Many Bloody Returns

Grave-Robbed P. N. Elrod

P. N. Elrod has sold more than twenty novels and as many short stories and is best known for The Vampire Files series, featuring undead detective Jack Fleming. She’s cowritten three novels with actor/director Nigel Bennett, has edited and coedited several genre collections, and is an incurable chocoholic. More news on her toothy titles may be found at www.vampwriter.com.

CHICAGO, FEBRUARY 1937

When the girl draped in black stepped in to ask if I could help her with a séance, Hal Kemp’s version of “Gloomy Sunday” began to murmur sadly from the office radio.

Coincidences annoy me. A mournful song for a dead sweetheart put together with a ceremony that’s supposed to help the dead speak with the living made me uneasy—and I was annoyed it made me uneasy.

I should know better, being dead myself.

“You sure you’re in the right place?” I asked, taking in her outfit. Black overcoat, pocketbook, gloves, heels, and stockings—she was a walking funeral. Along with the mourning weeds she wore a brimmed hat with a chin-brushing veil even I couldn’t see past.

“The Escott Agency—that’s what’s on the door,” she said, sitting on the client chair in front of the desk without an invitation. “You’re Mr. Escott?”

“I’m Mr. Fleming. I fill in for Mr. Escott when he’s elsewhere.” He was visiting his girlfriend tonight. I’d come over to his office to work on his books since I was better at accounting.

“It was Mr. Escott who was recommended to me.”

“By who?”

“A friend.”

I waited, but she left it at that. Much of Escott’s business as a private agent came by word of mouth. Call him a private eye and you’d get a pained look and perhaps an acerbic declaration that he did not undertake divorce cases. His specialty as an agent was carrying out unpleasant errands for the unable or unwilling, not peeking through keyholes, but did a séance qualify? He was interested in that kind of thing, but mostly from a skeptic’s point of view. I had to say mostly since he couldn’t be a complete skeptic what with his partner—me—being a vampire.

And nice to meet you, too.

Hal Kemp played on in the little office until the girl stood, went to the radio, and shut it off.

“I hate that song,” she stated, turning around, the veil swirling lightly. Faceless women annoy me as well, but she had good legs.

“Me, too. You got any particular reason?”

“My sister plays it all the time. It gets on my nerves.”

“Does it have to do with this séance?”

“Can’t you call Mr. Escott?”

“I could, but you didn’t make an appointment for this late or he’d be here.”

“My appointment is for tomorrow, but something’s happened since I made it, and I need to speak with him tonight. I came by just in case he worked late. The light was on and a car was out front….”

I checked his appointment book. In his precise hand he’d written 10 am, Abigail Saeger. “Spell that name again?”

She did so, correct for both.

“What’s the big emergency?” I asked. “If this is something I can’t handle, I’ll let him know, but otherwise you’ll find I’m ready, able, and willing.”

“I don’t mean to offend, but you look rather young for such work. Over the phone I thought Mr. Escott to be…more mature.”

Escott and I were the same age but I did look younger by over a decade. On the other hand if she thought a man in his midthirties was old, then she’d be something of a kid herself. Her light voice told me as much, though you couldn’t tell by her mannerisms and speech, which bore a finishing school’s not so subtle polish.

“Miss Saeger, would you mind raising your blinds? I like to see who’s hiring before I take a job.”

She went still a moment, then lifted her veil. As I thought, a fresh-faced kid who should be home studying, but her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression serious.

“That’s better. What can I do for you?”

“My older sister, Flora, is holding a séance tonight. She’s crazy to talk with her dead husband, and there’s a medium taking advantage of her. He wants her money, and more.”

“A fake medium?”

“Is there any other kind?”

I smiled, liking her. “Give me the whole story, same as you’d have told to Mr. Escott.”

“You’ll help me?”

“I need to know more first.” I said it in a tone to indicate I was interested.

She plunged in, talking fast, but I had good shorthand and scribbled notes.

Miss Saeger and her older sister, Flora, were alone; their parents long dead. But Flora had money in trust and married into more money by getting hitched to James Weisinger Jr., who inherited a tidy fortune some years ago. The Depression had little effect on them. Flora became a widow last August when her still-young husband died in a sailing accident on Lake Michigan.

I’d been killed on that lake. “Sure it was an accident?”

“A wind shift caused the boom to swing around. It caught him on the side of the head and over he went. I still have nightmares about the awful thud when it hit him and the splash, but it’s worse for Flora—she was at the wheel at the time. She blames herself. No one else does. There were half a dozen people aboard who knew sailing. That kind of thing can happen out of the blue.”

I vaguely remembered reading about it in the paper. Nothing like some rich guy getting killed while doing rich-guy stuff to generate copy.

“Poor James never knew what hit him; it was just that fast. Flora was in hysterics and had to be drugged for a week. Then she kept to her bed nearly a month, then she read some stupid article in a magazine about using a Ouija board to talk to spirits and got it into her head that she had to contact James, to apologize to him.”

“That opened the door?”

“James is dead, and if he did things right, he’s in heaven and should stay there—in peace.” Miss Saeger growled in disgust. “I’ve gotten Flora’s pastor to talk to her, but she won’t listen to him. I’ve talked to her until we both end up screaming and crying, and she won’t see sense. I’m just her little sister and don’t know anything, you see.”

“What’s so objectionable?”

“Her obsession. It’s not healthy. I thought after all this time she’d lose interest, but she’s gotten worse. Every week she has a gaggle of those creeps from the Society over, they set up the board, light candles, and ask questions while looking at James’s picture. It’s pointless and sad and unnatural and—and…just plain disrespectful.”

I was really liking her now. “Society?”

