Bitter Spirits (7 page)

Not proper? She never said it wasn't
proper
. And, well, it wasn't, but when did a bootlegger care about conventions? Or maybe that was just a cover-up for something else—did he see something on her back that revolted him? Some ghastly mole? Was she too heavily freckled there for his tastes? Too skinny? Too fat?
Why did he stop?

“I'll tell Daniels to send in a girl to help you,” he said in a rushed voice. “Enjoy the champagne. Thanks again, and please consider Mrs. Beecham's offer. She's interested in spiritualism and will invite all her rich friends. Good potential business for you. Contact her directly if you're interested.”

“But—”

He opened the dressing room door and exited without looking back. “Good night, Miss Palmer.”

 • • • 

Winter stopped outside Aida's dressing room to compose himself. Christ, that was close. A second more, and he would've had his hands all over her back . . . and her back on the floor. In public, where anyone could walk in on them. It was disgraceful. She wasn't a whore, for God's sake. One look at her bared back and the gentle slope of her bent neck and he was hard.

And a fool.

His record with the medium wasn't good. First he'd collapsed on the woman. Then exposed his naked body to her. Then he'd made rude insinuations while unintentionally exposing her to lewd and indecent material in his study—though, to be fair, if she hadn't been poking around in his things, that wouldn't have happened.

He reminded himself how fast she wriggled away when she came to her senses after the postcard incident. If she knew what was on his mind today, she'd slap him to kingdom come.

Sadly, a slap from her would probably just make him harder.

It had been years since he'd wanted s
omeone
, not something. Desire itself, well, he felt that every day. It was like breathing. Hunger for food. Thirst. And he sated himself in the easiest way possible—by his own hand, or with someone willing. Since the accident, the only willing women were fast flappers—too drunk to care that he was anything other than a meal ticket until the next party—and the women he paid to pretend that they enjoyed his scarred, lumbering body on top of theirs.

Simple transactions. Interchangeable. They were about the act itself, not the person. Now he was combining the person and the act in one ridiculous fantasy. He'd gone out of his way to see her again, chasing her around like an eager pup, tongue wagging. Couldn't blame the damned poison this time.

He moved out of the way as two feathered chorus girls strolled by, chatting as they headed backstage. Now there, see? That's exactly what he should be chasing: a pretty girl without a name. How long had it been since he'd had a woman? A couple of months . . . three? Too long.

Maybe Aida was just the first person to step into his sights. She was attractive and vivacious. Any man would appreciate that. It was natural to want a girl like her, especially one who was so easy to talk to. Just a sign that he was getting back to normal, nothing more. Sure, he'd been thinking about her a lot—too much—but he thought a lot about bacon, too.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started for the alley exit, where Bo was waiting with the car. It wasn't until they were driving away from the club that Winter realized he'd been so wrapped up worrying about his feelings for Aida that he hadn't taken a second look at the half-dressed chorus girls.

THREE DAYS LATER, ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE SEA CLIFF DINNER
party, Winter sat in a barbershop chair and called Florie Beecham from the barber's phone. The operator let the call ring ten times, and then another ten, but no one answered. He slammed the earpiece down on its hook and handed the telephone back to the barber. His overcast mood took a nosedive.

The bell above the door jingled. In the wall of mirrors, Winter watched Bo stride into the shop. He pocketed car keys and plopped down on a nearby swivel chair. “Is the spirit medium coming to Mrs. Beecham's dinner party?”

“Apparently Mrs. Beecham's staff is too busy to answer the damn telephone,” Winter replied gruffly as a white barber's cape was snapped open and draped over his torso.

“I'm sure she'll be there,” Bo said.

“She's had three days to accept the job.” And as of last night, Florie said she hadn't received a definite yes from Aida yet. Did she have another engagement? Because he'd already called Velma and knew Aida wasn't scheduled to work tonight.

“Maybe she accepted late because she's been busy getting rid of other suicidal ghosts.”

Or maybe she'd had second thoughts about seeing him again. “Aren't you supposed to be tracking down the person who tried to kill me? Remind me why I pay you?”

“Because you trust me and I'm the only one who'll put up with your bullshit.”

Winter shot him a warning look. He wasn't in the mood.

“As soon as I drop you off at that party, I'm following some leads,” Bo promised.

“It's taking too long.”

“A tong leader in the booze business was found dead this morning. Locked in a room filled with bees. He'd been stung to death. Allergic, I suppose.”

Sounded like a horrible way to die. “Interesting, but I'm not sure what that has to do with curses and ghosts.”

“Maybe nothing, but I'm checking into it on my way to talk to someone I've had asking around Chinatown about Black Star. I'll let you know what I find.” Bo exhaled a cone of smoke as he watched another barber sweep hair around the white tile floor. Traffic rushed by the plate glass window, where a red, white, and blue pole jutted out near the doorway. “Look, I'm sure she'll be there, so stop worrying. Hell, I'd dress up like a gypsy and do the séance myself for that kind of cash.”

