Bitter Spirits (8 page)

“Darling!” Her arms extended to her sides in a dramatic welcoming gesture, a long, silver cigarette holder poised between gloved fingers. “I'm Florie Beecham. Welcome to my home.”

Aida smiled tightly as the woman embraced her shoulders and kissed her cheeks, engulfing her in brandy and perfume. “Thank you for having me.”

“Nonsense. You're the talk of the party,” Mrs. Beecham said with a laugh, waving her cigarette holder, scattering ashes around. Goodness, the woman was drunk. She was also Aida's age, if not younger—certainly not the doddering, lonely widow Aida had expected.

“Your home is lovely, Mrs. Beecham,” she said as the piano player finished and the party began shuffling past them into another room.

“Call me Florie. Everyone does. And isn't it marvelous?” Not one single strand of her slicked platinum bob shifted out of place when she tilted her head back to admire her own decor. “I moved in three weeks ago. This is my first party.”

“How nice.”

“I see you've found Win. Don't mind his brutish manner; that's just a facade. He gave me the idea to hire you. He said, ‘Florie, old gal, there's this spiritualist down at one of the black-and-tans who'd make your party more interesting.' And it was a brilliant idea, as usual. All his ideas are brilliant.”

Aida flicked a questioning glance at Winter. His look was something between sheepish and apologetic.

Mrs. Beecham teetered past Aida to sling both her arms around one of Winter's, hanging on to it like the remaining mast on the
Titanic
. He extracted her cigarette holder half a second before it burned a hole in his tuxedo sleeve and set it on a nearby hall table.

“Win and I went to Berkeley together. Before he got the boot.” Mrs. Beecham kicked a leg out and nearly tripped over her gown.

Winter pulled the woman to the side and steadied her as guests filed past them into the parlor. “I think you better slow down on those sidecars.”

“Says the big rumrunner!”

Aida eyed the woman's perfect pale skin and dimpled smile. An unwelcome tightness squeezed her lungs. She glanced at Winter. “I don't believe I've heard the story of you and Berkeley.” Did her voice sound strained? She steeled her posture, hoping that would help.

“Oh, it's a good one,” Mrs. Beecham confirmed. “Win can tell you the long version, but the short of it is—”

“Florie,” Winter said tiredly.

“Shhh. Lemme tell. See, we had this friend, Nolan, who edited a university literary journal, and he printed a D. H. Lawrence review that was a bit . . . risqué, and even though he left blanks for the offensive words, the university was furious and he got expelled. Then Win here”—Mrs. Beecham poked Winter square in the chest—“wrote a scathing treatise against censorship, only he
didn't
include blanks for the offensive words, and there were a
lot
of them. He had it printed up as a handbill and circulated it around campus. The best part is that he included an unflattering caricature of the dean who fought for Nolan's expulsion—miserable old hag. The drawing was in the buff, if you know what I mean.”

Aida cocked a brow at Winter.

“I didn't sketch it myself,” he said, almost sheepish.

“Ugh,” Mrs. Beecham complained. “One of the art students drew it—a horrible caricature with great sagging breasts. It burned my eyes. Anyway, someone ratted on Winter and he got kicked out. It was terribly boring after he left.”

“I'll bet,” Aida murmured.

Mrs. Beecham laughed. “The funny part is that he was only one semester away from graduating.”

“That's not funny,” Aida said, suddenly annoyed. “That's terrible. Why didn't you go somewhere else and finish?”

“Why bother?” the woman answered for him. “Volstead passed and his father traded in the fishing for bootlegging. Pays better than building boat engines and chasing down salmon.”

Winter grunted.

“Can you believe that was what—seven, eight years ago? Time flies,” she said with a dramatic shrug. “It's been such a blur since college, my whirlwind romance with Mr. Beecham, his unexpected death. It's been trying.”

“I can feel your pain inside the walls of this lavish shanty,” Winter mumbled.

“It does help to soothe my frail nerves.”

“Is gold the new mourning color?” Winter said, looking at her dress.

“I put one of his hideous paintings in the parlor as a tribute. That means more than a boring black dress.” She gestured into the dark parlor, where candles were burning and wooden chairs had been set in rows in front of a round table draped in patchwork Romany cloth. Behind it was a garish bohemian painting of what was clearly Mrs. Beecham lying half naked in a field of flowers. Her nipples were painted a shade of blindingly bright pink and her face was blue.

“Maybe you should've married someone who wasn't three times your age,” Winter said.

“He was sweet to me, once. But perhaps you're right. Really, Win, just think if you would've stayed at Berkeley—the two of
us
might've been married and I could be decorating your house right now.”

