Grave Phantoms (28 page)

The first thing they did when they got back into the city was to head straight to Gris-Gris. Velma confirmed that the shadow on Astrid's aura was gone. She was free and clear of cursed magic. But after everything they'd been through the night before, Astrid felt that this was less a cause for celebration and more of a consolation prize. Strange to think that dealing with body-thieving pirates and ghost ships was almost preferable to facing the mountain that lay ahead: her future.

Their
future.

After they'd made their way back home and given her family a summary of their harrowing experience on the yacht—leaving out several details that came before and after—Astrid spent the day making preparations. Telephone calls and telegrams, secret conversations and whirlwind packing. And throughout it all, her frantic emotions vacillated between panic and excitement.

Please don't let this be a mistake.

The following morning, she said her good-byes to Bo
in private, and that was her demand: that he let her leave on her own, the way she arrived. She hugged everyone else good-bye outside the Magnusson house, nearly breaking down when she saw Greta's stoic face soften. And after all her luggage was loaded onto the family's silver Packard, she slipped into the front seat next to Aida.

“Do you remember teaching me how to drive in this car?” Astrid asked.

“Who could forget?” Aida answered with a grin as she started the engine. “We scared the living hell out of the entire household.”

Astrid smiled back at her and glanced at the line of people waving at them from the Queen Anne's porch. “In a way, you're helping me to do that again today.”

“Here's to taking risks,” Aida said as she backed out of the long driveway.

It took them half an hour in traffic to drive to the train station, where Aida pulled up to the passenger drop-off area behind a dark limousine with whitewall tires. A slender woman with a straight black bob and a black fur coat stepped out from the backseat.

“Everyone here is a witness,” Aida said cheerfully as they met the woman on the sidewalk. “I dropped Astrid off at the train station.”

“You can say it with a clear conscience,” Hadley agreed as her uniformed driver hurried around to the Packard to transfer Astrid's luggage between the two cars.

“It's really not a lie,” Astrid said. “It's an omission of pesky details.”

Aida waggled her eyebrows. “Every woman should have a few secrets.”

“Sure you haven't changed your mind?” Hadley asked Astrid.

Astrid glanced up at early evening fog that rolled over the top of the train platform and considered the question, but she was sure. She'd already mailed the university her withdrawal. She was ready to enact her grand plan for the future . . . with a little help from her sisters-in-law.

“No, I haven't changed my mind,” Astrid answered. “I'm ready.”

Aida hugged her firmly. “Okay, then. I'm going to head back. I'll collect any mail that comes and telephone you tomorrow, but if you need anything—”

“I'll be fine.”

Aida nodded and raised her chin to Hadley. “She's all yours.”

“Let's get you settled before it gets too dark,” the curator said, and put her arm around Astrid's shoulders to lead her into the limousine.

It was, of course, absurd, to drive back the way they'd come, but Astrid didn't care. She pretended that she was seeing the city for the first time and watched as lights twinkled on in the tall buildings lining the hilly streets. And by the time they got to Nob Hill, she really felt that it
was
new, because for the first time in her life, she'd be spending the night alone. No roommate, no servants, no family . . . no Bo. It was bittersweet, but the excitement she felt outweighed any lingering sadness or doubt.

Tendrils of evening fog clung to columns flanking the driveway of the French-Renaissance apartment building at Mason. The elegant nine-story high-rise was only a couple of years old and very exclusive—across the street from the Wicked Wenches' building. Hadley had been living there when she met Lowe almost a year ago. And though Lowe had renovated a looming Victorian on Telegraph Hill for them and little Stella, Hadley hadn't yet been able to sell her apartment.

“Everything's been cleaned and dusted,” the curator informed her as they breezed through the small lobby. She introduced her to the attendant and the elevator operator, and once they'd ascended to the ninth floor with her luggage, unlocked the door.

It was a swank apartment. High walls. Marble floors. The windows looked out over the bright lights of the Fairmont Hotel and the steady clack of the cable cars braving the steep hill.

“What do you think?” Hadley asked. “Not bad for temporary accommodations.”

“It's marvelous.”

“It can get lonely up here, but hopefully you won't have time for that. The refrigerator is stocked, and anyone in the building will help you find your way around the neighborhood. Otherwise, you're on your own—except for Friday night, that is. Maria and Mathilda have invited you for dinner at eight.”

“Oh good,” Astrid said. “I have a
lot
to tell them about that idol.”

