How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  He frowned, but said, “I guess so.”

  I put his face in most of the frame, trying to block out the details of the jail meeting room, then nodded, indicating for him to start. He took a last glance at the script, faced the camera, and said the first line I’d written for him:

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m out of jail . . .” He paused.

  “. . . And I know who killed Levi and Zachary . . .” Another pause.

  “Furthermore, I have the evidence to prove it . . .”

  Finally, Jonathan pointed his finger outward and said, “It was you—”

  I stopped taping and smiled at him. “Perfect.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” I checked the tape before I turned the camera off, to make sure I hadn’t messed up. “Now, if you’re superstitious, keep your fingers crossed.”

  He looked down at his hands. “That’s about all I’m able to do right now.”

  “Time’s up!” the officer said.

  I gave Jonathan a last smile of encouragement and said, “Hang in there.” It was all I had at the moment.

  We rose, and I watched Jonathan shuffle back to the door that led to the jail. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, in spite of his usually cocky attitude and scandalous disregard for women. I had a feeling that my mother was right—this man hadn’t killed anyone. He was a lover, not a killer.

  But if that was true, someone hated him enough to make it look like he had.

  And I was going to prove it.

  Tomorrow night at my encore Séance Party.

  Chapter 23

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #23

  Remember: The point of your Séance Party is entertainment. Your guests are there to have fun while they take a roller-coaster ride to the Other Side. Everyone loves a good scare, but we don’t want anyone to pee their pants or suffer a heart attack because your séance is too scary!

  After a quick side trip to the care home on Van Ness Avenue to reassure my mother and Stephen Ellington about Jonathan’s well-being and my plans to help get him released, I returned to the office and spent the rest of the day preparing for the party. By six I was ready for a break and when Brad stopped by I was packing up my things.

  “Looking forward to dinner,” he said.

  Oh my God. I’d forgotten all about my promise to make dinner. I quickly recovered and said, “Yeah . . . hope you like it. One of my specialties.”

  “You want to ride with me or follow me over?”

  “Uh, I need to feed my cats, get my mail, pick up a couple of things. I’ll meet you at your place, if that’s okay.” We headed to the parking lot.

  “Sure. Want me to come with you to your condo?”

  “No, no. I’m sure I’ll be fine for the few minutes I’m there.”

  “Okay, but keep your phone handy. If you see anything suspicious, call me. I can be there in two minutes.”

  I felt guilty lying to him. He was such a great guy. I gave him a quick kiss as a promise of more and got in my MINI, while Brad headed for his Crime Scene Cleaners SUV. Minutes later I was at my condo, still wondering what I was going to serve Brad for dinner.

  Me and my big mouth.

  Night was falling quickly and blanket fog had begun to seep in. I grabbed the mail, unlocked the front door, and opened it slowly, half expecting the boogeyman to jump out at me. When I’d come home this morning to feed the cats, everything was fine, but that didn’t stop me from feeling jumpy now that it was getting dark.

  Maybe I should have had Brad accompany me, I thought. But after nothing more had happened the other night, I’d felt silly calling him. I was sure the sounds had been caused by teenage vandals or a couple of drunks who were out having what they considered a good time.

  Inching the front door open, I listened for any unusual noise. The creaking of the door alerted my cats that I was home, and they ran to me as if I were their long-lost mother.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, giving each a head massage, tummy rub, or back scratch, depending on their preference. The cat bowls still had traces of the morning meal, but I filled them up, freshened the water, and sat down in a kitchen chair with a glass of merlot to go through the mail.

  Bills, ads, flyers, coupon books, and a single envelope with my name computer-typed on the outside. No return address. I hoped it was a check from one of the several parties I’d recently hosted—I needed the money. I tore it open.

  Inside was a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it—and nearly peed my pants. I was looking at a Photoshopped collage of six pictures.

  Each one of me.

  Me coming out of my office building yesterday—I could tell by the clothes I’d worn.

