How to Survive a Killer Seance (13 page)

“Rocco, did you see—” I started to say.

“What?” Rocco snapped as he removed a couple of meringue ghosts that had broken on the ride over.

“Uh . . . never mind.”

I started to return to the ballroom—I had work to do—but out of the corner of my eye, I saw another streak of white move past a window on the other side of the kitchen. Dashing out, I zipped down the hall and caught a glimpse of someone—or something—disappearing around a corner.

“Wait!” I called out.

No response.

I moved around the corner and followed the passageway around until it came to a pair of paneled, sliding doors. The smell of onions and garlic wafted through the crack. I slid one door open and found myself in another kitchen.

And there stood my ghost: A man, thirtysomething, dressed in loose white pants, a white shirt, with black patent-leather shoes that matched his jet-black hair, black mustache, and black-rimmed glasses. He was bent over a plastic container filled with something pungent that made my mouth water.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The man straightened up and turned to me.

“I’m . . . Joe Thornton. Who are you?” he returned, smoothing down his mustache.

“Presley Parker. I’m the event planner for the Séance Party tonight. What are you doing here?”

“Working,” he replied, shoving his glasses back on his face and returning to the bowl of what had to be roasted garlic and onions. In a few seconds, I was going to need a napkin to wipe off the drool.

“Where’s Rodney, the chef Lyla hired to make the appetizers?”

“Here,” a deep, scratchy voice said from behind. I turned to see a burly man wearing chef’s whites and a once-white apron, holding a large pot. “Rodney Worth, at your service. Joe is one of my waiters tonight. What can I do for you?”

I reintroduced myself. The chef nodded, only half listening, as he peered over his waiter’s shoulder and into the open container. “What are you doing?” he said to Joe.

The bewildered waiter took a step back. “Nothing. Just checking it.” He smoothed his mustache again. The guy seemed to have a lot of nervous tics.

“Leave it alone,” Rodney barked. “I told you to bring in all the supplies, not open containers and check them. Where have you been? There’s a bunch of stuff still in the van I need. Now.”

Joe nodded in acquiescence, but his eyes narrowed and I could see his clenched jaw before he headed out to do his boss’s bidding.

“He’s new,” Rodney said with a sigh. “My sous-chef got him from craigslist or somewhere. Spends more time wandering around this place or talking on his cell phone than working. When will I learn.”

“Well, I’ll get out of your way. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Some competent help would be nice,” he said. “These cheese and crab
amuse-bouches
aren’t going to make themselves.”

I ducked out of the room before he put me to work—I had enough on my plate as it was. And that séance table wasn’t going to decorate itself either. Heading back, I must have taken a wrong turn, because I found myself at a dead end. I was about to retrace my steps when I thought I heard faint voices coming from the wall.

Great, Presley. First you think you’re seeing ghosts, and now you think you’re hearing them.

More indistinct mumbling. Coming from the wall.

I followed the sound. The voices grew louder. I heard a woman’s voice.

Coming from . . . where?

I looked around for the source, but all I saw was an old rusted pipe on the ceiling, that ran the length of the wall. It turned down in one corner, then dead-ended halfway to the floor.

Suddenly it dawned on me. A listening tube.

Mia had pointed out a couple of these pipes on our tour of the house. Mrs. Winchester had had them installed throughout the house so she could call on her servants from various rooms whenever she needed them. Or listen in on their private conversations.

I stepped over to the tube in the corner and saw an opening where it dead-ended. I put my ear up close and listened.

“Oh yes. It will be the surprise of his life,” the female voice said. I recognized it immediately: Lyla Ellington, Jonathan’s wife. Was she planning some kind of surprise for him at the Séance Party?

“You’re sure this is going to work?” a male voice said. This one I didn’t recognize.

“I’d bet my life on it,” Lyla replied. “So don’t let me down.”

The man mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

“Here he comes!” Lyla hissed. A pause. Then louder: “Coming, darling!”

Lyla hadn’t taken the tour with us. I had a feeling she was unaware of the listening tubes. And the discussion I’d just overheard had sounded secretive.

What was the surprise Lyla had referred to?

Whatever it was, I just hoped it didn’t ruin the party.

By the time guests started arriving at the Winchester Mystery House, a little after eight, the grand ballroom had been transformed into an atmospheric séance room. In the middle stood a large round table, covered in a black cloth and surrounded by thirteen vintage chairs. At each place was a brass candlestick, with black unlit candles inserted. A crystal ball stood on a brass stand in the middle of the table, thanks to Lyla, who’d insisted, “It’s not a séance without a crystal ball!”

When all but two of the thirty or so guests had arrived and were gathered in the guest-reception room with drinks labeled “Bloodred Wine” in hand, Mia, the Winchester House manager, took everyone on a modified tour of the eccentric mansion. George Lucas from ILM, Phil Tippett from his studio in Berkeley, and Spaz Cruz from CeeGee Studios on Treasure Island were the most recognizable guests. The others included their plus-ones, a few high-tech investors, and some of Jonathan’s staff—Stephanie, the VP; Violet Vassar, his administrative assistant; and Lyla, his wife. Mother, who’d already toured the house, stayed back with Stephen Ellington, who had arrived in his wheelchair via limo, thanks to Jonathan. Unfortunately, the house wasn’t wheelchair accessible. Brad, who’d been keeping a low profile around Jonathan, seemed to have completely disappeared behind the scenes.

