Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(28)

They stared at the street, both of them wary, but when it was clear that the thing was truly gone, she turned to him. “Someone put those coins in your pocket to attract that ghost.”

“It must’ve happened at Florie’s.”

“Someone at that séance isn’t your friend.”

The taxi driver was heading toward them, a young boy in a gray uniform, his pants tucked into tall black boots. Up the sidewalk, several guests from Mrs. Beecham’s began spilling out of her house. Someone called out to them, inquiring if everyone was okay.

“Winter?” Aida asked in a low voice.

He made a vague noise in acknowledgment.

“You said you knew the ghost when he was alive . . . ?”

He nodded his head once, then looked away. “I couldn’t place him at first, but I realized where I’d seen his face when he started picking up those coins.”

“Where?”

Winter waited so long to answer, she almost thought he wouldn’t. “He was a spy working for a small bootlegger out of Oakland. Pulled a gun on my father when we caught him snooping around one of our warehouses.” Winter turned his head and looked Aida in the eyes. “His name was Dick Jepsen. He was the first man I ever killed.”

NINE

SOBER AND BROODING, WINTER ACCOMPANIED AIDA BACK TO Golden Lotus after calling for his own car. They did not discuss the ghost’s identity any further.

They also did not discuss the kiss.

Granted, it wasn’t an appropriate topic for conversation after what transpired in the street. Aida shouldn’t have even been thinking about it. And she tried not to; after all, the man was clearly upset. If she were a decent person, she’d be upset, too—she’d kissed a killer. That’s what he was, wasn’t he? He did say Dick Jepsen was the first man he’d killed, implying there was a second. A third? Fourth? How many? It was easy to forget the dark side of what he did for a living. He’d said he was defending his father’s life the night he shot Jepsen, but maybe there were other times when he was the aggressor.

Could it be possible Winter was bloodthirsty like the racketeers and gangsters reported in the newspapers? No. She didn’t believe that. Not after the gentleness he’d shown when he’d kissed her . . . the restraint he’d used to tease her.

Goodness, how he’d made her body melt.

She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t the absolute best kiss she’d ever had, but that was too monumental a lie for her poor heart, which was madly pitter-pattering beneath her dress the entire way home.

Before she made her way up to her apartment, he stepped outside the car and gave her a business card that said MAGNUSSON FISH COMPANY, with an address off the Embarcadero, on a pier that housed his legitimate business. He penciled his home telephone numbers on the back: a private line that rang directly to his study, and the main line that his housekeeper Greta answered.

“I’d like to retain your services on an ongoing basis. Whatever you think is fair pay, let me know.”

“Uh . . .”

“If you aren’t working at Velma’s, I want you to be available to me in case I need you.”

“For business,” she said, thinking of the kiss.

He hesitated. “Yes. As a medium. Or an exorcist.” He was being very stern and serious, and she felt quite sure this was how he spoke to his own men—as if he wouldn’t take no for answer. And if it were anyone else throwing out this kind of gruff demand, she’d likely tell him to go to hell. But he’d just kissed the bejesus out of her and broke the sensible part of her brain, so she said yes.

In fact, she said, “I’m all yours,” but it was lost under the sound of a loud truck rolling by.

• • •

At noon the next day, Aida headed down to Golden Lotus to have a quick lunch of tea and dumplings and collect her mail. “Why so anxious?” Mrs. Lin asked behind the counter as she stuck a pencil into the knotted bun of black hair at the nape of her neck.

“Excuse me?”

“Anxious. Jumpy.”

“Oh, I don’t know, my mind is elsewhere. Listen, you wouldn’t happen to have heard of any superstitious practice in the Chinese community having to do with old coins?”

She considered this. “Don’t think so. Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out why someone would use four old Chinese coins to attract a ghost.”

“A ghost?” She looked around. “Not here, I hope.”

“No, no—at that séance last night.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Lin rubbed the Buddha’s belly and mumbled something in Cantonese. “I don’t know about ghosts, but four of anything is unlucky for business. Four is a curse. Very bad. Everyone knows that. No specific curse associated with coins, though. Is someone cursing you?”

“No. Cursing . . . a client.” She tapped her nails on the counter. “I need to find someone in Chinatown who knows more about ghosts and superstitions and curses. Maybe someone who appreciates my special abilities?”

Mrs. Lin brightened. “I know just the man. My acupuncturist, Doctor Yip.”

“A doctor?”

“He owns an herbal apothecary shop off Sacramento. It’s located in a small alley. I will draw a map.” She lifted spectacles that dangled from the chain around her neck next to the key that unlocked the red lacquered mail cabinet and began drawing a map on the back of a blank ordering slip.