Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) (5 page)

It was dark when the taxi took her through the Castro and the Mission District, and finally down the steep bend of California Street to her Nob Hill apartment building at Mason. The elegant nine-story high-rise was only a year old and very exclusive. Only the best, her father had encouraged when she’d decided to move out of the family home.

Tendrils of nighttime fog clung to French columns flanking the driveway. She paid the taxi driver and breezed through the small lobby, waving at an attendant who barely lifted his head—did he even know her name?—before stepping onto the elevator.

“Miss Bacall.” Finally, a friendly face. The graying elevator operator greeted her with his usual broad smile. “How was your trip?”

“Hectic, Mr. Walter. Very hectic. I’m relieved to be home.”

“No luggage?”

She wilted against the elevator wall. “No luggage. It’s a long story, I’m afraid. Hopefully it will be delivered tomorrow.”

He shut the scissor gate and engaged the elevator. “You’re deliberately trying to intrigue me, I think. But I won’t press. How about your class at the university? Did they like what you had to say about Egyptian cats?”

“They were attentive.” The ones who didn’t leave or fall asleep. She knew she wasn’t the liveliest public speaker. One of her coworkers, George, said listening to her speak was akin to enduring an accountant’s eulogy. She knew he wasn’t wrong; giving seminars made her uncomfortable. But if she wanted to rise above her curation pay—and George—it was a necessary evil, and one that she’d gladly submit to. She wanted her father’s position as department head more than just about anything.

But answering rote questions in front of bored college students at a podunk university was a one-way conversation. Not like the spirited discussion she’d had on the train that afternoon with Lowe. To her great surprise, he wasn’t just a dumb treasure hunter who’d stumbled upon the
djed
. He knew things. He could read hieroglyphics, and he’d even learned some of the Nubi language from the local Aswan workers on his excavation. He told her stories about the historic book market in Alexandria, and asked for details about her seminar.

He listened. He asked questions.

He argued.

He might not agree with all her funerary tool theories, and he wasn’t precise with dynasty dates, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. And he had an easy, unpretentious way of talking that she didn’t encounter much in her line of work.

He also lied about anything and everything under the sun. And beyond the seeming lightheartedness of it, she realized now that he was a master of deflection. All their chatting, all that time spent together, and he’d barely revealed a single personal detail about himself.

Floor numbers scrolled past the scissor gates as they ascended. Mr. Walter chatted about the winter rain they’d been getting and how it hadn’t slowed a drunken hellfire party going on at the Pacific Union Club, the men’s club across the street. On the ninth floor, he bid her good night.

In the entry to her apartment, she stepped on an envelope when she shrugged out of her coat. She weighted it in her hand. Not good, she feared.

“Mrs. Durer?” she called out.

Her maid did not answer.

A fitting end to her dreary day.

The click of her heels on polished marble bounced around the high walls of her spacious living room. The windows here looked out over the twinkling lights of the Fairmont Hotel—a beautiful building, always busy with people coming and going. And the steady rumble of cars and occasional clack of the cable cars braving the steep hill kept her company, night or day.

Like the rest of her apartment, the master bedroom contained a minimal amount of furniture. Everything was bolted down: bed, nightstand, chaise lounge. In the six months she’d lived there, her specters had blown out two windows and three light fixtures and had overturned a large armoire. Best not to give them any extra kindling, she found.

Her father called them Mori. Death specters. Her mother became cursed with them after a trip to Egypt, and when she died, they were passed on to Hadley. Strong, negative emotions called them up, fueled them. Shadowy tricksters, her father had explained when she was a child.

“Trickster” seemed too kind a word for spirits with the power to kill.

The only companion sturdy enough to survive her angry moods was a sleek black cat. Lounging on her silk coverlet, he stretched his long limbs in greeting when she dropped her handbag on the nightstand.

“Hello, Number Four,” she said, running a hand along his soft belly. He answered with an enthusiastic purr.

Because of her unusual curse, she’d never been allowed to have pets as a child. A necessary precaution, even now. God knew she wouldn’t normally even consider subjecting an innocent life to her murderous moods. But she didn’t seek out Number Four—she’d found him hiding in the pantry after she moved in. And though she’d tried to shoo him away, he just kept coming back, again and again, so she finally allowed the stubborn creature to stay.

A few months ago, he was Number Three, until he was caught in the cross fire of a fight between her and her father: the cat had hidden under a chair the specters reduced to matchsticks. But just as he’d done the first two times he’d gotten on the wrong side of the specters, the cat managed to pick himself back up and simply kept on ticking.

