Grave Phantoms (9 page)

And as luck would have it, she was working tonight.

“Nurse Sue, this is Bo Yeung.”

“Oh, hello, Bo,” she said, cheerful and open. “What can I do for you?”

“It has to do with those survivors of that missing yacht. I was wondering if you could tell me whether they were still at the hospital.”

“You and everyone else wants to know,” she said in lower voice. “Reporters been calling here nonstop. But no, they were discharged a few hours after we spoke. Police chief allowed them to be transferred into Mrs. Cushing's care. The widow who was making a scene, you remember?”

“I do, indeed. Say, you wouldn't happen to have Mrs. Cushing's address on file, would you?”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “We're not supposed to give it out, but I can probably get back into records after my shift. Won't be until after nine
A.M.
, though.”

“Would you? I'd owe you an awfully big favor.”

“I like the sound of that,” she teased. “Oh, I just remembered something. My coworker told me that she had someone come by earlier today and ask about Miss Magnusson. Wanted to know her name.”

“Oh really? Who was this person?”

“The man didn't say. But don't worry, she wasn't stupid enough to give out your address.” It didn't really matter;
the entire city knew where to find the Magnussons and therefore Bo.

“Please let me know if anyone else asks about Miss Magnusson. And in the meantime, if you can get your hands on Mrs. Cushing's address, leave me a message at Pier 26, no matter the hour. And I'll be happy to have someone drop off a little thank-you gift for your effort.”

“I
am
rather fond of gin . . .”

“Your wish is my command, Nurse Sue. Consider it done.”

It took a long time for Astrid to fall asleep that night. The potent combination of Greta's poorly timed interruption and Velma's herbal tea were enough to give any sane person nightmares, and after she'd left the kitchen, Astrid had lain wide awake in bed, replaying every moment in the pantry with Bo.

The things he said. How close he'd been. The way he made her feel, all raw and jumbled up. Anxious. Out of control.

Let's—

Let's what? Let's throw caution to the wind and run away together? Let's end this all now? Let's cool down and discuss this later?

When it came to Bo, she'd done her share of hoping that he might share her feelings—every day, for weeks and months and years. But before last night, she had hoped in a blind sort of way, taking whatever crumbs Bo dropped and fashioning them into some sort of shaky shelter that only partially kept out the bad weather. Now he'd given her more than crumbs. He'd handed over a few pieces of
lumber, and her former lean-to was now transformed into a shack: still leaky, but a strong gust of wind might not instantly blow it over.

She'd fallen asleep beneath that shelter, wanting him more than ever. And more fearful that if it
did
fall, she'd be crushed under the weight of it.

No sense in being so nervous, she told herself the next morning. It was only Bo. No matter what happened between them, they were friends, and they would handle it with grace and good humor. Everything was fixable.

And today Astrid aimed to fix two problems at once.

After bathing and dressing, she took the birdcage elevator down and found the house abuzz with good cheer. In the foyer, Greta stood on a tall ladder surrounded with giggling maids who were helping to put up Christmas greenery. And even though everyone had already eaten breakfast—except Aida, who was still pale, still possibly pregnant, still trying to hide it from Winter—Astrid was happy to dine alone, and gulped down strong coffee with a slice of rye toast and a soft-boiled egg. Then she went hunting.

Bo was not on the main floor. And Winter, who carried baby Karin around the foyer to witness the hubbub of the holiday decorating, informed Astrid that his captain hadn't yet left for work.

“Think he's going in later, after a couple of errands,” Winter said.

Excellent. Even better, Bo hadn't seemed to have informed her brother about their bad night at Gris-Gris. While Winter bounced his smiling daughter in the crook of his big arm, Astrid slipped away and took the servants' staircase downstairs.

Halfway down, she came to an abrupt stop. She'd nearly plowed straight into Bo.

Her heart pinged.

“Good morning,” she said, slightly breathless and nervous. Her gaze flitted over a striking lapis blue suit, expertly tailored to hug lean muscle, with a crisp white
collar and cuffs peeking out from the jacket. “Don't believe I've seen that suit before.”

“You know me. Vain and frivolous.” A lie. Proud and confident was more like it. His gaze flicked to her wristwatch for a moment—
ping!
went her heart again—and then he smiled up at her like everything was normal, and they hadn't done all that confessing in the butler's pantry. Like she hadn't cried in front of him.

