In loving memory of Lillian Harper Tombaugh for instilling in me a love of all things Gothic and for her ability to make the ordinary come alive with magic.
June 10, 1943
Wade Connor’s blue Chevy was the only car on the street not covered with a fine patina of dust. I swore under my breath as I stepped off the bus, my document case in one hand, the meager groceries I scrounged with my ration coupons in the other, and headed toward home.
Hoping to slip up to our flat and avoid seeing Wade altogether, I climbed the steps that led to our entryway door and set my bags down, careful not to make too much noise as I reached for my keys. Zeke and I lived above our office, a spacious ground-floor storefront nestled against the hills of Sausalito. My desk and typewriter were tucked into a small office in the back, where I did the transcription work for my boss, Dr Matthew Geisler, who wrote textbooks on paranormal phenomena. Zeke didn’t have a title. Instead, he had Wade Connor. Wade worked for the FBI. Zeke worked for Wade on a freelance basis. From my perspective, Wade sent Zeke on secret operations, often putting Zeke in grave danger, and then took the credit for Zeke’s heroics. Wade’s voice met me as I stepped into the hallway.
‘Sarah needs to be told. And she needs a gun, so she can protect herself.’ I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it.
‘She’ll never agree to carry a gun,’ Zeke said.
‘She will when she finds out what’s happened. And you’d better tell her. She’ll sense you’re keeping something from her, and then she’ll wind up in some sort of mess and compromise my entire operation. Be quiet. Someone’s there.’ The door burst open, and Wade stood in the doorjamb, his eyes ablaze. I raised my hands.
‘It’s just me.’
Zeke limped to the door. He smiled when he saw me. ‘Come in, love. We need to talk.’
I followed them into the office. Once we were all inside, Zeke locked the door and engaged two brand new deadbolts.
‘Extra locks?’
‘We have a situation.’
The ghost shimmered in the corner of the room, her eyes fixed on me. Wade and Zeke carried on, impervious to her.
‘Sarah, are you listening?’ Zeke asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. The ghost smiled and winked at me. I ignored her.
‘I want you both out of here.’ Wade barked out his orders. ‘Go upstairs and pack. Bring enough clothes to stay away for a month or two.’
I stood, ready to lash out at Wade, but one look at Zeke changed my mind. His brow was furrowed with worry. ‘What’s happened? Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Millport,’ Zeke said. ‘I need to go home.’
‘And you’re not safe here,’ Wade piped in. ‘Zeke’s going to tell you all about it, once you are on your way.’ Wade peered between the blinds again, surveying the street below us, keeping his eyes riveted on the foot traffic as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I don’t mean to be short. Zeke will explain everything. I want you two on the road in fifteen minutes. You’re in danger. Can you please just go pack?’
‘I started to pack for you, but I didn’t know what you’d want to bring. Your typewriter is loaded up already. I put the extra ribbons, ink, and a case of paper in the trunk, too. I’ll take those.’ Zeke nodded at the sack of groceries I had carried in. ‘We can bring them with us. No meat, I suppose?’
‘Not a scrap,’ I said. ‘Do we have gasoline coupons?’
‘I’ve taken care of that,’ Wade said.
‘Of course you have.’ I sighed and left the room.
‘Stay away from the windows,’ Wade called after me.
With a shaking hand, I unlocked the door to our upstairs flat, frightened now, thanks to Wade Connor. I loved our flat. The bay windows faced the water, angled just enough to the west to allow floods of afternoon sun to fill the room.
The ghost stood before the window now, her image stronger than it was downstairs. She looked like the type of woman who rode horses over tall hedges while perched in a tiny saddle, fearless and bold. Her hair shimmered with golden light. She wore an evening dress of cream silk. It fitted her body and flowed to the floor like liquid pearls.
‘Why have you come?’ I asked. Although I could see ghosts, most of the time I couldn’t hear them. I pointed to a scratch pad which sat on the table near the sofa. ‘Can you write your answers?’
She floated over to the tablet in that particular way of ghosts.
‘Good. I’m going to pack.’ I turned my back on her and headed down the hall toward our bedroom. Zeke’s suitcase sat on the floor. Mine lay open on the bed, ready to be filled with the clothes I would need. Something about Wade’s manner and the look on Zeke’s face struck a chord with me. I realized with a start that I had seen fear, not only in Zeke, but in Wade Connor as well. Urged on by this, I threw clothes into the suitcase without thinking or taking the time to fold them. I jammed the black Lanvin evening gown on top of the pile, not caring that the tiny pleats around the waistline would need to be ironed again – a tedious job that I loathed. I grabbed four sweaters and tossed them on top of the gown.
A blast of cold air on the back of my neck told me that my ghost had joined me. She stood by my small writing desk, holding the tablet that I had left for her to write on. When I moved close to her, she disappeared. Her writing was schoolroom perfect. I am Zeke’s sister-in-law, Rachel Caen. You must find the emeralds to discover who killed me.
Rachel had dumped all the sweaters I had packed onto the bed, and was now replacing them with cotton blouses and light-weight summer clothes. She folded the clothes and placed them in neat stacks inside my case. When everything was properly stowed, she snapped the latches in place with a resounding click. The smile she gave was a sad one. She pointed to the tablet on the table one more time before she disappeared. New handwriting had replaced her prior message. Be careful. And just like that, she was gone.
* * *
It was ten-thirty by the time Zeke and I headed north on Highway 1, through the Marin headlands, a picnic basket on the backseat and a sinful amount of five-gallon fuel ration stamps tucked into the glove compartment.
‘You’ve been suspiciously quiet,’ Zeke said.
‘Tell me about Rachel and the emeralds.’
Startled, Zeke steered the car off the road and parked on the dirt shoulder.
‘She came to me.’ I bit back the desire to apologize. I had long grown tired of apologizing for something over which I had no control.
‘Who—’
‘Rachel Caen.’ I watched Zeke, trying to gauge his reaction. ‘Actually, she came to you. She was in the room with you and Wade when I came home.’
‘Oh, just what I need,’ Zeke said.
I looked ahead, not quite sure how to respond.
‘I’m sorry. Truly.’ He grabbed my hand. ‘I just forget. Your ability to see – it interferes with my logical brain at times.’
‘You said no secrets between us, Zeke. I promised you that I wouldn’t keep anything back. I am telling you that Rachel came to me.’
‘What