Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) (12 page)

Her cheeks flushed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not some chaste girl without worldly experience.” Oh, really? Definitely intrigued. Lowe was rather fond of Unchaste Women with Worldly Experience. “I’m just unaccustomed to being touched so casually. I prefer a barrier.”

“A barrier?”

“Gloves, or distance—I don’t know.” She shifted in her seat.

“No skin.”

She nodded. “I suppose I’ve unintentionally nurtured a phobia.”

“I see.”

“You do?”

He touched a gloved knuckle to her coat sleeve. “This is okay.”

“Yes.”

“But . . .”

“But,”
she agreed dramatically, as if that summed up everything she’d just explained. “I’m not saying I enjoy being this way. It’s just something that seems to have happened.” She shrugged and exhaled heavily.

He thought back to that first night on the train, and her reluctance to shake his hand without gloves for their so-called gentlemen’s agreement. And again the next day, her flinching away from him when they were picking up files, and her insistence that it wasn’t caused by his disfigurement. And then the gazing pool. She’d gripped his hand tight enough then, but she’d been wearing opera gloves. And he’d never actually touched her face, had he? Only the flower in her hair. Even when she’d held on to him so tightly riding on the back of Lulu, there were clothes between them.

Sure, he’d grazed her bare wrist with his thumb a couple of times, but the first time he’d
really
touched her skin was when he’d clamped his bare hand on hers—when she was trying to take the paintings off the table. And seconds later he’d lunged and kissed her, thinking he’d grandly claim her and she’d just swoon in his arms. So much for that.

She smoothed the front of her coat. “Anyway, I suppose we’re even now.”

“How’s that?”

“You’d never told anyone the real story behind your missing finger, and I’ve never told anyone about this.”

“Not even Moneypants?”

The corners of her mouth quivered. She quickly shook her head.

Well, imagine that. She didn’t shrivel up and die at the feel of his lips on hers—or, rather, she might, but it wasn’t him in particular. And instead of just telling him never to try it again, she confessed her secret—partly, anyway.

It almost felt like a challenge. At least, that’s how his ever-optimistic brain interpreted it, as if she were saying:
You want this? Good luck. You’re going to have to work for it.

Facing down a hurdle of this magnitude looked a bit like crossing the Rockies on a motorcycle during a snowstorm. But he’d always been fond of seemingly impossible and doomed tasks. So he spent the rest of the ride remembering what his uncle had told him about one of the Nubi workers who’d been deathly afraid of snakes. His uncle had said that the only way to rid the man of his fear was to feed him cake while he was forced to look at caged snakes from a distance, bringing the snakes closer and closer until the positive association of cake drowned the fear. Counterconditioning, he’d called it.

Simple as cake. Or was that pie? He wondered which Hadley preferred, because he suddenly had the most compelling urge to dabble in behavior therapy.

HADLEY WAS GREATLY RELIEVED
when their taxi slowed near Pioneer Park. What on God’s green earth had possessed her to tell Lowe about her boundary issues? And now there was nothing but heavy silence between them. God only knew what he was thinking. She couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. Best to concentrate on the task at hand and pretend that conversation had never happened.

Rosewood Manor was one of a handful of buildings clinging to the top of Telegraph Hill, and quite possibly the wealthiest home in an otherwise working-class neighborhood. But it was far from impressive: the dull, gray paint that covered the boxy Italianate Victorian was peeling; some of the beveled glass twin-arched windows on the third floor had been boarded up; and one of the overhanging eaves was one storm away from being ripped off.

“It’s unoccupied,” she said as she shut the taxi’s door. “What a terrible shame to let a home so grand slide into such disrepair. Look at that stunning tower and those bracketed cornices.”

“A shame?” Lowe’s nose scrunched up. “It’s spooky. ‘Gloom Manor’ is probably what the neighbors call it.”

“I think it’s handsome and rather pleasant up here. It’s nice and quiet, away from all the traffic, and the views of the Bay are stunning. What a lovely old palm tree there in the side yard.”

“To each their own. But the fact that it’s clearly unoccupied doesn’t help us today. Maybe we can track down—”

A bespectacled man with ginger hair emerged from the house. “Hello! Are you the Davidsons? I’m Mr. Farnsworth, the real estate agent.”

Hadley’s gaze flicked between Mr. Farnsworth and the
FOR SALE
sign hanging next to the front door. She immediately knew what Lowe was thinking: no sense kicking a gift horse in the mouth.

“Yes, we’re the Davidsons,” Lowe said with a smile. “Are we too late?”

“No, early, in fact. I just wanted to open up the house to air it out before our tour. You do want to see the inside, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Some folks are only interested in the land, but the bones of the house are in excellent shape. Survived the Quake, so she’s sturdy. Just needs some repair and paint. Electrical wiring and heating might need updating, and there’s no telephone. But she’s got a lot of character, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Hadley said, getting caught up in the charade. “A lovely old thing.”

