He said slowly, almost reluctantly, “You do seem better able to communicate with her.”
I laughed. “You make her sound like an alien life form.”
“Sometimes I feel like she is.” But his smile was rueful.
Our meals arrived on a waft of cracked peppercorn and bay leaf: filet mignon for me and rack of lamb for John. John ordered another bottle of wine.
When the now-subdued Lance departed again, I said tentatively, “If this guy, this friend of Jinx’s is Cr—like me—”
“French?” John was still smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. French. I could be of help to your investigation.”
I wasn’t halfway through my sentence before he was shaking his head. “Cos, the department has its own occult expert.”
“I know. Solomon Shimon. But he might not actually be, er, French. Maybe he’s Canadien français, which shares some commonalities but isn’t the same as being un citoyen français. If you understand my meaning?”
“Mais oui. I get it. All the same, you don’t work for SFPD; Shimon does. He’s our guy. He’s our occult expert; you’re married to the police commissioner. Equally important but different roles.”
He wasn’t trying to be patronizing. He thought I was feeling jealous or competitive with this unknown occult expert.
“I understand. I just want you to understand that I’m a-a valuable resource. If you need me. I can guarantee I have connections Shimon won’t.”
John smiled faintly. “I appreciate that offer.”
“I don’t think you do, but it’s true.”
He let that pass, said diplomatically, “You know, you’ll be able to evaluate Shimon for yourself tomorrow evening.”
A sherry-roasted mushroom fell off my fork. “He’s going to be at the Stevenses’ Halloween party?”
“So I hear. You might be pleasantly surprised. I hope you will. He’s not one of these kooks we see on nightly news human-interest segments.”
“You’re killing me with the compliments.”
John looked like he wasn’t sure if I was joking. “He takes this stuff as seriously as you do. That’s all I’m getting at. He’s got an impressive clearance rate—”
My cell phone buzzed into life, and the whole table jittered with it, knocking silverware against plates, nearly overturning the wineglasses.
“Jesus,” John said, grabbing for the wine bottle before it spilled.
“Sorry.”
Technology is not my friend. I’ve had one television, three microwaves, and five cell phones blow up at my touch—and still counting.
I looked down and recognized, with relief, Ambrose’s owl symbol. “It’s Ambrose. Excuse me. I have to take this.”
John muttered something, hastily mopping at the contents of the spilled wineglasses.
I threaded my way through the crowded tables and stepped outside. The evening air was cool and scented of the marina and woodsmoke. Overhead, the painted sign of Izzy Gomez creaked in the October breeze.
“Hey. Everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m so sorry, Cos.” Ambrose’s voice was high and shaky. “She never did that before.”
“It’s okay. Are you okay? Is she okay?” I was beginning to sound like a self-help guru for witches.
“Me? I’m fine. Cos, I’m so, so s—”
“Not your fault. Not hers either. Why didn’t you tell me things had gotten this bad? I didn’t realize what you were dealing with.”
“What could you do about it?”
“I don’t know. But maybe together we can figure something out.”
Ambrose still sounded very young, very wobbly as he tried to explain. “She was always in two minds about her power, you know? She was raised in the church, and so she always thought maybe this was wrong. It’s why she wouldn’t ever really teach me any spells.”
“I see.” I was starting to. “Are you coming in to the shop tomorrow?”
“I can’t. Not until Monday. Not until the lady next door is back. Usually, she watches her during the day, but she’s been visiting family this week and GramMa kept getting out of the apartment.”
The picture his words painted was truly disturbing. Was he tying her to the bed? Locking her in a closet?
“Okay. Got it. Then I’ll see you on Monday and we’ll start figuring out what we can do to make life a little easier for you and your grand-mère.”
He burst out, “Why would you? I nearly got you killed.” His voice cracked on “killed.”
I made a dismissive sound—alarmingly reminiscent of my mother. “Quelle absurdité! You didn’t invite me over. That was my own idea. And not to be immodest, but I think I can take your grandma in hand-to-hand.”
Ambrose gave a weak laugh. I could only imagine what the last few hours had been like for him. Had he been chasing the old girl all through the city as she jumped from postern to postern? It was very possible.
“Try not to worry,” I said.
I was worried enough for both of us.
“Did you want me to contact social services?” John asked on the drive home to Greenwich Street. “See if I can pull some strings?”
This is one of the things I love about John. When he offers help, it isn’t just lip service. He will try to come up with real and practical solutions. Sometimes whether you want them or not.
“I’d have to ask Ambrose. There may be certain…complications.” Like my understanding that the old lady subsisted on social-security fraud. I wasn’t going to share that possibility with John, though.
“I hope the kid isn’t not asking for assistance out of misguided pride. This is why we have local government,” John said. “To provide a safety net.”
He was holding my hand, and I squeezed him back in a silent thank-you. Aloha’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. She smiled faintly.
The city provided John with a car and an official driver by the name of Aloha Newman. Aloha was a short, stocky woman of about thirty. She was a Hawaiian transplant. I suspected she was perhaps descended from the Menehune, but had never seen any indication of supernatural ability—beyond being always able to find a parking space, no matter how crowded the city.
The limo turned down the long narrow drive leading to our cul-de-sac. Coit Tower glimmered in the distance. Lights shone cheerfully in the townhouses across from ours, illuminating paper ghosts and sparkly jack-o’-lanterns in windows—Halloween was only a week away. The building next to us was still dark, still uninhabited. The property manager had been forced to file for bankruptcy.
Aloha pulled in front of 1132, and John and I piled out before she could unbuckle her seat belt.
“Commish!” she objected, as she always did.
“We’re good,” John told her.
She shook her head. “Do you need me tomorrow night, Commissioner?”
“No. I’ll drive us to the mayor’s party. See you Monday. Have a good weekend.”
“Same bat time, same bat channel!”
John shoved the door shut, and the limo silently rolled away, its red taillights climbing skyward until they vanished over the crest of the drive.