by Lotta Smith
“So true.” I chuckled and relayed her words to Rick.
“Says a ghost and a woman who talks to dead people,” he responded with a chuckle and a raised eyebrow.
When we reached the end of the passageway, a fiftyish gentleman was awaiting us. “Welcome to the Rosenberg residence. Mrs. Rosenberg is in the rose garden. I’m Mr. Silverman, the butler,” he said in an accent that sounded like a BBC broadcaster’s.
My eyes widened once more. It was the first time I’d seen a butler in person. I knew there were butlers and ladies-in-waiting somewhere in the world, such as in England. Okay, some Hollywood A-listers were said to have butlers, but theirs could be actors playing their roles as topnotch butlers. After all, they were in Hollywood. But this Mr. Silverman seemed to be a real one with his silver-gray hair, black tuxedo, and black tie.
He led us through a smaller pathway to a greenhouse. “This is the rose garden.” He opened its door graciously.
“Wow….” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
One step inside, roses of all colors were blossoming. The scent was strong yet delicate.
“This is impressive,” Rick muttered.
“Thank you so much.” Inside, Mrs. Rosenberg was cutting flowers off the rose bushes. “Hello, Mandy, Rick. Welcome to my home.” She waved, still holding a pair of scissors in her gloved hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Rosenberg. Thank you for the invitation,” Rick greeted, sporting a smile strictly reserved for special clients of USCAB and important social occasions.
I suppressed an urge to roll my eyes. Despite the unwillingness when Dan brought up the topic, Rick was behaving like he’d been truly looking forward to this occasion. Though if I changed my perspectives, Rick might have been a superduper professional. At first, I was slightly anxious about his transition from the feds to the corporate world. Having seen him loose-cannoning his way across the crooks and criminals, I often wondered what it would be like for him leading his family business of tens of thousands employees all over the world. But now I was sure he wasn’t just a good fit but the best fit for the part.
Putting the scissors on a pedestal by her side, she clumsily took off her gloves and approached us. “Thank you so much for answering my call,” she said, shaking our hands. “Oh, I’m so glad to have you over. I’m expecting some people doing… you know….”
“Séance?” Rick suggested.
“Yes.” She nodded, then furrowed her delicate eyebrows. “I wasn’t keen on it, but Mr. Macomber said it would be nice entertainment. Perhaps it has something to do with the conversation we had just two days before Halloween. Indeed, he wanted to have this séance thing on Halloween, but I was expecting my nieces to come for trick-or-treating. When I mentioned it to Dan, he said he’d send you over. You know, I’m not one of those crazy old women who’s desperate to kill time by pretending to communicate with dead people, but I felt a desperate need for some protection.”
“I understand,” Rick said sympathetically. “So, Mr. Macomber will try to contact the spirit, right?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Actually, he’s bringing someone in this evening. He’s supposed to be an expert, but I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to call the spirit of your—”
“Oh my gosh. Where are my manners?” Mrs. Rosenberg gasped before he finished the sentence. “I haven’t walked you through the house, and the time is ticking. It’s the first time for Mandy to visit here, right?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“What a pleasure to have you here, Mandy. I heard so many nice things about you from the McCambridges,” Mrs. Rosenberg said excitedly.
“Oh, I’m flattered.” I smiled.
“I’m lucky to win her heart. That’s what my father told you, right, Mrs. Rosenberg?” Rick winked.
“Exactly.” She smiled. “Let me lead you to the house.”
As we headed outside, cold wind blew on my face, and I realized just how warm the greenhouse was kept.
Arriving at the main building, a maid greeted us.
“Maisie, could you please prepare tea for Mr. and Mrs. Rowling?” Mrs. Rosenberg said.
“Very well, my lady.” Maisie curtsied and left, leaving me in total wonder.
“Oh my God, I’m growing so fond of this mansion!” Jackie exclaimed, bouncing up and down. “It’s totally like stumbling into Downton Abbey’s world. If British TV and movie production companies were to create something like Warner Brothers Studio in Hollywood, this place would be their Downton Abbey.”