  Me leaving Brad’s house this morning.

  Me in the parking lot of Stereo-Scope Graphics.

  Me entering the Hall of Justice to see Jonathan.

  Me dropping by my mother’s place.

  Me returning to my office building wearing the same thing I was wearing now—black jeans, a T-shirt with a replica of a Ouija board on it, and my black Mary Janes.

  I held up the envelope with trembling hands to study it. No stamp. I hadn’t even noticed that when I’d torn it open. That meant someone had been following me, had come to the Island—to my home—and put the letter in my mailbox. I picked up the sheet of photos again and stared at them.

  The last one had been taken only a short while ago.

  How could someone have followed me throughout my day taking pictures without my knowledge?

  And they had even beaten me home.

  With sweat prickling my forehead, I picked up my purse, stuffed the envelope and letter inside and grabbed the closest cat—Cairo. “Hey, kitty. That’s a good boy,” I said reassuringly as I carried him quickly to my car. I placed Cairo inside, along with my purse, closed the door so he couldn’t escape, then ran back, and picked up Thursby from the couch and Fatman from under the coffee table. I returned to the car, and with all three cats safely inside, I ran back and locked the front door to my condo, got in my MINI, and headed up Macalla, toward the Bay Bridge.

  Instead of driving directly to Brad’s place, I drove to the city. I couldn’t go to Brad’s empty-handed, not when I’d lied about being able to cook. One of my favorite places to pick up to-go food is practically right off the bridge exit, a little place in trendy SoMa called The Butler and the Chef. I phoned in my order on the way, hoping I didn’t get caught using my cell phone while driving and end up in jail, and asked for two Croque Monsieurs, two ham-and-cheese quiche slices, and some pâté. I also told them I’d call when I got there so they could bring the food out to me, explaining that I couldn’t leave the car. The reason: My bewildered cats were climbing all over me.

  I drove into the parking space reserved for takeout customers and let them know I was there. When the waiter arrived with my order, I had him put it the trunk to keep it away from my hungry cats. Unfortunately, they could smell it with their supersensitive cat nostrils and I had to listen to a trio of meowing all the way back to Yerba Buena Island.

  I parked in the narrow slot behind Brad’s house and dialed his number.

  “Presley?” he answered breathlessly. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried.”

  “I’m fine, Brad, but I need help carrying a few things in from the car. Do you have a couple of large cardboard boxes with tops that close?”

  Silence, then, “You’ve got that much food?”

  “Just bring them,” I insisted, and hung up.

  Moments later Brad arrived with two boxes the size of small microwave ovens. He reached for my car door but it was locked. I eased the window down an inch. “I’m going to open the window in a minute and I want you to shove one of the boxes inside as fast as you can.”

  He peered in, frowned at what he saw, and shook his head. “You’re kidding me. What are your cats doing here?”

  “Playdate,” I said, “with Bruiser.”

  “Very funny. They’ll eat him alive. Ser
iously, why are your cats in your car?”

  “It was an emergency. I’ll explain once I get them inside. Now shove one of the boxes in, please.”

  He did what I asked. I put the two smaller cats in the boxes and closed it up, then passed it out to Brad. He gave me the other box, I put the last cat inside, then folded the top closed. The cats complained, but I reassured them as I opened the car door, eased out the second box, and started for his house.

  “Careful,” I said to him as he followed me, carrying the first box.

  Brad opened the door, balancing his box on his leg, and waited for me to go inside. I set my box inside the front door; then Brad entered and set his down.

  I glanced around. “Where’s Bruiser?”

  “Probably sleeping on my bed.”

  “Will you shut him in there, then let my cats out? I have to get a few more things from the car.”

  I ran out, grabbed my overnight stuff and the bag of food from The Butler and the Chef. When I returned, I located Brad in the kitchen, holding a glass of wine. He popped a handful of something into his mouth and gulped it down with a big swallow of the wine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking drugs,” he replied. “Claritin.”