Nine lives, as the superstition goes. Seeing how he was on this fourth already, by her count, Hadley figured he had five more left. He was an odd sort of miracle, that cat of hers.

A lot like her, really.

She tried not to think about Lowe when she stripped off her clothes and tossed the ripped dress in a wastebasket. Unbelievable that she’d spent last night and most of today with him. The whole thing felt surreal to her now, like a dream. Or a gaudy nightmare.

Stretching out on the bed with Number Four, she held up the found envelope to her reading lamp above the headboard. The silhouette of a key and a letter appeared against the golden light. She ripped off the side of the envelope and tipped it into her open palm. Her apartment key fell out. The metal was cold against her fist as she skimmed the handwritten letter from her latest maid:
Miss Bacall . . . Grateful for my time in your service . . . however, I must take my leave . . . My nerves are frayed . . . Feel as if the devil dwells inside you . . . bad luck . . . Will pray for you and that demonic cat.

“Another servant bites the dust,” she said to Number Four. “Good riddance, you say? Why, Number Four, that’s not very nice. Then again, neither was Mrs. Durer, and she did call you demonic. We’ll contact the agency tomorrow and find someone less evangelical.”

He purred in agreement.

She wasn’t sad to see the woman go, exactly. But as she stared out the window past the city lights, she couldn’t help but think of Lowe and his boisterous family. From the train’s window, she’d watched the warm greeting they gave him, all hugs and smiles and laughter.

No one had bothered to welcome her home. Her father probably hadn’t even remembered she’d left town. A shame that the only person who knew her comings and goings was the elevator operator.

No, she wasn’t sad that another maid had quit. But she
was
sad that the old woman’s quick departure left Hadley alone in the middle of a busy city. And she was sad that it made her feel so needy. Not for the first time, she wished that she could come home and count on someone being there. A warm body. Another voice.

Another soul.

She thought of last night, and how she’d spent much of it listening to the even rhythm of Lowe’s breath as he slept peacefully on the berth across from her. How comforting it was to fall asleep to that sound.

She clung to the memory of that feeling while she curled up in an empty room, in an empty apartment, with nothing but herself and a cat for company.

AFTER SLEEPING IN TENTS
and dirty hotels for the better part of the year, Lowe found his beloved feather bed on the second floor of the Magnussons’ sprawling Queen Anne to be everything he’d remembered: luxurious, comforting, and safe. Moreover, his en suite bathroom was blessedly clean, the polished floors of his room smelled like orange oil, and all of his things were just as he’d left them. But after catching up with his family and staff—and after their housekeeper, Greta, bemoaning the loss of his pinky finger, stuffed him with a homecoming feast of Swedish gravlax and dilled potatoes—he woke up the next morning feeling restless.

Maybe it was Winter’s warnings about Monk Morales that did it. Or maybe it was the cursed
djed
amulet burning a proverbial hole in his soul. He needed to get that thing to a safe place, and fast. But before he could, he supposed he’d better let Archibald Bacall have a look. Maybe the man would like the damned thing so much, he’d triple his offer. Or quadruple it.

And perhaps while visiting Dr. Bacall, Lowe might see Hadley again. After the way she’d left him at the train station, it might be in his best interest to avoid the woman. Why he was still thinking about her, he didn’t understand.

The train company delivered his luggage early that morning. He looted it for gifts he’d brought back from Egypt before dressing in a freshly pressed suit and tie—possibly the cleanest clothes he’d worn in months. But old habits die hard, so he tucked his pants into knee-high brown leather boots and skipped the suspenders, opting for a belt. More comfortable, and it gave him something on which to anchor his curved dagger. He’d never admit it to Winter, but after the thugs with the guns in Salt Lake City, he wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to march around the city unprotected. So he checked that his short coat covered the weapon and headed out.

“Oh, Lulu baby,” he cooed to the poppy red Indian motorcycle gleaming in the late morning sunlight. God, he’d missed her. Conspicuous, yes, but also small and nimble; she could fit into places a big car couldn’t.

He adjusted the fuel petcock and chock, and with one good kick-start, the engine rumbled to life. Beautiful. After tugging down the brim of his favorite brown herringbone flatcap, he maneuvered around Winter’s limo and sped out of the gate. Sweet freedom! Everything disappeared but Lulu’s weight beneath him and the road ahead.

The ride reacquainted him with the city’s steep hills and the sweeping views of the sparkling Bay, an oasis after the prison sentence he’d served digging under Egypt’s blistering sun. He was home, and he wasn’t going to leave. Ever. He repeated this promise to familiar buildings as he passed until he’d crisscrossed his way through downtown.