“The Psychical Society of Chicago.”

Though briefly tempted to ask her to say it three times fast, I kept my yap shut. The group investigated haunted houses and held sittings—their word for séances—writing their experiences up for their archives. Escott was a member. For a buck a year to cover mailing costs, he’d get a pamphlet every month and read the more oddball pieces out to me.

“The odious thing is,” said Miss Saeger, “they’re absolutely sincere. When one has that kind of belief going, then of course it’s going to produce results.”

“What kind of results?”

“They’ve spelled out the names of all the people who ever died in the house, which is stupid because the house isn’t that old. The man who supervises these sittings says that’s because the house was built over the site of another, so the dead people are connected to it, you see. There’s no way to prove or disprove any of it. He’s got an answer for everything and always sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“Is he the medium?”

“No, but he brought him in. Alistair Bradford.” She put plenty of venom in that name. “He looks like something out of a movie.”

“What? Wears a turban like Chandu the Magician?”

Her big dark eyes flashed, then she choked, stifling a sudden laugh. She got things under control after a moment. “Thank you. It’s so good to talk with someone who sees things the way I do.”

“Tell me about him.”

“No turban, but he has piercing eyes, and when he walks into a room, everyone turns around. He’s handsome…for an old guy.”

“How old?”

“At least forty.”

“That’s ancient.”

“Please don’t make fun of me. I get that all the time from him, from all of them.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Saeger. Are you the only one left in the house with any common sense?”

“Yes.” She breathed that out, and it almost turned into a sob, but she headed it off. The poor kid looked to be only barely keeping control of a truckload of high emotion. I heard her heart pound fast, then gradually slow. “Even the servants are under his spell. I have friends, but I can’t talk to them about this. It’s just too embarrassing.”

“You’ve been by yourself on this since August?”

She nodded. “Except for our pastor, but he can’t be there every day. He tells me to keep praying for Flora, and I do, and still this goes on and just gets worse. I miss James, too. He was a nice man. He deserves better than this—this—”

“What broke the camel’s back to bring you here?”

“Before Alistair Bradford came, all they did was play with that stupid Ouija board. I’d burn it but they’d just buy another from the five and dime. After he was introduced, they began holding real séances. I don’t like any of that stuff and don’t believe in it, but he made it scary. It’s as though he gets taller and broader and his voice changes. With the room almost totally dark it’s easy to believe him.”

“They let you sit in?”

“Just the once—on sufferance so long as I kept quiet. When I turned the lights on in the middle of things, Flora banished me. She said my negative thoughts were preventing the spirits from coming through and that I was endangering Bradford’s life. You’re not supposed to startle a medium out of a trance or it could kill him. I wouldn’t mind seeing that, but he was faking. While they were all yelling I had my eye on him, and the look he gave me was pure hate…and he was smiling. He wanted to scare me and it worked. I’ve kept my door locked and haven’t slept much.”

“I don’t blame you. No one believes you?”

“Of course not. I’m not in their little club and to them I’m just a kid. What do I know?”

“Kids have instinct, a good thing to follow. Is he living in the house?”

“He mentioned it, but Flora—for once—didn’t think that was proper.”

“Is he romancing her?”

Miss Saeger’s eyes went hard. “Slowly. He’s too smart to rush things, but I see the way he struts around, looking at everything. If he lays a finger on Flora I’ll—”

I raised one hand. “I get it. You want Flora protected and him discredited.”

“Or his legs broken and his big smirking face smashed in.”

That was something I could have arranged. I know those kind of people. “It’s better if Flora gets rid of him by her own choice, though.”

“I don’t see how; I may have left it too late. I called here on Saturday to make the appointment, but—” She went red in the face. “I could just kill him.”

“What’d he do?”

“The last séance—they have one every Sunday and that’s just wrong having it on a Sunday—something horrible happened. They all gathered in the larger parlor at the table as usual, lighted candles, and put out the lights. Soon as it went dark, I slipped in while they were getting settled. There’s an old Chinese screen in one corner, and I hide behind it during their séances. Negative feelings, my foot; no one’s noticed me yet, not even Bradford, so I saw the whole thing.”

“Which was?”

“He put himself in a trance right on time. It usually takes five minutes, and by then everyone’s expecting something to happen; you can feel it. He starts out with a low groan and breathing loudly, and in the dark it’s spooky, and that’s when his spirit guide takes over. His voice gets deeper and he puts on a French accent. Calls himself Frère Lèon. He’s supposed to have been a monk who traveled with Joan of Arc.”

“Who speaks perfect English?”

“Of course. No one’s ever thought of talking to him in French. I doubt Bradford knows much more than mon Dieu and sang sacré.”

She’d attended a good finishing school, speaking with the right kind of pronunciation. I’d heard it when I’d been a doughboy in France during the last year of the war, and had picked up enough to get by. Much of that was too rough for Miss Saeger’s tender ears, though.

“And the horrible thing that happened?”

“It was at the end. He pretends to have Frère Lèon pass on messages from James. He can’t have James talk directly to Flora or he’d trip himself up. He doesn’t pass too many messages, either, just general stuff about how beautiful it is on the other side. She tries to talk to him and ask him things and she’s so desperate and afterwards she always cries and then she goes back for more. It’s cruel. But this time he said he was giving her a sign of what she should do.”

“Do?”

“I didn’t know what that meant, until…well, Bradford finished just then and pretended to be waking from his trance. That’s when they found what he’d snuck on the table. It was James’s wedding ring, the one he was buried with.”

I gave that the pause it deserved. “Not a duplicate?”

