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  With a forced smile, she walked over to the stairs. Her drunken brother-in-law elbowed her on the way by him. A sharp pain went up her arm.

  “Folks, let’s hear it for my wife’s pathetic, spinster sister,” he said, applauding; a lit cigarette dangled from his fingers sending ash off in different directions.

  Before I knew what was happening, Bessie ran at him, shoving him as hard as she could and, in his drunken state, that was all it took. He spun a 180 and smashed head first into the cake before landing onto the dance floor.

  The crowd erupted into a mix of gasps and laughter. Bessie hurried up the stairs, barely able to hold in her smile as her parents yelled how she was too old for this.

  We brushed by a woman in a short black dress. She turned toward us on the stairs and my thoughts went blank. It was me. Eliza, actually.

  “Excuse me,” she said, looking straight into Bessie’s eyes for what seemed like a full minute. I studied the lines and contours of my own face, my hazel eyes, the soft wine color of my lips. It was strange being face to face with my identical twin, in a short black cocktail dress that seemed completely inappropriate for such a conservative era. She studied Bessie in the same way I was studying her, like she could see all the way through to Bessilyn’s soul, maybe even to me, piggybacking on this memory. “It’s you,” she said, and I screamed a little in Bessie’s head.

  She sees me.

  I couldn’t look away. Eliza put her hand on Bessie’s arm and Bessie’s muscles tightened under the stranger’s touch.

  “You’re the birthday girl,” Eliza finally said in a voice just like my own. She pointed back toward the mess being cleaned up at the bottom of the stairs where Troy was still yelling about the spinster. “Nice birthday present to yourself.” She winked. “Best party I’ve been to all year.”

  Bessie nodded her thanks. And Eliza went up the stairs, leaving us dumbfounded.

  “Did that happen the first time?” I asked. “Or did we just create a new memory within a memory?”

  “I don’t know,” Bessie admitted. “I don’t think I would’ve remembered it if it had happened, not with everything else going on.”

  Bessie ran up the stairs just in time to catch a glimpse of Eliza heading into a room off the back of the hall.

  “Where’s she going?” I asked.

  “That’s the bathroom.”

  I knew that was the end of the memory I’d get with Eliza. It had been way too short, and really hadn’t told me anything about the curse. I shook myself out of my disappointment. I had a job to do.

  Bessie opened her bedroom door. “It’s time,” she said to me.

  Her room was the largest bedroom I’d ever seen, luxurious yet cozy with a fireplace along one of the walls. But I didn’t envy a 30-something living with her parents, no matter how wonderful the accommodations. I used to be that girl, living in my mother’s basement.

  Bessie flopped on her perfectly made white bedspread. “I know you’re not a detective,” she said. “But does anyone besides my parents seem suspicious to you?”

  “Everyone does, Bessie,” I replied. “Honestly. Your brother-in-law, of course. Your parents. Your parents’ friends, the suffragist haters. But I have to admit. Sir Walter seems the most likely.”

  “W-what?”

  “Think about it. You two got into an argument. He ran off. Then, a suspicious figure scurried off in the shadows toward the back of your house, over to your room, probably to climb a trellis he’s very familiar with and a window he knows doesn’t latch.”

  “That does make sense,” she said. “I’m sure his family blamed him for the deal falling through. He was sent here to court me for that reason alone.”

  “I don’t believe that. And neither do you.” I scanned the room. “Let’s review our other clues. You didn’t lock the door just now. And I remember from the article in Henry Bowman’s scrapbook that you were found shot in the heart with the door locked, which was why it was ruled a suicide.”

  I thought I heard something outside her door, so I listened more intensely, looking around at the details in the room. A pamphlet about the suffrage movement sat on her nightstand. Her armoire was open, and on the top shelf, a gun. The gun. The one in Paula Henkel’s display case.

  It was strange waiting for the final moment, recounting the details like they were some sort of sick check list.