  I’d forgotten about his allergies. “Sorry about this. Hope it’s not too inconvenient.” I briefly explained that I didn’t want my cats home alone with a maniac loose. I held off showing him the pictures I’d received until I’d had another glass of wine.

  I sipped the glass of Treasure Island Merlot he offered me while I set the table and the cats cased the place. Fatman made himself at home under the kitchen table, Thursby sniffed and scratched at the bedroom door, and Cairo complained about the food in the dog’s dish. In the distance, I could hear yapping. Bruiser, vanquished to Brad’s bedroom.

  “Go watch TV,” I told Brad so I could prepare the food. He turned on the news in his man cave and sat down on the black couch.

  Meanwhile, I found three mismatched bowls, divided the pâté into thirds, and added bits of quiche to each bowl. As soon as the makeshift cat food was ready, I called the kitties and they came running. Finally, I opened the last containers, set the French sandwiches on plates, and microwaved them to heat them up. When I turned around to place them on the table, I found Brad standing in the doorway, looking puzzled.

  “You’re not making dinner,” he said. “You bought it!”

  I sighed. “Sorry. I had no choice. Something came up. I’ll tell you about it after I’ve finished this wine.”

  Brad filled up our glasses and we sat down to the reheated food. Raising my glass, I said, “Cheers.” We both took long sips. Before taking a bite, Brad asked, “So, what happened?”

  I reached over to my purse, pulled out the envelope, withdrew the paper with the photographs of me, and handed the sheet to Brad.

  He studied them for a few seconds, his face growing cloudy, the furrow at his eyebrows deepening.

  “This is serious, Presley. This guy—or whoever—has obviously been stalking you and knows where you live. You did the right thing, getting out of there and coming here, but we’ve got to tell Luke about this. You’re in real danger.”

  I’d been looking forward to sleeping with Brad, more for the safety and comfort of his arms than the attention of his other body parts—but it was not to be. Instead of being reassured after talking with Detective Melvin, I was even more frightened. He’d warned me in no uncertain terms that although Jonathan was locked up, someone—a cohort?—was threatening me. And Detective Melvin had been a police officer long enough to know not to take threats lightly. He knew I was temporarily safe with Brad, but he told me not to go alone anywhere until I stopped “stirring things up,” as he put it.

  So I was restless most of the night. Three displaced cats on the bed and a whining dog in the next room didn’t help either. Nor did my recurring nightmare of Sarah Winchester, who kept trying to tell me something that I couldn’t understand.

  The next morning I awoke to minor aches and pains, not used to Brad’s firm bed. I showered, whipped up my specialty—burned toast and overcooked eggs—then served the eggs to my hungry cats, who had polished off the gourmet people food and refused to touch Bruiser’s dog food.

  Brad and I were about to head out when he got a call for a cleaning job—a cat lady in the Fillmore district had died, her body undiscovered for days. “Apparently her cats had started nibbling—”

  I plugged my ears. “Stop! Don’t tell me!” Yuck. Note to self: Remember to pick up cat food before my own cats started nibbling on me in the middle of the night.

  Brad pulled my fingers out of my ears. “Remember what Melvin said. You need someone with you at all times, at least until this party is over tonight.”

  “I know. As soon as I get to TI, I’ll have my crew with me all day.”

  “You’re still planning to go through with this?”

  “Of course!”

  “You really think Jonathan is innocent?”

  I hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes,” as convincingly as I could. I still wasn’t absolutely sure, but I’d promised my mother I’d do what I could to find out the truth. I thought of another promise I’d made to Teddi Wells. Maybe this would lead to the truth about her husband’s supposed suicide.

  “Okay, well, I’ve got to run,” Brad said, grabbing his black jacket. “I’ll walk you out.”

  He escorted me to my car, gave me a duplicate key for his house, headed for his SUV, and drove off.

