How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  “Well, I’ve seen enough,” I said. “What do you think, Jonathan?”

  Jonathan looked lost in thought. “What happened to her fortune after she died?”

  It figured. He was all about the money.

  “Sarah had spent a good deal of it by then, with the continuous construction. There were rumors that she’d hidden a fortune in a secret vault, but when it was opened, all they found were mementos from her life, including a lock of her baby’s hair.”

  “How sad,” Mother said, still focused on the death of the baby. We followed Mia out of the Daisy Room and down the stairs.

  “But the property? Surely that must have been worth a fortune,” Jonathan said.

  “Most everything was sold off—furniture, personal belongings, even materials from the house itself. Then some investors bought it and turned it into one of the most popular tourist attractions in the state. It’s been declared a California Historical Landmark and it’s registered with the National Park Service.”

  “Boy, they must really rake it in,” Jonathan said. I could practically see his eyes rolling dollar signs like Scrooge McDuck.

  We found ourselves back in the gift shop at the end of Mia’s tour. While Mother shopped for souvenirs and Brad snooped around, Jonathan and I chatted with Mia.

  “So,” Jonathan said, straightening his tie, “what’s it going to cost me to put on a séance here? Name your price, Ms. Thiele.”

  She did.

  I tried not to gasp.

  Jonathan barely blinked. “Great! I’ll write up a contract and have it sent here tomorrow.” He turned to me. “One for you too, Presley. I’d like to set the date. How about four weeks from Saturday. Are you in?”

  Sweat broke out on my forehead. How could I possibly host a Séance Party—something I’d never done before—in that tiny room, for a bunch of bigwigs—in just a month?

  “I’ll need to check my calendar—I have some other events coming up—if the date is clear, I suppose that would work.” Then I named my ludicrous price, with the stipulation that an additional ten percent be donated to a worthy cause. Raising money to support research and cure diseases was the main reason I’d gotten into this business.

  “Do you mind if I choose where the donation goes?”

  I didn’t have anything currently in mind. I’d already raised money for the Alzheimer’s Association and for Autism. “I suppose . . .”

  “How about the American Stroke Association?” Jonathan suggested. “In honor of my father.”

  “Of course,” I agreed instantly.

  Jonathan reached out to shake my hand.

  I took his hand, wondering if this whole thing would come back to haunt me, and we sealed the deal.

  He held on to my hand and looked intently into my eyes.

  “ ’S’up?” Brad said, startling me from behind.

  I jerked my hand from Jonathan’s and felt my face grow hot.

  “Nothing! I . . . uh, just agreed to do the séance event for Jonathan. He’s going to pay my price and donate a percentage to the Stroke Association.” I wiped my palm off on my jeans. Why was I suddenly feeling so flustered?

  And guilty?

  Jonathan frowned at Brad. “You know, you really look familiar . . . What’s your name again?”

  “Brad Matthews,” he said, meeting Jonathan’s gaze.

  “And you work for Presley?” Jonathan asked.

  Brad shrugged. “I help her out sometimes.”

  “I—We’d better get going,” I stammered, looking at Brad for backup.

  The two men continued staring at each other. Neither one said anything in the growing silence.

  “Okay, so, I’ll start planning the details and—”

  Jonathan cut me off and waved a finger at Brad. “Wait a minute!”

  I frowned at him, irritated at his rudeness in interrupting me.

  “I know who you are.”

  Suddenly the color drained from Jonathan’s face as he said, “You’re that janitor. The one I caught snooping around my employee’s office.”

  Chapter 6

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #6

  When hosting your Séance Party, create a “spirit circle” by gathering twelve people. Then be sure to leave a single chair for the visiting spirit—also known as the Thirteenth Guest. Or Ghost.

  “I wasn’t snooping in his damn office,” Brad snapped. “And I’m not a janitor. I’m a crime scene cleaner.”

  “Then what were you doing going through his stuff?”

  “I wasn’t going through his stuff. I was cleaning up after your ex-employee who supposedly committed suicide in his office.”

  “Supposedly?” Jonathan said, his hands balling into fists.

  Before the two puffed-up roosters’ feathers went flying, I moved between them. I felt the heat coming from both their bodies.

  “Brad!”

  “What? He started it . . . ” he began, then no doubt heard how silly he sounded and stopped.

  I turned to Jonathan. “I’m sorry about this. Why don’t we talk about the details tomorrow?” To Brad I said firmly, “Would you please escort my mother to the car? I want to ask Mia one last question.” He frowned, still staring at Jonathan. “Please?” I added, softly.

  He tore his gaze away and met my eyes, his face visibly softened. “Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you there.” Shooting a last look at Jonathan, he strode off to collect my mother, who was paying the cashier for a counter full of Winchester Mystery House souvenirs: an illustrated book detailing the house, some postcards, a miniature replica of the mansion that served as a salt shaker, and a T-shirt that read “The House that Fear Built!” that glowed in the dark. What was she going to do with all that stuff at her care center?

  “What a jerk,” Jonathan said under his breath as Brad shuffled my mother out of the gift shop.