“Well, I better get back home before anyone notices me missing. Here are the keys. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Astrid said, gripping her in a tight hug. “For everything.”

When Hadley pulled back, her cheeks were flushed. “It was nothing. We're family,” Hadley said. “Besides, Aida's right. A woman should have a few secrets. Do well with yours.”

“I'll try,” Astrid promised her. “I'll try my best.”

—

Astrid spent the night unpacking and getting used to the sounds of the strange apartment. And though she got little sleep—having spent too much time staring out the window, fighting the urge to telephone Bo and tell him everything—she rose at a decent hour, dressed in a smart outfit, and took a taxi to Hale Brothers department store. On the sixth floor, she walked into KPO Radio's front office, wished the receptionist a Happy New Year, and asked to speak to the station manager. Then she waited until she was ushered into his office.

“I remember you,” Mr. Giselman said when he saw her.

“Astrid Magnusson,” she said, extending her hand. “You told me you liked my voice and said to come see you if I ever I wanted a job. And, well, I do.”

“I do like a gal with gumption. Have a seat,” he said. “And tell me about yourself.”

“I'm a fast learner, I have some college education”—never mind that it was a disaster—“and if you take a look at my references here”—she handed him typed and signed letters from both Aida and Hadley—“you'll see they're from a director at the de Young Museum and a woman who used to do nightly performances on stage at a dinner club. She says I'm ‘gifted with a performer's grace.'”

That was Astrid's phrase. She was quite proud of it.

Mr. Giselman sat down behind his desk, donned a pair of eyeglasses to read the letters, and then looked her over. “Magnusson . . . Why does that name sound familiar?”

Dammit. “Maybe you've heard of my brother?” she said quickly. “He's a well-known professor at Berkley.” Well-known to her, at least.

The manager shook his head, but it was enough to steer his thoughts away from the bootlegging. “Well, Miss Magnusson. I did say we're hiring voice actors for radio melodramas—that means you do a dramatic reading from a script, following the director's suggestions. Four hours, three days a week, and the pay is basic.”

“I'll do whatever it takes to prove myself. But I think you'll find that my skills are best suited to situations in which I'm able to speak freely. I heard KFRC is doing more talk shows across town that appeal to female listeners. I have some ideas about how you could compete with them.”

“I'll bet you do,” he said, a look of amusement on his face.

He glanced at her letters again, and while he did, Astrid fiddled with the knob on her wristwatch. It had never recovered after her swim in the ocean that horrid night on the yacht, but she wore it nonetheless, and continually tried to wind it to no avail. It was perpetually stuck on twelve o'clock. But now the knob moved, one turn, and another. She quickly looked at the face. Ten after three. The wrong
time, but the hands were moving.
A sign
, she thought. A very good sign.

Stars. The station manager was saying something.

“Pardon?” she asked, looking up from her wristwatch.

“I said, how about we start out testing how you read on a melodrama and see how it goes?”

“I can read today, if you'd like,” Astrid said with a bright smile.

He folded up his eyeglasses and set them down on his desk. “Let me introduce you to the programming director and she can tell us whether you'd be a good fit.”

The day after Astrid left, Bo carried home three packing crates from the warehouse. Enough to hold all his things, he thought. Greta spied him before he could sneak the last one inside his room, and though he wanted to be packed and ready to walk out the door before he talked to Winter, he knew the gossip would spread through the house before he finished packing, so he left the crates and hunted down Winter, finding him upstairs in his study.

Afternoon sun beamed through the windows of the third-floor room, which, like Astrid's turret, looked out over Pacific Heights and the Bay. The study had belonged to Winter's father before he passed, and still housed the old man's library, as well as a carved dragon from the front of a Viking longship. And it was here that Winter stood in his shirtsleeves, holding his infant daughter while talking in a hushed, intense voice to his wife.

Aida looked up and smiled at Bo, but her expression changed when she saw his face. Did he look
that
miserable? Probably. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to Winter. “But I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I just remembered something,” Aida murmured and held out her arms. “Here, let me take her.”

Bo wished she'd leave Karin with Winter. Would be much harder for Winter to hit Bo while holding a baby. But he handed the child over, and Aida left the room in a hurry, giving Bo a pat on the arm as she passed.

“What's on your mind?” Winter asked, gesturing to a sofa in front of the unlit fireplace.

Bo declined. He was too nervous to sit. “I need to tell you something, and you aren't going to be happy about it.”