  Bessie unlaced her black boots and plopped into bed, pulling the covers over her face so I couldn’t see anything anymore. Her nose was stuffing up. Tears were streaming down her eyes, along her cheeks.

  There was a light knock at the door.

  “You okay, missy?” a woman’s voice on the other side said. The door creaked open. “You want some warm milk? And your special pills for sleeping?”

  Bessie peeked out over the covers. An older woman with pale puffy eyes and saggy cheeks poked her head inside the room, dressed in a long black dress and white apron, the Hind family housekeeper, probably.

  “Oh honey,” she said when she saw Bessie crying. The woman set the glass of milk down and rushed to the bed, stroking Bessie’s hair, pulling it free from its proper up-do and running her fingers through it. “You know I always cry on my birthday too, I do. Every year like clockwork. Mostly because it starts to become depressing the older you get when you ain’t got nothing but age to show for it. But you? You’re still young and rich. You’re a lucky woman.”

  “Thanks, Martha,” Bessie said, sitting up. Martha handed Bessilyn the milk and dropped two little pills into her hand. Bessie gulped them down, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief on the side of the table. “Sir Walter was there,” she said to her housekeeper.

  “He was? I didn’t notice. Stand up and I’ll help you out of that corset.”

  “Not yet,” Bessilyn said, lying back down. “I’m not sure I’m ready to end my night.”

  “But you took your pills.”

  “I know. I’m feeling a little confused.”

  “Men’ll do that to you,” Martha said, sitting down next to us. “Tell me. Did he look good?”

  Bessie smiled. “Too good. He wanted to get back together. He said he loved me.”

  “Then why are you up here crying?”

  Bessie played with the sleeves of her stiff dress. “I’m not sure I believed him.”

  “Poor, silly girl. A man sneaks into a party when he knows he’s not wanted. That’s love.”

  “Is that what love is? I always wondered.”

  Martha stood up and looked around the room, shaking her head at he mess as she snatched clothes from off the floor left and right, balling them along her arm.

  “I guess you know what happened downstairs,” Bessie said, watching as her housekeeper tidied up after her. “Sorry for making such a mess with the cake. I’m too old for that.”

  “I was upstairs when it happened, but don’t worry, miss. It’s not your fault.”

  “Yes, it was. I shoved Troy into the cake.”

  Martha let out a loud, long cackle. “You don’t say? Now, there’s a mess I don’t mind cleaning up.”

  “My parents are going to kill me. We’re about to be the talk of the town.”

  “Don’t you know? That’s why people have parties in the first place. They want to be the talk of the town. A party is only as good as the gossip that comes out of it.” She turned her head from side to side and lowered her voice. “And I have my own bit of gossip from the party,” she said.

  Bessie leaned her head against her headboard as the woman continued.

  “Just now, I walked in on Mr. Henry Bowman and the woman he always goes ‘round with. The one who is not his wife. They was in the bathroom together.”

  “You don’t say. What happened?” Bessie yawned and closed her eyes.

  The woman’s voice went sheepish. “I’ll tell you later, missy.” She kissed the top of Bessie’s head. “You sure you don’t want me to help you get out of your party clothes?”

  “Not yet. I’m starving, Marth
a. I didn’t eat a bite all night.”

  “I told you that corset was too tight.”

  “Stop lecturing me, and be a dear. See if you can bring me a plate. And let me know if Sir Walter’s still around.”

  “Now I see why you’re keeping your clothes on.” Martha was at the dresser now, pouring water onto what appeared to be a cloth. She handed it to Bessie, and like a nightly ritual, she immediately put it over her eyes. The cool cloth felt good.

  “You rest your eyes. I’ll… I’ll… what in the world…” Martha’s voice trailed off in different pitches, like she was moving around the room.

  “What is it?” Bessie asked. She pulled the cloth off and sat up.

  “Nothing,” Martha said, smiling. “I’ll see what I can bring you. I only hope I can do it without Esther seeing me. Your sister has her watching those devil kids of hers, and I know that poor girl’s looking for me to relieve her.”