“I like my house just fine as is.”

“I mean your old house, not your father's. Never mind. Let's not dig up bad memories.”

What in the world was she talking about? Aida's head was spinning from all the information this obnoxious woman was unleashing. Every word that came out of her mouth made Aida loathe her more and more.

“Regardless, it all turned out fine anyway. I rather like being a widow. I can do anything I want, with
whomever
I want, and nobody can say a damn thing about it.” Mrs. Beecham turned her face up to Winter and grinned like a harpy while her fingers danced up his arm suggestively.

Were they lovers? Was this what he preferred in a woman? Perhaps that protective show with Mr. Morran was just everyday business for someone like him. Maybe he would've done that for any girl standing in her place.

Something snapped inside her. She had her pride, and she'd made a promise to herself that she would take no job she didn't want, and Sam would've encouraged her to stick to that promise. “I'm sorry, but I've changed my mind. I think this party will do just fine without me,” Aida said to Mrs. Beecham. “I appreciate your offer, but perhaps your guests would prefer music over mysticism.”

“Aida,” Winter said, unhooking Mrs. Beecham's arm as he started toward her.

“Come on, darling,” Mrs. Beecham said to Aida, as if she were a small child who needed to be coddled. “Don't be that way. Win and I are old friends. Have a drink.”

“I don't want a drink.”

The widow waved a hand toward the parlor. “Well, let's get started then.”

“I said I'm not doing it, and that's final.”

“Stop being silly.”

“Oh, for God's sake, shut up, Florie,” Winter snapped.

Conversation and laugher inside the parlor halted as people turned in their seats to stare.

“Don't you get crude with me in my house,” the widow said to Winter, then pointed at Aida. “I'm paying you for a séance, so get inside that room and do your job.”

A thousand emotions crackled inside Aida. She had wild thoughts of taking Mrs. Beecham's cigarette holder and shoving it inside the woman's ear. “You want a séance?” she said through gritted teeth. “I'll give you a séance.”

Aida stormed to the back of the parlor, ignoring the mumbles and whispers. She stopped at the gypsy table and removed her trusty silver lancet from her handbag, unscrewing a cap on the end to bare a small blade. The garish painting of Mrs. Beecham hung on the wall a couple of feet away. “What was your husband's name?” she shouted back at the widow.

“What?”

“His first name.”

“I don't want to participate. This is for my guests. Andy, you go first. Where's the violinist? We can't start un—”

Aida squinted at the corner of the painting. “Harold Beecham.”

“Oh, yes, well. I'd rather you didn't—Andy?” Mrs. Beecham called desperately. “Where are you? It's so dark in here. There aren't enough candles.”

“Over here, Florie. I'm coming.” A brown-haired man sidestepped behind a few chairs to stand next to her.

Aida ignored them. With one hand on the painting, she took a deep breath and pricked her thigh with the lancet blade. Tears stung her eyes as endorphins reared up. Using the pain to enter a winking, oh-so-brief trance state, she reached out into the void, calling for Mrs. Beecham's husband.

Her vision wavered. She inhaled sharply, feeling a silent answer to her call. The spirit came rushing toward her over the veil like a demon released from the pit of hell.

WINTER HALTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARLOR WHEN AIDA'S
breath turned visible, barely hearing the gasps of surprise around him. He wasn't unsettled by the puffs of white billowing from her mouth—not anymore. He was more interested in the silver instrument she had in her hand.

Aida's body stiffened, then her face became animated. Her head swiveled around in all directions until she found Florie. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I never thought I'd lay eyes on you again.”

Florie froze, then backed up as Aida stalked her around the rows of chairs.

“Aren't you glad to see me?” Aida's voice said. “I remember your last words like it was yesterday . . . when I found you riding the Halstead boy like a prized pony at the county fair.”

Florie paled, then laughed nervously. Her eyes flicked to her apparent lover, Andy Halstead, who stood next to her looking as if he were going to faint and keel over.

Aida walked faster. “When my heart failed, you didn't even try to save me. You just said, ‘Looks like we killed him.'”

Florie's back hit the wall. She yelped. Aida lunged with outstretched arms. Something flew from her fingers and sailed through air, dinging against the wall, but she didn't seem to notice. She was too busy grasping Florie's throat with both hands as she wrestled his college friend to the floor. Winter raced toward them, knocking chairs out of the way while party guests stood by in a drunken daze.

Aida straddled Florie. The mesh handbag dangling around her wrist smacked against the floor as she choked her. A vase shattered. Florie was grasping the leg of a side table, trying to buck her off in a panic. Christ. The medium was going to kill her.

