That was just wrong.

And just as that thought crossed my mind the wind abruptly kicked up, rattling the bare branches as though the trees were waking up around me. They scratched and clacked and I tried to not imagine bones making a similar noise, but it was too late.

“All right, keep your shirt on,” I said to no one in particular, stepping away from the grave. It sure as hell felt like someone was listening.

I was dead (or undead), surrounded by acres of the truly dead. The wind sent snow dust skittering along the black path. My imagination gave it form and purpose as it swept by. A sizable icicle from high up broke away and dropped like a spear, making a pop as loud as a gunshot when it hit a stone marker and shattered not two yards away. If my heart had been beating, it would have stopped then and there.

It’s easy to be calm about weird coincidence when one is not in a cemetery at night. I decided it was time to leave. That I winked out quick and sped invisibly over the ground toward the fence faster than a scalded cat was my own business. Anyway, I went solid again as soon as I was on the other side.

Abby and I needed to get to her house before nine.

That’s what I told myself while quick-marching to the car, consciously not looking over my shoulder.

Rich people live in some damned oddball houses. The Weisinger place started out with Frank Lloyd Wright on the ground floor, lots of glass and native stone, then the rest looked like a Tudor mansion straight from The Private Life of Henry VIII. I could almost see Charles Laughton waving cheerily from an upper window, framed by dark wood crosspieces set into the plaster.

“It’s awful, but roomy,” said Abby as I parked across the street to indulge in a good long stare.

“You okay for going back without getting caught?”

“Yes, but aren’t you coming in?”

“This is the part where I do some sneaking around.”

“They’ll catch you; they’ll think you’re a burglar!”

“You hired an expert. Look, we can’t go through the front so you can introduce me to everyone. It’ll put Bradford on his guard, and your sister will be within her rights to kick me out.”

“What will you do?”

“Exactly what’s needed to get rid of him—and for that you need an alibi so they’ll know you aren’t involved. This means you can’t hide behind that screen as usual. You said there’re servants? Do they eavesdrop? Perfect. Think you can eavesdrop with them?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Good for you. Whatever happens I want them to truthfully vouch that you were with them the whole time. This keeps you off the hook with Flora. I’m going to do my best to make Bradford look bad, so you have to be completely clear. Can you look innocent? Never mind, you’re a natural.” I checked my watch: twenty to nine. “I need a sketch of the floor plan.”

I pulled a shorthand pad from the glove compartment and gave her a pencil. A streetlamp on the corner bled just enough light to work by as she plotted out an irregular shape, dividing it into squares and rectangles, putting a big X in to mark the parlor.

“That’s the ground floor.” She handed the pad over. “Kitchen, dining room, card room, music room, small parlor, large parlor: that’s where they have the séances. How will you—”

“Trade secret. You’ll get your money’s worth and then some. Now beat it. Shuck those weeds and keep some witnesses around you. Don’t be alone for a minute.” She got out of the car quickly, coming around to the driver’s side. I rolled the window down. “One more thing…”

She bent to be at eye level. “Yes?”

“When the dust settles, don’t give your sister any ‘I told you so’s,’ okay?”

Abby got a funny look, and I thought she’d ask one more time about what I’d be doing, and I’d have to put her off, not being sure myself. Instead, she pecked me a solid one right on the mouth, and honest to God, I did not see it coming.

“Good luck!” she whispered, then scampered off.

No point in wiping away the lip color; she wasn’t wearing any. Dangerous girl. I felt old.

I took the car around the block once and found a likely place to leave it, close behind another that had just parked along the curb. A line of vehicles of various makes and vintages led to the Weisinger house. Partygoers, I thought. A well-bundled couple emerged and stalked carefully along the damp sidewalk toward the lights. Slouching down, I waited until five to nine, then got out and followed.

Not as many lights showed around the curtains now, but I could hear the noise of a sizable gathering within the walls. The possibility of sneaking in to blend with the crowd occurred, but I decided against it. Groups like the Psychical Society tended to be close-knit and notice outsiders. With his membership card Escott could get away with bluffing himself in (his English accent didn’t hurt, either), but I was a readymade sore thumb. Better that they never see my face at all.

I took the long way around the house to compare it to Abby’s sketch. She’d not marked the windows, not that I needed to open any to get inside; they were just easier to go through than lath and plaster. Picking a likely one above the larger parlor, I vanished, floated up the wall, and seeped through by way of the cracks.

Bumbling around in the space on the other side, I regretted not getting a sketch of the second story as well. The room was big and I sensed furniture shapes filling it. Though my hearing was muffled, I determined no one else was there and cautiously re-formed, taking it slow. An empty, dark bedroom, and laid out on the bed was a man’s dressing gown. Neatly together on the floor were his slippers. The rest of the room was in perfect order, personal items set out on a bureau, no dust anywhere, and yet it didn’t feel lived in. No one is ever this tidy when they’re actually using such things.

The hair went up on the back of my neck.

This stuff was too high quality to belong to the butler. The J. W. engraved into the back of a heavy silver hairbrush confirmed it—the room was a shrine. I concluded that Flora Weisinger was in sore need of real help to deal with her grief and guilt, not well-meaning morons with Ouija boards.

The upstairs seemed to be deserted, but I crept softly along the hall, ready to vanish again if company came. The downstairs noise was loud from several conversations going at once, the same as for any party, but no music, no laughter.

Nosy, I opened doors. The one nearest Weisinger’s room led to Flora’s, to judge by the furnishings and metaphysical reading matter. I never understood why it was that rich couples sometimes went in for separate bedrooms, even when they really liked each other.

Her closet was stuffed with dark clothing, all the cheerful print dresses and light colors shoved far to either side. Women wore dark things in the winter, but this was too much. There was an out of place–looking portable record player on a table by the bed. The only record on the spindle was Kemp’s “Gloomy Sunday.”

Enough already. I got out before I had another damn twinge.

One of the hall doors opened to a sizable linen cupboard. I stepped in and put on the light. With my vision the night is like day to me if there’s any kind of illumination, but not so much in interior rooms with no windows. This place reminded me of the hidden room under Escott’s kitchen where I slept while the sun was up. I took off my overcoat and hat, putting them out of sight in the back on an upper shelf. I wanted to be able to move around quick if required.

Sheets and towels filled other shelves, along with some white, filmy material that I figured out were spare curtains. When I was a kid my mom drafted me twice a year to help change the winter curtains to summer and back again. No matter that it was women’s work, I was the youngest and available.