How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  “Uh . . . you’ve got a roommate this time. Delicia.”

  He fled with his box before I could get a good grip on the candlestick. Don’t get me wrong. I love Delicia and consider her my best friend, next to my mother. But that girl never shuts up. Without a wall between us, I wasn’t going to get a thing done.

  The Art Deco Administration Building, aka Building One, is the first of only a few structures remaining from the World’s Fair that tourists see when they enter Treasure Island. In fact, they can’t miss it. The concave half-circle design not only lures visitors to stop by, but it’s probably the safest building on the island in the event of an earthquake. Tourists love to take pictures standing next to the large nude statues that flank the entrance and peek inside the heavy glass and brass doors at the huge dome inside. According to one of the many Treasure Island Web sites, “a security desk commands attention in the middle of the sweeping hallway and serves mostly as a courtesy to tourists who want to know more about this intriguing, anachronistic structure.”

  Currently, Raj Reddy, my favorite security guard on the island, manned the desk. Behind him, covering more than a dozen large wall panels, was a colorful mural illustrating the history of TI from its creation to the present.

  Underneath the panels were doors to small offices, including one for the historical society museum. I wondered which of the remaining offices was my new party headquarters.

  “Hey, Raj,” I said, wheeling a cart towered with several boxes into the expansive hall. “I guess we’re still going to be office neighbors.”

  Raj bobbled his head and gave a grin that revealed a small gap between his two front teeth. “Yes, Ms. Presley. Welcome to our new building. This is so much nicer than those old barracks. I’m so glad Mr. Brad got us a good deal.”

  I turned and eyed Brad who had followed me over, wheeling his own stack of boxes.

  “So, which one is mine?” I asked him.

  I needn’t have bothered to ask. My former office neighbor, Delicia Jackson, popped her head out of a door on the right marked “104” and waved.

  “Presley! Don’t you love it? It’s divine! And we’re roomies! Come see!”

  Delicia was a mostly out-of-work actress who spoke in exclamation marks punctuated by dramatic inflection. When she wasn’t auditioning for commercials or small theater productions, she helped me out with my party business, doing everything from making decorations to appearing as a Disney princess. Petite, with latte-colored skin and long dark hair, she caught the eye of most men in her path, and had broken many a heart in her search for her Prince Charming.

  I waved back and wheeled my cart toward her.

  She pushed the door wide-open and ushered me in with a sweep of her hand. Most of the space in the tiny office was taken up by two face-to-face desks, one metal and covered with theater bills, ragged scripts, and head shots of Dee. The other, wood, stood pristine, waiting for me. The two walls behind the desks were lined with shelves, empty for the most part. It wouldn’t take me long to fill them with everything from paper party hats to murder mystery weapons.

  Brad unloaded the boxes while I began filling up the shelves. Dee kept busy hanging posters from Wicked, Rent, Hairspray, and Beach Blanket Babylon. When she finished, she helped me organize my party paraphernalia, albeit with nonstop narration. By working through the noon hour we were more or less settled in and ready for business by midafternoon.

  “Looking good,” Brad said, appearing suddenly like a ghost. He glanced around, nodding. “How do you like it?”

  I had to admit, it was a lot nicer than the decaying barracks. And sharing space with Dee would probably save money. I just hoped she wouldn’t be too distracting. With ADHD, I didn’t need any more distractions.

  “It’s really great. Thanks for arranging this. Where’s your office?”

  “Next door. Just rap on the wall if you need me. Better than an intercom.”

  I’d miss being able to spy on him through the office windows in the barracks, but it was nice to know he was so close.

  “Shall we grab an early dinner?” he asked. “I missed lunch.”

  My cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen. No name, just a number. Not familiar.

  “Killer Parties,” I said, holding up a finger to Brad in response to his question.

  “Presley?” said the male voice on the other end.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “This is Jonathan.”

  I tried to conjure up all the Jonathans I knew.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Jonathan Ellington. I met you this morning at the diner?”

