I took a deep swig of my tea and immediately regretted it—it wasn’t sweet at all, and the whiskey gave it an odd, astringent bite that burned the back of my throat. I wasn’t about to admit the only reason I kept up with the story at all was my tiny, itty bitty crush on Mark Thomas. Okay maybe it was more of a medium sized crush but not like I had pictures of him saved to my computer or anything. Anymore. Anyway… “Wasn’t the alleged medium some hoax, though? He never went to any media about the whole thing.” The assumption had been it was all a PR gimmick by Thomas, in the vein of ‘all press is good press’. Whomever the psychic had been, they never popped up on any television shows or magazines to brag about Thomas bailing on the meeting and never tried to promote their ‘skills’ using the canceled appearance. Weirdly, Mark Thomas had shut down any questions about the incident in interviews that came after and people eventually stopped bringing it up. Mostly.
Jacob signaled the waitress to come back over. “Want some dessert? I could go for something sweet.” He rubbed his stomach distractedly, frowning in the direction of the dessert case with it’s Limoges cake stands and jeweled fruit tarts. I shook my head, but he ordered for both of us anyway, some version of a Mississippi mud pie that would no doubt include Faberge egg in the crust. “I’m gonna ride this fast metabolism thing until my forties,” he laughed, patting his flat belly, winking up at the waitress who gave him the same bland, polite, ‘I don’t get paid to care’ smile we could’ve gotten at the Waffle House, but with better tea. Jacob hadn’t answered me, though, and I knew better than to press just yet. He was flirting harmlessly with our waitress, trying to show off his big boy money a bit, caught somewhere between trying to impress me and intimidate me. Finally, our pies served (tiny, thin slices you could read the bill through but sparkling with something silver in the crust because why not), Jacob veered back to the show. “The medium is this guy named Oscar Fellowes. He’s got quite a following over there but has, so far, refused to do actual television. He does Bump in the Night—he and his friend created the web series— and he used to do the rich old lady and poodle circuit, apparently.”
“The what now?”
“Private parties for the high and mighty along with his grandmother, who was one of those old school mediums the eccentric sorts liked to keep on a retainer. He’s done a few consults with government types and some minor royals.” Jacob smeared some of his pie around the faux-tin plate, staring into the patterns like an augury. “CeCe met him at some party a few months ago just after his grandmother passed and said I had to hire him,” he said, sounding more fond than not. “She’s got a good eye for this sort of thing.”
“For scam artists?” I asked, unable to keep the snide tone from my voice.
“Julian,” he sighed, tiredness definitely creeping in to his tone, “you either take this job or don’t. No amount of skeptical snarking is going to dissuade me from bringing on a medium, not for this one. And I love you, man, but I can find someone else to fill your spot in a heartbeat.”
He was right, and I knew it. The smear of Mississippi mud pie looked like literal mud on my plate but I took a swipe of it on the edge of my fork and nibbled, killing a few seconds to regroup and focus. “Okay. We both know I’m going to take this gig. Just promise me one thing.”
He cocked a brow, smirking. “I’ll try.”
“Promise me this medium isn’t one of those super awful fakes who shouts at ghosts and thinks everything is a demon.”
Jacob snorted so hard, it startled the table next to us. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
CHAPTER TWO
Oscar
“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”
Ezra sighed. We were early for the lunch meeting he’d been at me to commit to for a month and a half, finally grabbing me—quite literally, in fact—as I left my hotel in Baton Rouge after a private consultation with one of the archaeologists employed by the state. I was due at a party in New Orleans later that evening, some function at one of the private homes in the Garden District, but Ezra swore this meeting with Jacob Grant wouldn’t take very long, something which did not instill me with confidence as his of ‘not very long’ tended towards hours rather than minutes. “We’ve been over this, Oscar. You agreed to this show months ago, when Grant first approached us.”
“Back up—he approached you. I said I don’t do t.v.” God, I sounded like a twat. I don’t do television, dahling! I’m much too famous for that!
Not really, though.
I just hated the idea.