No one seemed to be dogging his path, so he stopped at his favorite barbershop to rid himself of the itchy whiskers and have his mop of sun-bleached blond curls trimmed and pomaded back into manageable waves. Astrid would stop complaining now.

Feeling lighter, he zigzagged up through southwestern Pacific Heights past the old Laurel Hill Cemetery grounds to Golden Gate Park. The de Young Museum sat on green lawns and a palm-lined concourse. Throngs of people soaked up sunshine in front of the building’s Spanish Plateresque facade. He zipped around the side road to the administrative offices.

Austere wood paneling and a pretty strawberry-haired receptionist greeted him.

“Why, hello,” she said, flashing a dazzling smile as she chewed a piece of gum. “How may I help you, sir?”

“Mr. Magnusson to see Dr. Bacall.” He handed her a business card and waited while she excused herself to announce his arrival. A few minutes later, she returned to lead him down a narrow hall past several closed doors to one of the bigger offices in the back.

Book-heavy shelves and numbered boxes lined the walls of the musty room, and paperwork collected on a corner conference table. Dust motes hung suspended in a slice of sunlight framing a thin, elderly man slumped behind a desk. More than elderly—on death’s door. The man looked as if he were minutes away from drying up and blowing out the window.

“Dr. Bacall . . .” the redhead prompted.

“Lowe Magnusson?” the man answered. His head turned in Lowe’s direction, but his eyes didn’t see him. They were eerily blank. Albino white—no iris and barely a trace of pupil.

He was blind.

Good lord. What the hell had happened to Archibald Bacall?

Lowe cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, sir. It’s good to meet you.”

“Come in, come in. I have trouble moving around these days, so you’ll have to forgive me.” He lifted his head and spoke to the receptionist. “Miss Tilly, can you show him a chair, then close the door, please? This is a private meeting. No interruptions.”

As the door snicked shut behind him, Lowe removed his cap and studied the old man. Sagging, mottled skin. Frail bones. Balding. Liver spots. He’d seen fairly recent photographs of the man in archaeology publications—he’d had a head full of hair and didn’t look a day over fifty.

“It’s good to finally meet you after all our correspondence,” Bacall said in a half-British, half-American transatlantic accent. The one Hadley shared. If Lowe remembered correctly, Bacall was from some titled English family or another—he’d married the gold rush heiress after moving here from across the pond.

“You, as well.”

Could the man see him at all? Anything? Lowe waved his hand in the air. Bacall stared vacantly toward the back of the room.

“Quite a nest you stumbled upon outside the Philae temple,” the old man said. “Hard to believe it’s attracted so many scholars and tourists over the last couple of decades and no one noticed the sunken entrance.”

Lowe peeled off his driving gloves and stuffed them in his coat pockets. “Just happened to decipher a code on the temple walls that led me to the secret room. Stroke of luck, really.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I think you’re damn good at solving puzzles and finding things. Good scholars are a dime a dozen. In fact, we’ve got a dozen of them in these offices this afternoon. They can argue a theory and uncover new things sitting behind their desks, but they won’t get their hands dirty. An educated treasure hunter like you with sharp field skills and the brains to decode riddles? You’re a different breed altogether. An undervalued one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Society snobs like Bacall didn’t have respect for men like Lowe. Maybe the old man was trying to butter him up to get a better price, hard to tell. His daughter had been much easier to read.

The telephone rang.

“I thought I told her no interruptions,” Bacall murmured. “Excuse me one moment.”

Lowe sat back and waited for the man to finish his call. A few seconds into it, a brief knock sounded from an inner door in the corner of the room, and the door swung open. A familiar willowy figure marched in lugging a stack of file folders up to her nose.

Dressed in a black pencil skirt and gray sweater, with a string of faceted black beads swinging down to her waist, Hadley looked more Casket Saleswoman than Wealthy Funeral Attendee today.

With a grunt, she lowered the files onto her father’s conference table and attempted to straighten the teetering stack. She stilled and lifted her chin as if she were scenting the air. Then both her head and the string of black beads swung in his direction.

He grinned. Hard to tell if she was surprised or disgusted by his presence, but whatever it was, her hand slipped on the stack of folders. Half the files slid sideways and toppled onto the floor, paper scattering like autumn leaves.

He jumped to his feet to help her. “Funny seeing you here,” he said in a low voice as he steadied the remaining folders threatening to fall. “Jumped any trains today?”

“Please don’t mention that in front of Father,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to check that the man was still talking on the telephone.

“The jumping part, or the torn dress part, or the spending the night together part?”

“The part where we did anything other than meet briefly in the first-class dining car.”

