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THE MOST DELICIOUS SMELL came wafting into the office, along
with the tall figure of Wish Stephenson, who carried a paper bag in
his hand. It was a little past noon, and I did not have to be an
investigator-dared one say "detective"?-to guess what was in
it.

"Lunch?" I inquired with a smile. "I didn't expect you back in
these parts so soon. I thought your investigation at the Red Line
was supposed to take weeks."

"I've brought us lunch to share, in a sort of celebration," he
said. "Michael didn't tell you?"

"No." I came out from behind the desk and followed Wish through
the office and back toward the kitchen, thankful to be walking
behind him because I felt myself blush as I explained: "We became
involved in something else when he came back from his meeting with
you yesterday, and I suppose he forgot. So, you may have the
singular pleasure of telling me yourself."

"He's not here, then?" Wish nodded toward the open door of
Michael's small study as we passed.

"No, he's out again. I believe he's working on one of his own
projects, nothing to do with J&K."

Wish put the bag on the kitchen table, sat down, and began
removing paper cartons from the bag. "All the more for us then,
Fremont." He grinned.

"Italian?" I inquired, sniffing-I hoped delicately-as I
collected plates and forks and spoons. "Shall we have a glass of
red wine alongside? I believe there is a bottle already opened in
the cabinet.''

"No, thanks. Water for me. I've got spaghetti here and three
kinds of sauce: mushrooms with tomato, marinara with shrimp, and
Bolognese with those tiny little meatballs. All from Vitelli's- I
came back through North Beach and I couldn't resist."

"Mmmm," I murmured appreciatively, "Michael will be desolated to
learn what he has missed!"

As we ate, Wish explained that he had caught the Red Line's
miscreant. The proof had been in the papers he'd shown Michael in
their meeting yesterday, and Michael had agreed it was
sufficient. So this very morning Wish had told the head of the
company, and produced the proof. "I'm to get a bonus," he
concluded, twinkling, "for my quick work."

"Good for you!" I reached over and squeezed his hand. "Now I
have news of my own, though not nearly so profitable as yet."

I went on to tell Wish how I had successfully tailed Michael,
wearing my masculine disguise. First Wish looked a bit shocked,
then his lips began to twitch, and finally he was laughing out loud
as I related how irate Michael had been to find a young man-or so
he thought-with his feet up on my desk.

"Oh," Wish said, "I would've liked to be a fly on the wall, to
see that!"

"Yes," I agreed, laughing too, "but I couldn't prolong the ruse
for as long as I wanted, because I do believe Michael would have
snatched me up and booted me out onto the street in another half a
minute!"

After a little while, when we had laughed ourselves out, Wish
said, "I suppose now you'll be getting all the best cases. The
clients will come in the door, take one look at you, and they won't
be wanting a beanpole like myself to do their investigating."

"Hah!" I said. We both knew he was only being kind. I would be
extremely lucky to have one case to four of his; and if Michael
ever decided to become an active rather than only an advisory
member of the staff, I doubted there would be work enough in San
Francisco for all three of us. Especially considering we already
had a branch of Pinkerton's in the City-stiff competition,
indeed.

After we had done very well by the Italian dishes, and I'd
stored the leftovers in the cooler, Wish and I settled down at our
respective desks. He to write his report for Red Line, and I to
write a letter to my friend Meiling, as I was all caught up on
paperwork. A peaceful silence came over us. There is something so
pleasant about working quietly in shared space, in perfect trust
and camaraderie.

A few minutes before two o'clock it was up to me to break that
silence. "I have an appointment soon," I said. "What are your plans
for the afternoon?"

Wish looked over his shoulder at me. "Maybe I'll type up this
report, using my foolproof two-finger method. How long will you
be?"

"An hour, perhaps two. I'm not sure. This is not business, it's
. . . well, personal."

"The plot thickens. You have your personal project, Michael has
his . . . Well, I'll have you know, Fremont, that I also have a
personal project. But it doesn't require my attention until after
you return, at whatever time that may be."

"Thank you. That is most kind."

"Doesn't look like I'll be too busy, in any case. The phone
hasn't rung all afternoon," Wish said. Being on the police force
had conditioned him to expect that something would be happening
every minute. But Michael had told me that in the investigatory
business there would be many times when we could expect to be idle,
especially while the business gained its reputation. So I was not
unduly concerned.

"We'll be fine, all of us, you'll see," I said, and gave him a
pat on the arm before going upstairs to change before walking to
the McFaddens' house.

Frances always dressed so fashionably; I reckoned that I myself
should go to see her looking more like her guest than a servant,
even if I did plan to enter by the back stairs. So I took the time
to change into a navy-blue dress Michael had given me, made in a
simple style but of elegant heavy silk-the sort of dress that is
dear to the heart of every Boston matron because it will never go
out of style. There was still enough of the Bostonian in me to
appreciate that. Around my shoulders I draped yet another gift: the
fringed amethyst shawl from Mrs. O'Leary, the same one I'd let
Frances wear a few days ago. Probably, I thought as I took one last
critical glance in the mirror, I should put my hair up-but I wasn't
going to. I was going to wear it in the same unfashionable way I've
preferred for years: pulled back and fastened at the nape of the
neck in a tortoiseshell clasp.

A small involuntary sigh escaped me as I tossed one end of the
shawl over my shoulder, and an involuntary thought came with it:
How nice it would be to have enough money of my own, so that I
could buy something nice and new, and not have to rely on gifts
from people like Mrs. O and Michael. But that made me feel bad, as
being ungrateful, so I put it out of my mind.