  That got Bessie laughing a little as the housekeeper closed the door and hustled away.

  Bessie’s head throbbed with a headache. She flicked off the light and pulled the cool wet cloth back over her eyes.

  I wanted to hear the gossip about Henry Bowman and Eliza, but I knew it was impossible. The end was coming soon, and I had to keep my focus. Our eyes were shut and she was starting to fade into the forced sleep from her pills, so I tried to use my other senses: smell, hearing, touch…

  I didn’t hear much. Maybe the door, ever so light, not like the heavy creak when the housekeeper entered… maybe the window, maybe the door locking, liquid sloshing…

  Something scratchy suddenly clamped over Bessie’s mouth. We squirmed into the fumes that surrounded us, strong and sweet. Bessie pulled her head to one side then the other, trying to cough or gasp, trying to move away, but the force had her pinned. She grabbed at the hand over her mouth, leathery and thick. Her mind was succumbing to the total darkness that consumed us. Her resistance lessened. And then, nothing. I knew she’d blacked out. But I also knew from my other experience with channeling that I didn’t need to. I wouldn’t be able to see, but I could still narrow in on my other senses.

  The pressure released from Bessie’s mouth, and I focused on her breath, slow yet shallow. Sounds were all around me. A door locking. Heavy breathing. Footsteps, first slow then faster. Pacing maybe. Whoever it was sounded like they were having second thoughts. I tried to concentrate on one of the sounds. It was like cloth, moving… odd.

  A gush of wind blew over my face and an owl hooted off in the distance. The window was opening; I could tell.

  I heard several clicks before something pressed hard against my heart. I didn’t have time to brace myself, a loud explosive pop followed.

  And I woke in my living room. The images of the channeling already falling into a distant, blurry memory.

  Snapping myself out of it, I quickly ran to the kitchen and threw open the pantry. Stale Pringles and a Diet Coke were perfect right now. Not exactly gourmet-whatever in burgundy sauce, but it would do. I grabbed my phone and my channeling notebook from the dining room then curled up on the settee. It was 12:30. I’d been channeling for more than three hours. I was starving. My body ached, and my eyelids felt like they outweighed me, but I had to get the experience down before I forgot it all.

  I stuffed a full-inch stack of Pringles in my mouth. Crumbs spilled onto my phone as I looked up clues while scribbling things into my notebook. Bessilyn had already been pretty drugged up with her sleeping pills when whoever the killer was pressed a towel over her face. And from my cursory internet search, I decided that towel must have been full of chloroform. The only other clues I remembered from the moments right before death were the rustling of what sounded like cloth and a window opening. I wondered if the latch on the window also locked from the outside.

  It must have. Did the shadowy figure I saw on the side of the house sneak up the trellis and wait in Bessie’s room for her that night? And who would have access to chloroform, anyway? Even in 1906, that must’ve been hard to come by.

  Jackson appeared as I guzzled down my soda.

  “You okay?” he said in such a way that made me question it myself.

  I nodded. “I know she’s resting from the channeling, but as soon as you see Bessilyn, let her know I have a million questions for her.”

  “You should rest too,” Jackson said. I rolled my eyes and chugged down some more soda.

  Chapter 9

  The Unusual Suspects

  Both of Potter Grove’s police cars were parked at awkward angles along the entrance to the Purple Pony when I got there the next day for work. My heart raced. Whatever was going on had to be serious.

  My mind was numb, but I knew it wasn’t just because I was worried. It had been surreal, dying in 1906 just last night only to be jolted awake in the present. After scribbling everything down into my notebook, I hadn’t gotten much sleep. And now I felt older, stiffer, and more than a little off.

  My pace picked up the closer I got to the entrance. I could see the quaint little hippie shop had been ransacked. Justin stood leaning against the entrance as I approached, glitter from the aging unicorn over his head was all in his hair like sparkly purple dandruff.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, searching his eyes to see if he was worried.

