Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(35)

“In the séance, my mother mentioned she gave the amulet crossbars away. She hid them in urns, and then hid the urns around the city. These are made for real ashes. Real people.”

“I’ll be damned.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, both grinning.

She blew out a breath and surveyed the paintings. “That means these four pieces of paper really are a map. Because I’ll bet you ten dollars, Mr. Magnusson, that the pictograms are the names of the deceased whose ashes are in these urns. If we want to find the pieces, we have to track down the families in possession of these urns.”

She was right, of course. But finding them might prove difficult.

“A couple of ways we could approach this,” he said. “Could try looking for this Cypress Pottery shop, but the chances that it’s still around twenty-one years later, what with the earthquake and half the city burning to the ground . . . Better bet would be checking death records. How many people could’ve died in the city over those three months? A couple hundred?”

“So many records were destroyed in the Great Fire,” she pointed out. “We could try the Columbarium north of Golden Gate Park.”

“The what?”

“The domed building near the cemeteries. It houses funerary urns. A place for families to visit their loved one’s ashes. An indoor graveyard, if you will.”

“I wasn’t aware any of that was still operational these days.”

“The crematorium on premises hasn’t been used since cremation was outlawed within city limits, but the Columbarium is still open for viewing. Survived the earthquake, so maybe there’s a chance one or more of the canopic jars could be there.”

Leave it to her to know something like that. Sort of endearing, in a macabre way.

She began gathering the paintings. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so I don’t have to work. We can meet there in the morning and have a look around. In the meantime, I’ll take these home and—”

He put a firm hand over hers. “Whoa. Who says you get to keep them?”

“They were my mother’s.”

“And it’s my job. You’re helping, not running the show.”

A flash of anger bolted through her eyes. “She said I’d be able to solve her puzzle. This is what she meant. I’ll look at them, then you can have them afterward.”

Devious little thing, wasn’t she? Had to admire her for trying, but no way in hell was he leaving without the paintings. And the heat of her knuckles under his made him greedy for something more. “I’ve found there are two ways to end an argument with a stubborn woman.”

She snorted. “Please do enlighten me.”

“The first way is to let her win.” He allowed her fingers to slip away from his.

“Very wise. And what’s the second way?”

His pulse pounded in his temples. “The second . . . is this.”

Lifting her chin with one hand, he brought his mouth down on hers. Firmly. She stilled beneath him, not breathing. Probably just shocked. And maybe he was carried away with enthusiasm. He loosened up a bit, inhaled, and tried smaller kisses. Delicate and feather soft. Kisses even the purest of virgins wouldn’t find offensive.

Nothing.

She was still as marble and twice as cold. Had he miscalculated? She wasn’t pushing him away, but she wasn’t exactly overcome with passion, either. A dead body would have more zeal.

This was definitely not what he’d conjured in his fantasies.

Christ. He’d never kissed a woman who didn’t want to be kissed, but from the wooden indifference of her lips, he was fairly sure this was what it felt like. So different from the erotic pull he’d felt at the gazing pool back at the party. He could’ve sworn there was something between them. Had it all been in his mind?

Nothing to do but end it and let the fire of humiliation warm the arctic air between them. How could he have been so wrong?

He released her chin and pulled away. A look that was something close to horror harshened her features. Her hands were fisted at her sides.

“Guess that doesn’t always work after all,” he joked, trying to salvage his stinging pride.

A brisk knock sounded across the room. The office door creaked open to reveal a middle-aged man in a guard’s uniform. “Dr. Bacall?”

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Hill.”

“Miss Bacall. Sorry to bother you. I’d just punched out for the night and was headed home. Saw the light under the door and thought it was your father working late.”

“No, it’s just me. Oh, and Lo—umm, that is. I mean, this is—”

“Mr. Magnusson,” Lowe said.

“Yes,” she said, laughing nervously. “He’s just back from Egypt. And we’ve both just come from the museum’s party.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I see . . .”

What had she said? Let her take care of the talking? She was terrible at lying. If she said much more, she’d end up turning herself in for a crime she hadn’t committed. Worse—she might tell the guard they’d been ripping up books to hunt down a map.

Oh, God.

The gouged books sat on the conference table with the paintings. Lowe quickly stepped in front of them, hoping to block the guard’s view, and spoke over Hadley.