How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  I hoped.

  At six, Brad arrived from his latest cleaning job.

  “Glad you’re here,” I said, wanting to give him a hug but not in front of the others.

  “You all right?” he asked softly, looking me over.

  “I’m fine. Everything’s going according to plan. We’ll be ready for the guests when they come in”—I checked my watch—“less than two hours. What about Mother and Stephen?”

  “Luke’s having them picked up in a van by a plainclothes officer. They should be here around seven thirty.”

  “I’m hungry,” Berk suddenly whined.

  “I’m starved!” Duncan seconded.

  I looked at Brad, who said, “I could eat—but not that overpriced cafeteria food they serve here.”

  I offered to buy a quick dinner at Santana Row, and everyone jumped on it. The evening was pleasant so we walked the few blocks to the Italian place, ordered spaghetti, salad, and a bottle of Chianti. Brad and I argued over the check—he won—and we walked back to the Mystery House eager to welcome our guests. What a great crew I had.

  The place was closed to the public by the time we returned. The house, as usual, looked ominous in the moonlight, and I shuddered as we entered, not just from the air that had turned cool. After Mia led us back to the séance room, I did a last check to make sure everything was ready, then sent Dee to change into her Mesmer costume. As ready as we could be, I left the crew behind to take their places, and headed for Sarah Winchester’s formal waiting room, where visitors began their tour, and waited for the rest of the guests to arrive.

  Mother and Stephen Ellington entered soon after, thanks to Detective Melvin, who’d chauffeured them himself in a van outfitted for wheelchair access.

  “Oh, Presley, darling. This is so exciting,” Mother said. “Isn’t it, Stephen?”

  He gave a half smile and blinked with one eye several times. I knew he’d put a lot of hope into my plan to prove Jonathan innocent, and I felt the burden of his trust wash over me.

  “We’ll do our best, Mother.” I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile to Stephen. I turned to Detective Melvin and asked if he would carry Stephen to the séance room.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and swept the thin, frail man up into his strong arms. Mia led the way, and Mother followed, leaving me alone in the waiting room. I reviewed the guest list, praying they would all show up. Stephanie had offered to bring Lyla, and I assumed Dane and Jerry would come together, apparently with their lawyers.

  Otherwise, it would be an event planner’s worst nightmare—hosting a party where nobody came.

  Waiting was agonizing.

  I had prepared for the séance to the point where it would almost host itself. There was nothing more to do. Hopefully, tonight I would find out that Jonathan really was innocent—and uncover the killer.

  I flipped over a couple of pages in my notebook and found copies of the deleted e-mails that Jonathan had written to Zachary, thanks to Brad. Something bothered me about them.

  Would Jonathan really threaten Zachary via e-mail, knowing how easily his deleted e-mails could be retrieved? He was, after all, a computer expert.

  And why would he use a statue from his own desk to kill Zachary?

  Like a magic trick, everything changed right before my eyes.

  Quickly, I phoned Duncan and told him I wanted to make a change. He said it was “No prob,” and hung up just as Stephanie and Lyla arrived. Distracted by my new plan, I robotically offered them wine that had been placed in the waiting area. Both accepted; Lyla took a seat on a nearby bench and sipped her wine while reading her phone messages. Stephanie paced the room, playing with her necklace, her sharp heels echoing on the hardwood floor.

  I checked my watch for the umpteenth time. It was eight thirty—half an hour past the party start time. The last two guests—Dane Scott and Jerry Thompson—still hadn’t arrived. If they didn’t show up soon, my plan wouldn’t work.

  The door to the waiting area open and in walked Dane Scott, Jerry Thompson, and a woman I didn’t recognize, all escorted by Mia Thiele.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Dane Scott said, without a hint of apology on his stern face. He and Jerry both wore suits—perhaps they never took them off. As an abnormal psychology instructor, I knew that dressing formally all the time was a sign of insecurity, much like getting numerous degrees or joining brainiac organizations. They needed such things to make up for their lack of self-confidence and self-worth. I wondered if these two fell into that category.

