Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(26)

“I got it down by holding my nose. I thought it might make me sick, but I actually think I might feel better today. I wonder if my aura has cleared up.”

He squinted and skimmed a finger around her head and shoulder, a phantom touch that never made contact with her, but she felt it nonetheless. “I’m seeing . . . a golden sort of light. Oh wait, that’s just wattage from the bulb above you.”

Playful. But was that Bo’s normal lighthearted playfulness, or something more? He withdrew his hand and stuck it in his pocket, giving her no insight into his feelings. She wanted to scream out: What were you going to tell me last night, huh? For the love of Pete, what was it? But doubt made her hesitate.

More awkwardness stretched between them.

When she couldn’t take it anymore, she finally said, “Speaking of strange phenomena . . .”

“Yes?” He settled one polished shoe on the step next to hers. Very close. This made her so jittery, she almost forgot what she was going to say.

“I thought of someone who might be able to tell us something about that idol,” she finally managed to get out.

His brow lowered. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is this one of your schemes?”

“I don’t scheme.”

“You’re a Magnusson. You’re all schemers.”

That was . . . absolutely true.

“It’s nothing risky,” she promised. “I’m talking about legitimate academic help. As in, my sister-in-law.”

“Hadley?” His eyes scrunched up momentarily and then relaxed. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. She might be able to shed some light on its origins. Either her or Lowe.”

They both looked at each other and agreed in chorus, “Hadley.”

Besides, Astrid needed her sister-in-law for more than just her ancient history expertise, but she couldn’t tell Bo this.

“I have a little free time this morning before I have to head in to the warehouse,” he said. “Depends on the flooding, of course, but we could see if we could make it to Hadley. If you’re game.”

“Oh, I’m game,” she said a little too enthusiastically, and cleared her throat. “I’m free, too. My datebook is completely clear this morning.”

“No dancing penciled in?”

“None whatsoever,” she said. “Will we will be riding in the oh-so-lovely Sylvia?”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “Not letting that one go, either, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough. When can you be ready to go?”

—

It turned out Hadley was not working at the de Young Museum that day, but was instead assisting her husband, Astrid’s brother Lowe, at a lecture in a nearby neighborhood that overlooked Golden Gate Park. As long as Astrid got to speak to her in private, she didn’t care where they met.

Parnassus Avenue was home to the Affiliated Colleges of the University of California. Driving toward the ocean, Bo and Astrid passed the Romanesque stone facade of the College of Medicine and stopped at building with a large totem pole standing near the front steps: the university’s Anthropology annex.

The inside of the building was rather dim and smelled of old stone and dust. No one was there to greet visitors, so they walked around mostly deserted rooms filled with bits of pottery and rusting ancient tools until they found someone who pointed them to the second floor. In a corner room that housed a small Egyptian collection, Astrid heard her brother’s cocky voice and peeked inside the open door.

“And that, my dear people, is how you defend a dig site from wild dogs.”

A ripple of mumbling went through the students attending the class, which was nothing more than a couple dozen wooden chairs lined up in front of a lectern and a rolling chalkboard filled with scribbled drawings and hieroglyphs. Locked cases of broken artifacts sat along the outer walls, as well as a table filled with labeled teaching replicas of Middle Kingdom pottery.

Lording over all of this was Lowe. Several years younger than Winter, he was handsome and dashing and, like Astrid, he shared their mother’s blond hair. He was educated, well traveled, and his absurd stories were the stuff of legends.

A student raised his hand. “Will this be on the test next week, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Absolutely,” Lowe said, switching off the small light above his notes. “Don’t study anything in chapter eight about field methods. That would be a complete waste of your time.”

“But—”

Lowe gestured toward the tall, dark-haired woman standing next to him, dressed in black and strikingly attractive, if not intimidating. “And I only brought Mrs. Bacall out here for you to ogle. Disregard everything she told you about Egyptian funerary customs. Sure, she may very well be the most knowledgeable curator on this subject in the entire state, and yes, she holds a Stanford degree and a directorship at one of the most prestigious museums in the city, but you are paying gobs of cash to the university for more important matters, like drinking bathtub gin and getting rejected at petting parties.”

Soft chuckling followed. The students packed up their things and began shuffling out the door. Astrid moved aside and waited for everyone to leave. Her eyes surreptitiously tracked Bo, who was strolling down the hall and studying photographs that crammed the walls. When the last student exited, he looped around and met up with her, and they headed inside the classroom . . . only to stop short.