Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

“I’m sure Miss Palmer—” Bo started.

“Enough!” Winter snapped. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear her name again. You just concentrate on finding someone in Chinatown who knows the hellish name on that cursed piece of paper.”

Winter fully expected the matter would be solved. People were always trying to muscle him out of business, and they always failed. But after a couple of days had passed, Bo hadn’t tracked down the name and the ghost in his study appeared like clockwork every afternoon at a quarter past two, sticking around for a minute before it disappeared. And this was probably the only reason why Winter still found himself thinking about the spirit medium. The deviant fantasies his mind had been conjuring of the two of them together weren’t unusual; after all, she was a pretty girl, and he was a healthy man.

But with those fantasies haunting him before bed and the damned ghost in his study haunting him by day, he got fed up. Three nights after the hexing, on his way to a midnight meeting with a bootlegging client, he stopped by Gris-Gris. He told himself it was merely a business transaction: he’d ask the spirit medium to get rid of the ghost in his study, she’d do just that, he’d pay her. End of story.

But he arrived too late to speak to her in person. Miss Palmer’s show was already starting. Since he’d gone to the trouble of coming out here, he might as well see what she did. So he stood at the back of the club, hat in hand, and watched from the shadows.

Faces turned to the stage and scattered applause broke out as the house lights dimmed. A dark-skinned middle-aged man in a top hat and tails strode to a standing microphone—Hezekiah. The smiling compere’s good humor and witty commentary between scheduled acts was legendary. In one hand, Hezekiah carried a small, three-legged table, and in the other, a glass bowl filled with the torn halves of the lottery tickets that they’d been passing out in the lobby.

“Good evening,” Hezekiah said in welcoming voice. “Please take your seats and locate your tickets. Mrs. Monroe, my dear, I think yours has fallen into the front of your gown, but I’m sure that young man at your side will be happy to retrieve it for you.”

A booming chorus of laughter followed the master of ceremonies as he placed the table near a secondary microphone to the right of the spotlight and set the glass bowl on top. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to welcome the famous spirit medium from the East Coast, recently transplanted to our fine city. Please give a warm Gris-Gris Club welcome to Madame Palmer.”

Velvet curtains parted. A burst of applause filled the room as the medium made her way across the stage. All of his muscles tensed at once as she stepped into the spotlight. Some childish part of him hoped that he wouldn’t find her as attractive onstage as he had the night of his poisoning.

No such luck.

His attention roamed the length of her champagne-colored gown, tracking floral beading that ran down her stomach and arched over gently curving hips. Elbow-length gloves hid half her arms, and her golden stockings were opaque—a pity to cover up all that freckled skin, but it made what skin he could see that much more enticing.

She was stunning.

“Good evening,” she said into the tinny-sounding microphone after the applause died down. “To those of you who are new to my show, I am a trance medium. Tonight I will call forth spirits of your loved ones from the beyond, temporarily welcoming them inside me so that they may use me to converse with you. They will speak with my voice. I am fully aware during this experience. I do not lose consciousness or forget what’s happened.”

The reverent quiet gripping the club was only punctured by the occasional tinkle of glass at the back bar or a single sneeze from someone in the audience; she had them all in her sway. How different she was onstage, so serious and reserved. But the confidence was still there. He remembered how she’d boldly spoken to him in Velma’s office and smiled to himself.

“Before we start, I’ll mention one last thing concerning memento mori,” she continued. “As it states in the program, I need to touch an object owned by the deceased in order to establish a connection, preferably something beloved that was handled frequently. I see that many of you have come prepared, so shall we proceed with the first participant?” She nodded at Hezekiah. “We will call as many numbers as we can during the next hour. Please be patient. If your number is called, please walk to the front with your memento and hand your ticket to Hezekiah.”

Hezekiah retrieved the first lottery number. “Number one-five-eight.”

A man in a green suit near the stage raised his hand and stood. His table clapped as he proceeded up a small set of stairs at the front of the stage and handed his ticket to Hezekiah.

“What is your name, sir?” the medium asked.

“Hannity.” He nervously thrust a pocket watch in her direction.

“Who does this belong to, Mr. Hannity?”

“My brother, Lenny. He was killed in the war and—”

Miss Palmer held up a gloved hand. “Don’t tell me anything more. Please give me a second to prepare myself. If I am able to summon your brother, you will only have a minute or so to speak with him once he enters my body. I cannot hold on to him indefinitely. So I will advise you to keep your wits and don’t waste time. To ensure you’re speaking to the right person, I’d suggest you immediately question him about something only the two of you would know. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hannity said.

The club waited with bated breath like children around a campfire listening to stories. Even the balconies above the sides of the stage were filled with spectators hanging over the railing. The medium placed her left hand over Mr. Hannity’s pocket watch and balled up the other against her thigh. Winter watched, curious. She closed her eyes. After a few seconds, she inhaled sharply and her right leg twitched as if someone had kicked her. Her eyes flew open.

She exhaled.

Her breath floated out in a cloud of mist . . . just as it had the night they’d met.

Goose bumps pricked the back of Winter’s neck.

“Go on, Mr. Hannity,” Hezekiah encouraged from the stage. “Ask your question.”

The lottery winner hesitated, wringing his hands. “Uh, Lenny? If it’s really you, can you tell me where we buried the dead cat we found in the street on my sixteenth birthday?”

Miss Palmer looked down at him. Her manner didn’t change. Ghostly breath continued to flow from her mouth as she spoke. “In Old Man Henry’s field.”

Mr. Hannity gasped.

“Hello, Michael,” she said. “Happy to see you’re finally going bald.”

Her voice was unaffected. And even though Winter had already witnessed what she could do to an existing ghost, it was startling to see her possessed—if that’s what this was called. A couple of weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but now . . .

What was that thing she’d done with her hand when she was calling the spirit? Winter tuned out the conversation between her and Mr. Hannity and concentrated on figuring out her process. It was almost as though she were holding something, but what?

After a few exchanges between Miss Palmer and Mr. Hannity, Winter gave up cracking her method. His eyes roved over her sleek caramel bob and the freckled neck and shoulders below. He found himself desperately wishing he could set fire to her long gloves.

Then her gown.

His cock pulsed appreciatively at this thought. Christ, he needed air. Seeing her again had been a mistake. If he’d already had trouble tamping down fantasies of her in his bed, then watching her perform onstage, radiating poise and confidence . . . It wasn’t something he’d soon forget. After taking one last look at her, he slipped away and—quietly pocketing a program with her photograph printed on the inside—headed back through the lobby to his waiting car.