“Makes no difference to me whether she comes or not.” A lie, but he didn't want to sound overeager. It made him feel weak.

“No reason why she wouldn't. She has no idea what a pain in the ass Florie Beecham is, and for some reason, you didn't frighten her away with your big, hairy body last time you saw her.”

“God only knows what's on any female's mind,” Winter complained.

Even the barber made a noise of agreement.

God help him, but he wanted to see Aida again. He should've just asked her to a proper dinner. That way, if she turned him down, at least he could be out drowning his sorrows at a nightclub tonight instead of putting on a monkey suit and pretending to give a damn about Florie Beecham and her tedious friends.

“She'll be there,” Bo assured him again as the barber picked up a pair of scissors.

 • • • 

On her way out to Mrs. Beecham's séance, Aida ate a quick meal of jasmine tea and Chinese doughnuts—long strips of not-too-sweet fried dough—then stopped by the front counter to drop off her weekly rent money. It was a slow night for the restaurant. Mrs. Lin was sitting on a stool behind the register, a pencil balanced behind her ear, reading a Cantonese newspaper printed in Chinatown.

“Evening. Any mail?”

Mrs. Lin glanced up from her reading and looked her over. “No mail.”

Aida handed her a stamped envelope, addressed to Mr. Bradley Bix of New Orleans, a confirmation to his request to meet with her about the potential booking at his club. “Would you please put this with the outgoing letters?”

Mrs. Lin set it inside a box behind the counter and nodded to her dress. “Very pretty.”

Aida's black gown had a flattering bateau neckline and a hem trimmed in long strands of beaded silver fringe. Looped around her wrist was a small steel mesh handbag. Her best evening coat was several years old, but it would get her from the taxi to the door.

“Thanks. I'm doing a séance for a rich widow in the Sea Cliff neighborhood.”

“Whe-ew,” Mrs. Lin whistled. “Fancy new houses there. Hope you charge them a pretty penny.”

“Oh, don't worry.” Though, to be honest, she wasn't even thinking about the séance or the payment. She was only anxious about the possibility of seeing Winter. It was embarrassing just how much she'd agonized over accepting the job after he'd rushed out of her dressing room. She finally decided that if he
didn't
want to see her, she could just say she was there for the money. Maybe he wouldn't even be there at all. Mrs. Beecham hadn't mentioned him when Aida had called to accept the job earlier in the day—she'd only given Aida instructions to arrive an hour after dinner, which was being served at eight.

Twilight fog clung to trolley wires and shrouded the tops of buildings as Aida's taxicab tilted up and down long stretches of the city, heading west to the southwestern edge of the wooded Presidio. The fog was thicker here near the bay, and she lamented not being able to see the view, which the taxi driver assured her was exclusive and divine.

On curvy El Camino del Mar, she was dropped off in front of a terra-cotta Mediterranean mansion. Though it wasn't as large as the Magnusson home, it sat in the middle of a luxurious amount of land. The house on the adjoining lot was in the middle of construction. Everything was new here. Brand-new, in fact; when she ascended winding steps to the front door, she saw that the green lawn had been laid down in squares. Must be nice to afford all this.

A young maid with a dark complexion opened the door when she knocked. Classical piano music, laughter, and gold light spilled onto the stone steps. “Aida Palmer,” she told the girl, who stared at her with a puzzled look on her face. “The spirit medium,” she clarified.

“Oh! Yes, Mrs. Beecham is expecting you.”

Aida pocketed her gloves and removed her coat, handing it off to the maid as her nerves began jumping. It was the sight of the maid that did it: the girl's black dress with its white lace collar and apron reminded her of the French maids in Winter's postcard collection, bending over with no undergarments to dust perfectly clean bookshelves.

Best not to think about that. Best to think of nothing at all. Definitely no need to immediately look for Winter. If he
was
here, what would she even say? Hello, and thanks for getting me this job?

Right. She was hired help, after all, not a rich socialite attending a party. Why had she not thought of this before she spent the afternoon agonizing over what to wear?

“I'll let Mrs. Beecham know you're here in just a moment, miss,” the maid said as she dashed off somewhere, leaving Aida alone.

The home's entry smelled of a headache-inducing combination of paint fumes and roasted meat. Additional scents of brandy and cigar smoke fought for dominance as Aida followed sounds of chatter into an expansive room with polished wood floors, long gold drapes, and upholstered ivory furniture. Near the windows, a lively group of guests mingled around a white baby grand piano. A handful of older men in formal tails and younger men in tuxedos were enjoying post-dinner drinks with twice as many women in evening gowns. The room was a blur of feathers and beads and silk.

