Happy Medium: (Intermix) (13 page)

“You mean for dinner?”

His lips spread in a grin. “Well, yeah. For now.”

“I guess so. I mean, I was really hungry earlier so I’m guessing I will be again when this wears off.”

“When what wears off?”

“You know, this.” She waved her hand vaguely at the room.

He began to grin again.

“Stop it.” She swatted him across the shoulder. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“Works for me.”

He pulled on his jeans and shoes, trying to think of some way he could keep her from pulling on that dirt-brown skirt and white silk blouse that made her look like somebody’s Aunt Mildred. “Here.” He tossed her one of his T-shirts from his duffel bag. “You don’t need to put everything back on again.”

She gave him a shy grin. “I don’t?”

“You don’t.” His grin answered hers.
Most definitely not.

Once they got downstairs, after a couple of very pleasant detours, he rummaged through Rosie’s pantry. Soup, packages of pasta, beans, and a couple of cans of chili, along with a full selection of wine. He grabbed a package of spaghetti and backed out only to find Emma setting up a plate of sliced vegetables and a bowl of salad dressing.

“That looks good.”

“It was in the refrigerator. Your sister must have left it for you.”

Given that it was king-size, Rosie obviously hadn’t left it for him alone.

“There’s some deli meat and bread for sandwiches too. What would you like?”

You. With mayonnaise that I could lick off.
He took a deep breath. Better not frighten the girl so early on. “Anything’s fine.” He picked up a bag of pita chips from the counter and found a bowl.

Emma put a plate of sandwich meat on the kitchen table along with bread and, yes, mayonnaise. She caught his stare. “Would you rather have mustard?”

“Nope.” He leaned back into the pantry, grabbing a bottle of wine that he really hoped wasn’t one of Rosie’s favorites. He intended to toast Emma’s knees and possibly her eyelashes, which struck him as a lot more lush than the average. Actually, he’d probably just toast Emma herself, seeing as how everything about her was choice, especially in his T-shirt that barely covered her essentials.

He was a happy man about to become a
very
happy man.

Emma sat opposite him at the table, chewing carrot sticks as he devoured a double-decker ham and cheese sandwich. He managed to keep his hands from straying across the table with difficulty.

“Where’s the dog?” she asked after a few minutes. “Did your sister board it?”

“Sort of.” He hadn’t seen Helen since Rosie had taken off. He was guessing she’d gone roaming on her own. “She’s taken care of anyway.”

“Oh. Well . . . good.” Emma looked a little confused, but she must have decided not to pursue it.
Good plan.

After a few more minutes, she put down her veggies and picked up a pile of papers from the edge of the table. “These are the printouts I made today. I found some interesting stuff.”

“Yeah?” He tried to work up some enthusiasm. Right now the Hampton house was pretty low on his list of priorities.

“I think I might have found the ghost.”

That at least made him sit up straight. “What’s the story?”

She handed him some photocopies. “Well, first of all, according to Gracie, after Alexander Grunewald moved out of the house in the early twenties, his son Livingston most likely moved in. And apparently Livingston was into wild nights and general loose living.”

“The ghost’s a guy?” Somehow that didn’t compute with his dreams at all.

She shook her head. “No, but he’s connected. According to one of the books I found, at some point in 1926 or 1927, he moved his mistress into the house. Her name was Amina Becker, from some place called Castroville.”

He nodded. “That’s a little town not too far from here. Nice place. She must have been a country girl.”

“She moved in with Livingston until Alexander found out and threw some kind of hissy fit. He ordered Livingston to get rid of her, and Livingston told her she’d have to go.”

Ray sighed. “Doesn’t sound like this leads to a happy ending.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t. After he told her to move out, she hung herself in the bedroom. She left a note telling him she loved him and couldn’t leave him. Kind of sad, really.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. So this Amina is the one who’s throwing stuff around?”

“I’m not sure, but she’s a good possibility. I haven’t turned up anybody else.” She grimaced. “On the other hand . . .”

He sighed. “I knew it couldn’t be easy. On the other hand what?”

“On the other hand, nobody else mentions ghosts in connection with that house. And most of the owners held onto it for a good long time.” She picked up her list of owners, running her finger down the page. “I mean, Hampton lived there for thirty years or so.”

“Which you don’t think he’d do if there was a ghost?”

“I wouldn’t if it were my house,” she said slowly. “Not with that ghost. Not with the kind of things she’s been up to.”

He thought of the slamming doors, the tape measure aimed at his head. The dream. Not to mention the whole grabbing-his-balls experience.

