by Meg Benjamin
She was survived by her daughter, Caroline. Apparently, Caroline’s daughter, Ray’s mom, hadn’t been born yet. But this time Caroline was referred to as Mrs. Brian Byrne rather than Caroline Riordan, so she had been married, and presumably her daughter was the product of that marriage. Which didn’t exactly explain why Ray’s mom had still been known as a Riordan rather than a Byrne before she’d become a Ramos. Maybe Ray would know.
The other details of the obituary were somewhat murky. Siobhan was described as a “businesswoman” and a “consultant to several prominent families.” What that business was—and what she consulted on—was unclear. Deliberately so, it seemed to Emma.
Surely it couldn’t have been anything criminal. She lived in the King William District. That pretty much left out owning a bawdy house or running an opium den, unless she did it very discreetly indeed. Whatever Siobhan’s profession, it had to be something fairly lucrative to maintain her King William home, while at the same time it was apparently something that was kept quiet. At the moment, Emma couldn’t think of any job that might qualify.
She glanced at her list of entries from the database concerning Siobhan, frowning slightly. One entry was for a book, Shadows of San Antonio, by someone named Ignacio Burnside.
Has to be a pseudonym. She headed up the stairs to the closed-off third floor again. Ray was right. Jeans would definitely have been an advantage over her silk blouse and rayon skirt when it came to heat and dust.
Shadows of San Antonio was more like a pamphlet than a book. From the look of it, Emma guessed it was self-published. The pages weren’t tightly bound in their cover. She glanced at the table of contents. Apparently, Burnside was the early twentieth-century equivalent of a gossip columnist. All the chapters seemed to concern notorious people among San Antonio’s elite.
“No wonder it’s self-published,” she muttered. “Lawsuit city.”
She wondered briefly if the Grunewald family showed up in any of the chapters, but she didn’t see anything in the table of contents that seemed to refer to them. For that matter, she didn’t find any chapter title that seemed to refer to Siobhan Riordan either.
She started leafing through the pages, trying to find Siobhan in the opening paragraphs of the chapters, but she almost missed the reference anyway. When her eyes finally focused on Siobhan’s name, she found herself wondering if there could be two Siobhan Riordans:
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. Siobhan’s own mother and grandmother were notable psychics on the Ould Sod. 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 read the paragraph over twice, trying to make sure she was seeing what she most assuredly was seeing. Séance. Medium trade. Siobhan Riordan was in the same profession as Gabrielle DeVere, a medium who ran séances. And like Gabrielle, she was apparently very successful at what she did. Successful enough to own a very fancy house in a very fancy neighborhood. And to pass the business on to her daughter when she died.
Emma wondered if that was why Ray’s mom had left home—maybe she couldn’t stomach the whole medium/séance bit. It was enough to make Emma herself want to leave Houston sometimes, and she wasn’t even related to Gabrielle.
Thank God.
Clearly, though, Ray didn’t know about what his great-grandmother did for a living—and maybe his grandmother too, for that matter. If he had, he wouldn’t have asked Emma to research her. She blew out a breath. That meant she’d be the first one to tell him that Great-grandma was a con artist. Groovy. She turned the page, looking for more information on Siobhan, and found a picture.
Her stomach did a quick flip.
The woman in the picture wore a black dress with slightly ballooning sleeves and a high, lace-trimmed collar. She held a black cane in front of her, more for style than necessity as far as Emma could tell.
She wiped her suddenly damp palms on her thighs, dropping her gaze to the picture’s caption. Siobhan Riordan, 1913. San Antonio.
Her brain seemed to stutter. I must have seen this before somewhere. Maybe it’s on the wall at Rosie’s house. That would certainly be a comforting explanation.
Unfortunately, Emma was pretty certain it wasn’t true.
She’d never seen Siobhan Riordan, either at Rosie’s house or anywhere else, before she’d appeared in the white room in her dream last night, telling her to look for “the keepsake.” Which meant Emma was maybe going crazy. Or that something really, really weird was going on.
Correction. That something else really, really weird was going on.
She started down at the picture again. The page wasn’t an illusion—the book existed, the picture was there. And she’d never seen the book before today. She wasn’t crazy, although she was definitely freaked out at the moment.
Which meant?
She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that threatened. None of this made any sense. She deliberately hadn’t talked to Ray about her dream that morning because she didn’t know what to say about it. After all, it was just a dream.
A dream that turned out to star his great-grandmother, who had been dead for more than fifty years and still willing to share a few hints about their current situation. His great-grandmother, who’d been a medium like Gabrielle. Emma closed her eyes for a moment, taking a few more very deep breaths.
Not like Gabrielle. She blew out a breath. Gabrielle really was a con artist. She didn’t talk to ghosts. She barely talked to her staff. The idea of Gabrielle appearing in anyone’s dreams to provide help was enough to make Emma snicker.
Siobhan Riordan seemed more likely to be the real thing. If nothing else, she was a lot more powerful than Gabrielle was or ever could be. She’d died more than a half century ago, but she was still around, and still talking to the people who lived in her house.