My one near-miss with television had been harrowing. I still got sweaty palms and dry mouth just thinking about standing in that misnamed green room (it was institutional white, and smelled of egg salad sandwiches gone bad, though maybe that was where the green in the name came from?), waiting for one of the headset-wearing assistants to come barreling in and wave me on stage. I nearly fainted with relief when one of them indeed come buzzing back, scowling like it was my fault Mark Thomas had decided to bow out of this joint appearance and informed me I was no longer needed and would be replaced by some comedian who specialized in prop comedy.
I never thought I’d see the day where I was thankful for Carrot Top’s comeback tour.
Ezra’s pink painted lips curled into what could generously be termed a smile, if he weren’t showing so many clenched teeth and casting aspersions on my parentage through them. I scooted my chair back a bit, careful of the heavily laden table. Mama Bee’s Diner apparently didn’t believe in rational portion sizes. “Oscar, you promised me you’d let me handle your career for one year! This is me, handling it!”
“I liked it better when you handled it by sending me to those swish parties and occasional National Trust sites.” I pushed the wet, wilted greens around on my plate desultorily, wondering if they were supposed to look like that or if the kitchen had made some mistake when I’d ordered the greens in a warm vinaigrette. Maybe they’re trying to get us to shift out early. That’d explain the glitter in my waffle. Ezra had no problem with the food. He was eating as if it were his last meal, glaring at me the entire time. “Look,” I said, unable to keep back the sigh, “I like being low key. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. I never wanted to exploit my abilities.” Never a gift, it’s not a gift. My grandfather taught me that, early on. A gift is given to you freely. A gift is something you can return or pass along if you don’t enjoy it. Abilities are not. Abilities, you’re just stuck with them for the most part.
“And you’ll be low key again,” he promised, setting her fork aside and leaning close. “Look, you promised me a year, yeah? And the year is almost up. After this show, you can go back to doing the parties and landmarks and all that. Hell,” he said, forcing another smile and trying on a brave face, “you can fire me if you want and organize your own investigations and film your own look-sees in those haunted sites. Just give me the rest of my year to prove this is better than going to rot.”
I took a sip of the (truly awful) tea, fidgeting with the glass after I set it back down, rapping my silver ring on the rim, rubbing my thumb over the condensation on the side. “I owe you,” I said finally, quietly. “I’ll do this for you, but I’m not going to ham it up, I’m not going to lie or fucking shout at ghosts and claim everything is a demon. I’m not going to make an ass out of myself, not even for you Ezra.”
He nodded, something in his expression changing and becoming less tense, less pained. “I’ll make sure Grant understands. I’ll put it in your rider.”
“My what now?” Ezra threw around all sorts of show biz terminology when we talked business and usually I could just nod and murmur. This time, though, it affected me directly and it was unsettling to have no idea what he was talking about. Ezra checked his watch and blew out a harsh breath. Quickly, he refreshed my memory about the basics of my contract, what I’d be expected to do, the length of time I’d be expected to be on site, that sort of thing. Remuneration. My contract was apparently pretty boilerplate stuff, just
the names and numbers pasted in to a bog standard bit of legalese. My rider, however, was my own addendum (or, in this case, Ezra’s addendum on my behalf). Things I’d require or expect of the producers. “Oh, so I could insist on a bowl of wine gums in my room every morning?” I asked, unable to stop myself from grinning at Ezra’s pained expression. “Or that they should only address me as Sir Oscar Wentworth Pimplybottom Fellowes the Tenth while bowing, else I won’t allow them to film me?”
“Your middle name isn’t Wentworth, it’s Michael.”
“But the Pimplybottom part is acceptable?”
“Ask whomever is behind you next time you’re in bed,” he sniped. I barely had a moment to offer her a double digit salute before he was standing and waving at someone. I craned my neck to see a tall, solidly built man in a painfully blue suit making his way towards us, the hostess trailing behind him as he brazened his way through the light brunch crowd, ignoring her offers of a menu. “Mr. Grant! Lovely to see you! I’d like to thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice!”
“Nonsense,” he boomed, shaking Ezra’s hand so hard he grimaced. Dropping into the seat next to me, he turned a bright white, very American smile at me and stuck out his hand for me to shake. “So happy to meet you in the flesh, Mr. Fellowes. My wife raves about your little show at the Micklethwaite’s spring equinox fete.”