“Please, Mrs. Davidson, come inside and let me show you around. Then we can talk price.”

The moment Hadley crossed the arched threshold, she felt it—just barely. The same unsettling twang she’d felt around the
djed
’s
base. One of the crossbars was here!

She glanced over her shoulder at Lowe, who was craning his neck to survey the foyer. Oblivious. But he’d felt the energy in the amulet base—he’d admitted so on the train. Was she wrong? Because several other factors gave the old house a decidedly gloomy ambiance, as Lowe had put it. The thick layer of dust. The furniture draped in canvas cloth. The pungent, musty scent. The crude drawings scrawled on the old wood walls and floor—occult symbols, cartoon depictions of sheet-covered ghosts having sex in multiple positions, and the words “Stay Away” painted in red on the stairwell wall.

“My apologies regarding the vulgar graffiti, Mrs. Davidson,” the real estate agent said.

“I had no idea ghosts were so creative.” Lowe turned his head sideways to examine the drawings. “It’s hard to tell if this fellow here is more attracted to his ghost buddy or the girl ghost.”

Farnsworth laughed nervously. “Seems the house was broken into several times before the bank took possession a few years ago. Probably just a roving group of youths.”

“Oh, those roving youths,” Lowe said with a slow shake of his head.

“I can assure you that once the house is occupied, that won’t be an issue,” Mr. Farnsworth said. “Now, if you’ll notice all the natural light coming in from the living area at the back of the foyer . . .”

Hadley trailed the two men through several rooms, nearly tripping over an empty gin bottle in the kitchen doorway. “Not our stock,” Lowe whispered as he steadied her with a firm hand on her arm. They both stared at the place where his hand rested. He cleared his throat and released her, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a roll of peppermints. “Would you like one?” he said, peeling back a strip of the tinfoil wrapper.

She accepted and savored the minty white confection while he popped one in his mouth, too. As he repocketed the roll with one hand, he rested the other on her upper back. She eyed him suspiciously—had she not just opened her heart to him about her phobia?—then shuddered when his hand strayed down her spine. Down, slowly, then back up. A rub. Definitely a rub. Was he mocking her? Mild anger sifted with panic, but before she even had a chance to pull away, he withdrew his hand, loudly questioning Farnsworth on the total number of broken windows inside the home.

Seven was the man’s answer. Seven was also the number of seconds it took her to grind the mint between her molars—something that did not escape Lowe’s notice. She put some space between them and continued to keep a lookout for the urn while Lowe conducted a flawless performance of a wealthy husband looking for a quiet old home to renovate for his “mother-in-law.”

The stairs were barely passable, and on the second story, a spacious landing ringed by four bedrooms greeted them. “Two full bathrooms on this floor,” the real estate agent pointed out. “Not the prettiest things, but the plumbing seems to work. And there’s a third one in the servant’s hall behind the kitchen.”

Hadley’s sixth sense told her that they were getting closer to the piece of the amulet.

“What’s that door, there?” Lowe asked.

“You know, I thought it was a closet, but there’s a keyhole, isn’t there?” the man answered, and proceeded to sort through a ring of keys, mumbling to himself as he shuffled toward the locked door. “Just a moment.”

“I feel it,” she whispered to Lowe as they hung back.

“Me, too.” He rooted around in his pocket.

“Stronger up here. Maybe there’s storage space in the attic? Because the”—she took another mint he offered—“only other logical place would be on a mantel or inside a glass case, I suppose. Maybe I’m just thinking of the urns on display at the Columbarium.” She glanced down at Lowe’s fingers, which were headed toward her chest. Bare fingers. When had he removed his gloves?

“You’re buttoned up all wrong,” he murmured, much closer to her face than she expected. So close, she could smell his minty breath, which distracted her from what his fingers were doing: unbuttoning her coat.

She wanted to protest, but he was right. How long had she been walking around with misaligned buttons? And why hadn’t he said something sooner?

“One second, let me just . . .” Cool air drafted against the skin over her breastbone before warm fingertips brushed the same spot. Oh, God. The dress with the low neck. Terrible mistake. He made a low noise. Chills danced across her arms. She didn’t dare glance up at his face as his fingers threaded the right button into the right hole. “There we go.”

“Ah-ha! Success!” Farnsworth said at the same time from across the landing.

Hadley bit down on the mint and rapidly crunched it into dust as they made their way over to the real estate agent.

“Looks like a small storage room,” the man said. “Electricity’s out, so it’s hard to see in the dark, but might be five by ten feet, I’d guess.”

A distant knock turned their heads toward the stairs, from which floated up a tentative, “Hello?”

“Now, who could
that
be?” Mr. Farnsworth said. Clearly it was the real Davidsons, but Hadley wasn’t going to offer this up. “I’ll just be a moment,” he said as he hurried toward the stairs. “Wait until you catch the view from the tower. Can see straight over to Angel Island and Alcatraz.”

