Bitter Spirits

FOURTEEN

AS SOON AS AIDA SLID INTO THE BACKSEAT OF WINTER’S CAR, HE rolled up the privacy window and lowered the shade.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, gee, nothing at all. What would be wrong?”

Winter shifted, stretching his legs. He removed his hat, scratched his head. Put his hat back on. Took it off again.

Oh, he knew. Of course he knew.

“I mean, what could Sook-Yin and I have possibly talked about?” Aida said, crossing her legs. “The weather? Poetry? Politics? Oh, wait. I know. How about the fact that she’s a prostitute, and you’re her favorite customer?”

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit. That’s what I thought, too, especially when she was going on about how she could make you smile—”

“Aida—”

“So there are others? This is routine for you?”

He groaned in angry frustration. “This is not routine. Sook-Yin was the only one.”

Was that worse or better? Aida honestly didn’t know. “She did brag about how special she was and seemed to know you quite well. She even asked me if I was the ‘new wife,’ because apparently there’s an old wife that nobody told me about.”

Winter said nothing. Just stared ahead at the canvas shade as the car began rolling out of Ju’s garage.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“She’s dead,” he said without looking at her. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Aida rocked her foot and opened the side shade to stare outside. “I asked you about the house and you growled at me,” she said in a much calmer voice than she thought she was capable of at that moment. “You could’ve told me. I told you things about me. I’ve told you secrets about my job—about the lancet. About my plans for the future. How many lovers I’ve had. I told you all these things, and you couldn’t be bothered—”

“This is a business relationship. I am paying you to do a job.”

Her mouth fell open. “Then why was your hand up my skirt yesterday?”

“You attacked me!”

“I did not!”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Okay, maybe I did attack you a little bit,” she said in frustration. “But I’ll tell you what. It’s one or the other. Either you pay me and I advise you about spiritual matters, or you don’t. Because if you think I’m going to take money from you when you’re kissing me and holding me, you can think again. I’m not a whore.”

“I’ve never thought of you that way,” he said in a low, angry voice. “Never.”

“You don’t have to think of me in any way at all. Why would you? I’m just a low-class spirit medium you picked up in a speakeasy.”

“My father was an immigrant fisherman. I make my living by breaking the law. If you’re low-class, so am I, and—Jesus, Aida.”

She swiped below her eyes. “These are angry tears, not sad tears. I’m not crying over you. How could I cry over someone I don’t even know?”

The question hung in the air for a moment before he spoke again. “Just because I haven’t told you my life’s story doesn’t mean you don’t know me.”

“I don’t know you as well as Sook-Yin, apparently. You could have at least warned me before you took me there.”

“I haven’t seen her for months. I told Ju I didn’t want her there today—I told him.”

She stared out the window. “It was humiliating.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Me, either.” She tugged the tassel of the privacy shade and lifted it. Wide-eyed, Bo stared back at her in the rearview mirror. She looked away.

Winter pulled the shade down. “I was lonely. Is that what you want to hear? I’m not proud of it. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly prime husband material.”

“Boo-hoo, you have a scar. You’re easily the most handsome man I’ve ever met in my life, and you’re rich and influential. If you’d stop scowling and quit being so damn defensive—”

He stuck a finger in front of her face. “You can’t begin to imagine what I’ve been through. I lost everything in one day. Everything.”

A wave of pity crashed over her, subduing her indignant anger. She couldn’t bear to look at him. “I’m not judging you about Sook-Yin. I’m just hurt that you didn’t tell me about any of it. About your wife.”

“I don’t like to talk about her.”

“It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything. I made assumptions I shouldn’t have.”

She raised the shade.

They sat in silence for several seconds. He lowered the shade again.

“All right. I’ll tell you everything. What do you want to know?”

“I . . . I want to know about your wife.”

He hesitated. “Her name was Paulina. Her family was from Nob Hill. Lost their fortune after the earthquake. My mother encouraged the marriage to distract me from getting caught up in the bootlegging with my father. She thought it would bring us a certain status that the money alone didn’t. We were married for a year.”

Aida waited for more. It was slow to come.

“The summer of 1925, when one of Paulina’s relatives invited us to a charity dinner at the Elks Club, my parents accompanied us. My father’s mental health was not stable. He was having manic episodes when he wasn’t himself.”

Oh . . . Ju’s comment about Winter having all his marbles. Aida didn’t know what to say.

