“Maybe it will not be so negative for you?” Steven suggested helpfully.
“Don’t be naive,” I growled, but felt bad when I saw him raise his eyebrows before tossing his hands up in surrender and giving Gilley and me some room.
“What would you have me do, M.J.?” Gilley snapped as Steven walked away. “Would you have me continue to run around Boston with flyers? Or maybe I should rehire that Casper guy? Because in case you haven’t been paying attention, girlfriend, our business is drying up faster than a woman in menopause, and I for one would like to continue to pay the light bill!”
“Again,” I said angrily, “how does making me look like an idiot benefit us? I mean, it’s not like we live out here and can just gas up the van and zip on over to bust any of the local-yokel ghosts!”
“Oh, stuff gets thrown up from these newspapers onto the AP all the time!” Gil argued. “And this kind of story, well, it’s juicy enough to go national! Think of it, M.J.!” Gil gushed, before dropping his voice down a few octaves and saying in his most serious broadcaster voice while his hand moved in short jerks, “‘Ghost hunter helps police solve local murder. Film at eleven.’ You can’t pay for advertising like that!”
“If you think there’s any chance of that reporter doing a legitimate article on us, you are as naive as you are light in the loafers! There’s no way he’d be objective! And it would compromise any amount of assistance I could offer the police. Think about that detective who took a chance by letting me help Sophie cross over. Think about the little bit of good I did by feeling out the energy in her hotel room and offering the police a direction on where to start looking, and how you just shot all of that straight to hell. If the press connects the dots that I’m helping the investigation in any way, the SFPD is likely to toss out all of my impressions. That could seriously damage the case they’re trying to make to solve her murder! How could you be so incredibly stupid, Gilley, as to jeopardize all of that for the sake of a small bit of useless publicity?”
I was so angry I could feel my face starting to flush. Gilley’s expression told me that he finally realized why I was so uptight, and he dropped his eyes. “Well,” he said, uncrossing his arms to tuck his hands into his back pockets, “when you put it like that . . .”
I didn’t say anything more. Instead I turned away from him in disgust and headed over to the group that we had initially been walking toward. The first guy I came to was wearing a funky-looking hat and a cashmere scarf with dark sunglasses, even though it was rather dim in the lobby. “Hello,” I said, extending my hand and working hard to compose myself. “I’m M. J. Holliday.”
“Ah, Miss Holliday,” he said. “I’m Peter Gophner, but most folks call me Gopher. I have to say, I’m mighty impressed with your résumé.”
“Thanks,” I said, noticing that Gilley and Steven had just come up to stand next to me. I decided to play nice and introduce them. “These are my associates, Dr. Steven Sable and Gilley Gillespie. I believe you and Gilley know each other through e-mail quite well by now.”
“Gilley!” Gopher said, and I was actually surprised when he reached out to hug my partner. “It’s great to finally meet you, man!”
I felt myself smile when I saw Gilley’s delighted face. I knew he thought that Gopher was hot, and to get such a warm hug from a hot guy . . . well, I could pretty much figure Gil was already mentally picking out the china pattern.
“You too, Gopher!” my partner said, squeezing the producer in a tight embrace. I figured Gopher had about five seconds before Gil began some inappropriate groping.
Steven cleared his throat, and Gopher pulled himself out of Gilley’s arms. “Dr. Sable,” he said, extending his hand to Steven.
“A pleasure,” Steven said, and my smile broadened. Steven has the most delicious accent. Coupled with his deep baritone voice, it’s a wicked combination that always makes me feel a little googly inside.
Turning back to me, Gopher said, “M.J., I’d like to introduce you to our other mediums.”
“Super,” I said, working really hard to muster up some enthusiasm. However, when I saw a gentleman with a receding hairline and a horrible comb-over wearing—I kid you not—a cape, it was really, really hard to keep a straight face.
“This is Bernard Higgins,” Gopher was saying, and Bernard looked me up and down from toe to chest—where his eyes just stopped—and gave me a little bow.