She shook her head, a fast, jerky movement. Her voice was thick. “Inside it’s engraved with To J. from F.—Forever Love. He never took it off and it had some hard wear: two distinct parallel scratches, and it wasn’t a perfect circle. Flora showed it to me as proof that Alistair Bradford was genuine. She didn’t want to hear my idea that…that he’d dug up and robbed James’s grave. I thought she’d slap me. She’s gone crazy, Mr.—”

“Fleming. Call me Jack.”

“Jack. Flora’s never raised a hand to me, even when we were kids and I was being bratty, but this has her all turned around. I thought Mr. Escott could find something out about Bradford that would prove him a fake or come to a séance and do something to break it up, but I don’t think she’d listen now. The last thing Bradford said before his trance ended was ‘You have his blessing.’ Put that with the ring and I know it means if he asks Flora to marry him, she’ll say yes because she’ll think that’s what James would want.”

“Come on, she can’t be that—”

“Stupid? Foolish? Under a spell? She is! That’s what’s driving me crazy. She should be smarter than this.”

“Grief can make you go right over the edge. Guilt can make it worse, and I bet she’s lonely, too. She should have gone to a head doctor but picked up a Ouija board instead. Does this Bradford ask for money?”

“He calls it a donation. She’s given him fifty dollars every time. He gets that much for all his sittings—and he does thirty to forty a month. My sister’s not the only dope in town.”

My mouth went dry. Fifty a week was a princely income, but that much times forty? I was in the wrong business. I’d gotten twenty-five a week back in New York as a reporter and counted myself lucky. “Well. It’s safer than robbing banks. Your sister can give him more by marriage?”

“Yes, her trust money and the estate from James. Bradford would have it, the house, never have to work again. Please, can you help me stop him?”

I thought of the people I knew who broke bones for a sawbuck and could make a man disappear for twice that. “I need to check this, you know. I only have your side of things.”

“And I’m just a kid.”

“Miss Saeger, I’d say the same thing to Eleanor Roosevelt if she was in that chair. Lemme make a phone call. Anyone going to be worried you’re gone?”

“I snuck out and got a taxi. Flora and I had a fight tonight and she thinks I’m sulking in my room. She’s busy, anyway—the new séance.”

“Uh-huh.” I dialed Gordy at the Nightcrawler Club and asked if he had any dirt on an Alistair Bradford, professional medium.

“Medium what?” asked Gordy in his sleepy-sounding voice.

“A swami; you know, séances, fortune-telling. It’s for a case. I’m filling in for Charles.”

He grunted, and he sounded amused. “You at his office? Ten minutes.” He hung up. As the Nightcrawler was a longer than ten-minute drive away I took him to mean he’d phone back, not drop by.

“Ten minutes,” I repeated to Miss Saeger. “What’s with the black getup? You still in mourning for your brother-in-law?”

“It was the only way I could think of to cover my face. I’m full grown, but soon as anyone looks at me, they think I’m fifteen or something.”

“And you’re really…?”

“Sixteen.”

“Miss Saeger, you are one brave and brainy sixteen-year-old, so I’m sure you’re aware that this is a school night.”

“My sister is more important than that, but thank you for the reminder.” There was a dryness in her tone that would have done credit to Escott. A couple years from now and she’d be one formidable young woman.

“What time is this séance?”

“Nine o’clock. Always.”

“Not at midnight?”

“Some of the older Society members get too sleepy if things go much past ten.”

“Why tonight instead of next Sunday?”

“James’s birthday. Bradford said that holding a sitting on the loved one’s birthday always means something special.”

“Like what?”

“He won’t say; he just smiles. It makes my skin crawl. I swear, if he’s not stopped, I’ll get one of James’s golf clubs and—” She went red in the face again, stood up, and paced. I did that when the pent-up energy got to be too much.

I tried to get more from her on tonight’s event, but she didn’t have anything else to add, though she had plenty of comments about Bradford’s antics. Guys like him I’d met before: they’re always the first to look you square in the eye and assure you they’re honest long before you begin to wonder.

The phone rang in seven minutes. Abigail Saeger halted midword and midstride and sat, leaning forward as I put the receiver to my ear. Gordy was like a library for all that was crooked in the great city of Chicago, with good reason: if he wasn’t behind it himself, he knew who was and where to find them. He gave me slim pickings about Bradford, but it was enough to confirm that the guy was trouble. He’d done some stage work as a magician, Alistair the Great, until discovering there was more cash to be had conjuring dead relatives from thin air instead of live rabbits. He preferred to collect as much money as possible in the shortest time, then make an exit. The wealthy widow Weisinger was too good a temptation to a man looking for an easy way to retire.

“You need help with this bo’?” Gordy asked.

“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Well?” asked Miss Saeger.

I hung up. “Count me in, ma’am.”

“That sounds so old. My name’s Abby.”

“Fine, you can sign it here.” I pulled out one of Escott’s standard contracts. It was short and vague, mostly a statement that the Escott Agency was retained for services by, with a blank after that and room for the date.

“How much will this be?”

“Five bucks should do it.”

“It has to be more than that. I read detective stories.”

“Special sale, tonight only. Anyone walking in here named Abby pays five bucks, no more, no less.”

For a second I thought she’d kiss me, and I was prepared to duck out of range. If my girlfriend found out I’d canoodled, however innocently or briefly, with a mere pippin of sixteen, I would find myself dead for real and for ever after.

Abby signed, fished a five-dollar bill from her pocketbook, and took my receipt in exchange. I put the money and the contract in Escott’s top desk drawer along with my shorthand notes. He’d have a fine time trying to figure things out when he came in tomorrow morning. I harvested my overcoat and fedora from the coat tree in the corner, and ushered my newest client out, locking up. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then pulled the veil back over her face.

