Medium Rare: (Intermix)

by Meg Benjamin

  “Evan?” Rose called from the living room. He closed the refrigerator door, stifling his impulse to let Helen clean it out.

  He leaned back into the living room doorway. “What’s up?”

  “Would a list of the attendees at her last séance help?” She turned his way, causing a lock of honey-brown hair to slide down the impressive slope of her cleavage.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out. Control, Evan, control. “A list of séance attendees would help a lot. I’d guess the chance of getting that from Garcia is about as likely as getting an invitation to the next séance.”

  “I think I found it.” She picked up a sheet of paper from the desk, handing it to him.

  “Nightmare Séance, September 26,” he read from the top of the page. He scanned down the list of names. “Wonder if she kept the questionnaires here?”

  “Questionnaires?”

  “Information from the participants. Most mediums use them—supposed to give them time to consult the ‘spirits’ about any particular concerns the participants have. Really lets them run some background checks for useful information on the suckers.” He sorted over the desktop, finding a neat stack of three-by-five-inch cards tucked in the corner. “Here they are.”

  She peered over his shoulder. “Anything?”

  “Harry P. Ness, Bluie Balls—oh, these guys were really cute.” He tossed the cards down on the desk, one by one.

  “Nobody took it seriously, I guess.” Rose sighed. “Too bad, it might have been helpful to hear what went on.”

  “Here’s a couple that might be legit.” Evan held up two cards. “Autumn Patrick, Marcella Draper. Same address and phone number. I’ll check them out.”

  “We’ll check them out,” she corrected, removing the cards from his fingers.

  He raised his gaze to hers. She was standing less than six inches away, which did nothing to slow his pulse rate. He smelled a faint mixture of lavender and musk. Steady, Evan.

  “Don’t you trust me to conduct an interview?”

  Her lips spread slowly in a sultry smile.

  His heart rate jumped into hyperdrive. He gritted his teeth. “Okay, we’ll do it together.”

  He did one more slow survey of Alana DuBois’s living room. On a table next to the couch, he saw a small grouping of family photos. One of them was a larger version of the woman and child DuBois had in her locket. On an impulse, he flipped it over and loosened it from the frame.

  Rose frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the name of the photographer. And the location.”

  She moved beside him peering over his shoulder. Lavender and musk again. Lord have mercy!

  The photographer’s mark was in the corner. “Peterson’s. Millersville, Ohio. Very interesting.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because that’s William Bradford’s hometown, too.”

  She stared. “So Alana DuBois, a.k.a. Sylvia Morris, wasn’t jerking you around. She really does know something about Bradford.”

  “Possibly. Of course, what she knows may well be that he was a nasty kid who pushed her down on the playground in third grade.”

  “Still.” She reached down for Helen’s chain. “All of a sudden this looks less like a wild goose chase and more like a real investigation.”

  “Maybe. When we find Alana DuBois, we can decide.” But just for a moment, Addison’s words from his dream echoed ominously in his memory: Alana DuBois is almost certainly dead. And if that was the case, had William Bradford decided to kill her?

  Chapter 10

  Helen seemed a little happier in the back of the SUV this time, or maybe she’d become resigned to her fate.

  “Could we stop for a minute at that pet store?” Rose asked. “I need to buy some dog food before Helen eats me out of house and home. Literally.”

  Evan pulled into the parking lot at the discount pet store and then stayed in the car to keep Helen company. He found the card with Autumn Patrick and Marcella Draper’s number, pulled out his cell phone and dialed. By the time Rose struggled to the car under the weight of a bag of kibble that looked bigger than she was and a collar that was more suitable for a longhorn than a dog, he was writing down directions.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked after he helped her heft the bag of kibble into the back of the SUV.

  “To visit Autumn Patrick and Marcella Draper, the two women who were at Alana DuBois’s last séance.” He climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Turns out they don’t live too far from here.”

  “And they’re willing to talk to us about Alana DuBois?”

  He shrugged. “They’re willing to talk to us. I didn’t go into a lot of detail about what we wanted to know.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Just what did you tell them, Evan?”

  “That I was a journalist investigating mediums in San Antonio, and I had some questions about the medium who conducted their séance.” He turned back to the traffic. “They were curious.”

  “So you’re an investigative reporter. I guess that’s accurate.” She leaned back in her seat, checking Helen in the rearview mirror. “Who am I supposed to be?”

  “How about my Girl Friday?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ve been watching too many Bogart movies, Evan.” She gave him another one of those slow smiles.

  He felt the heat move from his chest in a straight line down to his groin.

  ***

  Autumn Patrick and Marcella Draper turned out to be sisters, living in a ranch-style house on a suburban street lined with dying Arizona ash trees.

  Rose gave Helen a rawhide chew she’d picked up at the pet store so that she could stay in the car. Not that it would make much difference—judging by the nonreaction from the people they’d seen, Helen was still invisible to everyone except her and Evan.