  As for the woman, she wore a gray pantsuit, a large ruby brooch, and power red Manolos. Classic overachiever.

  Dane Scott caught me staring at her and said, “This is Holly Simone. She’s our company attorney.”

  I nodded at her, she ignored me and glanced around the room as if assessing its worth.

  “Well, glad you all made it,” I said, mentally wiping away a virtual sweaty brow. “Since we’re all here, we’ll begin. Please follow Mia. She’ll lead us to the actual séance room that Sarah Winchester used to contact the spirits.”

  While the guests formed a single-file line behind Mia, I held back a few seconds to alert the crew that it was showtime. I quickly caught up with the group by following their voices after taking one wrong turn and winding up in one of Sarah’s many bedrooms.

  “Please take your assigned seats,” I said, after I entered the crowded room where Stephen and Mother were already seated at the table. They appeared anxious: Mother whispering to Stephen and patting his hand, while Stephen’s eyes darted from person to person.

  I studied the guests as they searched for their place cards and sat down, their candles already lit. Mia looked wide-eyed and excited, and had come dressed in period costume. Her long black dress looked much like the one Sarah Winchester had worn in the photograph in her office. She grinned as she scooted in her chair.

  Stephanie wore her usual business attire: a severe maroon suit, matching maroon heels, and a colorful scarf that hung down on either side from her neck. As usual, she held the crystal in her hand, no doubt thinking about Jonathan and what had happened last time, and hoping for protection.

  Dane Scott’s perpetual frown and heavy eyebrows made him look even more irritated as he stared at his folded hands, his knuckles white, his thumbs twiddling. Sitting next to him, his sidekick, Jerry Thompson, kept glancing at his boss, perhaps for cues on how to act. He mimicked everything Dane did, right down to the folded hands and twiddling thumbs. Their attorney sat on the left of Dane, her lips pressed together, waiting patiently for something to happen so she could no doubt spring into action.

  Lyla had finally put her cell phone away. She looked bored, as if the last time she’d been to a séance, no one had been murdered. Had the woman even cared for Jonathan? Or had she just married him for his status, wealth, and good looks?

  Detective Melvin had slipped in while the guests were busy finding their places. He’d tried hard not to dress like an off-duty cop, wearing khaki slacks, a Hawaiian shirt, and loafers. I’d almost laughed when I saw him walk in earlier. Now I was getting used to the casual look.

  Standing behind an empty chair opposite one other empty chair, I greeted the small crowd. “Thanks for coming, everyone. I know you all want to find out if Jonathan is really the one behind these murders. That’s why I’ve arranged this séance—only this time we have a real medium.”

  Before anyone could react, the lights dimmed and a puff of smoke arose from across the room. A short, big-bellied man appeared, wearing a black suit, black shoes, even a black shirt. Only the black silk cape attached to his shoulders seemed out of place. His cheeks were rosy, his black hair was slicked back, and he sported a bushy black mustache that covered his small mouth.

  Pretty, petite Delicia was truly a chameleon when it came to costumes and makeup!

  “Please welcome Mesmer the Great, our medium for tonight’s party,” I said, then took my place at the table between Stephanie and Lyla.
r />   The Great Mesmer took a bow, using his/her cape for dramatic flourish. All eyes—some wide, some narrow—watched the odd-looking man as he took his seat at the head of the table. He said nothing, just took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly the crystal ball in the center of the table turned from clear to smoky. Mother gasped.

  “Please, join hands,” Mesmer’s deep voice boomed.

  “Are you—” my mother started to say.

  “Silence!” Mesmer commanded. Mother blinked. Mia jumped. Stephen didn’t react; I wondered if he was hard of hearing or if his reflexes had slowed. Dane Scott raised an eyebrow, apparently not used to being spoken to in such a tone, while Jerry’s eyes grew wide as he looked at his boss for cues. Stephanie had let go of her crystal, while Lyla just stared at the odd man giving orders. I caught a glimpse of Detective Melvin shaking his head, reminding me he wasn’t into this sort of thing, even to catch a murderer.

