine, personal protection, even the military. And you can say you helped introduce it.”

I removed my hand and reached for my latte. “But I really don’t think—”

“Plus, it will make us both a hella-lot of money,” Jonathan added, grinning widely.

I looked at Mother. She actually winked at me.

“Well, I’ll check my calendar—I’ve got a pretty full lineup . . . a bat mitzvah, a
quinceañera
, two bachelorette parties. Oh, and a funeral—”

Jonathan’s phone rang, interrupting my list of excuses. He pulled out his cell phone and answered with a loud “Yes?”

The three of us listened while he took the call.

“No way!” he said into the phone, his animated smile sobering. “. . . Screw him . . . Yeah, well if he tries, I’ll wring his neck . . .” The irritation reflected in his reddening face morphed into anger. His voice grew louder, attracting the attention of the diners nearby. “Take care of it, Stephanie! That’s what I pay you the big bucks for.” He punched off with as much force as his thumb could muster and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Once again he flashed that superwhite smile, and said, “Sorry about that. Business. I’m sure my VP will handle it.”

I shot a concerned glance at Mother. She raised her eyebrows. This guy was a chameleon, changing from charming to enraged in a matter of seconds. A red flag not only went up, but flew at full mast.

“Where were we?” Jonathan continued, oblivious to our reaction. “Oh yes. Just imagine—a séance at the rumored-to-be-haunted Winchester Mystery House. It’s the perfect venue for debuting the product to possible investors. They’ll all be blown away when our special guest suddenly appears—the ghost of Sarah Winchester!” He chuckled. “Wait until James Cameron hears about this. He’d kill for the secret to this new technology. But I’ll be the one making a killing.”

I’d had enough. I pushed away the plate in front of me and I pulled out my iPhone, pretending to check my messages. “Well, I hate to be rude, but I have to get back to the office. I’m meeting a client.”

Jonathan made no attempt to move out of the way. “So, are we set?” he said, looking at me with confident anticipation.

I started to say, “In your dreams, buddy,” but before I could get out a nicer version, I caught my mother staring at Stephen, her eyes wide with horror.

I looked at the older man. His eyes had rolled back and his lids were fluttering. He seemed to be trying to say something, but all that came out of his mouth were grunts and a string of drool.

Jonathan turned to see what I was staring at and jumped up. “Dad? Dad!”

Stephen’s eyelids stop fluttering and his jaw grew slack.

“Stephen!” Mother said, grimacing and patting his hand.

Jonathan pulled out his cell phone. “Yes, this is an emergency,” he said to the operator. “It’s my father. I think he’s having another stroke.”

 

I witnessed a new side of Jonathan Ellington materialize as we waited for help to arrive at the diner. Leaving his evil twin behind, his good twin had emerged and taken charge immediately. He lay his father gently on the floor, checked the man’s pockets for medication, then asked the waitress for water. While we waited for the ambulance, Jonathan sat caressing his father’s head lovingly, as if caring for a baby. I heard him whisper “Dad” repeatedly while he wiped his father’s brow with a dampened handkerchief that Mother had offered. The rest of the diners remained in their booths, mouths agape at the unfolding drama, food untouched and getting cold.

When the EMTs arrived moments later, Mother and I backed out of their way. I saw tears form in my mother’s eyes as she stood a few feet from the ailing man. Grasping her hand, I pulled her over to another booth and sat her down. She’d recently lost three of her friends—two from the care center and one a longtime friend from her partying days—and each time the deaths had hit her hard. I wondered how much Stephen had come to mean to her in such a short time. And whether or not she could take another loss.

One of the EMTs questioned Jonathan about his father’s previous condition, while the other gave Stephen oxygen and started an IV. Moments later the older man was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled out to the ambulance waiting at the curb.

Jonathan followed, giving me a quick glance on the way out. I nodded in return. After he disappeared into the back of the ambulance, I turned to Mother who had regained her composure. Together we listened, stunned, to the sound of fading sirens.

“Oh, Presley, do you think Stephen’s going to be all right?” she asked, rising from her seat. “He’s such a nice man. Oh dear.” Again her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mom,” I reassured her. “The doctors will take good care of him. Let’s get you home.” My words felt hollow. I knew nothing about strokes, other than one of my stepfathers, Van, had died from one. I was only five at the time.

I held the diner door open and Mother shuffled through, clutching her Coach handbag as if it were a lifeline.

As we walked up the street, she kept repeating the word “fast.” I could tell she was agitated when she rattled on like that.

“Mother, are you all right?”

“Yes, darling. I’m fine.”

“You keep saying ‘fast.’ Are you in a hurry?”

“No, no. I’m just remembering what we were taught in our CPR class. The signs of a stroke.”

“Fast?”

“Yes, it’s an acronym, to help us remember more easily. I have trouble with my memory at times, you know.” She held up a fist, then uncurled one finger at a time, counting off each letter in the acronym. “FAST: F for facial paralysis, A for arm weakness, S for speech difficulties, and T for time to act fast.”

“Wow, I’m impressed.”

“Yes, I got an A in that class. You should take it. You not only learn the signs, but you learn what to do. For example, if you suspect the victim has facial paralysis, you ask him to smile. If he’s had a stroke, he can’t smile easily and the mouth often droops on one side.”

“Huh.” I’d noticed a little drooping on one side of Stephen’s mouth.

“For arm weakness,” she continued, “you ask the person to raise both arms. He usually can’t raise one.”