  Rose didn’t even want to consider what that might mean about Evan Delwin. She didn’t have a clue anyway.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from the two séance participants—maybe a couple of elderly ladies in polyester pantsuits and SAS shoes. But in fact Autumn Patrick looked to be around forty, while Marcella Draper was maybe five or so years older. They’d both just gotten off work somewhere. Autumn had on a turquoise knit dress that reached to midcalf and left her plenty of room around the waist, while Marcella wore black Chico’s pants and a floral print top. They looked like executive assistants or office managers. But they also looked like they’d seen their share of shysters, and didn’t take much crap.

  They weren’t impressed with Evan. Or with her, as far as that went. After he introduced her as “my assistant, Ms. Ramos,” Marcella gave Rose a slightly stony look, glancing over her shorts and T-shirt as she ushered them into the living room with its flowered upholstery and slanted Venetian blinds.

  “That séance we went to?” Autumn narrowed her eyes against the late afternoon sunlight. “Why do you want to know about that?”

  “We’re interested in the medium, Alana DuBois.” Evan sounded very professional. He slid forward to avoid being engulfed by the cushiony couch. “Have you heard from her since the séance?”

  “Not before or since.” Marcella took a swallow of her iced tea. She’d offered them some, a bit grudgingly, but they’d both passed. “Why? She make some kind of complaint about us?”

  “No, ma’am.” Rose adopted the I’m-here-to-serve-you tone she’d used when she worked at the library. “Ms. DuBois is missing. We’re trying to trace her last evening.”

  Evan shot her an annoyed look—maybe she was supposed to keep quiet. Tough, Delwin.

  “Missing?” Autumn set her glass down on the coffee table, narrowly missing her coaster. “Good grief, you don’t think we had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “No, no, of course not! We wouldn’t think that.” Ros
e ignored Evan’s lengthening scowl. “But you can see why we need to find out about that last séance. In case something happened there that made Ms. DuBois take off.”

  Marcella sniffed. “Happened? Nothing happened. That was the whole problem. We thought something might happen, but nothing did. Complete waste of time. Not to mention money!”

  “Would you walk us through the séance, describe what went on there?” Evan gave Rose a narrow-eyed look that was clearly intended to shut her up.

  Autumn sighed and picked up her glass again. “Not much went on there. Marcella’s right about that, unfortunately. We got there at eight o’clock, which is when they told us to come.”

  “Who told you?” Evan suddenly had a notebook open on his knee, pen in hand.

  Autumn shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. We registered for the séance at the club, that Nightmare on Novalis thing, and then someone called us to tell us when and where it would be.”

  “So you came to the séance . . . ,” Rose began.

  “Where was it?” Evan cut in.

  Marcella frowned. “I don’t remember the address. Some storefront over near Milam Park, sort of down toward El Mercado.”

  Evan nodded, writing himself a quick note. “So you came to the séance and then . . .”

  “Well, there were some other people there, mostly young people.” Autumn’s lips thinned in distaste. “I think it was just a joke to them. They were carrying on like it was the funniest thing they ever saw.”

  “Was Ms. DuBois around when you got there?” Rose asked.

  “No. She didn’t show up for ten minutes or so. Gave those young jerks lots of time to snicker at us.”

  “There was someone from the club there to take our money,” Autumn explained. “After we’d all paid, Ms. DuBois came in.”

  “She had on this cape kind of thing. Red. Looked sort of like Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “And rings,” Autumn added. “She wore lots of rings.”

  Rose frowned. “So what did she do?”

  “Mumbo jumbo,” Marcella grumbled. “Made us sit in the dark with a couple of candles in that firetrap of a place.”

  Autumn wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I had to hold hands with one of those boys because we all had to hold hands with the people on either side of us. And his hand felt all slimy.”

  “What questions did she ask you?” Evan flipped a page in his notebook.

  “Nothing much. Just went around the circle.” Marcella’s mouth was a thin line. “Said she was listening for the spirits. Hell, the only spirits involved that night were in the booze those jerks had been drinking before they came.”

  Evan looked up. “Had Ms. DuBois been drinking?”

  Autumn shook her head. “Not that I could tell. She seemed serious about what she did.”

  “Did she help you?” The words were out of Rose’s mouth before she could stop herself. Autumn and Marcella glanced at her curiously.

  “Of course not,” Marcella snapped.

  “She was way off the mark with me, but she tried,” Autumn added.

  Evan looked up. “Do you mind telling me why you went to this séance? Did you have something particular in mind?”

  Autumn sighed again. “It was my fault. I was trying to find a baseball.”

  Evan blinked. “A baseball?”

  Autumn nodded, her face grim. “My husband—my late husband—bought a baseball autographed by Dizzy Dean. Apparently, it’s worth several thousand dollars and he had a chance to buy it for several hundred. We had a fight about it when he first said he was thinking about doing it, so he didn’t tell me he’d gone ahead and bought the thing. I found the cancelled check and a letter from the dealer after he died but not the baseball.”

  “And now you want to sell it,” Rose guessed.

  Autumn nodded again. “Somebody wants to buy it anyway, and Clint is listed as the owner with the dealer. But I can’t find the stupid thing. I thought maybe . . . ,” Autumn’s voice trailed off.