His boss's brow lowered. “Well, go on, then. Don't make me guess.”

Bo's stomach churned and his breathing quickened. His dazed mind had retreated from reality and floated in some kind of in-between space. “I'm in love with your sister.”

Winter didn't move.

Bo exhaled and corrected his first statement. “Astrid and I are in love,” he said, and then added, before he could stop himself, “I've slept with her.”

Winter blinked his mismatched eyes. Once. Twice. If Bo didn't know any better, he'd think the man's mind had gone to the same place Bo's seemed to be, because he looked just as dazed as Bo felt. And after a long moment, Winter finally said, “Did you get her pregnant?”

“What? No. No,” he repeated, shaking his head. Hopefully not. “We've been . . . cautious. Every time.” Might as well get it all out in the open.

“
Helvete
,” Winter murmured.

“I'm sorry. Not for that. I'm not sorry at all for that,” he said a little too fiercely, and forced himself to show some humbleness. “But I
am
sorry we kept it from you. I know this is upsetting, and I know it's probably not what you wanted for Astrid. You've trusted me with her, and I betrayed that trust. And I wish I could say that it will never happen again, and ask for forgiveness, but the truth is that I can't do that.” He took a deep breath and finished. “So I'm moving out. And if you don't want me working with
you anymore, I understand. I'll find other work. But I won't give her up. I just won't.”

“Christ alive,” Winter mumbled.

“It will be hard for her,” Bo said. “And I wish like hell I could change that. But she knows the risks. She's not a child.”

No response.

“We want your blessing,” Bo said. “But I won't beg for it.”

Winter flew toward him like an enraged bull. Bo faltered, body telling him to flee. But he stood his ground and braced for a punch in the face, praying that the man didn't hit him hard enough to kill him. He'd survived the cursed pirate's blows, but he wasn't entirely sure he'd survive Winter's.

Beefy arms shot toward him. Giant hands covered in sinews hovered in front of Bo's throat.
Choked to death
, Bo thought, resigned. Poetic justice for what he'd done to Mad Hammett, he supposed. He stood his ground, even as Winter's scarred face scowled at him with satanic rage.

A string of Swenglish curses left Winter's mouth. Unfortunately, after living with Swedes for a third of his life, Bo knew what all of them meant.

“
Bo
,” Winter finally pleaded and dropped his heavy hands on Bo's shoulders and squeezed but did not release. A pomaded lock of dark hair fell over a brow etched with lines. “I trusted you.”

“I know,” Bo murmured and met the man's intense gaze. “But I am not ashamed. I love her. And I will take care of her.”

Winter sighed. “I trusted you,” he repeated, “because you are the most honorable person I know. There are a thousand men in this city who would use Astrid for her looks or her name or her money—and twice as many who would look down at her for those same reasons, too. Who would I trust with her happiness?”

Bo stilled. He was very confused. His body kept telling
him to brace for violence, but his brain was misinterpreting what Winter was saying. What
was
he saying?

“I won't even ask if you're certain,” Winter continued. “I've seen how you look at each other for years. And the past weeks? Christ. I knew when she came back home, Bo. I'm no fool. And I won't lecture you on the hardships you'd be facing. You and her. And if you had any children . . .”

“I know,” Bo said, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” Winter agreed softly. “I expect you know more than anyone. It's not an easy choice.”

“And I haven't come to it lightly. I know I can't marry her. Not legally. But we aren't the first couple to face this. If the laws aren't fair, do you blindly obey them?”

Those were Winter's father's words, and Bo knew he was pushing things, throwing them back in Winter's face; his hands squeezed hard enough to leave bruises on Bo's shoulders . . . and then loosened. He turned and walked toward the windows. “You said you'd find other work. What would you do?” He didn't wait for an answer. “You'd just leave me in a lurch, knowing damn well I need you?”

“You'd get by without me.”

“Would I? While you did what?”

Bo had thought about it. Quite a lot, actually. “I'd try to get work fishing. Maybe sell the Buick and buy a small boat. There's more out there than crabs. Good money in tuna. Canneries opening up everywhere. There's decent money to be had. Not bootlegging money, but it's honorable work. And I read the news—Volstead won't hold forever. Every day there's more talk of repeal. What happens then?”

Winter crossed his arms over his chest. “You don't think I know that? Forget repeal. It's getting goddamn dangerous. Too many people killing each other over liquor. I got one baby and another one on the way. I think about it all the time. In fact, Aida and I were just talking. She's . . .”