All right. Fine. She could act normal. She pasted on a smile.

He scratched the back of his neck.

She shifted her feet and brushed invisible lint off the front of her dress.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Did you drink the tea after Greta—”

“Booted you out?” she supplied.

He leaned a shoulder against the stairwell wall. “She probably fantasizes about cracking a whip at my feet while I retreat down here in the dungeon. She'd put bars on my door if she could.”

“
Your
door? After you left, she practically accused me of being a manipulative hussy.” Astrid did her best Greta imitation, shaking a finger. “Stop bothering that boy,
flicka
. You should be in bed right now. What is this strange tea? You cannot drink this! Velma Toussaint is bride of devil!”

Bo laughed. The low, velvety sound surrounded her like an embrace and sent flutters through her stomach. “Everyone is ‘bride of devil' to Greta. Was the tea awful?”

“I got it down by holding my nose. I thought it might make me sick, but I actually think I might feel better today. I wonder if my aura has cleared up.”

He squinted and skimmed a finger around her head and shoulder, a phantom touch that never made contact with her, but she felt it nonetheless. “I'm seeing . . . a golden sort of light. Oh wait, that's just wattage from the bulb above you.”

Playful. But was that Bo's normal lighthearted playfulness, or something more? He withdrew his hand and stuck
it in his pocket, giving her no insight into his feelings. She wanted to scream out:
What were you going to tell me last night, huh? For the love of Pete, what was it?
But doubt made her hesitate.

More awkwardness stretched between them.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she finally said, “Speaking of strange phenomena . . .”

“Yes?” He settled one polished shoe on the step next to hers. Very close. This made her so jittery, she almost forgot what she was going to say.

“I thought of someone who might be able to tell us something about that idol,” she finally managed to get out.

His brow lowered. “I don't like the sound of that. Is this one of your schemes?”

“I don't scheme.”

“You're a Magnusson. You're all schemers.”

That was . . . absolutely true.

“It's nothing risky,” she promised. “I'm talking about legitimate academic help. As in, my sister-in-law.”

“Hadley?” His eyes scrunched up momentarily and then relaxed. “Actually, that's not a bad idea. She might be able to shed some light on its origins. Either her or Lowe.”

They both looked at each other and agreed in chorus, “Hadley.”

Besides, Astrid needed her sister-in-law for more than just her ancient history expertise, but she couldn't tell Bo this.

“I have a little free time this morning before I have to head in to the warehouse,” he said. “Depends on the flooding, of course, but we could see if we could make it to Hadley. If you're game.”

“Oh, I'm game,” she said a little too enthusiastically, and cleared her throat. “I'm free, too. My datebook is completely clear this morning.”

“No dancing penciled in?”

“None whatsoever,” she said. “Will we will be riding in the oh-so-lovely
Sylvia
?”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “Not letting that one go, either, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough. When can you be ready to go?”

—

It turned out Hadley was not working at the de Young Museum that day, but was instead assisting her husband, Astrid's brother Lowe, at a lecture in a nearby neighborhood that overlooked Golden Gate Park. As long as Astrid got to speak to her in private, she didn't care where they met.

Parnassus Avenue was home to the Affiliated Colleges of the University of California. Driving toward the ocean, Bo and Astrid passed the Romanesque stone facade of the College of Medicine and stopped at building with a large totem pole standing near the front steps: the university's Anthropology annex.

The inside of the building was rather dim and smelled of old stone and dust. No one was there to greet visitors, so they walked around mostly deserted rooms filled with bits of pottery and rusting ancient tools until they found someone who pointed them to the second floor. In a corner room that housed a small Egyptian collection, Astrid heard her brother's cocky voice and peeked inside the open door.

“And
that
, my dear people, is how you defend a dig site from wild dogs.”

A ripple of mumbling went through the students attending the class, which was nothing more than a couple dozen wooden chairs lined up in front of a lectern and a rolling chalkboard filled with scribbled drawings and hieroglyphs. Locked cases of broken artifacts sat along the outer walls, as well as a table filled with labeled teaching replicas of Middle Kingdom pottery.