  Marcella snorted again. “She thought that phony medium could contact Clint on ‘the other side’ and find out where the fool put that ball. Only, of course, she couldn’t.”

  “Did she try?”

  Autumn shook her head. “She just asked me if I was concerned about an S. I didn’t know anybody whose name begins with S and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with Clint or the baseball.”

  “Then what happened?” Evan gave Rose another one of those quelling looks.

  “Well, she went all around the circle, but most of the young people were just silly. Making spooky noises and snickering. So after about forty-five minutes she said that was it for the evening. Maybe she just got tired of them. Lord knows I did.”

  “And then you went home?”

  Marcella nodded. “The damn fog was so thick downtown it took us a half hour longer than usual.”

  “Did Ms. DuBois say anything else before you left?”

  Autumn pursed her lips, thinking. “Not really. She seemed to be in a hurry to get out. She got all tangled up in her cape when she put it on.”

  Marcella sniffed. “She was too short for it. Should have worn a shawl or something sensible.”

  “I don’t think she was a very sensible person.” Autumn shrugged. “Harmless, though.”

  “If you call charging fifty dollars for nothing harmless, I guess she was.” Marcella gave Evan a sour look. “You need anything else?”

  Evan closed his notebook. “Not right now. Thanks, ladies, you’ve been a big help.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Autumn smiled a little timidly. “I just wish I could tell you more.”

  Rose stood and followed Evan to the door. He tucked his notebook into his pocket, looking back at Autumn. “Are you still looking for that ball?”

  Autumn’s smile faded. “Oh, yes. But I’m not optimistic anymore. I think Clint must have rented a safe deposit box or something, and now I can’t find the key.”

  Evan nodded gravely. “You might consider a company called Locators, Ltd. They specialize in finding stuff like that. They’re on the Web.”

  Rose knew Evan was watching her—she concentrated on keeping her expression as empty as possible. Years of listening to outraged library patrons stood her in good stead, but her heart hammered mercilessly. Simultaneously, her brain seemed to have turned to sawdust just when she needed it most.

  He’d found out. He knew. About the business. About her. About Skag.

  She took a deep breath. Calm down. There was no way—absolutely no way—he could know about Skag.

  “Really?” Autumn sounded skeptical. “Are they private investigators, too?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t know how they do it, but they claim to have a money-back guarantee on results.”

  He was still watching her, one eyebrow slightly raised. Rose felt like kicking him, but she knew that wouldn’t help. She worked on keeping her expression blank.

  “Well, maybe I’ll look them up. Lord knows, I’ve tried everything else.” Autumn’s brow was still furrowed as she closed the door behind them.

  ***

  Evan tried not to watch Rose as they climbed into the SUV. He hoped she might say something, but she turned away from him, staring out the window. Helen still sat in back, chewing on the remnants of the rawhide chew toy.

  As he put his key in the ignition, she turned back, her face still expressionless. Clearly, she wasn’t going to start this conversation.

  “I’m hungry,” he said briskly. “Want to join me for dinner?”

  She bit her lip, and he felt one of those electric jolts to his pulse rate. Somehow he had to get over that. Getting turned on by Rose Ramos was a very bad idea.

  She looked at him, eyes huge beneath a frill of dark lashes. “What about Helen?”

  His temperature spiked a cou
ple of degrees. Evan told his unruly body to knock it off. “We’ll go someplace with outside tables. Maybe they won’t mind.” Even if they did, he had a feeling nobody was going to mess with Helen.

  Rose drew a deep breath. “Okay. I guess we need to talk.”

  He guessed so, too. He headed for a restaurant near the Blue Star Art Complex that was only a few blocks from her house. At least if she got pissed and walked out, she wouldn’t have far to go.

  The hostess didn’t seem to even notice Helen, oddly enough. But she seated them on the outside patio when Evan asked her to. Only a couple of the tables were occupied, and none of the other customers glanced their way. Maybe Helen was less distinctive than he’d thought.

  The dog flopped down at Rose’s feet, contemplating the river that flowed behind their table.

  Evan watched an egret take off from the opposite shore, curving its graceful neck as it spread its wide white wings in flight. Okay, time to get the subject out in the open. “You’re Locators, Ltd., right?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Your Web site. It has the same phone number as the one you gave me.” He turned back to look at her.

  Her jaw tightened. “Very clever, Evan. But then, you’re an investigative reporter, aren’t you?”

  The waiter chose that moment to arrive. Evan discovered he wasn’t really hungry, but he ordered anyway. He figured Helen could finish it. Like the hostess, the waiter didn’t even glance in the dog’s direction.

  They sat in silence over his bottle of Lone Star and her glass of sauvignon blanc.

  “Why keep it a secret?” he asked finally.

  “Security. I don’t want people contacting me directly—I work strictly through the company.”

  That sounded perfectly reasonable, but for some reason he didn’t think it was the whole truth. “Could you find Autumn’s baseball if she asked you to?”

  Rose shrugged. “I could try. If she hires me. If I can’t find it, she doesn’t have to pay.”

  “So how do you go about it?” He tipped back his beer for another sip.