  The lights dimmed further, thanks to a well-hidden Brad, leaving only the candles to illuminate the room. In the fluttering darkness, I started to feel a little nervous myself.

  “Join hands,” Mesmer commanded, he gripped the hands of guests on either side—Mother’s on the left and Mia’s on the right. I hoped Mia wouldn’t be able to tell she was holding on to a female hand. After a few seconds, Mesmer took in another deep breath, let it hiss out, then began rolling his head around. I prayed he didn’t lose the wig or the mustache.

  Finally Mesmer’s head slumped forward; guttural mumbling tumbled out of his mouth, his lips barely moving as he conjured up a spell. A wind blew through the room—Duncan was right on cue with his preset fan—and the candles flamed out, leaving us in utter darkness. Without windows in the room, not even moonlight could pierce the blackness.

  Someone squealed; I couldn’t tell if it was from delight or fear.

  The crystal ball began to glow a bloodred color.

  An image materialized inside the ball—the image of a tiny Jonathan Ellington. Duncan’s computer wizardry was working perfectly.

  I heard Dane Scott’s distinct laugh, followed by Jerry’s high-pitched laugh. No wonder. The display looked hokey, nothing like the Hella-Graphics 4-D Projection of Sarah Winchester. More like the Haunted Mansion spirits at Disneyland.

  But the laughter died as Jonathan began to speak.

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

  Heads turned from side to side, as the guests tried to get a glimpse of one another reflected in the red glow. Jerry whispered, “Dane, that’s Jonathan’s voice!”

  “Shut up,” Dane hissed.

  Jonathan continued. “. . . And I know who killed Levi and Zachary . . .”

  Next to me, I heard Stephanie gasp. She jerked her hand from my grip and reached for her crystal.

  “Furthermore,” Jonathan’s image said, “I have the evidence to prove it . . .”

  The image paused.

  The room grew silent.

  Jonathan extended his finger and stopped just before it reached me. “It was you—”

  I heard a chair fall backward. A door burst opened, light streamed in from the next room, and I saw a figure bolt from the room.

  Mia got up and switched on the lights. Everyone looked around, a little dazed.

  One person was missing from the table.

  The one Jonathan Ellington had pointed to: Stephanie Bryson.

  Chapter 25

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #25

  After your Séance Party, reveal all your tricks to your guests so they won’t fall victim to fraudulent mediums. Plus, they’ll get a kick out of seeing “how it was done.” Note: The great magician, Harry Houdini, who made it his mission to expose phony spiritualists, once visited the Winchester Mystery House.

  I dashed after Stephanie, leaving the stunned guests behind.

  As I bolted through the door where she’d made her getaway, I called out for Detective Melvin and Brad.

  No sign of them.

  Right now it didn’t matter. I had to follow Stephanie before I lost her for good. The problem was, she had a few seconds’ lead on me, and had disappeared into one of the most baffling and confusing mazes ever built. And like Hansel and Gretel, if I didn’t have bread crumbs or a GPS to follow, I would be hopelessly lost.

  Not to mention, it was dark in here. If only I’d grabbed my cell phone, I could have used it as a sort of flashlight.

  The narrow hallways deep inside the mansion allowed no moonlight in, so I had to feel my way, stopping every few steps to listen for Stephanie’s footfalls. The clicking of her stilettos on the hardwood floors would have been relatively easy to follow if the echoes hadn’t been misleading and the house hadn’t been so twisted. I found myself repeatedly running into dead ends or bumping into walls. Sarah Winchester had meant to fool the spirits and keep them from finding her. That worked for human beings as well.

  At one point, just when I thought I was getting close, I tripped over a doorjamb and fell, slamming my knee against the floor. It ached when I rose—I’d injured it once before when someone at another party tried to kill me—but I could walk/limp. But I’d lost time, and paused, listening intently for those killer heels. After a few seconds I picked up the sound again, and wound my way through more passageways, up a staircase, and deeper into the bowels of the house. All in utter blackness.