Lording over all of this was Lowe. Several years younger than Winter, he was handsome and dashing and, like Astrid, he shared their mother's blond hair. He was
educated, well traveled, and his absurd stories were the stuff of legends.

A student raised his hand. “Will this be on the test next week, Mr. Magnusson?”

“Absolutely,” Lowe said, switching off the small light above his notes. “Don't study anything in chapter eight about field methods. That would be a complete waste of your time.”

“But—”

Lowe gestured toward the tall, dark-haired woman standing next to him, dressed in black and strikingly attractive, if not intimidating. “And I only brought Mrs. Bacall out here for you to ogle. Disregard everything she told you about Egyptian funerary customs. Sure, she may very well be the most knowledgeable curator on this subject in the entire state, and yes, she holds a Stanford degree
and
a directorship at one of the most prestigious museums in the city, but you are paying gobs of cash to the university for more important matters, like drinking bathtub gin and getting rejected at petting parties.”

Soft chuckling followed. The students packed up their things and began shuffling out the door. Astrid moved aside and waited for everyone to leave. Her eyes surreptitiously tracked Bo, who was strolling down the hall and studying photographs that crammed the walls. When the last student exited, he looped around and met up with her, and they headed inside the classroom . . . only to stop short.

Astrid couldn't tell who was the instigator, but Lowe was either pressing Hadley against the chalkboard or Hadley was pulling him against her. Either way, they had their hands all over each other in the least professional way possible.

Nothing like catching your brother with his tongue down his wife's throat.

Astrid was simultaneously unsettled to see them act like randy animals and transfixed by their enthusiasm. She
was also a little envious. Lowe said something that made Hadley laugh—a sound more intimate than Lowe's hand, which was most certainly heading to cup Hadley's breast.

And as she watched this unfolding, Astrid was acutely aware of Bo's presence. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he ever thought about putting his hands on Astrid like that.

She certainly had.

She chanced a quick look at Bo's face and found his eyes titled toward hers. She looked away. Heat washed over her cheeks. Bo cleared his throat loudly.

Lowe and Hadley stopped but didn't break apart. Hadley's eyes just peered around Lowe's shoulder, and when she spotted Astrid and Bo, the rest of her face followed.

“The youngest Magnusson has returned to the fold,” the black-haired curator said with a warm smile and slid away from Lowe. Astrid strode forward to meet her, eager to get away from Bo and her wild feelings.

“I missed you,” Astrid said, hugging Hadley's slender frame.

“And not your own flesh and blood?” Lowe asked. “I'm wounded.”

Astrid hugged him, too, clinging a little longer. When their parents died, Lowe seemed to handle everything better. He had Egypt and his friends. He didn't have Winter's burden of being the driver in the accident—or the obligation to take over Pappa's businesses, both legal and illegal. Lowe was the freest of the family, and Astrid always admired that. She longed for his easygoing nature and optimism. His good humor. She'd spent the last few years wishing he wasn't so far away, always trotting off to exotic locations. When he'd settled down with Hadley and Stella, she'd hoped she'd have a little more of him more often, but then she was the one running off to college.

“Hey,” he murmured in a reassuring voice, pulling her back to study her face. “Glad to see you, too, baby sister. You look older and wiser. Far too pretty. I thought it had
only been a few months. What happened to the towheaded yapper I gave piggyback rides?”

“Funny how getting older works, isn't it?” she said with a smile.

“Ruins all of us,” he agreed, and reached beyond her to give Bo a hearty slap on the shoulder. “How's the warehouse, Bo?”

“Still standing and sandbagged deep enough to keep out Poseidon, at least for now. Stella okay?”

“High and dry on Telegraph Hill with her nanny. She's a little sad about the rain chasing all the parrots away, but we've assured her they'll come back and that Number Five hasn't eaten them.”

Number Five was Hadley's lucky, death-proof black cat. He used to be Number Four until this past summer; whatever happened, they didn't speak of it.

After small talk about their upcoming trip to Egypt (Bo was right about; Hadley practically glowed at the mention of it), the subject of the idol was raised. Astrid and Bo quickly told the story of the yacht once more. Lowe's concern over Astrid's well-being lessened when she told him about Velma's tea—and then was temporarily forgotten when Bo brought out the polished turquoise figurine for their inspection.