“Afraid someone will recognize you?” I asked. The street was empty.

“No sense in taking chances.”

Now I really liked her. I opened my new Studebaker up and handed her in, checking the sky. It had been threatening to sleet since before I got up tonight; I hoped it would hold off.

“Nice car,” she said.

The nicest I’d ever owned. My faithful ’34 Buick had come to a bad end, but this sporty replacement helped ease the loss. I got the motor purring, remembered to turn the headlights on, and put it in gear, pulling slowly from the curb. “Where’s your brother-in-law buried?” As Abby’s chin was just visible, I could see her jaw drop.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“I want to pay my respects.”

“The cemetery will be closed.”

“Which one? And where?”

She told me, finally, and I made a U-turn and got us on our way. Chicago traffic was no worse than usual as we headed toward Lincolnwood. Following Abby’s directions we ended up driving slowly along North Ravenswood Avenue. A railroad track on our left obscured the view of the cemetery grounds. When a cross street opened, I took the turn under the tracks. A pale stone building with crenellations, Gothic windows, and a square, two-storied tower with a number of slender, round towers at the corners and along the front wall looked back at us. It had too much dignity to be embarrassed. The gates that blocked its arched central opening were, indeed, closed.

“Told you,” said Abby.

“Is Mr. Weisinger anywhere near the front?” This place looked huge. They only put fancy stone buildings like that in front of the really large cemeteries.

“Go back south and turn on Bryn Mawr. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

What the lady said. It took awhile to find a sufficiently secluded place to park, then Abby provided very specific directions to the grave, which was not too far from the boundary wall.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I was about to say she didn’t want to know, but decided that would get me an observation about not treating her like an adult. “I’m going to check to see if the grave has been disturbed enough to bring in the law.”

“But the police, the papers—”

“A necessary evil. If they show up asking Bradford how he got that wedding ring, how long do you think he’ll stick around?”

“Would they put him in jail?” She looked hopeful.

“We’ll see. You gonna be warm enough? Good. I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t you want me along?”

“I’ll bet you’re good at it, but you’re not exactly dressed for getting around fences.”

She looked relieved.

I slammed the door, opened the trunk, and drew out a crowbar from the toolbox I kept there. Since Abby didn’t need to see it and try to guess why I’d want one, I held it out of sight while approaching the cemetery’s boundary. It was made of iron bars with points on top, an easy climb if you were nimble.

I had the agility, but slipped between the bars instead. Literally. One of my happier talents acquired after my death was being able to vanish and float just about anywhere I liked, invisible as air. Since it was dark and there was some distance between me and the car, I figured Abby wouldn’t see much if I partially vanished, eased through, and went solid again. Blink of an eye and it was done.

The cemetery grounds were covered with a thick layer of mostly undisturbed snow. Trees, bushes, and monuments of all shapes showed black against it. I made my way to one of the wide paths that had been shoveled clear, looking out for the landmark of an especially ornate mausoleum with marble columns in front. Weisinger’s grave marker was just behind it. The dates on the substantial granite block told me he’d been born this day and was only a few years younger than I, the poor bastard. Another, identical block sprouted right next to it with his widow’s name and date of birth already in place.

The snow lay differently over his plot, clumped and broken, dirtier than the stuff in the surrounding area. Footprints were all over, but not being an Indian tracker I couldn’t make much from them, only that someone had recently been busy here and worn galoshes.

I poked the long end of the crowbar into the soil, and it went in far too easily. Ground that had had seven months to settle and freeze in the winter weather would have put up more resistance. Bradford or someone working for him had dug down, opened the coffin, grabbed the wedding ring, and put the earth back. Then he’d taken the trouble to dump shovelfuls of snow on top so a casual eye wouldn’t notice. He was probably hoping there’d be another fall soon to cover the rest of the evidence.

The ghoulishness of the robbery appalled me; the level of greed behind it disgusted me. I knew some tough customers who worked for Gordy, and even they would have balked at this level of low.

The moment Abigail Saeger told me about Weisinger’s death on the lake, I’d signed myself onto the job. Something twinged inside me then, connecting that death to my own and to that damned “Gloomy Sunday” song playing on the radio. I didn’t want to believe in coincidences of the weird kind; signs and portents were strictly for the fortune-teller’s booth at the midway.

But still…I got a twinge.

It was different from the gooseflesh creep that means someone’s walking over your grave. When it came down to it, I didn’t have a grave, just that lake. The people who’d murdered me had also robbed me of a proper burial. Weisinger had gotten one but Bradford had violated it.

That was just wrong.

And just as that thought crossed my mind the wind abruptly kicked up, rattling the bare branches as though the trees were waking up around me. They scratched and clacked and I tried to not imagine bones making a similar noise, but it was too late.

“All right, keep your shirt on,” I said to no one in particular, stepping away from the grave. It sure as hell felt like someone was listening.

I was dead (or undead), surrounded by acres of the truly dead. The wind sent snow dust skittering along the black path. My imagination gave it form and purpose as it swept by. A sizable icicle from high up broke away and dropped like a spear, making a pop as loud as a gunshot when it hit a stone marker and shattered not two yards away. If my heart had been beating, it would have stopped then and there.

It’s easy to be calm about weird coincidence when one is not in a cemetery at night. I decided it was time to leave. That I winked out quick and sped invisibly over the ground toward the fence faster than a scalded cat was my own business. Anyway, I went solid again as soon as I was on the other side.

Abby and I needed to get to her house before nine.

That’s what I told myself while quick-marching to the car, consciously not looking over my shoulder.