I gave her a slight nod in agreement. The foyer we were led into looked like a true manor in Yorkshire instead of New York City.
The black-and-white chess floor gleamed to perfection, and each piece of furniture—antique from Europe, like seventeenth-century Italian—must have been auctioned, not purchased. The only factor that made this place look like New York was art pieces embellishing the beige walls. They were mostly abstract paintings, but some were photographs.
“This is so beautiful.” I indicated to one of the smaller paintings in azure and pink. “I like it so much.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Rosenberg agreed. “Michael, my husband, likes current local artists, and this is one of them. He says that, whenever he sees it, it sort of recharges his energy and convinces him to stand strong whatever happens.”
“I see. The colors are bright and vivid, but I can also feel the grit from this.” I nodded.
Rick opened his mouth, as if he had something to say, but then he shut it. Two women in extra-posh maid’s costumes came walking down the long corridor carrying afternoon tea sets.
“Oh, where are my manners, having my guests standing in the foyer forever?” Mrs. Rosenberg clasped her hands. “Mandy, Rick, please come to the salon so I can serve you tea!”
CHAPTER 3
While having tea, Mrs. Rosenberg, Rick, and I made some small talk, with topics mostly involving her nieces. Having nieces of my own, I mentioned a little about Emma and Minty, my younger sister Alicia’s daughters, and Mrs. Rosenberg visibly perked up.
“How old are they?” she asked eagerly.
“Emma is eight, and Minty turns six quite soon.”
“Oh, the cutest ages!” She smiled. “Mine are seven and four. Mandy, you should bring them here when my Lauren and Flo are visiting. That will make a truly lovely playdate.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Rosenberg.” Nodding in agreement, I started to think she was younger than I’d first assumed. Early to mid-thirties at the oldest, perhaps? Of course, she could have siblings younger than her by ten years or more. Still…
“Oh, Mandy, please call me Karen instead of Mrs. Rosenberg. I feel like a seventy-year-old lady when you call me Mrs. Rosenberg. Perhaps the condescending way I spoke to those mean girls might be still sticking to your ears, but I’m not as old as the way I talk.” Karen chuckled. “Maybe it’s the rather large age gap between Michael and yours truly affecting the way I speak, but sometimes I find myself wondering ‘How old am I? Am I channeling a hundred-plus-year-old dowager?’”
“Oh, Karen, that’s so hilarious! Actually, I was thinking you might be younger than I’d first assumed, considering we have nieces in close ages,” I said. “Thanks again for that rescue.”
“She’s so grateful for you, Karen,” Rick interjected, chuckling. “She fussed so much about what to wear today, practically kept me waiting for hours.”
“Oh, that happens all the time.” Karen laughed. “Besides, some people can be obscenely obnoxious.”
After an hour or so, other guests started to arrive one by one.
The first to arrive was Mr. Macomber. I recognized him from somewhere, but I had a hard time remembering where.
“He’s one of the city councilmen,” Rick whispered in my ear.
“Oh.” I nodded, having a lightbulb moment. If I recalled it right, Mr. Macomber was one of the local statesmen who advocated a new rezoning plan in Midtown to make the eastern part of the district more densely packed with
high-rise buildings. He came in solo. Then I realized that I hadn’t seen Mr. Rosenberg yet.
The next to come in were Mr. and Mrs. Grasso. Mr. Grasso—the CEO of Grasso Asset Management, a huge investment bank catering to rich people—was one of the highest profile players on Wall Street. He was known as the man who practically owned 30 percent of the country. Under his investment bank were a smorgasbord of businesses that ranged from manufacturers to retail companies, hiring hundreds of thousands of employees. Unlike what Hollywood liked to portray, Mr. Grasso didn’t look like a sharp-eyed, grimacing old man with a permanent frown engraved between his eyes. He was a heavyset gentleman in his late fifties who looked slightly like Santa Claus—minus the big belly. Alexandra, his wife, was elegant but also laid-back in a good way.
When Ken Tillard came in, Jackie started shrieking by my side.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod! Ken Tillard is here!” Totally excited, Jackie not only bounced up and down but also flew all across the salon.