I bent my knees and cocked my head, attempting to make eye contact. “Mr. Higgins,” I said, offering my hand.
Bernard took it, but instead of shaking it he turned it over and gave my palm a wet, slobbery kiss. “Enchanted,” he said.
Grossed out, I thought.
“And over here we have Madam Angelica Demarche,” Gopher added, moving over to a woman I’d guess was anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five. Looking at her face, it was impossible to tell. We’re talking Botox, face-lifts, and collagen up the yin-yang.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering her my hand, which she regarded with all the enthusiasm with which she’d probably regard a rat.
“Hello,” she said, looking down her nose at me and refusing to shake my hand.
I pumped it up and down anyway, as if I were shaking an invisible hand, to show her just how rude I thought she was being. Yes, I’m a smart aleck, but only in the face of blatant impropriety.
Gopher didn’t seem to notice; instead he moved me over to a young, good-looking guy with shoulder-length black hair, olive skin, high cheekbones, lots of turquoise jewelry, and a small white feather dangling from one earlobe. “And this is Heath Whitefeather,” he said.
Heath reached out his hand first and we shook, exchanging big, toothy smiles. “Hi!” he said, and I immediately liked him.
“Hi, yourself,” I said.
“Now that we’re all here,” Gopher announced, addressing the entire group, “let’s head next door for dinner.”
We all tagged along behind Gopher toward the Salazar Bistro, adjacent to the Duke, and my stomach growled as I caught a whiff of something delicious wafting out from inside the restaurant. “Man, am I hungry,” I said as we approached.
“All food is included, so feel free to chow down,” Gilley said to my right, and I noticed he was keeping a bit of distance from me. I gave him a smile that said we were on better terms, and he melted. “I’m really sorry!” he whispered, moving in to give my shoulder a bump with his own.
“I know,” I said gently. “Just next time, sweetheart, can you please think first and talk second?”
“You know that’s always been a challenge for me.” He grinned.
“Yes, but the challenging part isn’t just for you; it’s for the rest of us who suffer for it.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I get it. Now let’s drop it and enjoy dinner.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
The hostess led our troop to a table at the back of the restaurant large enough for everyone to sit down without feeling cramped. Gilley chose a seat right next to Gopher, (quelle surprise), and I went for the seat next to Gil. My chair was pulled out for me, and I turned my head to see Steven doing his usual chivalry thing. “Thanks, sweetie,” I said, and he gave my cheek a buss before taking the seat next to me.
Across from me I noticed that Bernard had taken his seat just to the left of Madam Hateful, and on the other side of him sat Heath.
I tried to ignore Bernard’s renewed attempts to ogle my chest (I’m “blessed” in that area, and I find that around lecherous old guys my boobs have the magical ability to lower a few IQ points) and opened my menu with enthusiasm, while using it as a prop to block Bernard.
“What looks good to you?” Steven murmured after a moment of looking at the menu.
“Everything,” I said with a grin. “But I think I’m going to go for the sautéed monkfish.”
“Good choice,” he agreed. “I was trying to decide between that and the braised short ribs.”
“Ooh,” I said, darting my eyes down the menu
. “That sounds really good too. Why don’t you get that and I’ll get the monkfish and we’ll share?”
“Perfect,” Steven said, closing his menu.
I set mine down too, and that was when I became aware of the buzz around the table. “Yes, I agree,” Bernard was saying to Madam Hateful. “I too picked up a suicide.”
“Her lover left her,” said Angelica, and the way she spoke you couldn’t help but think she found herself incredibly important. “There was another woman, of course, and this caused the poor wretch to leap to her death.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gilley staring at me the way a hungry dog stares when it really, really wants to take a bite out of your steak. I turned my head and lowered my eyebrows in that don’t you dare say a word! way, and he dropped his eyes to the table and sighed.
Gopher said, “Angelica and Bernard, do you think you might be able to contact this poor woman?”