“He’d been seeing a doctor for several months. During the charity dinner, he went through one of his fits and caused a scene. Embarrassed Paulina. We left the dinner in a rush, to get him home and call the doctor. He was screaming in the backseat. Paulina was arguing with my mother, telling her that my father’s fits were caused by the devil, or some such nonsense. And I was trying to calm everyone down. I accidently jerked the wheel as a streetcar was turning a corner.”

Aida made a small noise.

“One second of distraction. That’s all it took. One second, and I killed three people. It was my fault.”

“You can’t believe that,” she whispered.

“People have told me that again and again, so why do I still feel guilty?”

“Oh, Winter.”

“I’m not looking for pity. Just don’t tell me that my life is all champagne and caviar, because it damn well isn’t.”

He tugged on the shade to lift it once more, and they spent the remainder of the ride in silence. As they pulled up to her building, she said, “Maybe it’s not a good idea that I work for you anymore.” When he didn’t answer, she exited the car.

“Aida!” he called after her. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, a woman with an unruly toddler passed. The child, attempting to escape her mother’s grip, twirled around and looked up at Winter. The tiny girl wasn’t even the height of his knees, and Aida could only imagine what he looked like in her eyes: an angry giant towering above her. But it wasn’t just his size. The girl saw something Aida didn’t notice anymore: his mismatched eyes and scar. She screamed bloody murder and ran to the shelter of her mother’s legs, sobbing in terror.

Winter’s face fell.

Ever loyal, Bo lurched from the car, shouting in Cantonese at the woman, motioning for her to take her crying daughter away. Protecting the monster from the child.

Aida’s throat tightened as her own eyes welled with tears. She took one last look at Winter and walked away in the opposite direction from the crying girl, more depressed than she’d been in years.

With one hand on the open car door, Winter stared out over the black roof of the Pierce-Arrow, watching Aida retreat inside Golden Lotus. He slammed his fist against the car frame. Pain shot up his wrist. He angrily threw his hat into the street.

“I take it she found out about Sook-Yin,” Bo said as his gaze tracked the hat.

“And Sook-Yin told her about Paulina.”

Bo whistled. “You probably should’ve told her that yourself.”

“Not another word.”

Bo managed to stay quiet for all of five seconds. “Is she never-want-to-see-you-again angry, or just temporarily angry?”

“How the hell should I know?” Winter felt as if Aida had just pulled on a loose thread of a sweater, and he was left watching it unravel before his eyes, powerless to do anything to stop it. When he picked her up that morning, he’d felt happier than he had in years.

And now he wanted to pummel every stranger on the sidewalk.

The crying girl didn’t help, though he couldn’t say he blamed her—or that it was the first time, either. A face that makes children cry. What a perfect ending to a perfectly pissy afternoon. “She doesn’t want to work for me anymore,” he said miserably.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Bo said. “Now you can ask her out to dinner and not feel conflicted.”

“Doubt she’d agree to that at this point.”

“She did say you were the most handsome man she’d ever met.”

Winter looked askance at his assistant.

“Hey, I tried not to listen,” Bo argued, “but you were both shouting and . . .”

Winter stomped off into the street to retrieve his hat, then rammed himself into the backseat of the car and slammed the door.

Bo climbed into the driver’s seat. “Home? Pier?” he asked. “Or do you need to hit something?”

Hitting something sounded beautiful. And after Bo dropped him off at the boxing club, he spent the rest of the afternoon doing just that.

And the next afternoon.

And the next.

But it didn’t help. His hellfire mood only worsened.

He busied himself with work, visiting his warehouses and overseeing deliveries. He spent an entire morning taking apart a small boat engine and putting it back together. His employees began looking at him as if they wanted to toss him in the bay. He didn’t give a damn.

He’d nearly convinced himself that he never wanted to see Aida Palmer again—that he’d be just fine if he didn’t, because a woman like her would only drive him to violence, what with her insisting that he tell her every godforsaken thing about his life, screwing up his orderly routine, making him feel guilty.

Making him hope.

On the fifth afternoon, Bo breezed into his study carrying a box under his arm. “I just had an interesting conversation with a butcher in Chinatown.”

Winter lay on his leather sofa, one arm and leg dangling off the side, staring at the ticking grandfather clock his father had shipped over from Sweden. “If it’s not about Black Star or those symbols, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“It’s not directly about Black Star, but it might be.”

The pendulum on the clock swung several times while Winter waited for Bo to elaborate. “You going to tell me, or make me guess?”

“This butcher says that his cousin joined a secret tong two years ago. He said that no one knew the name of the leader, where it was based, what it controlled. But his cousin underwent a strange initiation that involved enduring insect bites.”

Now Winter was interested. “Insects? Like the Gu poison?”

