Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (26 page)

“He’s moved on to a new construction, an office building down on Sansome,” Stirling said. “You want to talk about headaches? Every time they dig, they find evidence of some old ship—did you know that whole area’s landfill is from back in the Barbary Coast days? And then they have to halt construction and deal with it, file environmental reports, and get the bleeding-heart academics out there to excavate and document it. Like anyone gives a damn.”

“Not much of a history buff, I take it.”

“Never have been. The past is gone, irrelevant. It’s the future I’m interested in.”

Unless, of course, that past was quite literally haunting you and keeping you from selling your obscenely priced home so you could golf in peace and retire to cocktails in your Bollinger.

*   *   *

I felt a little surge of triumph that Andrew and I hadn’t tripped over any bodies while making our tour through the Crosswinds mansion.

I know, I know. I’m getting stranger by the day. And certainly there are some houses I work on where my biggest problem is a plumbing backflow issue or dry rot or earthquake bracing. But by and large, when I’m introduced to a haunted house, I tend to trip over bodies. Perhaps with Crosswinds, I would be able to deal with renovation issues and ancient ghosts, rather than getting involved in any contemporary murders. Fingers crossed.

I sat in my Scion outside Crosswinds, looking up at the beautiful Victorian exterior while I placed a few calls. First, I dialed a certain one-named psychic. Chantelle answered with an appealing, husky voice. She laughed when I mentioned Andrew Stirling and Crosswinds.

“He hasn’t been able to sell it, has he? I told him so. One thousand dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“I charge one thousand dollars for a drop-in. You’re lucky. I just had a cancellation at three.”

“But . . . I’m not seeking a reading or anything like that,” I clarified. “I just wanted to talk to you about what you saw—and felt—at Crosswinds.”

“I understand that, sweetheart. One K, that’s my rate. Charge it to Stirling. He’ll pay. The man has more money than sense.”

Luckily for me, clients with more money than sense were my specialty.

*   *   *

Chantelle’s apartment was in a disappointingly 1970s condo building at the corner of Jones and Clay. The doorman, Gabe, had been told to expect me, and he buzzed me right in. He wore a surprisingly formal monkey suit but didn’t look the part otherwise. He was young and tattooed, his eyes were bleary, and he had a serious five-o’clock shadow. He had appeared asleep when I walked in.

“How’re you doing?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You know how it is. Late night. Chantelle’s on the ninth floor.”

I let myself into the elevator and wooshed up to the ninth floor.

Down the hall, the door to 916 was ajar, and a woman
stood just outside, in the corridor. She seemed ethereal, beautiful eyes.
Wow.
If this was Chantelle, it was no wonder people spent a thousand bucks for a meeting. Even from a distance, she seemed . . . special. Perhaps she really could tell me something.

“Chantelle?” I asked. “I’m Mel. Mel Turner.”

She nodded, and without a word turned and went into the apartment. I followed her.

And found her on the floor, blood pooling.

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