“Oh, but I already have,” replied Madam Hateful with a wave of her hand. “She came to me in my room, you know, clearly distraught. She told me the whole sordid story and begged me to help her. But, as you know, there is little one can do for a suicide victim.”
By now I was playing with the corners of the napkin in my lap. It was taking a lot not to comment on the load of baloney coming out of Madam Hateful’s mouth, but I knew I needed to resist. Sophie deserved a little respect, and my ego didn’t need to be pumped up by dragging out what had really happened to her for these folks to feast on.
On the other side of the table, however, a voice of reason piped up. “You know, I don’t think it was a suicide,” Heath said thoughtfully.
My eyes shot over to him. “Really?” I questioned.
He nodded, and his eyes held a faraway look. “I think she was murdered.”
Heath now had my full attention, but Madam Hateful and Captain Comb-over were unimpressed.
“Murder!” scoffed Bernard. “Ridiculous. No, I agree with Angelica. The girl clearly jumped to her death.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, unable to resist poking the tiger now that I had an ally. “I actually agree with Heath.”
“Of course you do,” said Madam Hateful, and she and Bernard exchanged knowing glances. “Perhaps when you’ve had a bit more practice you’ll be able to distinguish between a suicide and a murder,” she added, looking pointedly at Heath.
Heath turned red and took a sip of water, clearly intimidated by the odd couple. I was about to argue his point when our waiter appeared and began taking everyone’s order. After he left, the conversation changed to talk of the show. “Tomorrow I’ll need you four mediums to meet me down in the lobby no later than eight thirty. We’ve reserved one of the larger conference rooms at the Duke, and when we meet in the morning I’ll lead you there.”
“Can you talk a little bit about how this is going to unfold?” I asked.
“Certainly,” said Gopher. “I think initially we should set you up in groups of two. We’ve got a great inventory of haunted possessions for you to give your impressions on, and we’ll have these displayed one at a time on a table, with the owner of the item in question, who can verify or disprove your conclusions, on the other side of the table.”
I glanced at Gilley, and I could tell he knew I wasn’t liking that whole “disprove your conclusions” part.
“When you say you have the owner there to authenticate or disprove the medium’s findings,” Gil said, taking the lead for me, “do you mean that this person will be well versed in the object’s entire history? And the reason I ask is that M.J. can often pick up even the subtlest energies, some lost to history or to anyone living.”
Gopher nodded. “Yes, we’ve been very careful to research each and every haunted possession so that we can easily identify whether you mediums are reading accurate information. Trust me, if you’re all as talented as I think you are, this should be a walk in the park.”
But I still had my doubts, and they lingered all through our delectable meal and into the oh-so-delicious hot-fudge sundaes that followed.
Over dessert Gopher told us a little bit about his background. “I used to work as a producer for 60 Minutes,” he bragged. “Did some really great stories there, but you know how it is at those news shows.”
Everyone looked at him curiously. Apparently we didn’t all know how it was.
“They burn you out quick,” he advised. “Then I kicked around for a while out in L.A. I had some great offers to work on some pretty cool stuff—you know, reality TV is where it’s at these days—but I wanted to do something hipper, not another Idol retread or Big Brother knockoff. That’s when I met Roger, and he and I had the same philosophy, know what I’m saying?”
Again all eyes around the table looked curiously at him. We didn’t.
“We wanted to push the envelope, man!” Gopher said. “So we came up with this idea and went to almost every studio in town with it. Eventually Bravo said yes, but they needed it done quick. Since Roger’s stuck in the Sudan right now on another documentary, I just had to pick up the reins and run with it.”
“I thought I saw Matt Duval in the lobby,” Heath said. “Is he part of this show?”
It took me a moment to place the name, but eventually I remembered that Matt Duval had been the spunky teenager on a popular TV family sitcom back when I was in high school. And if memory served me correctly, tabloid reports had had him in and out of rehab ever since the canceling of that show.