“No. I wouldn’t either.” Although, of course, he’d still have to find a way to sell the thing. “So what happened to Grunewald?”

“You mean Livingston? I don’t know exactly. He fades out of King William history. The guy who wrote the book where I found the story implied that Alexander threw him out. And Alexander did sell the house in the year that Amina died.” She picked up a couple of grape tomatoes. “So anyway, now that we have a good idea who the ghost might be it could be easier for us to figure out how to get rid of her.”

He took a sip of Rosie’s wine.
Not bad at all.
“What are you thinking of?”

She shrugged. “An exorcism, I guess. I don’t know much about this stuff.”

“I’ve been told that exorcisms aren’t a good idea in cases like this.”

“Really? Why not?”

He shook his head. “It . . . sort of . . . pisses off the ghosts. And it usually doesn’t work.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay, well, we don’t want her any more pissed off than she already is, I guess.”

“Definitely not.” Which left open the million-dollar question. How exactly were they supposed to get rid of the thing, whether they pissed it off or not?

“Well, I could try researching alternatives to exorcism. Maybe I could find something on the Web.” She sounded slightly hesitant.

He leaned forward, taking her hand in his. “You know what I’d really like?”

Her cheeks glowed faintly pink in the dim kitchen light.
She blushes. Nice.
“What?”

“I’d like to not talk about the house for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, I’d like to not talk much, period.”

She gazed up at him from beneath those lush lashes, her lips edging into a smile. “And do what instead?”

“Oh babe,” he murmured, leaning further. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She giggled as he pulled her into his lap.

Chapter 12

Of course, they did talk. Sort of. But Emma had to admit the not-talking part of the evening was a lot more fun. Finally, they curled up together, too sated even for conversation. She drifted off to sleep in Ray’s arms without even thinking about whether she should stay over or not. There didn’t seem to be much question anyway—she was staying. Although she’d have to go back to her motel tomorrow to change her clothes. The linen suit was definitely too wrinkled to be worn now, and she was thinking of maybe just dropping it in the Goodwill donation box on her way back.

She slid into her dream space, warm, happy, ready to sleep soundly for the first time in several days. Unfortunately, the woman seated in front of her in that dream space didn’t seem interested in her sleep habits. “It took you long enough.”

Emma blinked. She wasn’t accustomed to conversations in her dreams, certainly not conversations that made sense. “Excuse me?”

The woman sighed, shaking her head. “Never mind. You’re here now.”

Emma glanced around the space—blank white walls and floor, no furniture except for the maroon fainting couch where the woman sat. Her black skirt swept the floor at her feet. The full sleeves of her dark blue shirtwaist reached to her wrists, while the lace-trimmed collar almost touched her chin. A gold watch was pinned to the front. Her hair was gathered into a bun that reminded Emma of Gibson Girls. She held a long black cane in front of her, resting her hands at the top.

She wasn’t old, although she wore old-fashioned clothes. Her hair was the same honey-gold shade as Ray Ramos’s hair, and her face was smooth. She was in her thirties maybe.

Good grief. This is the most detailed dream I’ve ever had.
“What do you want?”

“Are you enjoying yourself?” The woman’s expression was impassive.

Emma couldn’t detect any sarcasm, but she figured it was there somewhere. “Yes. Very much.”

“Good.” The woman nodded decisively. “You’ll have to move soon now. She’s getting stronger—you can’t wait too long.”

Emma frowned. “Who’s getting stronger?”

The woman didn’t seem to have heard her. “Find the keepsake. That fool girl went to a medium—the wrong kind. She had a love token. Find it. Then you’ll have her.”

“Who are you talking about? What keepsake? And who is the
her
we’ll have?” Emma wondered if it was really possible to feel dizzy in a dream. She sort of did right then.

“Find it. It’s still there. It’s what she’s using.”

The white walls began to turn gray, slowly fading away. The woman began to fade too—her head erect, her hands still resting on the cane.

“Thank you,” Emma said, just as she became transparent.

The woman gave a regal nod and then she was gone.

I should probably write this down.
But Emma felt herself sinking further into sleep, and she knew she wouldn’t do it.
It’s all right. I’ll remember.

The sunlight woke her hours later, seeping around the corner of the shade and through the lace curtains. She threw her arm across her eyes for a moment, dazzled by the light.

Find it. It’s still there. It’s what she’s using.

She frowned, her eyes tightly closed. The whole dream remained surprisingly sharp in her mind. And she still remembered exactly what the woman had said. She could even remember the way her voice had sounded, faintly amused by Emma’s affair with Ray but very serious about the woman who was growing stronger.