“Maybe, and remember the tong leader killed by bees? I’ve heard of blood initiations, but this . . .”

“It does sound strange,” Winter admitted.

“There’s more. The cousin said that the leader of the tong claimed to be a descendant of a mystical group of Chinese rebels from the Han Dynasty. A military group. Their leader was a necromancer.”

“What is that? Black magic?”

“Calls up the dead. Could be nothing but legend, but it’s the first connection I’ve heard between sorcery and a tong, and it’s awfully strange.”

“Damn right it is. We need to talk to the butcher’s cousin who joined this tong.”

Bo shook his head. “The night after he spoke to the butcher, he turned up dead in a gutter. The butcher thinks the tong killed him for blabbing about the initiation ceremony. The butcher also said after his cousin’s death, he was so worried the secret tong would come after him and his wife that he moved his business to the opposite end of Chinatown.”

“Christ. A secret tong with mystical roots . . . This has to be it, Bo.”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know what else I can dig up.”

Unease wormed its way into Winter’s gut. Bo was savvy and sharp; he knew what he was doing. But Winter had already lost too many people in his life. If anything happened to Bo while he was slinking around Chinatown’s alleys, Winter would never forgive himself. “Tread carefully,” he told him. “If any of that is remotely true, and if they’re connected to this Black Star, God only knows what they’d do if they thought someone was poking into their business.”

Bo flicked the cap on his hat and winked. “I’m always careful.”

“I mean it, Bo.”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching. I will agree to be careful if you agree not to bite my head off for giving you this.” He handed over the box. “A courier dropped it off.”

Winter walked to his desk and dug around in a drawer for a letter opener to cut the strings. When he lifted the top of the box, he found himself staring at the gown Ju had made for Aida. The pain he’d been nursing for the last few days reared up, making his chest tight and hot.

“Helvete,” he swore under his breath.

Not the gaudy yellow fabric, but the color he’d wanted, so delicate, like silver and sand. At least Ju had some sense. It was finely made. Looked like something a goddess would wear. He imagined Aida wearing it, and the unending hollowness he’d felt since their fight grew wider.

He crammed the box top back on, crushing one side of it in frustration. He should just throw it in the trash. She wouldn’t take it anyway.

“It’s a beautiful gown,” Bo noted.

Yes. Ju’s girls had gone to a lot of trouble making it, and it was exceptional work.

A shame to let it go to waste.

Maybe Astrid would want it. Then again, if she ever wore it, it would likely just remind him of the spirit medium.

Only sensible option was to just give the damned thing to Aida. She might not accept it. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up—he knew better now. This was just the logical thing to do, that’s all.

Someone pounded on Aida’s apartment door when she was getting ready to leave for her late show at Gris-Gris. Who would be calling on her at seven on a Friday night? And why did it make her so angry? Everything made her angry lately, and it was all Winter Magnusson’s fault.

She was ill—physically sick to her stomach. She’d lost her appetite and had spent the last four nights rolling around on her narrow bed, feeling every spring, kicking the covers, cursing Winter’s name.

Even one-way conversations with Sam about the matter, usually a comfort, gave her no support or relief. She tried to recall a Sam-ism that would apply to the situation and only remembered warnings about the uselessness of love, which she didn’t care to consider—maybe because she was weaker than he’d been when it came to these matters.

It was ridiculous, all this anger and disappointment Winter stirred up inside her. She wasn’t mad at him anymore about Sook-Yin, now that the shock had worn off. She wasn’t even secretly mad about his dead wife, because that would be petty and selfish of her to be mad about something like that. It was none of her business, and he was obviously struggling with grief she couldn’t fathom, and it would be silly to be jealous of a dead woman.

She was, however, still angry.

Because he’d given up on the two of them.

And if he could just give up without a fight, then he wasn’t losing sleep like she was. And that meant she was lovesick over someone who didn’t give a fig, and that made her furious. It was a self-loathing kind of fury, yes, but it was easier just to blame him. Much easier.

Feminine laughter seeped into her apartment from the hallway. Maybe one of the other tenants needed something. Aida opened the door to find a striking girl, not quite collegeaged, with ringlets of blond hair peeking beneath a soft pink hat. She stood next to a young black girl about the same age. Both girls were giggling, both carrying shirt boxes.

“Hiya,” the blonde said brightly, a little breathless. She looked familiar, but Aida couldn’t place where she’d seen her. Nor could she figure out why she was standing outside her door. Maybe they were here to call on someone else and got the apartment numbers confused.

“I’m Astrid Magnusson,” the girl said. “Winter’s sister.”