  I sensed she was getting farther away.

  “Stephanie!” I called when I’d caught my breath. Running mazes wasn’t one of my best athletic activities and I was winded. I hoped either she’d answer, or that someone would hear me and help give chase. “Stephanie, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  “Leave me alone!” a hysterical-sounding Stephanie hollered back from some distance away. How far, I had no idea. “I warned you, Presley. I left those messages on your phone and those pictures in your mailbox and car. I even tried to scare you off by banging on your door like an angry spirit. But you didn’t listen. Now leave me alone or you’ll end up like the others.”

  Good: The more she talked, the more I’d get a bead on where she was.

  Bad: She wanted to kill me, like she had the others.

  “Stephanie, I know what Jonathan did was despicable, using you and all those other women. But don’t make things worse than they are!”

  Dead silence.

  I tiptoed forward in the darkness, hoping to hear her breathing, if nothing else. Unfortunately, the old wood floors creaked beneath me, giving away my location.

  I turned a corner in the darkness and listened.

  A scream.

  Only a few feet away.

  “Stephanie! Are you all right?” I called.

  Nothing.

  I continued forward, still feeling my way through the halls and passageways like a blind woman, and praying I didn’t trip again and lose her. I had a feeling that once she was out of this house, she was gone.

  I had a sudden thought and a chill passed through me. Maybe that scream I’d just heard wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe Stephanie wasn’t really in trouble.

  Maybe she was trying to lure me somewhere and . . .

  Oh God. Was I walking into a trap?

  Stephanie was not a stupid woman. Superstitious, yes, with her horoscopes and charts and lucky crystals and knocking on wood. But she’d cleverly planned and executed—so to speak—her plot to seek revenge on Jonathan.

  And she’d fooled us all.

  I slowed down again and listened.

  A moan.

  Coming from a short distance away.

  Maybe she really was hurt. After all, I’d almost broken my kneecap.

  I entered the next room on tiptoe and immediately recognized where I was—the infamous Daisy Room. Unlike the inner rooms of the mansion, this one allowed moonlight to stream through the muted yellow stained-glass windows, giving the room a shadowy glow. Suddenly I remembered—Sarah Winchester had been trapped in here for hours during the 1906 earthquake.

>   I glanced around, certain I’d heard a moan coming from here. I spotted one of the daisy-themed windows—it was broken, shattered to pieces. Most of the shards and bits of colored glass lay on the other side of the window but a few had fallen inside.

  Had Stephanie crashed into the window trying to escape?

  I scanned the dimly lit room, searching for her. I expected to find her huddled in a corner, nursing some kind of wound, maybe bleeding. Or unconscious.

  Instead, I caught movement in the corner of my eye.

  Before I could react, Stephanie lunged at me from behind the door to the room. Something in her hand glinted in the moonlight. She raised her fist, giving me only a split second to see that it was wrapped with her scarf.

  In it, she held a knife-long razor-sharp piece of broken glass.

  I threw up my hands defensively just as Stephanie brought down the jagged shard.

  I screamed as the shard plunged deep into my hand. Blood spurted from my palm. The pain made me woozy and the room began to spin. I pressed my fingers to the gash, hoping to staunch the flow of blood and keep myself from passing out.

  But the room continued to spin. My legs crumpled, and I fell to the floor, hitting my hip and elbow hard as I landed.

  I looked up as Stephanie loomed over me in the semidarkness, her eyes wild, the dagger of glass held high again. Leaning on my sore elbow, I kicked at her stilettos with all the adrenaline-fused strength I had—not to mention a good strong pair of Mary Janes.

  Her legs buckled as she lost her balance and she fell to the floor like an inexperienced ice skater. She landed on her butt, and I thought I heard a crack—either the floor, the glass shard, or her tailbone. She let out a string of curses that I doubt sailors or Kathy Griffin would even know.