“Aida!” he shouted.

Her head snapped toward his voice. She looked at him with her eyes, but it wasn't her. She was possessed. Feral. Unearthly. A violent chill ran down Winter's arms.

“Aida, let go,” he commanded roughly.

She shuddered . . . then fell sideways off Florie and landed in a heap. Her frosty breath swirled away. Florie gulped air and pumped her legs, scurrying backward. People snapped into action.

One of the servants bent to help her up. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

Florie coughed, then pointed at Aida and choked out, “She's crazy! Get her out of here!”

Winter slung an arm around Aida's waist and hefted her to her feet. He brushed dust off her black dress and slid both hands around the back of her neck to hold her steady and get a look at her. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his hands. “You okay?”

She sniffled. “Fine.” Her chest heaved with several labored breaths before she nodded her head. He released her. She looked over her shoulder at Florie and made a low noise of regret, her face contorting with a reluctant embarrassment.

“Come lay down, ma'am,” the servant was telling Florie. “I'll bring you water and your pills.”

Halstead helped the servant lift Florie onto a settee. Winter watched him with mild interest, unsurprised that the man had been screwing Florie behind her husband's back. Rather fascinating what Aida's ability could dredge up.

“I want her out,” Florie yelled at no one in particular.

“Don't have to tell me twice.” Aida rotated her shoulder to pull away from him, mumbling, “I just need to get my bag.”

As people were filing past, he spotted a flash of silver on the floor—what Aida had dropped—and picked it up as she got her bag, nearly cutting himself on a small, sharp blade. Before he could inspect it properly, he spotted the black lines of Aida's stockings moving toward the door. He slipped the silver instrument inside his tuxedo pocket, hearing it ding against something inside as he ran after her and called for one of the servants to retrieve his coat.

“Hers, too,” he added, guiding Aida toward the entryway as guests scattered around other rooms—some whispering in corners, others looking for another drink. He helped Aida into her coat and instructed the maid to tell Florie that he was leaving and to call them a taxi.

Outside, he followed Aida down winding steps, then continued up the sidewalk. Packards and Cadillacs lined the curb, some with drivers asleep at the wheel, napping until their employers stumbled out after the party. The Magnusson family driver, Jonte, would normally be here as well, but he had the night off and Bo had dropped Winter off before heading to Chinatown.

“Where are you going?” he asked Aida.

She stopped in front of a nearby lot with a half-constructed house. Cement steps built into the hill were still framed in timber, flanked by two freshly bricked posts on either side.

“Let's wait for the taxi here,” he suggested.

She didn't turn around to look at him. Her silence was confusing. Maybe he was wrong, but the way she'd reacted to Florie's obnoxious chattering was as if—well, that couldn't be right. She wasn't jealous, was she? Because that's damn well what it seemed like in the heat of the moment, but maybe it was only what he
wanted
to believe.

Frustrated, he stared at the fog clinging to the trees and the roofs of houses across the street. “That was interesting.”

“I'm not sure what got into me. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Florie's smashed. She won't even remember it in the morning. She never does.” He reached in his tuxedo pocket and held out the silver knife in his palm. “What is this?”

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. They looked at each other for a moment, then her gaze broke away. She rummaged around in her bag, retrieving a small silver cap. “It's a military snake bite kit. I think it once belonged to a British pilot.” She screwed the cap over the blade. “Lancet is here and the other end holds medicated salve.”

“A lancet,” he repeated, still confused. “Why were you holding it when you called up Florie's husband?”

“Because even though I can send ghosts away without help, I need to enter a trance state in order to call a spirit who's left this plane.”

“Wait. If they leave this ‘plane' after death, where do they go?”

“Across the veil to the beyond.” She made a vague sweeping gesture. “Look, don't ask me to tell you the meaning of life or the one true religion or what happens to souls once they've crossed over, because I don't know. They won't tell you if you ask them, either. All I know is that I can call most of them back from wherever they are to communicate with their loved ones, as long as they haven't been dead too long.”

“So you need to be in a trance to do that, but what's the lancet got to do with it?”

“Lots of ways to enter a trance, but since I don't usually have time to meditate, the fastest way for me is pain.” She twirled the lancet in her fingers, then palmed it, showing him. “I can hold it onstage without anyone noticing it.” Her big eyes blinked up at him. She pointed the capped lancet at her thigh. “I prick myself here.”

“Jesus! You injure yourself every time you call up a spirit?”

“It's not bad, and I like helping people. Provides some resolution to the past.” She slipped the lancet into her coat pocket and retrieved her gloves. “Besides, it pays the rent, you know?”