  “Oh yes.” I shot a guilty glance at Brad but he was busy swiveling in Dee’s empty chair. “Hi. How’s your father?”

  “Holding his own. Thanks,” Jonathan said. “At least, as well as can be expected. He’s completely paralyzed on his left side. After the first stroke he had some movement there, but this one was a lot worse. Luckily he can still talk, but his words are slurred, and he’s repeating himself a lot. Still, the doctor is hopeful.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. Is there anything I can do?”

  Brad shot me a look when I mentioned Jonathan’s name.

  “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  I paused for a moment, surprised at his response. I couldn’t imagine there was anything I could do to help him or his father, with such a serious medical condition.

  “Really? Uh, what?”

  “Can you meet me?”

  “Where? At the hospital?”

  “No. At the Winchester Mystery House. I want this party more than anything. For my father’s sake.”

  Stunned, I stammered, “Are—are you sure?”

  “Yes. While I was at the hospital, he kept repeating ‘séance’ and ‘Winchester’ over and over. Obviously he really wants me to do this.”

  “Uh, all right . . . umm. When would you like to meet? Next week sometime?”

  “Tonight. Can you be there, say, seven?”

  “Oh, I don’t think . . . I have a lot of work left to do. How about tomorrow?”

  “I’d really like to get going on this—for my father’s sake. And I’d like you to see the place at night, when it’s dark. That’s when we’ll be hosting the party.”

  I checked my watch, then said, “Uh . . . I suppose I could make it.”

  “How about dinner first?” he added.

  I glanced at Brad. “Oh, I’m sorry. I already have plans.”

  “Then seven it is. I look forward to it.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you there,” I said, and hung up.

  I tucked the phone into my purse. Something was bothering me about his request. Was he really doing this for his father—or did he have another motive? My mother would have called me a pessimist, always looking for the dark side, but I’d learned to trust my gut. And my gut was sending out an alarm. Especially in light of George Wells’s death. Still, with my mother, Jonathan, and his father all pressing me to host this event, there was no way I was getting out of it. I would just have to stay on my toes. And perhaps I could gain some insight into why George committed suicide.

  “Who was that?” Brad asked after I hung up.

  I shook my long bangs out of my eyes. “Uh, Jonathan Ellington. He wants to go ahead with the party. A séance at the Winchester Mystery House to showcase his new computer product for investors. Something called 4-D Projection.”

  “How cool!” Dee squealed as she entered the room. “Can I play the medium? I go to psychics in the city all the time!”

  Before I could answer, I caught Brad shaking his head.

  “I know. It seems odd, what with his father in the hospital with a stroke. He says he’s doing it for his dad. Did you meet Jonathan while you were there . . . cleaning up?”

  “Yeah. He showed up. He told me to keep my mouth shut, like I was one of his employees or something. It’s like a cult over there—his employees are fiercely loyal. No wonder, with all the perks they get working there.
”

  “Really? Like what?” I asked.

  “You name it,” Brad said. “And everything’s state of the art. He’s got people working such long hours, they don’t get much time outside of the office. So to keep them there—and keep them happy—he’s installed a gym, a spa, a screening room, a video game room, a cafeteria . . . He’s even hired personal trainers, a gourmet chef, and a masseuse for his drones.”

  I heard the disgust in Brad’s voice. Or was it jealousy?

  “Why don’t you like him? Sounds like he’s awfully good to his employees.” Except George?

  Brad gave a hollow laugh. “Employees? More like slaves. They have no life, other than working there.”

  I couldn’t tell if Brad had a legitimate grudge against him—or if it was something else.

  “Well, I’m only doing an event for him, at the request of his father. And for my mother.”

  “Your mom?” Brad looked surprised.

  “Apparently she met Jonathan’s dad, Stephen Ellington, at the care center and has a thing for him. She practically begged me to take the job.”

  “You’re a sucker for your mom, you know?”