And now Emma got to tell Ray all of this. Your great-grandmother was a very successful medium. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, her ghost appeared to me in a dream and she passed on some information that might have something to do with your haunted house.
Emma rubbed her temples again, then she glanced at her watch. A quarter to twelve. Just enough time for her to make a quick copy of the picture of Siobhan before she put Shadows of San Antonio back in its place on the shelves.
And then, by God, she was going to find a Target or a Kohl’s or a Macy’s and buy herself a new casual wardrobe. If ever a day required retail therapy, this was definitely it.
***
Ray wasn’t sure what he’d find at the Hampton house when he got back there. Worst case scenario would be that the ghost had trashed the place. Best case scenario? He wasn’t sure there was a best case scenario. The only one he could think of involved the ghost deciding that she didn’t like the Hampton house that much after all and heading over to the next-door neighbor’s.
Yeah, that’s really gonna happen.
He checked the upstairs first and found the same scattering of objects that had been there when he’d left with Emma. His measuring tape was on the floor of the landing where he’d left it after the ghost threw it. But nothing else seemed out of place. Apparently, once he’d gone, she’d lost interest in mayhem.
He stood in the middle of the hall, waiting for doors to slam, but nothing happened. Whatever was pissing her off—the wards or his presence—didn’t seem to be having the same effect today.
He went back to prying off wallboard, playing his iPod at top volume. If the ghost didn’t like his taste in music, she could always head off to more silent houses.
She. H
e paused for a moment, remembering Emma’s story about the suicide. What was the name? Amina. Maybe the next time the ghost decided to make trouble, he’d try using it. Hell, all she could do would be throw more stuff, assuming he was there during the daytime. At night, all bets were off.
By noon, he was tired and dusty. He went downstairs to the kitchen, where he’d left the sandwich and beer he’d brought with him. Lunch with Emma would be nice. Also distracting. He needed to keep working if he wanted to finish this place on anything resembling his original schedule.
When he was halfway through his sandwich he felt a throbbing on his thigh that made him jump until he remembered he’d set his cell phone to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the number. Rosie.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
“How are things?” Rosie’s voice sounded staticky, like she was calling from Orion or something.
“Great. How’s Evan?”
“Great.” There was a pause, which experience told him meant Rosie was trying to figure out how to tell him something. His shoulders tensed. Please don’t be coming back early.
“How would you feel about taking care of things for a little longer?”
He blinked. Nice reversal, fate. “Okay, I guess. Are you staying in Chicago?”
“I’d like to go with Evan to the next two stops on his tour. Have a little Upper Midwestern vacation.”
“Oh. Sure, sis, go for it. How long?”
“Probably until the end of next week. You can still reach me by phone. I’ll have my cell with me.”
Right. He really doubted he’d be calling Rosie for anything short of an earthquake. “Have a good time.”
“I intend to.” Her voice sounded faintly smug, but she quickly damped it down. “Is anything happening with the house?”
“Yes and no. I did the warding. It wasn’t popular.” He glanced around the kitchen, checking to see if there was anything the ghost could throw at him, but nothing happened.
“Okay. So we’re on the right track. I’ve got Evan working on it too.”
“Evan?” Ray frowned. Rosie’s boyfriend was an investigative reporter who wrote about psychic frauds. That didn’t seem exactly relevant in this case.
“Yes, Evan. Trust me, he’ll help.”
“Okay. Emma’s found some stuff at this end.”
“Really? I’m not surprised.” The smug was back. “What’s was it?”
He leaned back in his chair. “There was a suicide in the house back in the twenties. A guy’s mistress.”
Something upstairs crashed to the floor. He managed not to drop the phone. Score one for Emma—it looked like she was on the right track, too. Unless the ghost had just decided to knock something over for the hell of it.
“A mistress?” Apparently Rosie hadn’t heard the crash. “That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“It sort of works with a theory I have.”
He gritted his teeth. “And that theory would be . . .”
“I’ll tell you later. I need to think about it a little more. But we’re onto something Ray. And I think we’re getting closer to a solution.”
“Good.” Something else bumped upstairs and he flexed his suddenly tight shoulders. “So you’ll keep in touch?”
“Absolutely. You too.”
“Right.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Have fun, sis.”
“Back atcha,” she murmured as he disconnected.
Chapter 13
Emma glanced down at her jeans, wiping her suddenly damp palms on her thighs. She hadn’t worn anything like this for several years, certainly not since she’d gone to work for Gabrielle. She’d found a small western wear store a couple of blocks from her motel, full of brand names she didn’t recognize. Her credit card wasn’t exactly smoking, but her wardrobe now included a lot more casual wear than it ever had before.
Her jeans were almost as low-slung as Ray’s were. Her turquoise T-shirt had a design that incorporated crossed pistols and twining roses. She wasn’t sure what they were supposed to represent, but they looked really . . . cool. She’d managed not to buy a pair of cowboy boots, although she was really tempted. The flip-flops with rhinestones on the straps would have to be enough.