She was tougher than he imagined. He studied the silhouette of her face beneath the brim of her cloche. The upturned tilt of her nose echoed the curved front of her bob, curling ever so slightly against her cheeks. She caught him staring and turned away, testing out the concrete steps. Finding them solid, she ascended one step, then another. She toed the wooden board housing the third step.

“This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I was telling you about wanting to do séances,” she said with her back to him. “I'm sure you feel like you're doing me some big favor by getting me this high-paying gig, but I don't need help arranging work. And it doesn't matter how much money people throw my way—if they don't take me seriously, I might as well be dressing up in a jester suit and tap-dancing.”

Why was she so agitated? “Look, I wasn't trying to do you a favor—”

“And I didn't mean to upset your lover, but maybe if you would've just explained the situation to me instead of having her summon me out here—”

“Whoa! Florie and I are not lovers. Haven't been since college. And it wasn't as if we were sweethearts then, it was just . . .”

She turned around and crossed her arms over her middle. “Just what?”

“Convenient,” he finally said. “I'm sure that's shocking.”

“Shocking?” Her laugh was mean and hard. “Like your silly postcard collection?”

“I believe you called me a deviant and a pervert, not silly.”

“You are. That doesn't mean I'm prudish. I may not be as loose and free as Mrs. Beecham, or however many other flappers with whom you've had ‘convenient' affairs, but I'm no virgin.”

Oh, she was a big talker, wasn't she? Aida might be tough and independent, and she might not be a virgin, but Winter wasn't convinced she was carefree and modern when it came to sex. He could tell by the nervous defensiveness in her speech—the way she blinked rapidly and wouldn't look him in the eyes. The way she'd reacted when she'd discovered the postcards in his study, and how she'd acted in the dressing room. He'd been so worried about his own feelings that afternoon, he'd confused himself in regards to her motives.

She wasn't concerned with propriety—she was skittish.

“How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?” he teased.

She narrowed her eyes. “Twenty-eight.”

“Practically dead. And how many lovers have you had?”

“That's none of your business.”

He rested one foot on the bottom step. “You just accused me of being a promiscuous lout. I think it's a fair question. How many? One?”

“Two,” she said, putting distance between them by ascending another step without turning around. “And both of them could barely manage a proper kiss, much less anything else, so I can't say I was impressed. Like I said earlier, I can take care of myself.”

Now it was Winter's turn to be astonished. Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked away.

Well,
well
. No woman he'd known had ever admitted to pleasuring herself, and being curious, he'd asked plenty of times. Frankly, he'd started to believe females just didn't engage in such depravity, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He was quite fond of the activity himself. He must be; he'd been doing it daily half his life.

His mind conjured an image of her sprawled on a bed with her hand beneath her skirt. Big mistake. He tried to think of what she'd said before the taking-care-of-herself bit, and that didn't help matters. She'd admitted to two lovers, and they weren't any good. The sudden shift of blood from his brain to his cock made that sound like a challenge.

“So you're saying that you can judge a man's worth by his kiss?”

“I . . . no, I don't think that's what I said.”

“That's what you implied. Would you like me to kiss you, so you can judge my worth?”

“Just because you look handsome in that tuxedo doesn't mean I want you to kiss me.”

Handsome? She thought he was handsome? Perhaps she was blind, because he knew from all the uneasy stares he tolerated every time he stepped out in public that this couldn't possibly be true. But he used to be, once, and oh, how he wanted to believe she meant it, so he allowed himself to do so, just for a moment, and climbed one step.

She made a small anxious noise and tried to do the same, but the top step was barricaded by a piece of timber, while his body blocked the descent. The freckled wildcat was trapped on the step above him.

“Don't come any closer!”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure, and that's final.”

He chuckled. “You said that to Florie about the séance, then ended up pinning her to floor.”

“Yes, well . . . I mean it this time. What are you doing?”

“I'm considering kissing you.”

“I really wish you wouldn't.”

He lowered his face very close to hers and smelled violets again. That drove him a little mad. His breath was coming faster. So was hers; for a moment, he watched her breasts rise and fall beneath the weight of her coat. “Why not?”

“I'm sure I have a really good reason, but you're making it awfully hard for me to remember it.”

He chuckled. She gave him a sheepish smile.

“Maybe you'll even kiss me back,” he said, becoming greedy.

“I doubt that. But if you insist on trying, what could I do to stop you?”

The heated look she gave him sent a bolt of heat through his already hard cock.

Jesus. She was teasing him. For a crazed moment, he wondered if he'd been the one to start this or if she'd manipulated him. Maybe she wasn't skittish after all.