  “Can’t help it. Besides, if Jonathan is really that loaded, my fee should pay the rent here for a few months. And I’m going to need it,” I added, glancing around the new office.

  I picked up my purse and backpack that contained my notebook and party planning sheets. “I’ve got to run,” I said to Dee. I wasn’t sure she heard me; she was busy trying on a blond wig I’d recently used at a Cheerleaders and Jocks party.

  “Want company?” Brad asked.

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not? We could grab dinner along the way.”

  “Don’t you have any blood to clean up or maggots to . . . to . . .” I didn’t have an ending.

  “Nope. Maybe I could help you with the party.”

  What was he up to? “Brad, I realize you have a lot of hidden talents and secret knowledge, like how to break into locked rooms and send untraceable e-mails, but don’t tell me you know how to conduct a séance or conjure up a three-dimensional spirit.”

  “Maybe,” he said mysteriously, crossing his muscular arms like a freed genie.

  I silently pondered his offer. I could always use help. And there was something about Jonathan Ellington that bothered me. If he was a slave driver, taking advantage of his employees, making them work long hours at low wages, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved in his plans. And I didn’t relish the thought of fighting off his advances either.

  “All right, but—”

  My cell phone rang again. I checked the caller ID, then answered.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Presley! I just heard the news.”

  “What news?” Had Jonathan’s father taken a turn for the worse?

  “And I want to come along.”

  “Where? What are you talking about?”

  “The Winchester Mystery House. I hear you’re meeting Jonathan there tonight. It’ll help take my mind off Stephen.”

  Great. Now I had an entourage, made up of my mother and a crime scene cleaner.

  What more could a party planner want?

  Chapter 4

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #4

  To give your Séance Party a feeling of authenticity, choose your spiritualist carefully. Attend one of her séances to see how realistic her psychic abilities appear to be, or at least how dramatically she plays the part.

  My MINI Cooper is just right for me, but when you add a well-muscled guy over six feet tall and a mother who’s two inches shorter than my five ten and who once rode in limos to society events, things get crowded fast. If I continued to have chaperones, I was going to have to get a bigger boat, er, car.

  Or get rid of the extra baggage.

  “This is going to be so much fun!” my mother said from the tiny backseat. I was sure she wasn’t referring to the ride over to the Winchester Mystery House, located about forty to sixty minutes away—depending on traffic—in the nearby city of San Jose. But there was no way Brad could fit in the backseat, so my mother, being the good sport she is, climbed into the rear and curled up. She sat on the right side behind Brad, with her long legs extended into the area behind my seat. Her authentic designer bag filled the rest of the space, leaving barely enough room in the car for our three to-go coffees (mine a latte, Brad’s an espresso, and Mom’s a nonfat, decaf cap, extra dry, with whip).

  As was her habit when we visited a place together, Mother lectured about the history of the site, filling in with exaggeration and rumor when the facts grew scarce. Although I’d been to the foreboding Winchester mansion when I was a Girl Scout, Brad had never toured the place and ate up the tidbits of information that Mother fed us on the ride over. For me, the details reminded me of how much the place still haunted me since that initial visit.

  “You know, Bradley,” my mother said, tapping Brad on the shoulder to make sure he was listening, “the Winchester House is supposed to be haunted.”

  “Oh yeah?” Brad said, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Do you believe in ghosts, Ms. Parker?” Although my mother has been married a number of times, she’s kept the last name of her first husband.

  “Me? No. Not really. Well, sort of. You never know.”

  Brad glanced at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Don’t look at me. No way am I superstitious,” I told him. I hoped I was convincing . . .

  “Anyway,” Mother continued, “Sarah Winchester, the owner of the house, was told by a medium that she had to keep building the place to appease the spirits of Native Americans that had been killed by her husband’s rifles. So she did, for thirty-eight years.” If Brad had heard the stories, he didn’t let on, seemingly absorbed in my mother’s narration. “That must have cost a bundle,” he said.

  “Back then, about five and a half million,” Mother stated. “Today it would be more like seventy million.”