“Oh, ho-ho! Someone lied to dear old Daddy, did she?”

She glared at him like she was seconds away from scratching out his eyeballs.

“You have my word,” he said, etching an invisible “X” over his heart.

“Which is worth less than a trapdoor on a lifeboat.”

“Ooaf!” He bent with her to scoop up paperwork. “I get the distinct impression you aren’t glad to see me again, Hadley.”

“You aren’t wrong, Lowe.”

Despite her dour attitude, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting with him. A strange little spark warmed his chest. “And to think, just yesterday morning I was waking up to the sight of your bed-mussed hair.”

“Keep your voice down!” she said, glancing back at her father once more.

“If you lied to your old man, what did you tell your boyfriend?” No ring, and she hadn’t mentioned anyone last night, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about anything more than mummy dust. Maybe she kept time with some fancy-pants society doctor.

The barest of flushes colored her cheeks, but she didn’t look up from her task. “Are you here to make my life miserable?”

“I’m here to empty your father’s bank account. Making you miserable is a bonus.”

“I do believe that’s the first honest thing you’ve ever told me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“The only thing in my head right now is that cock,” she said, nodding toward the wall.

Lowe paused. “Pardon?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

Another pause. Lowe looked where she’d gestured. “You mean . . . the
clock?
”

“That’s what I said.” But it wasn’t, and her gaze flicked to his crotch—so fast he almost wasn’t sure he saw it until a furious strawberry blush spilled over her cheeks and neck. “Th-that’s what I meant,” she stuttered, then whispered to herself, “Oh, God.”

Well, well,
well
. When was the last time he’d heard
that
from a woman’s mouth? Had he ever? Hadley Bacall, overflowing with desire for . . . clock.

He didn’t think she could redden any more, which made him feel a little pity for her. Best to let it go, as much as he hated to. So he gathered paperwork while she gathered her wits.

“Here, this one’s intact.” The fingers of his disfigured hand brushed hers as he passed a folder. She snatched her hand back like he was carrying the Black Death.

The sting of the rejection took him by surprise. He’d become accustomed to people staring, but did his injury disgust her, too?

She cleared her throat and gestured to his hand. “Believe me, it’s not that—not at all,” she said in a low voice and looked into his eyes with startling sincerity. “Please . . .”

Her candid acknowledgment made him feel exposed, and for some bizarre reason, this also thrilled him. Why? It was as if the moment stretched between them and built a bridge. A rickety bridge, unsafe to cross, but he attempted anyway, irrational excitement urging him to lean closer. “‘Please’ what?” he whispered, his breath fluttering a glossy strand of raven hair near her ear. “What do you want, Hadley?”

“What I want,” she said in a controlled voice, “is for you to please shut up and sit down.”

Well.

Can’t cross a bridge when someone’s shoving you off the side. He left her on the floor with the files and plopped back down in his chair, unsure why he even cared. Bacall was still on the telephone.

While one of his knees bounced out an anxious rhythm, Lowe attempted to divert his attention elsewhere. Lots of books on the shelves, but the titles were drier than the Sahara. He watched a bird alight on a branch outside the window . . . noted a frayed section of telephone cord. But a hushed whisper—
one, two, three
—brought his attention back to the conference table, where Hadley was counting under her breath while bending to pick up the folders.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

There it was, only a few feet away. How could he have forgotten? When she bent down, it tilted up to greet him. When she stood, it hiked up the hem of her pencil skirt by an inch or two.

If a salacious portrait of Hadley were painted on a carnival sideshow banner, it would read
Come See the Woman with the Roundest, Most Voluptuous Ass in the World!
Carnies would be able to charge whatever they wanted for a peek inside a dark tent, and Lowe would cash every penny he’d ever earned for five minutes alone with her in that tent.

Bend down. Pick up file. Stand up. Set file down.

All for his amusement, right there in front of him! Like watching a restaurant waiter flambé cherries jubilee at your table. Only, instead of making his mouth water, it was making his pants uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and darted a glance at her father. Please God, let the man be totally and utterly blind.

Bend down. Stand up.

Oh, what he would give to angle her over that conference table, yank up that skirt, and find out if she was wearing more colorful lingerie today. Instead of peacock feathers, he imagined flaming cherries. And he imagined kneeling behind her and sinking his teeth into one of those oh-so-round cheeks.

Sweat beaded at his hairline. This was wrong, nursing an erection right in front of the woman’s father. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He moved his cap further up his lap to cover himself and focused on book titles again. Dry, boring, academic titles about ancient pottery glazes and fourteenth-century crop rotation. Oh, look—her father’s phone conversation was over.