Rich people live in some damned oddball houses. The Weisinger place started out with Frank Lloyd Wright on the ground floor, lots of glass and native stone, then the rest looked like a Tudor mansion straight from The Private Life of Henry VIII. I could almost see Charles Laughton waving cheerily from an upper window, framed by dark wood crosspieces set into the plaster.

“It’s awful, but roomy,” said Abby as I parked across the street to indulge in a good long stare.

“You okay for going back without getting caught?”

“Yes, but aren’t you coming in?”

“This is the part where I do some sneaking around.”

“They’ll catch you; they’ll think you’re a burglar!”

“You hired an expert. Look, we can’t go through the front so you can introduce me to everyone. It’ll put Bradford on his guard, and your sister will be within her rights to kick me out.”

“What will you do?”

“Exactly what’s needed to get rid of him—and for that you need an alibi so they’ll know you aren’t involved. This means you can’t hide behind that screen as usual. You said there’re servants? Do they eavesdrop? Perfect. Think you can eavesdrop with them?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Good for you. Whatever happens I want them to truthfully vouch that you were with them the whole time. This keeps you off the hook with Flora. I’m going to do my best to make Bradford look bad, so you have to be completely clear. Can you look innocent? Never mind, you’re a natural.” I checked my watch: twenty to nine. “I need a sketch of the floor plan.”

I pulled a shorthand pad from the glove compartment and gave her a pencil. A streetlamp on the corner bled just enough light to work by as she plotted out an irregular shape, dividing it into squares and rectangles, putting a big X in to mark the parlor.

“That’s the ground floor.” She handed the pad over. “Kitchen, dining room, card room, music room, small parlor, large parlor: that’s where they have the séances. How will you—”

“Trade secret. You’ll get your money’s worth and then some. Now beat it. Shuck those weeds and keep some witnesses around you. Don’t be alone for a minute.” She got out of the car quickly, coming around to the driver’s side. I rolled the window down. “One more thing…”

She bent to be at eye level. “Yes?”

“When the dust settles, don’t give your sister any ‘I told you so’s,’ okay?”

Abby got a funny look, and I thought she’d ask one more time about what I’d be doing, and I’d have to put her off, not being sure myself. Instead, she pecked me a solid one right on the mouth, and honest to God, I did not see it coming.

“Good luck!” she whispered, then scampered off.

No point in wiping away the lip color; she wasn’t wearing any. Dangerous girl. I felt old.

I took the car around the block once and found a likely place to leave it, close behind another that had just parked along the curb. A line of vehicles of various makes and vintages led to the Weisinger house. Partygoers, I thought. A well-bundled couple emerged and stalked carefully along the damp sidewalk toward the lights. Slouching down, I waited until five to nine, then got out and followed.

Not as many lights showed around the curtains now, but I could hear the noise of a sizable gathering within the walls. The possibility of sneaking in to blend with the crowd occurred, but I decided against it. Groups like the Psychical Society tended to be close-knit and notice outsiders. With his membership card Escott could get away with bluffing himself in (his English accent didn’t hurt, either), but I was a readymade sore thumb. Better that they never see my face at all.

I took the long way around the house to compare it to Abby’s sketch. She’d not marked the windows, not that I needed to open any to get inside; they were just easier to go through than lath and plaster. Picking a likely one above the larger parlor, I vanished, floated up the wall, and seeped through by way of the cracks.

Bumbling around in the space on the other side, I regretted not getting a sketch of the second story as well. The room was big and I sensed furniture shapes filling it. Though my hearing was muffled, I determined no one else was there and cautiously re-formed, taking it slow. An empty, dark bedroom, and laid out on the bed was a man’s dressing gown. Neatly together on the floor were his slippers. The rest of the room was in perfect order, personal items set out on a bureau, no dust anywhere, and yet it didn’t feel lived in. No one is ever this tidy when they’re actually using such things.

The hair went up on the back of my neck.

This stuff was too high quality to belong to the butler. The J. W. engraved into the back of a heavy silver hairbrush confirmed it—the room was a shrine. I concluded that Flora Weisinger was in sore need of real help to deal with her grief and guilt, not well-meaning morons with Ouija boards.

The upstairs seemed to be deserted, but I crept softly along the hall, ready to vanish again if company came. The downstairs noise was loud from several conversations going at once, the same as for any party, but no music, no laughter.

Nosy, I opened doors. The one nearest Weisinger’s room led to Flora’s, to judge by the furnishings and metaphysical reading matter. I never understood why it was that rich couples sometimes went in for separate bedrooms, even when they really liked each other.

Her closet was stuffed with dark clothing, all the cheerful print dresses and light colors shoved far to either side. Women wore dark things in the winter, but this was too much. There was an out of place–looking portable record player on a table by the bed. The only record on the spindle was Kemp’s “Gloomy Sunday.”

Enough already. I got out before I had another damn twinge.

One of the hall doors opened to a sizable linen cupboard. I stepped in and put on the light. With my vision the night is like day to me if there’s any kind of illumination, but not so much in interior rooms with no windows. This place reminded me of the hidden room under Escott’s kitchen where I slept while the sun was up. I took off my overcoat and hat, putting them out of sight in the back on an upper shelf. I wanted to be able to move around quick if required.

Sheets and towels filled other shelves, along with some white, filmy material that I figured out were spare curtains. When I was a kid my mom drafted me twice a year to help change the winter curtains to summer and back again. No matter that it was women’s work, I was the youngest and available.

I held the fabric up and it was just like what Mom used. In a lighted room you could see through it, but in a dark place with only a candle burning and imaginations at a fever pitch—yeah, I could make good use of it. The widest, longest piece folded up small, and I easily pushed it into the gap between my belt and shirt in the back.

