Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(23)

“Regardless, it all turned out fine anyway. I rather like being a widow. I can do anything I want, with whomever I want, and nobody can say a damn thing about it.” Mrs. Beecham turned her face up to Winter and grinned like a harpy while her fingers danced up his arm suggestively.

Were they lovers? Was this what he preferred in a woman? Perhaps that protective show with Mr. Morran was just everyday business for someone like him. Maybe he would’ve done that for any girl standing in her place.

Something snapped inside her. She had her pride, and she’d made a promise to herself that she would take no job she didn’t want, and Sam would’ve encouraged her to stick to that promise. “I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. I think this party will do just fine without me,” Aida said to Mrs. Beecham. “I appreciate your offer, but perhaps your guests would prefer music over mysticism.”

“Aida,” Winter said, unhooking Mrs. Beecham’s arm as he started toward her.

“Come on, darling,” Mrs. Beecham said to Aida, as if she were a small child who needed to be coddled. “Don’t be that way. Win and I are old friends. Have a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

The widow waved a hand toward the parlor. “Well, let’s get started then.”

“I said I’m not doing it, and that’s final.”

“Stop being silly.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, Florie,” Winter snapped.

Conversation and laugher inside the parlor halted as people turned in their seats to stare.

“Don’t you get crude with me in my house,” the widow said to Winter, then pointed at Aida. “I’m paying you for a séance, so get inside that room and do your job.”

A thousand emotions crackled inside Aida. She had wild thoughts of taking Mrs. Beecham’s cigarette holder and shoving it inside the woman’s ear. “You want a séance?” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll give you a séance.”

Aida stormed to the back of the parlor, ignoring the mumbles and whispers. She stopped at the gypsy table and removed her trusty silver lancet from her handbag, unscrewing a cap on the end to bare a small blade. The garish painting of Mrs. Beecham hung on the wall a couple of feet away. “What was your husband’s name?” she shouted back at the widow.

“What?”

“His first name.”

“I don’t want to participate. This is for my guests. Andy, you go first. Where’s the violinist? We can’t start un—”

Aida squinted at the corner of the painting. “Harold Beecham.”

“Oh, yes, well. I’d rather you didn’t—Andy?” Mrs. Beecham called desperately. “Where are you? It’s so dark in here. There aren’t enough candles.”

“Over here, Florie. I’m coming.” A brown-haired man sidestepped behind a few chairs to stand next to her.

Aida ignored them. With one hand on the painting, she took a deep breath and pricked her thigh with the lancet blade. Tears stung her eyes as endorphins reared up. Using the pain to enter a winking, oh-so-brief trance state, she reached out into the void, calling for Mrs. Beecham’s husband.

Her vision wavered. She inhaled sharply, feeling a silent answer to her call. The spirit came rushing toward her over the veil like a demon released from the pit of hell.

EIGHT

WINTER HALTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARLOR WHEN AIDA’S breath turned visible, barely hearing the gasps of surprise around him. He wasn’t unsettled by the puffs of white billowing from her mouth—not anymore. He was more interested in the silver instrument she had in her hand.

Aida’s body stiffened, then her face became animated. Her head swiveled around in all directions until she found Florie. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I never thought I’d lay eyes on you again.”

Florie froze, then backed up as Aida stalked her around the rows of chairs.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Aida’s voice said. “I remember your last words like it was yesterday . . . when I found you riding the Halstead boy like a prized pony at the county fair.”

Florie paled, then laughed nervously. Her eyes flicked to her apparent lover, Andy Halstead, who stood next to her looking as if he were going to faint and keel over.

Aida walked faster. “When my heart failed, you didn’t even try to save me. You just said, ‘Looks like we killed him.’”

Florie’s back hit the wall. She yelped. Aida lunged with outstretched arms. Something flew from her fingers and sailed through air, dinging against the wall, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy grasping Florie’s throat with both hands as she wrestled his college friend to the floor. Winter raced toward them, knocking chairs out of the way while party guests stood by in a drunken daze.

Aida straddled Florie. The mesh handbag dangling around her wrist smacked against the floor as she choked her. A vase shattered. Florie was grasping the leg of a side table, trying to buck her off in a panic. Christ. The medium was going to kill her.

“Aida!” he shouted.

Her head snapped toward his voice. She looked at him with her eyes, but it wasn’t her. She was possessed. Feral. Unearthly. A violent chill ran down Winter’s arms.

“Aida, let go,” he commanded roughly.