I hadn’t seen Levi Webster, Jonathan’s programmer, since late afternoon. He was sequestered in an adjoining room, preparing to bring Sarah Winchester “to life” when cued. He’d spent the first half of the day installing numerous tiny cameras, projectors, and other over-my-head pieces of equipment in the ballroom. Now that it was showtime, he’d made himself as invisible as a ghost.

I checked on Delicia, tucked in another room off the ballroom, rehearsing the speech Jonathan had prepared for her. Confident there was little more I could do, I caught up with the guests touring the house, and stayed at the back of the group to make sure no one wandered off or got lost. Mia led us from room to room, sharing details of Sarah Winchester’s life and pointing out quirks and curios of the mystery house. Berk videotaped the guests as they reacted to the oddities—the doors that opened to walls, the spiderweb stained-glass windows, the number thirteen hidden throughout the unfinished construction.

By the time we reached Sarah’s séance room, the crowd was duly impressed, and immersed in the heavy atmosphere.

So far, so good.

“We’re now entering the original séance room,” Mia intoned, “where Mrs. Winchester made contact with the spirits through her medium . . .”

As Mia narrated her story, the guests gathered shoulder to shoulder in the small room,
ooh
ing and
ahh
ing.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

“Uh-oh,” she said, a split second before the room was plunged into complete darkness.

Feet shuffled. A couple of women gasped. A few whispered. Someone giggled.

A glow began to emanate from the middle of the room. A swirl of white light, like wispy curtains, fluttered and grew in intensity, until an image the size of a child slowly took shape.

Mrs. Sarah Winchester had arrived.

Not quite in the flesh, but very lifelike, albeit nearly transparent. She stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a long black skirt and a puffy white blouse, with a dark knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a netted veil over her face. She looked just like her picture on the wall in Mia’s office.

Before we could blink—or scream—the apparition disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.

More gasps and giggles as the lights came up, softly illuminating the room.

“That was awesome!” someone said.

“Where’d she go?” whispered another.

“Oh, she’ll be back,” Mia said with a secretive smile, right on cue. “Now if you’ll follow me . . .” She opened a secret door to the next room and led the group onward as they buzzed with growing excitement.

Act One, the preview of Sarah Winchester’s ghost, had been a great success, whetting the ghost-hungry appetites of the guests.

On to Act Two.

Shortly thereafter the guests found themselves in the ballroom turned séance room, where Jonathan awaited us, flanked by his father on one side and his wife on the other. He looked undeniably handsome in his tux and shiny black loafers—I was used to seeing him dressed more casually—and he seemed eager to get on with the show. Lyla wore a low-cut blue-sequined gown and matching sequined shoes with lethal-looking heels. She was so striking and drop-dead gorgeous, I wondered if even a ghost could keep the men away from her.

“Welcome, everyone!” Jonathan said, opening his arms grandly. “Thank you all for coming tonight! We have quite an evening planned for you, an evening you’re not likely to forget. We’ll be starting the séance in a few minutes. But first, enjoy some appetizers by Chef Rodney and wine from the Napa Valley.”

The waiter I’d spotted earlier appeared with a tray of puffy-looking things, skewers of fishy-looking things, and lettuce cups filled with meaty-looking things. His tray wobbled in his hands, and he approached the guests without smiling or lowering the tray. At one point he nearly dropped a platter, and it made me wonder where he’d worked before. In spite of his awkwardness, still, the appetizers were gobbled up quickly and the wine flowed easily.

While Jonathan worked the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, I checked on Delicia, hidden in the small room off the ballroom, to make sure she was in her costume and ready for her close-up.

“How’s it going?” I asked, as she dotted on a beauty spot just above her upper lip. Her eyes were thickly lined in black and contrasted with her bright red lips. The heavy jewelry, bright head scarf, and multicolored outfit only added to her exotic appearance. The truth was, she looked fabulous no matter what she did. But then she could wear a housecoat and hairnet and still look amazing.

“Great, so far. I just hope that Levi guy is ready with his bag of tricks. I heard him cursing to himself in the other room.”

I heard the ring-tap of a wineglass coming from the ballroom and left Dee to finish her toilette.

Jonathan was already speaking to the crowd as I sneaked back into the festive room.

“. . . and I’ve selected twelve of you to participate at the table. Please look for your place card and take your seat. The rest of you may stand behind and observe quietly. I only have one request—please leave your cell phones on, but silence them.”

The guests circled the round table, searching for their spots. One by one, members of Jonathan’s A-list sat down in the twelve seats, leaving the thirteenth open. They included the media stars Lucas, Tippett, and Cruz; two investors; Jonathan’s wife, Lyla; his VP, Stephanie Bryson; and his admin, Violet Vassar. To my surprise, Mia was invited to join the group, as was another of Jonathan’s staff, his driver, another young, beautiful blonde. One of the expected investors and his wife were no-shows, so Jonathan gave the last seats to his father and my mother, removing a chair for Stephen Ellington and wheeling him in. The one remaining seat stood ominously empty.

Raj, Brad, and I stood in the background to keep an eye on things, while Berk continued to videotape the event.

Moments later I dimmed the room lights, leaving the room in a soft, shadowy glow. A door a few feet behind the empty place opened and Delicia entered with a swish of her skirt, a jangle of jewelry, and a regal turn of her head. She swept into the available thirteenth seat with an air of majesty and mystique, and rested her multiringed hands on the table. The guests grinned at both her dramatic arrival and her theatrical appearance. I could tell they were enjoying every minute of this exotic event. My butterflies were starting to subside.