Gopher leaned back in his chair and smiled. “He is,” he said. “Matt and I go way back. We were college roomies at Berkeley. He’s actually doing me a favor by hosting this show. He’s got some real irons in the fire that he’s put on hold just to come out here this weekend.”
Somehow I doubted that, but I kept my thoughts to myself, and eventually our little party broke up and we left the restaurant to head back to the hotel.
Throughout dinner I’d become more and more impressed with Heath, and I discreetly asked him to join us for a cocktail in the lobby area of the hotel. He smiled shyly and trailed after us as we found a couch to settle down on and have a nightcap.
Steven played waiter. “What would everyone like?” he asked, reaching for his wallet, and again I was struck by how much I liked him for always being quick to take care of any company he found himself in—especially Gilley and me.
After he’d gone to the bar to fetch our drinks I turned to Heath and said, “So tell me about yourself.”
“Well,” he began, and I could tell that like many of us legitimate psychics, he was a bit shy. “I was born in New Mexico and raised in Santa Fe. My mom is Native American, and we lived on one of the reservations until I was nine, when she married my stepdad and we moved to one of the nicer suburbs.”
“What was it like living on a reservation?” asked Gilley.
Heath thought for a minute before answering. “It was really awesome and terrible at the same time,” he explained. “Like, I loved learning about my heritage and culture, but it was also very confining. The atmosphere of the reservation was pretty antiestablishment, and none of the leaders wanted us to mix with any of the white kids in the area, so we stuck to ourselves and kept our heads down, and because there weren’t a lot of kids my own age on the reservation it was pretty lonely.
“I think that’s why I developed my skills as a medium. I was starving for people to talk to, and the only people I could find were some of the spirits that walked the land.”
“Who did you end up talking to?” I asked, fascinated by Heath’s history.
“What are we talking about?” Steven interrupted as he came back with our drinks and took a seat next to me.
“Heath was just telling us about how he grew up on an American Indian reservation, and that he used to talk to spirits on the land.”
“Like who?” Steven asked.
“Billy the Kid for one,” he said. “And Kit Carson for another. He was hated by my people, but in actuality I really liked his spirit, if you’ll pard
on the pun.”
“That is so cool,” I said with appreciation. “I’m a direct relative of Doc Holliday.”
“No way!” he said.
“Way.” I smiled. “He was my great-great-uncle.”
“That is so awesome!” Heath said.
“My grandfather was the mayor of Valdosta,” Gilley piped in proudly.
Heath nodded, as if he already knew that. “His name was Abner, right?”
Gilley’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow!” he said. “You’re good!”
Heath blushed, then turned to me. “M.J., can I pass along a message for you?”
I felt my heart quicken, and before he even said another word I knew who was likely knocking on Heath’s energy. “Sure,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Your mom has been all over me since we first sat down to dinner,” Heath explained. “Her name began with an M, but I think her middle name was Lynn, right?”
I felt my eyes water, and I tried to get it together before answering. “Her name was Madelyn.”
Heath’s eyes brightened. “Duh!” he said, as if he should have put that together. “Anyway,” he continued, “like I said, she’s been all over me since dinner, and she wants you to know that she’s really, really proud of you. She says she talks to you, but usually you tune her out.” Heath looked at me with a curious expression, and I understood that he wanted to know why I did that.
It took me a moment to gather my voice and explain. Even though my mom’s been dead for more than twenty years, I still deeply mourn her loss. “You know how this sixth-sense thing works,” I began. “If I let my mom in to talk to me, I’d only want to hear from her. Plus, this stuff is so subtle, I think that I’d start to doubt whether it was really her or not. If she came to me, I’d assume it was my conscious mind making it up because I miss her so much.”
“I get it,” Heath said with an understanding smile. “I’m sort of that way about my grandfather who passed away about ten years ago and my stepdad, who died just last year. Anyway, your mom says she’s been having a great time looking in on . . .” Heath paused, and his eyebrows furrowed as if he were checking with my mom to confirm what he was seeing. “Do you have a pet bird that needs to go to the vet?”