“What?”

Winter gave a dismissive shrug and then scratched the
back of his neck. “I mentioned this before, but it's getting worse. She's been hearing the same message repeated in different séances for different people. Something bad is coming—something to do with the economy. Spirits are warning their relatives to pay off their debts and get their money out of the bank before the end of the year.”

Bo temporarily forgot his own troubles. He remembered Winter mentioning this back when the yacht first crashed into the pier. “You believe it?”

“People downtown are talking about the stock market and how buying on margin can't last forever.” Winter shrugged. “And Aida believes it, so that's good enough for me. Got me thinking about spreading out our interests. Maybe some legitimate shipping. And like you said, picking up more fishing, too. We've got no debt, and I've got enough in savings to keep us afloat for years.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “But we aren't talking about me. We're talking about you. Where will you live?”

Though he was feeling more optimistic about his chances of escaping a right hook to the jaw, Bo was still wary about saying too much. “I'll move back into my old apartment tonight. I asked Astrid to go back to school until I figured everything out. I have some ideas about apartments. People who might be persuaded to rent me a place outside of Chinatown. It won't be here, but I'll make sure it's safe.”

“Bigots won't leave Ju's Russian Hill house alone.”

“I know,” Bo said. “I have something in mind that might be less of a risk. I just need to find a way to make it work financially.”

“You could stay here.”

Bo stilled, unsure he'd heard right. Maybe he'd mistook Winter's meaning. “I can't. Not downstairs.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn't. His pride wouldn't let him, and if Winter didn't understand, so be it.

“You could have the half floor. The top of the turret. We could convert it into an apartment.”

For a moment, Bo imagined this. Living upstairs. But no, he couldn't. Independence is what he wanted. Freedom to be with Astrid. He stuck his hands in his pockets and dared to ask what he was thinking. What he was hoping, but at the same time, didn't dare to hope. “The turret . . . Do you mean just for me? Or for Astrid, too?”

Winter strode back across the study and stopped in front of Bo. “You are both my family, her by blood and you by choice,” he said in a low voice. “There isn't a thing in the world I wouldn't do for either one of you. And there's also no one I trust more with her happiness than you. So if you both want my blessing, you have it.”

An old, uncomfortable weight sprouted wings and lifted from Bo's chest. He wanted to weep. To collapse. To fall to his knees and thank every deity in the world. He managed to keep himself together and extended a trembling hand. “Thank you,
dai lo.
” Big brother—and a term of respect.

Winter accepted and shook, formally, and then heartily. They both chuckled, a little nervous. Winter exhaled a long breath and added, “You've also got my protection, because on the trail the two of you are about to blaze, you're damn sure going to need it.”

—

At eight o'clock the next night, Astrid waited for two workers in overalls to carry a leather sofa past her before stepping into the elevator of the Wicked Wenches' apartment building. She instantly recognized the handsome operator in burgundy uniform—the Jack Johnson look-alike who had helped them when Bo was stabbed. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Hello, again,” she said. “Mr. Laroche, isn't it?”

“Miss Magnusson.”

“Don't worry. No one's chasing after me today,” she said. Then added, “He's dead.”

He considered this for a moment and said, “That's good news.”

“Someone moving out?” she asked, nodding toward the men hauling the sofa.

“The Humphreys,” he confirmed.

“The state senator and his wife?”

He nodded and gave her a knowing look. Yes, he remembered her altercation with the nasty woman, too. “It was all very sudden. Divorcing, I hear. Top floor?”

She grinned. “Yes. Top floor, please.”

When she got to Maria and Mathilda's penthouse, they were waiting for her in the living room, smiling in their sparkling evening gowns and drinking champagne. Magnusson stock, Astrid thought as she eyed the black bottle. Had Lowe been here, delivering them booze?

“Darling girl!” Mathilda said and hugged her neck.

“We were so happy to hear that you're staying in Hadley's old apartment,” Maria said. “We're practically neighbors, at least for a little while. Hadley swore us to secrecy, but you must tell us everything. Where's the dashing Mr. Yeung?”

Astrid's heart fluttered inside her chest. “He doesn't know I'm still in town, actually. It's a very long story . . .”

“And we have a
lot
of champagne,” Mathilda assured her with a wink. “Let me pour you a glass and you can tell us all about it.”