  I bristled at the comment, but said nothing. I wasn’t going to get involved in their pissing contest. This gig would pay me a lot of money and benefit a great cause. I didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

  Jonathan reached out a hand and touched my arm. His touch gave me a chill, but not the good kind. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, “to set up another meeting. Then we can discuss the details.” He squeezed my arm.

  I wanted to jerk it out of his hand, but resisted. Instead, I took a step back, slipping out of his grasp. “Sounds good,” I said, and headed toward the exit. “I’ll talk to you then,” I called back.

  During the return drive from San Jose to San Francisco, Brad said little. Mother did most of the talking, recounting the tour and sharing her excitement about the upcoming Séance Party. We dropped her off at her care facility, then headed to Treasure Island, leaving the city and its twinkling lights behind as we approached the Bay Bridge.

  “So what was that all about?” I asked him, finally breaking the silence between us.

  He turned toward me. “What?”

  “What do you mean ‘what’? That whole thing with Jonathan.”

  He shrugged and looked out his side window again at the dark water below.

  “You’re acting like a kindergartner.”

  “He’s a jerk,” he mumbled. “I don’t trust him.”

  I was tempted to say that Jonathan probably felt the same way, but didn’t want to make things any worse than they were. After all, the three of us would be working together—if Brad didn’t change his mind and bow out.

  Not that I really needed him.

  Because I didn’t.

  Seriously.

  Okay, now I was being the kindergartner?

  “What do you know about Jonathan Ellington?” he said, still staring out the window.

  “Not much. But then, I’m just hosting an event for him. What do I need to know?”

  Brad said nothing, but I could feel his eyes on me as I approached the exit from the bridge.

  “Do you seriously think he had something to do with his employee’s suicide?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. A
ll I know is, when I was there to clean up after the body had been removed, Jonathan came into the guy’s office and started going through his desk and filing cabinets. When he found what he was looking for—a bunch of papers—he left in a big hurry.”

  “He claimed you were the one snooping through the guy’s desk.”

  “I was checking it, making sure I didn’t miss anything. Jonathan’s paranoid.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t say anything to him?”

  “Look, the guy seemed . . . furtive. You know, like he was sneaking in and taking things that maybe he shouldn’t have.”

  “He does own the company,” I said. “What exactly did he say to you?”

  “He asked me what I was doing there, although I thought it was fairly clear.”

  I drove down Macalla, into the parking lot of Building One, and turned off the engine. “Didn’t you say George hung himself? So there wouldn’t necessarily be any blood to clean up, right?”

  “No blood.”

  “Then what exactly did you clean up?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I had an idea what he was talking about and dropped that line of questioning. “Okay, what else did you two talk about?”

  “He said something like, ‘What are you doing here?’ I told him I was cleaning up the room. He made a face, like my words didn’t compute; then he went to the guy’s desk to look for whatever he was so anxious to find. He probably thought I was just some random custodian.”

  “You must have said or done something to upset him,” I insisted.

  “Nope. The guy was acting weird—not like a concerned boss who’d just lost a valued member of his company. He was acting more like a guy who was anxious to find something.”

  “You sure you aren’t being overly suspicious? Maybe you’ve been hanging around Detective Melvin too much,” I said. Neither of us moved to get out of the car. Finally I asked, “Anything else?”

  “No.” He paused. “Well, I might have given him a look or something.”

  “Or something?”

  “Okay, I may have said something as he was leaving.”

  “Oh God. What exactly did you say?”

  “You know, something like ‘Sorry about your loss.’ ”

  I raised a suspicious eyebrow. “That seems harmless enough. Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Yes. Then he stopped on his way out the door and asked me what I’d just said.”

  “And?”

  “I repeated my condolences.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Mostly. I might have added something like, ‘Find what you were looking for?’ ”

  “Oh my God, Brad!”

  “You should have seen his reaction. Grinding his jaw. Balling his fists. I thought he was going to slug me.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “Nope. He got up in my face though, and said something like, ‘Just do your job, shut up, and quit snooping around.’ Then he left. That was it.”

  Jonathan Ellington seemed to be a very controlling guy, I thought, as I opened the car door. He’s used to being the boss. Or was it something else?

  “My gut says he was up to something,” Brad said after he got out and closed the passenger door. “I don’t trust him and I don’t think you should either.”

  “But you don’t really know him, do you?”

  “No. But my gut is usually right, Presley. I don’t think you should be alone with the guy.”

  I looked at Brad in disbelief, certain he was overreacting. “You’re kidding, right?” While I saw Jonathan as a player, I didn’t think he was truly evil. After all, he cared about his father.

  “I’m just saying . . .” Brad added, “that guy has got secrets.”

  Brad and I went our separate ways home. Neither of us was in the mood to get together—I resented Brad’s implication that I couldn’t take care of myself, and he’d made it clear he didn’t want me working with Jonathan Ellington. I got back in my car and drove to my condo, while he took off in his SUV. It was a long night without him, but my cats kept me company and I finally fell asleep reading a book on the history of the Golden Gate Expo.