Easter party. It was an Easter party. There were eggs and bunnies and disgustingly pastel decorations and people with bunny ears and some more intrepid souls pinned on fluffy little bunny tails to their Sunday best. But, as the Micklethwaites are on the very raaaaaaah end of posh, it wouldn’t do to admit to celebrating something as pedestrian as Easter. “I’m so glad she enjoyed herself,” I said instead. “It was a lovely event.”
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
Did I mention they were on the very raaaaaaah end of posh? Not a single chin to be had in that lot.
“CeCe couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks,” he chuckled, giving Ezra a wink. Ezra smiled sunnily at him, fidgeting with cutlery, readjusting the placement of a sweating glass of tea. I felt like a child being discussed by older relatives, being praised for some bit of cleverness. It made my stomach squirm and a wash of heat race up my throat. I knew I was slowly turning a color I’d come to call Shame Tomato and I started to push my chair back, readying an excuse about needing to use the gent’s, but Grant boomed onward. “You probably don’t remember my CeCe at all,” he said, leaning an elbow on the table and fixing me with a penetrating stare. Ah. A test. Wonderful. “You passed along a message to her, something for her brother really.”
“It rings a bit of a bell,” I admitted. “I must admit that sometimes it is quite difficult for me to remember what messages I’ve passed along, particularly if there were quite a few in one day.” The messages from that particular event were a mush in my memory, mostly because I’d had to tread so carefully when relaying them. My first little slip about someone’s childhood spent in council housing nearly had me run through by an embarrassed guest. I had to hurry along to a waiting viscount who wanted to complain about how the family had him buried in his third best waistcoat. Two hundred years ago. I’m not entirely sure what he expected them to do about it at that point but it certainly distracted the glowering Mrs. Smythe-Crunkfield from spearing me with a cornichon fork.
Grant waved over the waitress. “Well, my CeCe was just absolutely stunned. The message was from their grandmother, apparently, and the old woman wanted him to get rid of the guy he was dating.”
I smiled my best polite interest smile. “Ah, yes, the boyfriend message! She was quite irate.” In truth, I did remember that particular message mostly because the spirit had been one of the two American ghosts present. Her accent had been heavy and sweet and made me think of honey even as she snapped at her granddaughter—Cecelia, not CeCe, my memory helpfully kicked in—to tell her brother that his boyfriend was a thief, a liar, and a backstabbing asshole. I paraphrased the message when I passed it along, despite the fact the woman herself had managed to manifest just enough for me to see her glaring at me from behind the petite, porcelain-doll blonde sitting in front of me in the stuffy sitting room.
Grant snorted, not looking up from the cocktail menu. “Well, CeCe passed it along to Jules but he told her she was...” he trailed off, a dull flush spreading above his beard scruff. His glance was full of embarrassed apology.
“Oh, it’s not the first time and won’t be the last, someone thinking what I do is ridiculous.” It still twinged a bit, though. The waitress arrived to take Grants’ drink order, leaving Ezra and I to try the time-honored method of communication via facial expressions. Ezra either told me to watch my fucking mouth, or tried to land a plane at our table using eyebrow semaphore.
“Now, Mr. Fellowes,” Grant said once he’d ordered not only his Hell’s Half Acre martini (which, from what I gathered, was a shot of tequila served in a martini glass with a jalapeno as garnish) but insisted upon refreshing my iced tea and Ezra’s glass of white wine. “Mr. Baxter here seems quite certain that you’re ready to go on this project, but I wanted to make sure myself.”
Ezra sat up very straight, his dark eyes going very wide. “Oscar is extremely excited to be part of the show, Mr. Grant,” he rushed to assure him. “We’ve spoken of little else for the past month!”