  “Yes,” he replied. “She’s fine. Her shop’s not, though. Somebody’s trashed it.” He looked at me like he wanted to say something else. I knew it was just the usual, weird heaviness that floated between us from the past we pretended not to have together.

  I walked past him and went inside. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him yet, but I was sure glad I was wearing my cute skinny jeans that made my butt look good.

  As soon as I stepped inside, I could see Justin had not been exaggerating about the place being trashed. Even some of Rosalie’s paintings were ripped to shreds, pieces of them hanging off the toppled racks like cobwebs. The jewelry section was a mess. Gems and polished stones were strewn all over the floor. I almost slipped on them on my way over to Rosalie, who was sitting on one of her stools, her dreadlocks completely disheveled. Some dreadlocks were in a ponytail, some out. She clutched at her heart. Caleb had his notebook out. I knew he was probably why her heart was acting up.

  “What in the world happened?” I asked.

  “She’s a little shook up,” he replied to me. “She claims a wild animal was here when she came out of the back room, but she can’t describe the animal. Supposedly, the place looked just like this.”

  “Supposedly?” I said.

  “She wouldn’t be the first person with a failing business to commit insurance fraud,” he replied.

  I threw my hands on my hips. “Just jot down your information and keep your opinions to yourself, officer.”

  Justin scooted by the sheriff to get closer to Rosalie. When he passed, I noticed he also had purple unicorn glitter all along the backside of his uniform too. The outside doorframe was not a safe place to lean against around here. I stopped myself from brushing it off of him.

  “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital,” he asked my boss.

  She shook her head no. I knew Rosalie would rather bleed to death than go to one of those places.

  “Do you think this is the same animal that scared Delilah Scott?” I asked.

  Justin shrugged. “Sure looks like an animal did this.”

  “All I know is… Rosalie said, her voice quick and raspy. “I heard growling somewhere around the window. I couldn’t tell if it was inside or out, so I ran into the back room. What else could I do? And that’s where I stayed for a full hour until Paula Henkel came in.”

  She motioned to the chair by the dressing room, and I looked over, finally noticing the dreadful woman sitting there, scrolling on her phone. She smiled and smugly waved to me, her teeth perfectly white and straight, her smile calm.

  She waltzed over. “Good thing I came over right on time,” she said, stuffing her phone in her bra. She put her hand on Rosal
ie’s shoulder, and Rosalie flinched. “I’m just glad I could help, that’s all.” Her tone had that dramatic sweetness to it that people used when they weren’t really being sweet.

  “Why are you here anyway,” I asked.

  “Rosalie told me to come at 11:00. She wanted to cancel the seance and I told her we should talk about it this morning. But when I got here, I saw the store in shambles. So I found Rosalie and called the police. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Yes, thank you for all your help,” I said. “But, if you’re done helping, I got it from here. You can take off.”

  She curled her thin lip up. “Sheriff, am I free to leave?”

  “You can go,” he said, closing up his notebook. “I think we have enough information.”

  Paula turned back around before she left. “Funny. I was just texting another medium before you came in. She’s willing to take over the seance if you both are serious about canceling.”

  “Now’s not a good time,” I said. “But yeah, we cancelled. The other medium can have it. Did you tell her you’re selling tickets all over town, making a bundle while paying the mediums nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t call hundreds of dollars nothing. Would you?” Paula turned to the police. They didn’t say anything.

  She looked about half the size of the deputy she was standing by as she paused at the front door. “I just want to point out that I came over here an hour after this store opened. One hour. I was your first customer, not that I was actually buying anything.”

  She pushed her lips together, tried to look concerned. “I know this is a bad time, and I don’t want to tell you how to run your business, but it seems like you could use the publicity that this seance would bring you. A lot of people are interested. And you’ll probably get quite a bit on the backend selling, oh I don’t know, whatever you people sell — gems or incense or something. Maybe you should think long term and not just immediate gains for once.”