Whoever she was. Whatever the keepsake was.
A love token.

She could hear the sound of the shower from the bathroom across the hall, presumably where Ray was at the moment. She slid out of bed and began retrieving her clothes from various locations around the room. Her blouse and skirt were in front of the bookcase. Her panties and bra were on the other side of the room. Apparently Ray had quite a range when he threw underwear.

Her skirt was a mass of wrinkles—probably more than she could ever get out. Her pleated silk blouse looked a lot less cool than it had on the sale table in that sedate boutique in the Woodlands. Maybe she could wrap a sheet around her body, the way the women in movies always did, before Ray saw her first thing in the morning.

Or maybe she could just wear his T-shirt again. It had worked well for supper last night. And afterward. She pulled it on over her panties and bra.

Ray was dressed for work when she finally made it down to the breakfast table. She took a breath as she studied those low-slung jeans, the white T-shirt that outlined his muscles, and the damp hair drifting across his forehead. “Hey. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ve got to go over to the house again. But you can stay here and relax if you want to since it’s Saturday for everybody else.”

“The historical society’s open on Saturday mornings. I thought I’d go over and do a little more checking. After I go back to my motel and change.” She frowned, trying to think of something she could change into. Her suits wouldn’t be great for digging around in the stacks, but they were the only clothes she had.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you own any jeans?”

She shrugged. “Back in Houston. Except they’re not really jeans. More like denim slacks.”

“Denim slacks?” He grimaced. “No Levis? No Wranglers? Not even some Lees?”

“Nope. Gabrielle has a standing rule that I have to look professional whenever I’m working for her. And it seems like I’m always working these days.”

“Professional.” He shook his head. “Jeans and a T-shirt would work better for what you’re doing around here now. Between the historical society and the Hampton house, you’re going to ruin your wardrobe.” Somehow he didn’t look like that prospect upset him all that much.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said a little stiffly.

He leaned across the table, covering her hand with his own. “Or you could go on wearing what you’ve got on now. That definitely works for me.”

She glanced down at the length of bare leg she was currently showing beneath the edge of his borrowed T-shirt. “It probably wouldn’t work for Gracie.”

“Pleasing Gracie’s wasn’t what I had in mind.” He gave her one of those slow grins that made her toes curl, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

Time for a change of subject.
“Should I meet you at the Hampton house? I mean, if I find anything at the society?” She took a quick breath. Maybe she shouldn’t be so quick to assume he wanted to get together again tonight.

“Why don’t you just come back here? You can pack a suitcase. Bring your toothbrush. And anything else you’ll need.” He was still smiling, and her toes were thoroughly curled.

“Okay.” She blushed, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. Considering the amount of heat he was generating, maybe she was lucky it was only a blush.

He stretched further across the table, cupping her cheek in his hand and leaning down to brush his lips across hers, then came back for a deeper kiss. She brought her hands to his shoulders, letting herself slide into the feeling, heat building in her belly.

He raised his head slightly, resting his forehead against hers. “Damn. You are one terrific distraction, you know that?”

She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Same goes.”

“I’d do something about this, but I’ve got a feeling if we get started I’ll never make it to the Hampton house. And I’m already behind over there.”

“It’s okay.” She let her lips drift up into a faint smile. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

He cupped the back of her head, bringing his mouth down again, his tongue rasping against hers. Then he stood up, drawing in a deep breath. “Yeah. You’ll definitely see me later. In fact, you can count on that.”

An hour after Ray left, Emma was headed to the historical society, wearing her last clean skirt and a silk shirt, also her last. Maybe she should try to do a little shopping, like Ray had suggested. Or at least find a dry cleaner.

She hadn’t owned a pair of blue jeans in ages, not since she’d gone to work for Gabrielle. Having some now would be really . . . cool. Even if she never got to wear them again once she was back working in Houston.

The thought of going back to Houston made her shoulders tense.
You knew you’d be leaving here. Houston is where you live.
All true. But right now she didn’t exactly feel like going back there.

Gracie raised an eyebrow when she walked by the reception desk. “Well, well. Ms. Dress-For-Success returns.”

Emma’s cheeks heated up, but she managed a smile. “Morning, Gracie. How late is the building open today?”

“Noon,” Gracie said flatly. “And if you’re not out when we close the doors, you can spend the weekend in the stacks. I don’t come back here for anybody.”

“I’ll be out, I promise.” Emma checked her watch. Ten o’clock. A couple of hours to look at the other owners of the Hampton house to see if any other buried secrets turned up. Or a couple of hours to track down information on Siobhan Riordan, as Ray had requested. She blew out a breath. Today seemed like a Siobhan kind of day.