I wanted to roll my eyes. If she had physical presence, I was certain that the ultra-huge Baccarat chandeliers would have been knocked down, crushing everyone like that poor victim in Phantom of the Opera. Since reading that classic novel about love, hate, mystery, and adventure, I’d been staying away from chandeliers, but at this special occasion, I didn’t have a choice.
Ken Tillard was a Broadway actor recently appearing in many TV shows and movies. At first, his parts were minor, but nowadays his roles were growing bigger to the point of occasionally starring as the main character. His onscreen career was just taking off compared to his long-lasting theater career, and he had a truly enthusiastic core fandom. He also happened to be the owner and president of a theater production named Mystic Woods. According to gossip sites, Ken’s wife, Loretta, was rumored to have filed for divorce. Assuming from the fact that the actor came in solo, the rumor might have been true.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m in the same room with Ken!” Jackie exclaimed. “I mean, he’s not just your regular Ken, but I’m talking about the Ken Tillard. Oh my God, if I were still alive and going up the ladder in Broadway, I’d so hand him my card!”
The last person to arrive was Mrs. Prescott. She was the wife of David Prescott, one of the city’s hottest business lawyers. I’d seen her at a charity auction last fall. She donated a diamond ring as one of the items to be auctioned, and the enormous size of the stone left an impression strong enough to last over a year. She was sporting a truly elegant-looking suit. I didn’t have the audacity to ask her if I could feel the fabric of her garments, but at the bottom of my heart, I was yearning to touch. She wasn’t stick thin—to be honest, she was quite huge—but the fabric held her big bosoms and big bottom as if flowing. A part of me wanted to know her tailor’s phone number.
Just like Mr. Macomber, she came in solo. According to her, Mr. Prescott had planned to come, but he had to stay in bed due to a badly twisted ankle while playing squash, prompting everyone to make sympathetic noises.
“He’s gone absolutely Macbeth about himself, dousing in self-pity.” Mrs. Prescott shrugged. “He was planning to spend the holiday seasons in Aspen, skiing. And he’s absolutely grumbling about getting hurt before he’s even stepped foot in the plane.”
“Looks like guys tend to get hurt before going down the snowy slopes whenever they book a ski trip. Good thing Rick didn’t actually book the trip to Aspen. If that was the case, he could have been the one with a leg injury,” Jackie commented.
“I’m glad I came here.” Mrs. Prescott giggled like a schoolgirl. “I was growing… well, somewhat sick of listening to my husband’s constant whining.”
All the women in the salon snorted with laughter while the husbands slightly squirmed.
“I love David, but when you’ve been married to the same guy for over three decades, some things just get old.” Mrs. Prescott chuckled and glanced at us. “Perhaps it’s hard to imagine thirty years later for you newlyweds.”
I offered a small smile, and Rick cleared his throat. “So, is it broken?”
“We don’t know for sure yet.” Mrs. Prescott shrugged. “The doctor says he doesn’t see any major fractures yet, but it’s possible for it to turn out to be one. These days, doctors are so ambiguous.”
“They don’t want to be sued by making a misdiagnosis,” I said. “Fractures that are initially diagnosed as sprains are practically jackpot for medical malpractice lawyers.”
“That’s so true.” Mrs. Prescott nodded. “Our doctor can tell if it’s a fracture or a sprain by taking an MRI or CT, but David happens to be such a claustrophobic that he refuses to go into that tube thing. He says knowing if it’s broken is worthless as it already hurts like hell, whether it’s broken or not.”
“That’s true.” Rick chuckled. “Actually, when you know it’s broken, the pain kinda gets worse than the time you’d been desperately trying to convince yourself it’s just a bad sprain or a monster bruise.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a similar injury yourself.” Mrs. Prescott tilted her head to the side.
“Actually, I broke my ankle last summer.” Rick winked, reaching for my hand. “But considering that she came as a bonus to the crutches and the boot thing, the whole thing was worth the time and pain.”
