Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

They exchanged brief answers, confirming that no one was seriously injured, as a porch light flickered on in a nearby house—neighbors curious about the crash. Aida scanned the street looking for the ghost. She found it a few feet away, bending over in the middle of the road.

“Behind you,” Aida warned Winter as she pushed herself up.

The ghost was seemingly unaware of them. It was fixated on something round lying on the pavement. Something gold and shiny and small.

Another glinting object lay just behind Winter, and a third near his hip.

The ghost picked up the first object, admired it, and then focused his attention on the next one, shuffling a couple steps closer.

“What the hell?” Winter murmured, warily watching the ghost bending again.

As he grunted and sat up, Aida squinted at the object closest to them: a gold coin with a square hole in the center that was bordered by familiar characters. “Chinese coins.”

“Shit!” He pushed himself to his feet. “I heard something clink in here when I pocketed your lancet.” He rummaged inside his tuxedo jacket pocket and pulled out a fourth coin.

“They must’ve spilled into the street when you pulled me out of the taxi’s path.”

“They aren’t mine. Someone put them there.”

The ghost had two coins and was now bending over the third. Bizarre, but the show was over. Aida started toward the ghost with the intent of getting rid of it, but Winter’s hand gripped her arm. “He’s solid, Aida. Feels like electric flesh.”

“Solid?”

“I knew this man when he was alive. Whoever poisoned me sent him.”

“The coins are the magnet,” she said. “Velma removed the magic in the Gu poison. Whoever is after you is trying something new.”

The ghost stood, holding the third coin. Its head snapped toward Winter, and then it lumbered toward them.

“It wants the magnet,” Aida shouted. “Throw the damn coin!”

Quick as lightning, Winter hurtled the coin into the street. The ghost immediately changed directions and lunged for it. The moment he had the coin in his grip, he . . . disappeared.

Aida’s breath returned to normal. It worked. Would she have been able to send the spellbound ghost away on her own? She didn’t know. She’d never encountered a solid ghost.

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.”

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.

Aida’s pulse increased as a cautious hopefulness sprung up. She waited, watching Mrs. Lin silently until she began sketching what looked to be parts of Chinatown that weren’t exactly tourist-friendly. “Is it dangerous, that area?”

“You will get some looks, and you should avoid the opium den. If you smell sweet smoke, you’ve gone too far. It’s best to take a man with you. Too dangerous for a young woman alone. But do not be afraid to go to Doctor Yip. He came here from Hong Kong a few years ago. Very educated and kind. You will like him.”

“Wonderful. Thanks so much.”

“Anytime. Hope he can help.”

It might be a long shot, but Aida hoped so, too. Maybe Bo had already talked to this herbalist. Best to just contact Winter and find out. She could send him a note through Mrs. Lin’s courier, but that seemed like a silly waste of time when she had Winter’s business card propped against a lamp on her nightstand. That was what it was there for. She worked for him now, after all. He’d probably forgotten all about the kiss.

She’d certainly tried.

Retreating to her room, she bolstered herself and tried his private number, feeling butterflies in her stomach when the operator made the connection and his big voice crackled over the wire.

“Magnusson.”

“It’s me,” she said, suddenly forgetting her manners and good sense.

“Hello, you.” His voice sounded low and friendly in the telephone’s earpiece.

Her stomach fluttered while the line popped and hissed. “I can’t talk long and people might pick up—the telephones in our rooms are connected to the restaurant’s line. Mrs. Lin doesn’t like us to make calls during lunch rush, so if you hear swearing in Cantonese, hang up,” she said, trying to sound casual and breezy.

“Duly noted,” he replied before adding, “I hear it from Bo all the time.”

“How’s your shoulder today?”

“Sore. Greta forced some pills down my throat, so it feels better at the moment.”

“Good, good. Well . . . ah, the reason I rang is because I have the address of an herbalist in Chinatown who might help with information on the coins. My landlady gave me his name.”