She skimmed several of the stories about Siobhan building the house. Nothing particularly noteworthy about it, she decided. Siobhan’s obituary, on the other hand, was more interesting. Her birth date in Ireland wasn’t provided, but some of the other articles about her building the house and living in King William had given Siobhan’s age, or the age she’d been admitting to. Emma did some quick calculations and came up with an approximate birth date to go with the death date. She’d lived to a ripe old age of around eighty-five. More importantly, she’d lived until 1950. Which meant she might have known the Grunewalds, father and son, when they’d lived in King William.

She was survived by her daughter, Caroline. Apparently, Caroline’s daughter, Ray’s mom, hadn’t been born yet. But this time Caroline was referred to as Mrs. Brian Byrne rather than Caroline Riordan, so she had been married, and presumably her daughter was the product of that marriage. Which didn’t exactly explain why Ray’s mom had still been known as a Riordan rather than a Byrne before she’d become a Ramos. Maybe Ray would know.

The other details of the obituary were somewhat murky. Siobhan was described as a “businesswoman” and a “consultant to several prominent families.” What that business was—and what she consulted on—was unclear. Deliberately so, it seemed to Emma.

Surely it couldn’t have been anything criminal. She lived in the King William District. That pretty much left out owning a bawdy house or running an opium den, unless she did it very discreetly indeed. Whatever Siobhan’s profession, it had to be something fairly lucrative to maintain her King William home, while at the same time it was apparently something that was kept quiet. At the moment, Emma couldn’t think of any job that might qualify.

She glanced at her list of entries from the database concerning Siobhan, frowning slightly. One entry was for a book,
Shadows of San Antonio
, by someone named Ignacio Burnside.

Has to be a pseudonym
. She headed up the stairs to the closed-off third floor again. Ray was right. Jeans would definitely have been an advantage over her silk blouse and rayon skirt when it came to heat and dust.

Shadows of San Antonio
was more like a pamphlet than a book. From the look of it, Emma guessed it was self-published. The pages weren’t tightly bound in their cover. She glanced at the table of contents. Apparently, Burnside was the early twentieth-century equivalent of a gossip columnist. All the chapters seemed to concern notorious people among San Antonio’s elite.

“No wonder it’s self-published,” she muttered. “Lawsuit city.”

She wondered briefly if the Grunewald family showed up in any of the chapters, but she didn’t see anything in the table of contents that seemed to refer to them. For that matter, she didn’t find any chapter title that seemed to refer to Siobhan Riordan either.

She started leafing through the pages, trying to find Siobhan in the opening paragraphs of the chapters, but she almost missed the reference anyway. When her eyes finally focused on Siobhan’s name, she found herself wondering if there could be two Siobhan Riordans:

Siobhan Riordan built her King William mansion so that she could carry on her séances in peace. But the Riordans were already well established in their chosen profession. According to legend, they’d been part of the medium trade in Ireland for at least two generations before arriving on the shores of Texas. Siobhan’s own mother and grandmother were notable psychics on the Ould Sod. And Siobhan’s daughter, Caroline, may well continue in her mother’s tradition after that worthy’s demise, communicating with spirits for the benefit of San Antonio’s
crème de la crème
.

She read the paragraph over twice, trying to make sure she was seeing what she most assuredly was seeing.
Séance. Medium trade.
Siobhan Riordan was in the same profession as Gabrielle DeVere, a medium who ran séances. And like Gabrielle, she was apparently very successful at what she did. Successful enough to own a very fancy house in a very fancy neighborhood. And to pass the business on to her daughter when she died.

Emma wondered if that was why Ray’s mom had left home—maybe she couldn’t stomach the whole medium/séance bit. It was enough to make Emma herself want to leave Houston sometimes, and she wasn’t even related to Gabrielle.

Thank God.

Clearly, though, Ray didn’t know about what his great-grandmother did for a living—and maybe his grandmother too, for that matter. If he had, he wouldn’t have asked Emma to research her. She blew out a breath. That meant she’d be the first one to tell him that Great-grandma was a con artist.
Groovy.
She turned the page, looking for more information on Siobhan, and found a picture.

Her stomach did a quick flip.

The woman in the picture wore a black dress with slightly ballooning sleeves and a high, lace-trimmed collar. She held a black cane in front of her, more for style than necessity as far as Emma could tell.

She wiped her suddenly damp palms on her thighs, dropping her gaze to the picture’s caption.
Siobhan Riordan, 1913. San Antonio.