But I wanted something more spectacular than a fun house spook. The items in Weisinger’s room would do it.

From his bureau I pocketed the hairbrush, a pipe, a comb, and some keys, and checked out a bottle of aftershave cologne. Aqua Velva was good enough for me, but rich guys had to be different. I shook some into my hands and gave myself a thorough slapping down, face, neck, hands, and lapels. Fortunately, it smelled pretty nice.

Downstairs, things suddenly went quiet. The séance must be starting.

No time for further refinements, I vanished and sank straight through the floor until I’d cleared its barrier and was sure it was now a ceiling. I hovered high, listening.

They sang “Happy Birthday.”

I could have done without that.

The mostly in-key singing ended, then a man gently urged, “Blow them out and make a wish for him, Flora.”

The soft applause that followed indicated success, then there was a general shuffling and scraping as they took seats. No one spoke, which was odd. People talked at parties.

Silence now, a long stretch of silence. I took the pause as an opportunity to explore the edges of the room. Certainly I bumped and brushed into people, and they’d shiver in reaction, because in this form I’d feel like a cold draft to them, but the silence held. Without too much trouble I found a corner and determined this was where Abby hid herself. She was absent, so I gradually re-formed.

The Chinese screen—and I didn’t have much experience with them—was seven feet tall and wide enough to conceal a sizable serving area. When holding formal receptions, you didn’t have to see the servants messing with the dishes. There were spaces between the painted panels that I could peer through, though. Each sliver of space provided a different angle on things.

The large parlor was much bigger than I expected. A long table was set up in the middle and seated eight to a side. Each chair had an occupant, and they were a motley group: some wore formal clothes, others were artistically Bohemian.

An older, more polished, more somber version of Abby sat at one end on the side opposite me: Flora Weisinger. Behind her was a framed portrait of a young man in his prime: her late husband. In front of her was a large birthday cake, its candles dead. She clutched a wadded handkerchief in one hand; in the other, pinched between thumb and forefinger and held up like an offering, was a gold ring. I could guess whose. Her posture was tense, expectant, her big dark gaze fixed on the tall man next to her.

At the head of the table, clearly in charge, stood Alistair Bradford. Having seen a few mediums in the course of my checkered life, I knew they ran to all types, from self-effacing, lace-clad ladies, to suave young lounge lizards with Vaseline-slicked hair. Bradford was lofty and distinguished, his own too-long hair swept back like that of an orchestra maestro. It suited his serious features. He was handsome, if you liked that brand of it, and his slate blue eyes did look piercing as they took in the disciples at the table.

“Now, dear friends,” he said in a startlingly soft, clear, beautiful voice, “please let us bow our heads in sincere prayer for a safe and enlightening spiritual journey on this very, very special night.”

Such was the influence of that surprising voice that I actually followed through with the rest of them. I had to shake myself and remember he’d been happy to dig up a grave to get to that ring in Flora Weisinger’s fingers. The wave of disgust snapped me out of it. The next time he spoke, saying amen, I had my guard up.

Down the whole length of that big, bare table there were only two candles burning, leaving the rest of the room—to their eyes—dark. It was as good as daylight to me.

“And now I ask that everyone remain utterly quiet, and I will attempt to make contact,” he said, smiling warmly.

I expected them to hold hands, touch fingers, or something like that. So much for how things were done in the movies.

Bradford sat, composed himself with his palms flat on the table, and shut his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, audibly releasing it. In contrast, no one else seemed able to move. Flora looked at him with an intense and heartbreaking hope that was terrible to see.

His stertorous breathing gradually got louder. The man knew how to play things to raise the suspense.

And I knew how to bust it.

His noises got thicker with more throat behind them, so I could guess he was ready to turn it into a good long groan so Frère Lèon could make his entrance.

I went invisible, floated until I was exactly behind his chair, went solid while crouched down, and drew a big breath of my own. During the brief silence between his puffings I cut loose with loudest, juiciest Bronx cheer I could manage, then vanished.

In a tense, emotion-charged room it had a predictable effect. I slipped behind the screen to watch.

His rhythm abruptly shattered, Bradford looked around in confusion, as did the others. Some seemed scandalized, a couple were amused, and one guy suggested that perhaps there was a playful spirit in the room already. A more practical man got up to check my corner, which was the only hiding place, and announced it to be empty.

A few of them noticed the cologne and mentioned it. Much to their delight, Flora finally confirmed that it was James’s scent hanging in the air. She sounded awful. Bradford made no comment.

After some excited discussion that didn’t go anywhere, they settled down, and Bradford started his breathing routine again. I watched and waited.

Frère Lèon eventually began to speak through Bradford, and to give him credit, it was a damned well-done French accent. His voice was rougher, deeper in pitch, very effective in the dark.

I ventured forth again, keeping low while he gave them a weather report for the other side, and went solid just long enough to call out a handy bit of French I’d learned while on leave in Paris. The loose translation was How much for an hour of love, my little cabbage?

Or something like that; it had usually been enough to get my face slapped.

Then I clocked him sharp on the back of the noggin with the hairbrush, dropped it, and vanished.

I was back to the screen, going solid in time to see things fall apart. A few in the room had understood what I’d said and were either flabbergasted or trying not to laugh. Bradford’s trance was thoroughly broken; he launched from his chair to look behind it, startled as the rest. He remembered himself, though, and flopped down again, apparently in a state of collapse. They fussed over him, and the electric chandelier was switched on.

Somewhere in the middle of it Flora spotted the hairbrush. She froze, screamed, and sat down fast, sheet white and pointing to where it lay on the floor.