She hadn’t forgotten about Siobhan Riordan and all the things she had to tell Ray, but she hoped she could get him into a more relaxed mood if she looked a little like the Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Maybe they could spend the evening talking about western accessories rather than mysterious ancestors.
She pulled into the driveway at the Riordan house, then paused to look up as she stepped out of her car. Siobhan Riordan had built it. She’d conducted séances in it. And apparently, she was still in residence. Emma fought back the quick shiver that worked its way across her shoulders. At least Siobhan Riordan seemed benign, unlike the spirit in residence at the Hampton house.
She wasn’t sure Ray was around yet because his truck wasn’t in front of the house. The ping of the doorbell echoed deep inside, sounding remarkably empty. But a few moments later, the door opened wide to reveal Ray, holding back Rosie’s huge dog. The animal made a bound, breaking Ray’s hold before Emma was ready, resting its massive paws on her shoulders and running its enormous tongue across her face.
“Helen, get down. Come on.” Ray wrapped his arms around the dog’s body and pulled it back.
Emma stood in place, trying not to shudder over the amount of dog slobber she felt on her cheeks, to say nothing of the animal’s breath, which was unspeakable.
“Here.” Ray passed her his handkerchief, which she used to mop her face.
Helen was still bouncing in the background, more than ready to give Emma another kiss. Emma stepped to Ray’s side to put herself a little more out of range. “I didn’t realize Helen was here. I thought you said she was being boarded.”
Ray glanced back into the living room, where the dog was now turning around three times in front of the fireplace before dropping into a gigantic heap. “She’s staying with friends. Sort of. She comes and goes.”
“Your sister lets her run free?”
“Pretty much.”
Emma started to say something critical and then thought better of it. Maybe Rosie had tolerant neighbors. It would take a squad of dogcatchers equipped with nets and tranquilizer guns to bring Helen down anyway.
She started to walk into the living room, but Ray caught her hand, pulling her back so that he could look at her. He twirled her around and whistled. “Hang on there—let me get a good look. Nice outfit. Really nice.”
Her cheeks flushed. Sometimes she wished she didn’t have a pale complexion to contend with. “Thanks. I decided you were right. I needed something more casual for digging around the archives.”
“Looks good.” His ran his gaze over her body from toes on up, his smile widening as he did. “Very, very good.”
Emma felt her cheeks heat to flaming, then slipped by him, practicing her deep breathing. Somehow he always managed to get her pulse rate running on adrenaline.
He stepped after her. “Did you bring your overnight stuff with you?”
She nodded a little shakily. “I’ve got it here.” She patted the tote that had the printouts about Siobhan. Printouts she’d have to show him fairly soon. And won’t that be a great way to ruin an evening?
“Good. Rosie called me this afternoon. She’s going to travel with Evan for a few days. So we’ll have the place to ourselves for a little longer.”
He grinned at her again, re-starting that whole pounding pulse thing. Having the place to themselves sounded like a great way to spend the rest of the week. Assuming neither of them needed to get anything else done. “Okay,” she murmured. “That’s good.”
“I ordered pizza for dinner. Hope you don’t mind. I was hungry.”
“Pizza? Oh. What kind?” Plai
n cheese had the fewest calories. But asking for low-calorie pizza was sort of like asking for non-alcoholic whiskey.
“Pepperoni. I figured everybody likes pepperoni, right? That’s why I’m sort of hanging around the living room. It should be here in the next ten minutes or so.”
“Oh,” she repeated as she sank onto the couch. Pepperoni pizza was absolutely not on her diet. Gabrielle and Calorie Counters would both be upset with her.
She took another deep breath. Gabrielle and Calorie Counters can both take a flying leap.
Helen ambled up to the couch, looking hopeful. “I’ve got no food, dog, sorry.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to figure out what to do with her when the pizza guy shows up.” He dropped down beside Emma on the other end of the couch. Helen placed her front paws next to her, leaning up with a doggy grin.
Emma managed to scoot a little to the right to avoid Helen’s demonstrations of affection. She preferred Ray’s. “So how was your day. Any other problems?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. But when I told Rosie about the whole Grunewald thing, some stuff fell on the floor upstairs.”
“You think it was the ghost throwing things around?”
He nodded. “Seems like a good bet. Which might mean the Grunewald thing is a bulls-eye. What’s new with you?”
Perfect opening. She licked her lips but couldn’t for the life of her think of a way to open the conversation. “I . . . well . . . I found some stuff about your great-grandmother—the one who built the house. Like you asked me to do,” she added hurriedly.
“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow. “So what was it?”
“She lived here in this house for a long time,” Emma explained carefully. “Came over from Ireland around the beginning of the twentieth century, died in 1950. I figure she was around eighty-five.”
“Okay. That’s more than I knew before. Is that it?”
She took another deep breath. “No. But I think I need a glass of wine before I tell you the rest of it. Or maybe you do.”