  Brad whistled.

  “She did most of the architecture planning herself, using the backs of napkins and scratch paper. The house is Victorian in style, but she added a lot of things that make no sense, plus a lot of psychic symbols everywhere. Can you imagine?”

  I marveled at my mother’s ability to recall so many specific details, when she had trouble remembering what she’d done the previous day or where she’d last put her purse. The more I learned about Alzheimer’s, the more puzzling it became.

  Brad grinned. “Like what?”

  “The number thirteen,” Mother said. “It was thought to ward off haunted souls.”

  “A lot of people are superstitious about the number thirteen. But it sounds like she was more than a little ‘off,’ ” Brad said.

  I saw Mother shake her head in the rearview mirror. “I think she was just overwhelmed by the deaths of her young daughter and then her husband. She went to the medium hoping to contact them, but the medium told her she was cursed, and that the spirits wanted vengeance—and a place to live. Sarah was told that if she kept building her house, she’d live forever.”

  And keep the medium in plenty of money, I thought. “Apparently that wasn’t true,” I added, “since she eventually died.”

  Ignoring me, my mother continued. “After all that construction, the house became a maze, with twists and turns, dead ends, and doors that lead nowhere. She figured the spirits would get lost in the house and never find her.”

  I was stunned at the lengths Sarah Winchester went to, all based on something her so-called “medium” told her. I doubted if anyone would believe such nonsense today—although we had plenty of psychic hotlines and palm readers on every corner of the city. But back in her day, psychic readings, mediums, and séances were all the rage, and common parlor entertainment.

  We arrived at our destination in time to have a quick bite of dinner at Santana Row, one of those live-where-you-work-and-shop neighborhoods kitty-corner to the mansion. Passing up high-end shops like Gucci, Salvatore Ferragamo, Anth
ropologie, and Tommy Bahama, we stopped in at Maggiano’s Little Italy and had pasta with a nice Chianti. As we headed to the Winchester Mystery House, I couldn’t help but notice the unlikely juxtaposition of a rambling old Victorian set in the midst of high-tech Silicon Valley. A sign claimed the house was OPEN EVERY DAY EXCEPT CHRISTMAS. Judging by the cars still in the parking lot, the place attracted large numbers of curious tourists from all over the world.

  Brad and I got out of the MINI, and he popped the seat handle to free my mother from her tiny prison. She managed to step out gracefully. We all gazed up at the turreted Victorian house, lit up by old-fashioned gas-type lanterns and moonlight.

  “There used to be seven stories,” Mother said, “but the 1906 earthquake knocked down three. Now there are only four.”

  I searched for evidence of the lost floors of the Queen Anne Victorian, but even at four stories, the house was imposing because of its utter vastness, odd angles, and bizarre history. The turrets, towers, cupolas, cornices, and spires all added to the castlelike appearance.

  “There are one hundred and sixty rooms, forty bedrooms, thirteen bathrooms,” Mother said. “Plus there are six kitchens, forty-seven fireplaces, seventeen chimneys, forty staircases, two ballrooms, and one séance room.”

  Brad blinked at the numbers Mother had thrown at him. How did she retain all that minutiae with her disease?

  I did remember that Sarah Winchester, for all her eccentricities, kept abreast of the “new technology” of the times. She had been one of the first to install a hydraulic elevator in her home, use steam and forced-air heating, and indoor plumbing, all rare at the time. She’d been ahead of her time in terms of science and industry, yet hampered by superstition.

  I checked my watch and glanced around for Jonathan Ellington. I caught a glimpse of him striding over from his late-model Mercedes. He’d parked in a red zone near the front, apparently unconcerned about breaking the law or getting a ticket. For all I knew, he could be rich enough to buy the old mystery house and discard the ticket.

  “Hi, Presley,” Jonathan said. “Ms. Parker, what a nice surprise!” He reached out to shake our hands. Brad had wandered off a few steps, but returned when he noticed Jonathan had joined us.