It took attention away from Bradford, and I was betting he was none too pleased. The knock he’d taken bothered him—his hand kept rubbing the spot—but I’d hit to hurt, not cause permanent damage. He’d earned it. I kept myself out of sight for the duration, going solid in the next room over, which was empty. Vanishing took it out of me. I’d have to stop at the stockyards before dawn for some blood or I’d feel like hell tomorrow night.

Some guy who seemed to be the one in charge of the Psychical Society was for canceling the sitting, but Bradford assured everyone that he was fine. Sometimes mischievous spirits delighted in disrupting things—unless, of course, there was a more earthly explanation. With Flora’s permission the ground floor was searched for uninvited guests. I had to not be there for a few minutes but didn’t mind.

Elsewhere in the house, probably the distant kitchen, I heard strident voices denying any part of the business. Abby’s was in that chorus, her outrage genuine. Good girl.

This time it took longer for everyone to settle. Though the hour inched toward ten, none showed signs of being sleepy enough to leave. The entertainment was too interesting.

The hour struck and they assembled in the parlor again. On the long table fresh candles were substituted for the ones that had expired. The chandelier was switched off.

From my vantage point at the screen I tried to get a sense of Flora’s reaction to things. She had the silver-backed hairbrush square in front of her and kept looking at it. She had to be the gracious hostess, but her nerves were showing in the way she played with that handkerchief. She’d rip it apart before too long. As she took her seat again close to Bradford, she held the wedding ring out as before, but her fingers shook.

Third time’s the charm, I thought, and waited.

Bradford did his routine without a hitch, and before too long good old Frère Lèon was back and in a thick accent offered them greetings and a warning against paying mind to dark spirits who could lead them astray from the True Path.

That’s what he called it. I just shook my head, assembling my borrowed weapons quietly on the serving table, a napkin scrounged from a stack at one end to nix the noise.

Flora gave Frère Lèon a formal greeting and asked if her husband was present.

“He is, ma petit. ’E shines like the sun and speaks of ’is love for you.”

She released a shaky sigh of relief and it sounded too much like a sob. “What else does he say? James? Are you sure? Tell me what to do!”

Bradford’s old monk tortured her a little longer, not answering. He said he could not hear well for the dark spirits trying to come between, then: “Ah! ’E is clear at last. ’E says ’is love is deep, and ’e wants you to be ’appy on this plane. You are to open your ’eart to new love. Ah—the ’appiness that awaits you is great. ’E smiles! Such joy for you, sweet child, such joy!”

Flora shook her head a little. Some part of her must have known this was all wrong.

Time to confirm it.

I’d pulled out the curtain material and draped it over my head, tying one of the napkins kerchieflike around my neck to keep the stuff from slipping off. It looked phony as hell, I was sure, but in the darkness with this crowd it would lay ’em in the aisles.

Picking up Weisinger’s things, I eased from behind the screen. Everyone was looking at Bradford. He might have seen me in the shadows beyond the candle glow, but his eyes were shut.

Made to order, I thought, and accurately bounced the keys off his skull. It was a damned good throw, and I followed quickly with the other things. The comb landed square in the cake, the pipe skidded along the table and slid into Flora’s lap. She shrieked and jumped up.

If Frère Lèon had a good entrance, that was nothing to compare to that of Jack Fleming, fake ghost-for-hire.

I vanished and reappeared but only just, holding to a mostly transparent state—standing smack-dab in the middle of the table. The top half of my body was visible, beautifully obscured by the pale curtain. The bottom half went right into the wood.

It didn’t feel good but was pretty spectacular. The screaming helped.

With some effort I pressed forward, moving right through the table, candles and all, down its remaining length, working steadily toward Bradford. His eyes were now wide open, and it was a treat to see him shed the trance to see some real supernatural trouble. When I raised a pale, curtain-swathed hand to point at him, I thought he’d swallow his tongue.

Then I willed myself higher, rising until I was clear of the table and floating free. I made one swimming circuit of the room, then dove toward Bradford, letting myself go solid as I dropped.

I took in enough breath to fill the room with a wordless and hopefully terrifying bellow and hit him like bowling ball taking out one last stubborn pin. It was a nasty impact for us both, but I had the advantage of being able to vanish again. So far as I could tell he was sprawled flat and screaming with the rest.

Remaining invisible was uphill work for me now, but necessary. I clung close to Bradford so he could enjoy my unique kind of cold. I’d been told it was like death’s own breath from the Arctic. Through chattering teeth he babbled nonsense about dark spirits being gathered against him and that he had to leave before they manifested again. He got some argument and a suggestion they all pray to dispel the negative influences, but he was already barreling out the door.

I stuck with him until he got in his car, then slipped into the backseat and went solid. He screeched like a woman when I snaked one arm around his neck in a half nelson. I’m damned strong. He couldn’t break free. When he stopped making noise, I noticed him staring at the rearview mirror. It was empty, of course.

Leaning in, my mouth close to his ear, in my best imitation of the Shadow, I whispered, “Game’s over, Svengali. Digging up that grave pissed off the wrong kind of things. We’re on to you and we’re hungry. You want to see another dawn?”

He whimpered, and the sound of his racing heart filled the car. I took that as a yes.

“Get out of town. Get out of the racket. Go back to the stage. Better a live magician than a dead medium. Got that? Got that?”

Not waiting for a reply, I vanished, exiting fast. He gunned the motor to life and shot away like Barney Oldfield looking to make a new speed record.

As the wrecked evening played itself out to the survivors in the parlor, I made it back to the linen closet, killed the light, and parked my duff on an overturned bucket to wait in the dark. I needed the rest.

The house grew quiet. The last guests departed with enough copy from tonight to fill their monthly pamphlets for years to come. Escott would have some interesting reading to share. I got the impression Flora was not planning another sitting, though a few people assured her that tonight’s events should be continued.