  The next morning, Brad’s SUV was missing from the parking lot. I entered the office I shared with Delicia and found a note on the “In/Out” board she’d hung on the wall. Next to her name she’d written, “At vintage stores looking for séance costume accessories.” With Dee playing the part of the medium, I knew I was in good hands. I couldn’t wait to see what she came up with. I erased “At Winchester House” next to my name, and left the space blank.

  I sat down at my desk and swiveled in my chair for a few minutes trying to decide what to do first. After sifting through a stack of pending party forms, I let them flutter back onto the desk like giant confetti, and turned on my laptop. But instead of dealing with a couple dozen waiting e-mails, I Googled the name “George Wells” and “Hella-Graphics.” The screen lit up with an obituary bearing his name.

  WELLS, GEORGE

  San Francisco—George Wells, 60, died unexpectedly on Sunday, April 2. Wells was credited with developing one of the first three-dimensional projectors for Jonathan Ellington, CEO of Hella-Graphics. “This is a tragic loss to Hella-Graphics, to the world, and to me personally,” Ellington said in a press release.

  Really? I thought, because it sure hadn’t seemed like it. I read on.

  Born in San Francisco, Wells earned an electrical engineering degree from Stanford University, which he parlayed into developing state-of-the-art software. He felt he was on the verge of another exciting product.

  Wells is survived by wife, Teddi, and three daughters, Susan MacLeod, Sandra Spellman, and Kathleen Mahn. “George was a kind man who loved to tinker in his garage workshop when he wasn’t working at Hella-Graphics,” his wife of thirty-eight years said. A private memorial is planned at the Wells home next Sunday. Donations may be made to the George Wells Engineering Scholarship Fund, c/o Stanford University.

  I sat back, digesting the information about a man I had seen just a couple of months ago. But the obit left a lot of unanswered questions. And there was no mention that he’d hanged himself in his office.

  I reached for my phone to try Teddi again, but it trilled, announcing a text message. I didn’t text much, except to respond to Dee’s texts. My mother preferred to communicate by old-fashioned telephone, my clients by e-mail, and Brad in person. I picked up the phone and read the texts from Jonathan Ellington.

  Great meeting last night, Presley! Glad you’re on board. Details coming via e-mail attachment from my

  VP, Stephanie Bryson. LMK if you have questions. Let’s meet again this afternoon at the mansion.

  Several more texts followed.

  I think party should start around 8. Want it to be dark enough outside . . .

  Expect to have 20-25 guests . . .

  Invitations! Need to get those out ASAP . . .

  Working on a script for Sarah’s ghost . . .

  I had a feeling I was going to regret giving Jonathan my contact information.

  I checked my e-mail and found three more messages from Jonathan waiting, plus a detailed list of suggestions forwarded by his VP. It looked like he was going to be one of those micromanaging clients that drove me nuts.

  I responded to half of his messages, then watched a dozen more pop up. If I hadn’t agreed to plan this party for him, I’d have sought a restraining order and filed harassment charges. I just hoped all the hassle was worth the money.

  Forgetting all about calling Teddi, I spent the morning researching séances on the Internet, hoping to give the event some authenticity. After reading about spirit circles, incantations, psychic energy, and the like, I worked on possible designs for invitations using invisible ink to write the party details on mini Ouija boards. The more I read, the more excited I got about the event. I couldn’t wait to get started on the decorations and create a spooky atmosphere for the séance, using mood lighting, flickering candles, an
tique brass candlesticks, smoky crystal balls, and a reproduction of Sarah Winchester’s only portrait.

  This was going to be fun . . . if nothing went wrong.

  Meanwhile, I also had to deal with communiqués from Marianne Mitchell, my new landlord, who was already pressing for details on the anniversary of the Expo celebration she’d envisioned for Treasure Island—and gently reminding me of her generosity in terms of my rent. The event would be at least six months away, but already Marianne wanted her stamp of approval on everything from invites to favors. Now I was contending with two micromanagers.

  Feeling a little overwhelmed, I went in search of my part-time crew and delegated some of the initial tasks for the Séance Party—appetizers from Rocco Ghirenghelli, videotaping by Berkeley Wong, extra security by Raj Reddy. I stopped by Brad’s office again, but he still hadn’t come in. I missed him, but there was no way I was taking him along to my meeting that afternoon with Jonathan. No sense disturbing the spirits with Brad’s animosity.

  After a lunch of blueberry yogurt and a latte, I wrote on the message board, “Gone to Mystery House. Be back soon.” Dee still hadn’t returned from costume shopping, nor had Brad from wherever he’d been. I left Dee a note to check out some palm reading business that seemed to be on every street corner in the city, then grabbed my purse and headed out to meet Jonathan Ellington.

  In spite of Brad’s warning, this time I was going alone.

  Chapter 7

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #7

  To add atmosphere to your Séance Party, dim the lights, eliminate noise, and light candles, since spirits seek warmth and light. Plus candles make eerie-looking shadows on the walls.