He watched the swing of her hips as she walked, the liquid sway of her light blue skirt, and bit down hard on a crostini.
“Here it is.” She dropped a sheet of paper onto the table as she slid back onto her chair. “Prescott Palmer, con man extraordinaire!”
He picked up the sheet, trying hard to make his eyes focus. “No death date?”
“Well, that’s the thing—what makes him good for Mr. Black. He disappeared!” Her turquoise eyes sparkled with excitement, like gemstones in candlelight.
His body gave another quick throb. “When?”
“Sometime in the summer of 1897, apparently. The King William paper, the Zeitung, wasn’t too clear on when exactly. He wasn’t around for a while, so people started asking for him, and it turned out even his wife didn’t know where he’d gone. Apparently, he went off on business trips sometimes without telling her where he was headed.”
He stared at the paper again. “What kind of con man was he?”
“That’s another mystery.”
She leaned back in her chair—he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face rather than letting them drift to her upthrust bosom.
“The paper was really cagey about what Palmer did—about how he made his money. They said, wait a minute . . .” She dug through the papers and pulled one to the top. “They said he was ‘an advisor to several prominent citizens of this city.’ Do you think they meant San Antonio or King William?”
He shrugged. “Probably King William. It’s like Alamo Heights or Olmos Park, the whole ‘city – within-a-city’ thing. What was he supposed to be advising these prominent citizens about?”
“No idea. The paper just talks about his friends, not about what he did, exactly. It’s almost like they didn’t know, or they didn’t want to talk about it if they did.”
He frowned, rubbing his jaw. “Strange. And he owned the Steadman house?”
She nodded. “From 1894 until 1897. His wife sold it after he disappeared.”
His shoulders tensed. “His wife . . .”
“Yeah. I don’t even know her name, by the way. The paper just refers to her as Mrs. Palmer. She stuck around for a few weeks after he disappeared, but then she sold out so that she could cover his debts. I didn’t see anything more about her after that.”
The stiffness in his shoulders crept up the back of his neck. “Any pictures of either of them?”
“Not so far. I just read through the Zeitung this afternoon, but there are some other references to Palmer in the database that I can check later. That is, I can if you can square it with Araceli so I can go to the Historical Society again on Monday.”
He rubbed the muscles of his neck, sighing. “Sure. I’ll tell her you’re on to something important about the carriage house. That might even be true.” He closed his eyes, wincing.
Cool fingers slid over his shoulders. “Let me.”
He let his head drop forward, feeling her hands move across the back of his neck. The ache in his groin began to throb again.
“Does that feel better?” Her voice purred against his ear.
“Define ‘better,’” he croaked. His shoulders hunched against the pressure of her fingers. “Just don’t stop, okay?”
“Not at all?” Her breath puffed against his cheek.
“You’re killing me, right?” He half turned, bringing his arms around her waist. “What did I ever do to you?”
She stared down at him, a faint smile playing around her lips. “You made me very happy last night. I’m hoping you’ll do it again.”
Her eyes had that infinite look again, fathomless depths. If he wasn’t careful, he’d drown. On the other hand, in a lot of ways, he’d been careful all his life, at least where women were concerned. Maybe drowning wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, sliding his hands to her breasts, “allow me to demonstrate.”
Chapter 17
On Monday, Biddy headed back to the Historical Society. After the weekend she’d had, it seemed very restful.
Danny had come to the Chalk Creek Changelings show. She’d even dedicated a song to him—well, she’d dedicated a song to a “special friend,” but everybody knew who it was, given the huge grin that had spread across his face as soon as she’d begun singing “My Guy.”
He’d returned the favor, at least as far as making her grin blissfully, when he’d taken her back to his place after buying her a late supper. They’d spent Sunday together, reading the San Antonio Express-News, eating huevos rancheros, and making love. A lot.
She managed to wipe the idiot grin off her face before she walked past Gracie, but she doubted she was fooling anybody much.
“Back so soon?” Gracie’s eyes narrowed. “You must be on to something interesting.”
Biddy shrugged. “Prescott Palmer. He’s a much bigger selling point than Beatrice Steadman. I wish we could claim he built the house, but at least we’ve got a notorious owner to charm the investors.”
“I thought you and Ramos were interested in the carriage house.” Gracie frowned.
“Well, whoever owned the main house owned the carriage house, too.” Biddy hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “The database listed some other books that mentioned Palmer. Does the society have a library section?”
“Up the stairs to your right.” Gracie returned to studying her computer screen. “Organized by Dewey Decimal System and whimsy.”
As it turned out, whimsy trumped the Dewey Decimal System. It took Biddy twenty minutes to find Shadows of San Antonio by one Ignacio Burnside, and when she did, she wasn’t impressed by the cover. It was more like a booklet than a book, and a badly printed booklet at that. The ink was smeared and dim, and the binding had begun to crack. She unfolded her legal pad and found a table in the corner.
An hour later, she had to stop. Her fingers were shaking from her death grip on her pen. She had at least eight pages of notes, and she’d only just begun. If the book hadn’t been in such sorry shape, she’d have photocopied it, but she had a feeling it would fall apart if she tried to put it on the glass.