The residents finished and came upstairs one by one. Flora Weisinger went into James’s room and stayed there for a long time, crying. Abby found her, they talked in low voices for a time, and Flora cried some more. I wasn’t sorry. Better now than later, married to a leech. Apparently things worked out. The sisters emerged, each going to her own room. Some servant made a last round, checking the windows, then things fell silent.

I’d taken off the spook coverings, folding the curtain and napkin, slipping them in with similar ones on a shelf. Retrieving my coat and hat I was ready to make a quiet exit until catching the faint sound of “Gloomy Sunday” seeping through the walls.

Damn.

This night had been a flying rout for Bradford, but Flora was still stuck in her pit. She might dig it even deeper until it was a match for her husband’s grave.

Someone needed to talk sense into her. I felt the least qualified for the job, but soon as I recognized the music I got that twinge again.

I did my vanishing act and went across to Flora’s room.

The music grew louder as I floated toward it, just solid enough to check the lay of the land. The lights were out, only a little glow from around her heavy curtains, enough to navigate and not be seen.

Quick as I could I re-formed, flicked the phonograph’s needle arm clear, and pulled out the record. It made a hell of a crunch when I broke it to pieces.

There was a feminine gasp from the bed, and she fumbled the light on. By then I was gone, but sensed her coming over. Another gasp, then…

“James?” Her voice quavered with that heartbreaking hope, now tinged with anguish. “James? Oh, please, darling, talk to me. I know you’re here.”

She’d picked up on the cologne.

“James? Please…”

This would be tough. I drifted over to a wall and gradually took shape, keeping it slow so she had time to stare, and if not get used to me, then at least not scream.

Hands to her mouth, eyes big, and her skin dead white, she looked ready to faint. This was cruel. A different kind from Bradford’s type of torture, but still cruel.

“James sent me,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Please don’t be afraid.”

She’d frozen in place and I wasn’t sure she understood.

I repeated myself and she finally nodded.

“Where is he?” she demanded, matching my soft tone.

“He’s with God.” It seemed best to keep things as simple as possible. “Everything that man told you was a lie. You know that now, don’t you?”

She nodded again, the jerky movement very similar to Abby’s mannerism. “Please, let me speak to James.”

“He knows already. He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing to forgive. It was just his time to go, that’s all. Not your fault.”

“But it was.”

“Nope.” I raised my right hand. “Swear to God. And I should know.”

That had her nonplussed. “What…who are you?”

“Just a friend.”

“That cologne, it’s his.”

“So you’d know he sent me. Flora, he loves you and knows you love him. But this is not the way to honor his memory. He wants you to give it up before it destroys you. He’s dead and you’re alive. There’s a reason you’re here.”

“What? Tell me!”

“Doesn’t work like that, you have to find out for yourself. You won’t find answers in a Ouija board, though.”

Flora had tentatively moved closer to me. “You look real.”

“Thanks, I try my best. I can’t stay long. Not allowed. I have to make sure you’re clear-headed on this. No more guilt—it wasn’t your fault—get rid of this junk and live your life. James wants you to be happy again. If not now, then someday.”

“That’s all?”

“Flora…that’s a lifetime. A good one if you choose it.”

“I’ll…all right. Would you tell James—”

“He knows. Now get some sleep. New day in the morning. Enjoy it.” I was set to gradually vanish again, then remembered—“One last thing, Flora. James’s wedding band.” I held my hand out.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“Yes, you can. It belongs with him and you know it. Come on.”

Fresh tears ran down her face, but maybe this time there would be healing for her. She had his ring on a gold chain around her neck and reluctantly took it off. She read the inscription one more time, kissed the ring, and gave it over.

“Everything will be fine,” I said. “This is from James.” I didn’t think he’d mind. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, very lightly, and vanished before she could open her eyes.

For the next few hours I drove around Chicago, feeling like a prize idiot and hoping I’d not done even worse damage to Flora than Alistair Bradford. I didn’t think so, but the worry stuck.

Eventually I found my way back to that big cemetery and got myself inside, walking quickly along the path to the fancy mausoleum and the grave behind it.

I was damned tired, but had one last job to do to earn Abby Saeger’s five bucks.

Pinching the ring in my fingers as Flora had done at the séance, I extended my arm and disappeared once more, this time sinking into the earth. It was the most unpleasant sensation, pushing down through the broken soil, pushing until what had been my hand found a greater resistance.

That would be James Weisinger’s coffin.

I’d never attempted anything like this before but was reasonably sure it was possible. This was a hell of a way to find out for certain.

Pushing just a little more against the resistance, it suddenly ceased to be there. Carefully not thinking what that meant, I focused my concentration on getting just my hand to go solid.

It must have worked, because it hurt like a Fury, felt like my hand was being sawed away at the wrist. Just before the pain got to be too much I felt the gold ring slip from my grasp.

One instant I was six feet under with my hand in a coffin and the next I was stumbling in the snow, clutching my wrist and trying not to yell too much.

My hand was still attached. That was good news. I worked the fingers until they stopped looking so clawlike, then sagged against a tree.

What a night.

I got back in my car just as the sleet began ticking against the windows, trying to get in. It was creepy. I wanted some sound to mask it but hesitated turning on the radio, apprehensive that “Gloomy Sunday” might be playing again.

What the hell. Music was company, proof that there were other people awake somewhere. I could always change the station.

When it warmed up, Bing Crosby sang “Pennies from Heaven.” Someone at the radio station had noticed the weather, perhaps, and was having his little joke.

I felt that twinge again, but now it raised a smile.