  Dew sparkled on my MINI in the early sunlight that was trying to break through the fog. After glancing around to make sure I wasn’t still being followed, I gave a sigh of relief and I unlocked the car. Being stalked made me feel vulnerable and paranoid. Luckily, I only had a few short miles to my office at Treasure Island until I’d have an entourage.

  I opened the car door and started to get in—then froze.

  The passenger’s seat was covered with torn photographs, like giant pieces of confetti. I reached down to study a piece, then another, and another. More pictures of me—from the moment I’d left my house with my cats last night, to my trip to the restaurant, to Brad’s house afterward. All torn into pieces.

  Someone was still following me. They’d broken into my car.

  And Brad was gone.

  A chill ran down my back as I swiveled my head side to side, searching for my stalker. Seeing nothing, I peeked into the backseat to make sure no one was there, then slid inside the car and punched down the locks. I needed to get myself over to TI and my crew ASAP, but my hands shook as I tried to start the engine. Third time was the charm. I revved the engine and gripped the steering wheel, then glanced at the window on the passenger side.

  There was a small slit at the top.

  No one had actually gotten in my car. I’d left the window open a crack. They’d slipped the photos inside.

  Jamming the gearshift into reverse, I stepped on the gas and backed out of the space with a jerk. Moments later I’d left Yerba Buena behind, and was headed for my office building on Treasure Island.

  Pulling up to the parking lot at Building One, I checked my rearview mirror again.

  No one was there.

  Chapter 24

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #24

  Expand your Séance Party by adding other occult entertainment, such as tarot, astrology, handwriting analysis, numerology, Wicca, and black magic. Or just bring in a Magic 8 Ball, ask the ball a yes or no question, and have guests find out if “Signs point to yes,” “Reply hazy; try again,” or “Outlook not so good.” For added fun, get a specific Magic 8 Ball, such as a Yoda’s Jedi Destiny Ball, a Magic Date Ball, or a Sarcastic Ball that provides answers like “Yeah, right,” and “Do I look like I care?”

  I parked the car, still glancing over my shoulder, and headed for my office.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You okay?” Dee asked.

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” I said. I didn’t want to tell
her the latest news, afraid she and the others might back out of helping with the séance. Then again, I thought, I might be putting their lives at risk by not disclosing the details. I finally decided that whoever was stalking me wouldn’t try anything as long as I had company. Safety in numbers, they always say.

  “I’m fine. Just nervous about the party,” I added when I felt her eyes still on me. She knew me too well, but apparently she ignored her intuition and started asking what she could do to help. Within a couple of hours we’d gathered everything I needed for the improv séance and were ready to head over to the Winchester Mystery House. The rest of my crew—Duncan, Berk, and Raj—caravanned, following Delicia and me in my MINI. I prepped Dee on her role as I drove, and by the time we arrived at the mansion, we were both excited about the upcoming possibilities and anxious to get it over with.

  Mia greeted me and my crew in the gift shop, ready to lead us to our destination. “Follow me,” she said, and we did, taking a new route to avoid tour groups. By showtime—eight p.m.—the house would be closed to everyone but us.

  “Sweet,” Duncan said, his eyes as wide as crystal balls. He hadn’t been with us for the original séance and seemed in awe of the place.

  We wound through the life-sized puzzle box that Sarah Winchester had called home. Once we reached the small séance room, I delegated tasks to my crew. Brad said he’d come later, after his cleanup job, and bring Mother and Stephen Ellington. He’d also arranged to have Detective Luke Melvin there as well.

  Duncan and Berk brought in a small round table and chairs, while Dee and I arranged the tablecloth and accessories we’d be using for the event. I kept the decorations minimal, placing only votive candles at each seat rather than the lethal candlesticks, and added a trick crystal ball in the middle of the table that would fill with smoke on cue. Raj helped Berk set up the cameras and microphones we’d be using, and Duncan prepped the computer in the adjoining room so it would be ready to conjure up the new “spirit” of Jonathan Ellington. It might not be as impressive as the state-of-the-art 4-D Projection, but it would get the job done.