She checked the first paragraph of the chapter again.
The notorious Prescott Palmer, who used his so-called “mediumistic powers” to provide investment advice to the town’s most prominent movers and shakers, remains one of the greatest of San Antonio’s Shadows.
Biddy wasn’t sure what Burnside meant by “mediumistic powers,” but it looked like Palmer’s con had involved pretending to be a medium. That didn’t necessarily mean he had any real ghostly powers, of course. But then again, if the phony medium had become the ghost in the carriage house, there did seem to be a bit of cosmic justice at work.
Palmer appeared to have an uncanny knowledge of investments—perhaps a banker confederate served as his advisor. However he came by his information, his advice proved invaluable to the rich and powerful, who beat a path to his door. Of course, none of them would ever admit that the information came from Prescott Palmer—it wouldn’t do to acknowledge that some of San Antonio’s wealthiest businessmen were being guided by spirits. One wonders if Palmer actually enticed his clients into full-blown séances. Men like Leo Friedrich and Anton Richter must have found Palmer’s mumbo-jumbo to be a high price to pay even for the valuable information he managed to pass on to them. The vision of the town’s staid bankers and stockbrokers holding hands around a table could warm even the most coldhearted skeptics.
Biddy could see why Shadows of San Antonio hadn’t been brought out by a big publisher. The Friedrich and Richter families would probably have descended on the company with pockets full of lawyers. She was surprised the Historical Society had managed to score a copy, given the efforts that were probably made to suppress the book. She flipped through the pages until she found the next Palmer reference.
Palmer’s enigmatic wife—known as Devora—added to his reputation for mystery. Although seldom seen in society, the elegant Devora was legendary for her beauty and her silence. Appearing on Palmer’s arm at some of the city’s most exclusive social events, Devora resisted all attempts to charm her away from her husband’s side, answering questions with averted eyes and a husky whisper. Her accent was said to remind listeners of exotic climes, but her origins remain cloaked in secrecy. After Palmer’s disappearance, it was rumored that many of his former clients had offered to help the beauteous Devora to resolve her financial difficulties if she were willing to offer herself in return. Resisting all such proposals, Devora sold the house where Palmer had performed his séances and disappeared from San Antonio’s history forever, just as her nefarious husband had before her. Or so we’ve been led to believe.
Well, not exactly. Biddy sighed. If only Shadows of San Antonio had provided a few pictures to go along with the innuendo, she’d be set. But the only drawing showed a man who was supposed to be Palmer in mid-séance, his eyes wide as he stared into a glowing crystal ball. Biddy had a feeling it wasn’t drawn from life.
She idly thumbed through the rest of the pages. Ignacio Burnside seemed to be particularly interested in con men and mediums—frequently they were one and the same. She had no idea old-time San Antonio was so big on the supernatural. Another chapter was titled “All in the Family,” with the subtitle “Two Generations Carry on the Psychic Strain.” Biddy glanced down the page and pulled up short, reading the words again, more carefully this time.
Siobhan Riordan built her King William mansion so that she could carry on her séances in peace. But the Riordans were already well established in their chosen profession—according to legend, they’d been part of the medium trade in Ireland for at least two generations before arriving on the shores of Texas in the form of Siobhan’s own mother and grandmother. And Siobhan’s daughter, Caroline, may well continue in her mother’s tradition after that worthy’s demise, communicating with spirits for the benefit of San Antonio’s crème de la crème.
She took a deep breath. It didn’t mean anything. Riordan was a common Irish name, and there might have been several Riordans in San Antonio. Just because they’d built a family house in King William . . .
Right, Biddy. And what’s the scenery like there in the Land of Denial?
She closed the book and stared down at her notes. She’d have to tell Danny what she’d found, at least about Palmer. She wasn’t sure what they could do with the information, but it might help one way or another, particularly if Palmer was haunting the carriage house.
Something about that theory didn’t seem to add up, but she wasn’t sure what. Maybe just the idea that Palmer would haunt the carriage house rather than the main house. After all, he’d been so careful of appearances, according to Burnside. He had his suits custom-made, and his wife dressed in clothes he’d supposedly bought for her in Paris. The house had furniture from New York and crystal and china from England. Dinner with the Palmers must have been a grand affair.
A man like Palmer wouldn’t have spent any more time in the carriage house than necessary, and that time would probably have been only as long as it took to give orders to his coachman.
She folded her notes and slid them into her purse. Burnside hadn’t said anything about pets, even though the cat that haunted the main house had looked pretty exotic herself. But maybe that particular ghost wasn’t Palmer’s cat.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed down toward Gracie’s desk.
“Done for the day?” Gracie didn’t look particularly interested in finding out.
“Yes, I think so.” She stood next to Gracie’s desk for a moment, trying to decide how to frame her question.
Gracie looked up again. “What?”
“Did you know Beatrice Steadman, Gracie?”
Gracie shrugged. “A little. I used to see her at some of the Historical Society meetings. And she’d come to tea at the Guenther House sometimes.”
“What was she like?”