Having committed to memory the diagram Frances had drawn for me,
I found the seldom-used side door to the McFadden house with no
difficulty. The black slicker, with its now familiar musty smell,
hung just inside. Because I was already a bit late, I wasted no
time in crossing the small room and exiting; the back stairs were
straight ahead, everything as Frances had described, right down to
the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. There was baking going
on, and suddenly, for only an instant, I was a child again in my
father's house on bread-making day. Now I knew he was coming, and
in not too many more days, it seemed every place and everything was
providing me with some memory of Father.

I resisted the urge to run up the stairs and climbed them
instead stealthily, quietly, slowly. The steps themselves were
narrow, the risers high; I should not have liked to be a servant
going up and down these steps countless times a day, especially
with my hands so full I could not see my feet. In the way of most
sets of back stairs, they were spartan; but when I reached the
second landing and passed into the corridor, the decor was quite
something else again. I doubted Frances had had a hand in it, for
the hand that had accomplished this effect had been a heavy
one.

The corridor was wide, the ceiling high, the ambience
oppressively rich and dark. The colors in the carpet might have
glowed, the handsome wood of the wall paneling might have found a
luster, but for the panes of a large stained-glass window that
filtered all brightness from what light it allowed to pass through.
As that window was at the other end of the corridor, I couldn't
readily see what it depicted, nor was I to have the chance to
examine it further at the moment because Frances had apparently
been listening and watching for me. The second door on my right
opened out and suddenly she was there, like a pale apparition.

I hastened to her, apologizing briefly for my lateness.

"You're not really so late," she said kindly. "We should get on
with it though. There is no time to waste."

Her room was both as impressive and oppressive as the corridor
outside it, though there was a good deal more light. It was neither
feminine nor masculine, but rather had almost the look of one's
best guest bedroom.

"Through here,'' Frances said. After giving the corridor outside
one last swift check and closing and locking her bedroom door, she
indicated that I should follow her. I did, and we passed through an
inner dressing room-where indeed there were wardrobes (two) and
chests (I did not count them] with shiny new brass locks-into a
small sitting room with windows on two sides. This was more
pleasant, with the little touches that make a room feel lived in,
such as a fashion magazine lying open on an ottoman, a graceful
little writing table with paper and pens out, and a small gas fire
burning within a fireplace surround.

"So this is where you spend a good deal of your time," I
said.

"Yes, as much as possible," Frances replied; and in the awkward
pause that followed I reflected that I was glad there was at least
one space in this vast unwelcoming house that she could call her
own. A hint of anxiety stirred deep in her eyes but was quickly
banished; she put her hand on the back of a straight chair pulled
up to the writing table and said, "Please take a seat, Fremont.
I'll be here, so I can write, of course. . . . Shall we begin?"

"By all means," I agreed.

I took one of a pair of wing chairs by the fire and shed my
shawl. This was almost too much to watch, I felt like a voyeur . .
. but not for long, for it was soon abundantly clear that my friend
had gone into some special place where only she could go.

Like me, she had not put her hair up. But as I have said,
Frances had hair that was nothing like mine; hers tumbled and
curled and, when she bent her head, made a curtain to hide her
face. She placed her hands, palms up, on either side of the pad of
blank writing paper in some sort of invocation. The only sounds
were the faint exhalations of her ever deeper breaths and the tiny
ticking of a jewel like little clock upon the mantel. As for
myself, I lost track of time.

I did not know, could not tell, how long had passed before she
picked up the pen. She wrote rapidly without cease or pause, page
after page, pushing each sheet impatiently off the table to the
floor as space ran out. And when at last she was done, she dropped
the pen, slumped back in the chair with her arms hanging at her
sides, the palms open again in supplication. Her eyes were closed.
Her breath was labored.

After a moment, without moving or opening her eyes she said,
"Fremont, you brought me luck. I have never felt his presence so
strongly, but I'm exhausted. Will you read the pages to me?"

I said of course I would, and bent down to gather them up,
carefully, in reverse of the order she'd written them. As the pages
were not numbered I took care not to disarrange them, all the while
watching Frances from the corner of my eye. She appeared absolutely
depleted. Surely this could not be good? But I did not know what
else to do, and the papers were in my hands, and so I began to
read.

" 'I, Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of
Mexico, am here. Hello, pretty lady!' "

"He always starts like that," Frances murmured, so unexpectedly
she almost startled me out of my skin. I waited in case she had
more to say, but she didn't, so I went on.

Norton had a lot to say. He was concerned about the state of our
nation and the state of the world. He was in particular unhappy
about the way President Theodore Roosevelt had been governing the
country. Norton delivered a diatribe against democracy, then, in a
striking example of illogical thinking-especially since the spirits
are supposed to be in a position to know so much more than we
do-inveighed for a while against what he called the inbreeding of
the European monarchies, which, according tohim, was turning them
all into feeble-minded fools unfit to govern even their own
bathroom habits.

As the pages went on, Norton's language grew coarser, though
never vulgar outright; and the more I read the more I wondered:
Can Frances have written this herself? Is there really a spirit
named Norton that has guided her hand?

The clock on the mantel struck four; the sweet sound of its
chimes hung like shimmering jewels in the air. I paused, not having
realized it had grown so late. There was one page yet remaining to
be read.