Aida’s chest tightened. “Oh. Uh . . . oh.” What in the world is she doing here?

“The woman at the restaurant counter let us come up. Your apartment is a hellish hike.”

“No elevator.”

“Someone needs to get one installed, and pronto. Can we come in? This is Benita, by the way.”

Benita smiled over the big shirt box. Her hair was bobbed a little shorter than Astrid’s, and she wore a pretty blue plaid dress with a bow at the neck under her coat. Aida greeted her and ushered them both inside.

“Benita’s my seamstress,” Astrid explained. “She can alter anything that doesn’t fit. She’s a genius. Gosh, this is a tiny apartment.” She deposited her box on Aida’s bed and looked around, wandering to the window. “Oh, but you can see the entire street. I love Chinatown. It must be so exciting to live here. Bo tells me stories all the time about growing up here.”

While Astrid chatted, Benita hefted the largest box onto the bed. It was stamped with a gold I. Magnin logo, a high-end department store downtown at Geary; Aida had gazed at their window displays, but she’d never been inside.

“Astrid?” she said.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

Winter’s sister smacked gum while giving her a crooked grin. “Winter sent me. He said you’d ripped your coat when he hurt his shoulder last week, something about a taxi hitting a telephone pole. He’s terrible at explaining things. He always leaves out the interesting parts.”

“That’s an understatement,” Aida murmured.

“Anyway,” Astrid continued, “he told me he’d promised to buy you a new coat, so he sent me out to find one. Bo helped me. He’s got an eye for fashion. Whenever I go shopping, he waits outside the dressing room and gives me his opinion when I model things for him.” She hesitated, grimacing. “Umm, don’t tell Winter about that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it—it’s not as if Bo sees me undressed or anything.”

Benita made a small noise.

“Hush,” Astrid told the girl, looking mildly embarrassed, but probably not as much as she should be. “That was an accident.”

Aida raised a brow.

“Anyway, all I’m saying is . . . well, I’ve forgotten now. Come on, take a look at what I picked out.”

“Astrid, this is really kind of you, but things may have changed since your brother asked you to do this.”

“He just asked me a few hours ago.”

“Oh.” Aida’s heart pattered inside her chest.

“Believe me, even if you’ve already found a new coat, this one is better. I’m so excited I can barely stand it. Don’t worry, I’ve got excellent taste.” The girls bent over Aida’s bed together. “Oh, I almost forgot. Let’s show her the gown, first.”

“Gown?” She was incapable of doing anything more than repeating Astrid’s words.

“I didn’t pick it out, but Winter showed me. He called it a ‘goddess dress,’ and he’s sort of right. It’s gorgeous. Hold on.” Benita untied the string on the smaller box and wiggled the top off. After pulling back layers of crinkly tissue paper, the girl lifted out a delicate oyster-colored sleeveless gown. It gathered over the shoulders with gold-threaded cords tied into long bows, and draped around the hips like a Greek chiton. Tiny freshwater pearls and golden beads danced across the sheer bodice.

Astrid and Benita both looked up at her with happy, expectant faces.

“It’s stunning,” Aida admitted.

“Look, the bodice is silk crepe-georgette. Two layers,” she said, slipping her slender fingers behind the fine, diaphanous material. “And when you look at it in the right light, you can see tiny peacock feathers embroidered on the skirt.”

Aida’s heart skipped a beat. She leaned in to inspect the fabric. Yes, it was Ju’s. The fabric Winter had liked. She never expected . . . well, she didn’t know what she expected.

“It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept this.”

“Winter told me you’d say that. He also said you might be offended, angry, or stubborn.”

“Oh, did he now?”

She held up her hand. “Before you say anything else, let me show you the coat I found. If you say no to cashmere and fox, you’re either a fool or an idiot.”

Good grief, the girl had a mouth on her, didn’t she?

“Look, my brother thinks you hung the moon, so I hope you’re not planning on breaking his heart,” Astrid added, giving her a cool look. “He’s been through enough already.”

Aida had never broken anyone’s heart. She never stayed in one place long enough for that to happen, and if she did, she certainly wasn’t heartbreaking material.

“He’s not a monster,” Astrid added. “He likes to think he is, but he wasn’t like this before. I mean, he’s always been arrogant, but he used to be happy and fun to be around.”

“Before the accident.”

Astrid shook her head. “Before Paulina. The accident just made it worse.”

If the girl was trying to make Aida curious, she’d done a fine job. “Why didn’t Winter come here himself?”

“He did. He’s waiting in the car downstairs.”