I managed, barely, to keep myself from baring my teeth. “It’s true,” I assured Grant, who was giving us both a bemused look. “All we’ve talked about is your project!” Not totally a lie, honest. I just wasn’t going to admit that the talking had mostly been arguing about what I may or may not be expected to do, wear, or say while on camera. “From what I read of the proposal and the information sent over by your PA, you seem to have chosen well when it comes to the, ah, professional skeptic.” I bared my teeth in an attempt at a smile. Grant didn’t seem to notice but Ezra aimed another kick at my ankle. The whole ‘professional skeptic’ thing was such bullshit—most of the time, they were sour old has-beens in their own field, usually psychology or, for some reason, computer science seemed to be a big one. They were universally bitter, unhappy with their lot in life, and unwilling to entertain even the vaguest shred of an idea that there might be more to life than that which is tangible. The skeptic in the prospectus from Wish Granted Productions (imaginative lot, this bunch) surprised me, however. Victor Milton was a paranormal researcher, someone who had a fairly decent track record when it came to investigations and not automatically deeming any and all activity to be rubbish or trickery. He had a background in engineering and psychology, having delved into parapsychological research after he’d experienced a visitation, according to the interviews he’d given in the past. While I wasn’t exactly looking forward to having to prove myself over and over again (in fact, I already had the beginnings of a migraine just considering it), I knew that Milton was not going to dismiss me out of hand.
“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Milton won’t be joining us after all,” Grant said on a rush of breath, almost a sigh. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, frustrated, or just trying to act like it. “He’s…” Grant trailed off. “Well, he just won’t be joining us.”
Ezra stiffened beside me. “And who is the replacement then?” I knew what he was thinking—it was the same thing I was worried about. Was Grant hoping to manufacture some high drama for his little show? Was this all going to be an attempt to embarrass me for ratings? Bring on one of the professional skeptics who’d spend every second of camera time denigrating me, trying to twist my words... Shit, maybe even Mark Thomas?
Grant spent a long moment fishing the jalapeno garnish from his drink before popping it in his mouth with a grimace. “Ugh. Not even hot. Disappointing.”
“Mr. Grant,” Ezra said, voice calm and soft but definitely edged with something that made me want to scoot back, out of arm’s reach, and I wasn’t even the one he was irritated with. “Who is the professional skeptic we will be working with? Keeping in min
d that there are some very broad definitions of breech of contract we can apply here should your response be less than satisfactory.
Grant glanced up, visibly flustered for a moment before smoothing his features back into bland, pleasant lines. Way to go Ezra! Get him on the back foot! “I assure you that I am aware of your concerns—I remember our initial phone meetings, Mr. Baxter.” He gave me a genial nod, making me feel like a child being placated. Ezra reached over without looking and moved my fork away before I could grab it and use it in a manner for which it was not designed. “Mr. Milton is being replaced by Doctor Julian Weems. He’s a forensic anthropologist and we feel that he’ll be able to better support the show’s mission of solving these deaths, more-so than Mr. Milton.”
Something was off. I mean, it sounded good, and made sense, bringing on this Weems fellow, but it just felt weird. Grant wasn’t quite meeting our eyes, his smile a bit forced. Hm. “I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with this change,” I said before Ezra could speak again. “I don’t know anything about this fellow and would prefer to meet with him in person before committing any further.” Grant scowled at that. He worked that slice of pepper between his teeth like his life depended upon it, but he didn’t respond. Not yet.
“My client is not making an unreasonable demand,” Ezra put in. “In his line of work, skeptics are...well, frankly, they’re a hazard. And going on television? On a show that could end up in syndication and not only be seen in it’s original airing but in reruns for years to come? The potential for damage to his career is great, Mr. Grant. This Doctor Weems might be a well respected anthropologist for all we know, but he is not someone who moves in the same professional circles as Oscar and we really must insist upon, if not a meeting then a very thorough dossier on his background and methods.”
“Mr. Fellowes, let me be frank with you. I just spent most of last night trying to convince your opposite number that he won’t be a laughing stock or ruin his career going on the show. And he’s...” A very faint flicker of exhaustion moved across Grant’s face before it settled into it’s previous, polite-and-determined lines. “Well, he’s a very hard sell. I think you,” he paused to take a sip of his drink for fortification, “understand this business a lot better than he does. I think you get that we’re not aiming to make jokes out of you or Julian—Doctor Weems, I mean. You may not have done television before but you’re definitely on the show biz side of things. Hear me out,” he said, raising a finger when I opened my mouth to argue. “I know you’re not out there on stages and shit, trying to sell what you do like those cold readers on Sad TV or whatever that channel is called. But you have to promote yourself, don’t you? Sell the whole package? Get those clicks and ad revenue from subscribers.” He jerked his chin in Ezra’s direction. “That’s why you have him, isn’t it?”
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