“Ooh… I miss my youth so much!” Mrs. Prescott fanned herself with both hands, prompting chuckles from everyone. “Anyway, let’s forget about my husband for the night and enjoy the dinner—and, of course, the séance. I’m so excited about it, though I’d be lying if I said I’m not at all nervous.”
“I’m absolutely with you about feeling nervous.” Karen gave her a small smile.
“Oh, are you? I thought you’d be performing it.”
“No, I won’t.” Karen shook her head and glanced at Mr. Macomber, who said, “Mrs. Rosenberg, I just realized that I hadn’t told you about Mr. Barnes being late. He has other business today and said he won’t be making it to dinner.”
“Oh, I see.” Karen’s eyes slightly widened, but then she took a deep breath and said, “As they say, we can’t start a séance with empty stomachs. Let’s have dinner.”
“I was looking forward to this moment.” Mrs. Prescott smiled widely. “What kind of pies are we having tonight for dessert?”
“That’s my top secret until they are served.” Karen winked.
Mr. Silverman, the butler, came in just then, leading us to the grand dining room.
The dinner was divine, starting with appetizers that tasted heavenly and looked like exotic gems from all over the world served as art pieces on the plates. As for the main course, I couldn’t find the right words to praise the chateaubriand topped with foie gras. The meats themselves were super nice, but what complimented the tastes was the jellied radish sauce with bonito soup stock.
After the main courses were served, the maids delivered eclectic selections of pies on the wagon for dessert. My favorite was the one that came with passion fruit and apple fillings.
As we ate, the shade of night started to grow deeper.
Just like any dinner, we chatted about what were considered appropriate topics that were mostly things we couldn’t care less about. However, there was something tense growing in the atmosphere. At first, I assumed the reason to be something to do with the fact that so many high-profile people were gathered at the same table, but something was peculiar, though I couldn’t tell what exactly was strange about it.
“Hmm… Ken Tillard behaves like he’s so unsure of himself.” Jackie tilted her head, observing the stage actor’s every move like a most enthusiastic fan, or a stalker. “It’s funny that he’s always the guy with the harshest determination while on stage or on screen. But look at him, he’s acting as if he can’t be certain if he’s using the right cutlery.”
I glanced at the actor. Hmm, Jackie was right. He looked somehow timid as he carried on a conversation with the rest of the people at the table. Maybe he wasn’t very close to everyone. After all, he was an actor, an
d as an actor, it should have been a piece of cake to behave like a man of confidence instead of showing his weakness.
Maybe he’s nervous about the séance. According to my experiences, men were often more scared of our invisible friends from the afterlife. And at the same time, men tended to have more difficulty admitting their fear of ghosts.
Observing the actor, who looked somewhat tired and shorter than he appeared to be on TV, I kept guessing at the reason for his awkwardness.
“Ken, are you okay?” Mr. Macomber asked. He was the very person who’d brought this séance idea to Karen in the first place.
“What? Oh… I’m peachy.” Mr. Tillard twitched like he was stunned, then straightened up. “It’s just I zoned out a little.”
“All right.” Mr. Macomber nodded. “You don’t have to worry. Everything will go smoothly.”
When we were about to finish the desserts, Mr. Macomber’s phone beeped. He excused himself from the dining room to pick up the call. When he returned, he announced that Mr. Barnes, the psychic medium, would be arriving soon.
“It’s time for the séance!” Mrs. Prescott announced. She looked and sounded genuinely thrilled.
CHAPTER 4
We were led into the same salon we were shown into on arrival.
The place should have felt elegant with topnotch sophistication, with the chandelier gleaming in the mellow lights and the presence of museum-worthy pieces of furniture, but the anticipation of a séance and having a psychic medium over made the atmosphere somewhat strained and weird.
Just like in the afternoon, tea was served and we sat at the table in silence—except for Mrs. Prescott.
“Suppose we have some kind of poltergeist. Can I take photos of it? Maybe I can capture some shadowy presence.” She was already opening a camera app on her iPhone.
“Hmm… perhaps you’d want to ask Mr. Barnes beforehand if you can shoot photos,” Mr. Macomber replied with a slight frown.