No Winter. Her heart sank.

As a piano player took a seat behind the baby grand, a gentleman nearby took notice of her. “Why, hello there. I don't believe we've met. I'm Robert Morran, Florie's cousin.” He offered her a dazzling smile. By the glazed look in his eye, he was at least one or two sheets to the wind—and by the way he jostled the glass in his hand, clinking the ice against the sides in a futile attempt to get a servant's attention, he was trying for three.

“Aida Palmer.”

“An unusual name for an unusually pretty woman.” He gave up flagging the servant and fiddled with a light brown pencil-thin mustache. “How do you know Florie, my dear?”

“I don't. I'm the medium.”

“Oh! How exciting.” He clinked his ice again while perusing her figure. “Tell me, Miss Palmolive—”

“Palmer,” she said crisply, adjusting her handbag's position around her wrist.

“Miss Palmer.” He chuckled and ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Yes. So very unusual. I'm a great admirer of unusual beauty. Tell me, dear, what am I thinking right now?”

It took everything she had not to roll her eyes. “I'm a spirit medium, not a telepath.”

“Oh, that's no fun. Come now. I'm sure you have more than one talent. Maybe some fortune-telling.”

Entertain me! Frighten me! Make the table lift from the floor! She could see how this séance would turn out. Why had she agreed to do this again? Oh, that's right: the small fortune being dangled in front of her face . . . and the foolish hope that she'd get a chance to study Winter's backside again. She'd called him depraved, but clearly she was the one who couldn't control her own animal urges.

“Maybe you'd like to read my palm?” her companion suggested.

“Sorry, no.”

He took a step closer, undeterred.
Clink-clink
. “Tarot cards, then. What would the cards say about my future chances with you after this party, hmm?”

He reached out and ran a hand down her arm.

As she pulled away from him, a voice rumbled over her shoulder. “I can predict your chances for losing that hand. Or you can touch her again and find out for yourself.”

She turned to find Winter Magnusson's tank of a body filling the doorway as he glared at her companion. A fevered skirmish broke out inside her stomach.

He was dressed in a midnight blue tuxedo jacket with peaked black lapels and matching silk bow tie. His white shirt cuffs were perfectly starched and cuff-linked in gold, his shoes shiny enough to reflect heaven.

Dashing. Dark. More than a little devilish. With his smoldering good looks and his high cheekbones, he looked like a brawnier, crueler version of Valentino, rest his soul. To be honest, he looked as if he could squash Valentino like a bug.

Or, perhaps, Mr. Morran.

“See here, now. I was just speaking to the medium. No need to get testy.” Mr. Morran turned to Aida for support. “Right, dear?”

The drunken man was a fly buzzing in her ear. She wished she could swat him and his clinking glass of ice away.

The bright light of the room had caused Winter's good pupil to constrict to a tiny black dot, while the injured pupil remained wide, framed by the curving scar. He was only a couple of inches taller than the other man, but he was just
so much bigger
. And with the aggressive energy fuming and sizzling from him, he looked as if he were ready to tear Morran's hand right off his arm.

A thrill bolted through her.

Something else was bolting through Morran, and it caused
his
eyes to widen as he backed up a step. People were beginning to notice something was awry; the outer edges of the crowd around the piano glanced in their direction as the chorus to “Shine On, Harvest Moon” was being sung out of key by several swaying partygoers in the background.

Winter's mouth lifted in something that could've technically been called a smile, but it had the effect of an angry wolf baring his teeth. In a deceptively calm bass-heavy voice, he told the man, “I'll give you ten seconds to make it to the other side of the room.”

It only took the man five.

Once Morran had disappeared into the crowd around the piano, Winter looked down at her. His anger drained away. “Hello, cheetah.”

It was all she could do not to smile up at him like a child being handed freshly spun cotton candy. Good grief. She had to calm down. “I could've taken care of him myself, you know.”

“Any woman who traipses around the country working night shifts at speakeasies surely can, but that idiot is an aggressive skirt chaser. You don't want to let him get you alone.”

“Good to know. Thank you for your concern.”

Now his mouth wasn't smiling, but his eyes certainly were. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he lowered his head and spoke to her conspiratorially in a teasing voice. “Let's just pretend that you needed my help. It will make me feel useful.”

A thrill flowed through her like an electrical current. “Would you have actually hurt him?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“How foolish of me to find that exciting.”

His mouth parted and he grinned, big and genuine. She couldn't stop herself from grinning in return.

“I suppose it wouldn't be a party without the threat of violence,” an approaching feminine voice called out.

Aida turned to see a beautiful blonde slinking toward them in a long gold gown with a silk cape that draped over her shoulders and flowed behind her like a flag. Several strands of gold beads dripped from her neck, clinking against her stomach as she walked. She was grinning at Winter but turned her attention toward Aida.