“Nothing quite like the pastoral elegance of a prison yard and an ill-managed immigration station,” Lowe mumbled. “Help me. Hurry, before we’re caught.”

Hadley stumbled behind Lowe, practically running into him. “What?”

“Can’t you feel it? The damned thing’s practically screaming at me. Somewhere in here, I’d wager.” He retrieved a small brass flashlight from his coat and flicked it on, shining it down the length of her coat. “Always prepared to explore small, dark places.”

Dear God. Was he flirting with her? Now?

As Farnsworth’s patent leather shoes tapped across the foyer, Lowe flicked the flashlight’s beam into the closet and disappeared behind it. “Christ, this room is packed,” he complained.

He wasn’t wrong. Old crates, hatboxes, and stacked chairs lined one wall. They didn’t have enough time to riffle through all this junk. But maybe they didn’t have to.

“You feel it?” Lowe asked.

Maybe stronger than she had ever felt the base. “Right here.” It was emanating from one of three crates sitting in front of her. “They’re nailed shut.”

Lowe handed her the flashlight. “Hold this. Let me just . . .” A charming syncopation of Swedish and English curses filled the closet as he wiggled the corner of the middle crate. A second later, the shrill whine of wood pulling away from nails made Hadley wince.

“Come on, come on . . .” Lowe dug through excelsior wood wool packaging until he uncovered two things at once: an old Victrola and the sand-colored matte glaze of Duamutef, the jackal-headed son of Horus.

Her mother’s canopic jar! It was lovely. Long, clean lines and perfectly painted details. Modern, yet ancient.

The front door squeaked closed on the floor below.

“Hurry!” Hadley said.

“Hurrying,” he answered, hefting the urn out of the crate.

She flicked off his flashlight and pocketed it. “The real Davidsons sound confused. How are we getting this out of here? Back door?”

“Rule number one: never take the back door,” he said, cradling the urn under one arm. “Better to talk your way out of a bind than run. Come on.”

They bounded down the stairs. Mr. Farnsworth met them at the bottom, a stern look on his face. “Sir,” he said sharply, as a middle-aged couple ghosted into the foyer behind him.

“Cousin!” Lowe announced, with a supremely joyous smile stretching his cheeks.

The cousin in question looked startled and confused.

“I see you’ve met the real estate agent. I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it today and didn’t want to miss a chance to make an offer.”

“Richard,” the man’s wife mumbled. “What’s going on?”

Lowe clapped Mr. Davidson on the shoulder and walked him toward the front door. “Now that you’re here, old man, I’ll let you handle it. I wouldn’t take the missus through the main floor, though. Our dear agent here gave my wife quite a shock with all the lewd drawings scribbled on the walls.”

“Now, you see here, sir—” Mr. Farnsworth started.

Lowe leaned closer to Mr. Davidson. “Looks like there’s been some occult business going on here as well. Probably devil worship.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Davidson said as she rushed to keep up.

“True,” Lowe said conspiratorially.

The real estate agent’s face reddened. “It absolutely is
not
true.”

Lowe stopped near the open door. “Occultists, perverts, drinking—God only knows what kind of wicked debauchery has been conducted in this house. And that’s not to mention the ghost. Call me crazy, but I felt something cold upstairs in that closet.” He nudged Hadley and held out his hand. “What do you think, darling?”

Hadley popped the proffered mint into her mouth. A funny sort of reserved panic made her head feel bright and empty. “I think that’s why the neighbors call this place Gloom Manor.”

A warm weight fell across her shoulders. Hadley looked up as Lowe tugged her against his hip. “Exactly right,” he praised with the briefest of twinkling in his con artist eyes. “Gloom Manor, indeed. Now, we won’t take up any more of your time. But it was good to see you. Please call your uncle. He’s a lonely old man.”

Lowe hurried Hadley around the murmuring couple and headed through the open door.

“Wait!” Mr. Farnsworth called. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

Lowe glanced at the urn under his arm. “This?”

“You can’t just take whatever you please from this house. It belongs to the bank.” In a startling show of nimbleness, the real estate agent lunged and grabbed the sculpted lid of the canopic jar. The scrawny man was outmatched by Lowe in every possible way: size, strength, age. But, unfortunately, he had the element of surprise.

The lid separated from the jar with a terrible grinding sound. The men fell apart as a cloud of black ash billowed into the air between them. Hadley stumbled backward. Pottery crashed.

“Richard!” Mrs. Davidson shouted, as Mr. Farnsworth crashed into her husband.

“I’m all right,” the man answered.

Lowe was, too, and he’d managed to avoid the bone dust. The downwind real estate agent, however, was doubled over coughing. Oh, and the poor canopic jar! Smashed to bits all over the front steps, nothing recognizable.

“What in the world is going on?” Mr. Davidson said to no one in particular. “Was that an urn?”

“Poor Mrs. Rosewood,” Lowe mumbled.