“Rich.” Gracie’s smile was dry. “Very rich, as a matter of fact. Rich enough that she didn’t care what people thought of her. The Historical Society tried for years to get her to open her house for the home tour during Fiesta. She basically told them to go screw themselves. She wouldn’t even let them inside to look around.”
“Hard to get along with?”
Gracie shook her head. “Just set in her opinions. She gave a lot of money to causes she believed in, like the Humane Society and the Animal Defense League.”
Biddy felt a prickling along the back of her neck. “She had pets?”
Gracie nodded. “Oh Lord, yes. Cats. Not that she was a cat lady or anything—she didn’t take in strays. She raised Persians. Show cats. I think they took some national titles.”
“Did she have a lot of them?”
“Over the years, quite a few.” Gracie’s grin spread again. “She loved those damn cats, too. She told me once if she had her way, she’d come back as a cat.”
Biddy managed not to trip over Gracie’s desk, but it took all her control. “Sorry,” she muttered, “loose carpet. She wanted to come back as a cat?”
Gracie shrugged. “Right. She said cats had a great life—they didn’t care about anybody but themselves and nobody expected them to be any different. Plus, they were smart and graceful and resourceful and I don’t remember what all else. Beatrice was sort of nutty on the subject.”
Biddy swallowed. “Sounds like it. Well, thanks for all your help, Gracie.”
Gracie had already turned back to her computer monitor. “Sure, sure, any time.”
Thirty minutes later, Biddy sat at her desk staring at her cell phone. If she turned out to be wrong, Danny might never speak to her again, which caused a sharp pang around her heart. If she was right, he might be mad, but he might let it go if she figured out one of the puzzles at the carriage house.
She sighed. Only one way to find out, really. She punched the number into her cell.
A woman’s voice answered, fortunately. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Ramos?” Biddy managed to make her voice sound moderately normal.
“This is Deirdre Ramos, who’s calling please?”
“It’s Biddy Gunter, Mrs. Ramos. We met at Danny’s.” I was the one wearing his shirt and nothing else. Surely, you remember that.
“Biddy!” She sounded delighted. “How are you, sweetheart? You’re supposed to call me Deirdre.”
“I’m fine, Deirdre. I just need some information.”
“Information? About Danny?”
“No, ma’am.” Biddy took a deep breath. “About the carriage house. The one that’s haunted. I thought maybe you could help me. Since you’ve got that ghost hobby, I mean.”
“My ghost hobby?” Deirdre’s voice sounded slightly muffled, as if she were looking for something.
“Well, yes. You seemed to know so much about ghosts and San Antonio and King William and . . . everything.” Biddy swallowed. “I thought maybe you could point me in the right direction, sort of.”
Biddy closed her eyes. That sounded so much more lame than she’d originally planned.
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Is this about the Riordans, Biddy? Did they turn up in your research about King William and all the rest of it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Biddy stammered. “Well, sort of. Some Riordans did, anyway.”
“Did Danny tell you about us, about the family, that is?”
“No, of course not. Not about that . . . I . . . no, I found out on my own.”
Deirdre sighed. “Right, I should have known better. Danny wouldn’t discuss it with anyone. Well, it doesn’t really matter how you found out, I guess, but we do need to talk. Have you had lunch?”
Biddy looked at the clock on her computer—one thirty. Good grief, she’d been at the Historical Society all morning. “No, I haven’t. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“Oh, yes.” Deirdre’s voice was dry. “I think that would be a very good idea.”
Chapter 18
Deirdre Ramos took a long sip of her iced tea, then folded her hands on the table in front of her. All around them, Alamo Heights matrons were having chicken salad and cosmopolitans, seated at tables that echoed the subdued peach and gray color scheme of the walls. It was all so civilized. Biddy felt like an interloper.
“I’m not a professional medium.” Deirdre’s eyes burned with the same emerald hue as her son’s. “Let’s get that straight right off the bat. I’m a middle school guidance counselor with a few extra abilities.”
Biddy managed to keep her expression fairly blank. “I didn’t really think you were a medium, honest.”
Deirdre grimaced. “Well, lots of other people have made that mistake over the years—people who knew about my family. My mother was a medium—so was my grandmother. But I didn’t think like they did, and I didn’t want to be like them, either. I left home when I married Ray, and I lost contact with my mother after that.”
Biddy nodded, as if this were the most rational conversation in the world. “I understand.” Down the rabbit hole, Biddy.
“What is it you want to know, exactly?” Deirdre squeezed a lime wedge into her tea.
“I’ve gotten a lot of information from the Historical Society,” Biddy explained. “I know who lived in the Steadman house now, someone who’s probably involved with the ghost—a man named Prescott Palmer.”
Deirdre frowned slightly. “Prescott Palmer. I know that name. I’ve heard it before somewhere. Who was he?”
“He was a medium in the 1890s. He apparently made a lot of money by passing on financial information to some of the rich and powerful men here in town.”
Deirdre nodded. “Right. Now I remember. Prissy Palmer, the man who consulted the spirits and found the answers to life’s little mysteries, such as which gold-mine stock was sure to be a winner.” She grimaced. “My grandmother mentioned him a few times. She always looked like she wanted to spit when she did.”
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