The telephone rang. He let someone else answer. After a few moments, Bo slipped inside the kitchen. Winter prepared himself for the speech, but to Bo's credit, it didn't come.

"I know you might not want to hear this right now, but that was Velma on the line."

Winter grunted. It was all he could manage.

"She was calling to say that they're reporting on the radio that two unidentified men in Chinatown were burned alive inside a black truck that misfired outside a grocer's shop. Witnesses said a couple of folks tried to help the men when the truck started burning, but the locks were stuck on both doors, and they were afraid it would explode-which it did."

Christ alive. The curse worked.

"No identification on the bodies. No registration plates on the truck," Bo added. "Cops think it might've been stolen. I'll check in with one of our guys on the inside and see if I can get any other information."

After Winter muttered his thanks, Bo retreated, leaving him alone in the kitchen with nothing but his incoherent thoughts. His world was breaking apart. He was numb on the inside, worn down on the outside. He couldn't move or think properly. Could barely focus his eyes on Greta when her silver head appeared in the doorway.

"Are you all right, gulleplutten?" she asked.

He stood up and pulled the front of his suit into place, trying to wrestle some control over his feelings, and heard the crinkle of paper from his inner suit pocket. Emmett Lane's check to Aida. He could've handed it over, given her the chance to make an informed choice, but he wanted her to choose to stay for him, not money.

He'd put his heart on a plate for her, and she wouldn't say the words back. Maybe he'd been fooling himself to believe she felt the same way.

He glanced up at Greta. "Have her things packed and brought down to the foyer."

Aida's last performance at Gris-Gris was her all-time worst. Unable to call spirits for not one, not two, but three audience members-and unwilling to fake it-she was booed off the stage.

A career first.

Maybe a career last, if word got back to her future employer down South.

"It happens to the best of us," Velma said generously, patting her on the back as she handed over the last of her wages. "Maybe you're distracted by something you want to talk about?"

Aida shook her head. She would only start crying again.

After Hezekiah and Daniels both hugged her, after she'd said all her good-byes, she left in disgrace, heading through the back delivery door.

Pausing under the doorway light, she pulled her gloves from her handbag and stared up at the fog tenting the narrow alleyway. Well. What now? All her new things were at Winter's house.

And so was Winter.

She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily, then slipped her hand into a glove. "Okay, Palmer," she muttered to herself. "Let's think about this rationally."

Maybe he'd been right that no one would care about their affair. She wasn't leading a Girl Scout troop, after all. And how could she argue that they didn't know their own feelings well enough after a month, but insist that he make a public demonstration to last a lifetime?

Right or wrong, it didn't mean she had to leave the state to prove her argument, stomping off like a petulant child. Yes, she loved this city, and some insistent part of her did feel like it was home. So he was right about two things.

And really, when she considered, she could get a bank loan-he was right about that, too, d.a.m.n him! Just a small one, enough to pay for a few months' rent at a cheap place, perhaps one with an apartment attached, so she could live and work out of the same place to save money.

He's come between me and the woman I love.

Did Winter mean that? Did he really love her?

On a sigh, she let her arms flop to her sides. Her handbag slipped off her wrist, dropping to the pavement. The contents of her handbag scattered. She bent to collect them all.

"You all right, Miss Palmer?"

She looked up. One of the club's guards, Manny, was leaning out of the back door.

"I'm fine," she lied as she scooped everything back into her handbag. "Thank you."

"Miss Palmer!" A new voice called to her several yards away, at the mouth of the alley. A man stood next to a car with the door open, waving to her. Clouds of exhaust pumped from the tailpipe as the engine rumbled. It took her a second to recognize the man's face.

"Doctor Yip," she said with a smile, standing to greet him. "What brings you out to North Beach?"

"A long story," he said as she approached. "Would you have time to listen to it, over tea perhaps?"

She hesitated, wanting to get back to Winter and talk. But the herbalist's face was friendly, and perhaps he had some information they needed. "Is this about Mr. Magnusson?"

"Yes, in fact it is." He gestured toward the backseat of the waiting car. "Please."

"You all right, Miss Palmer?" Manny repeated from behind her.

She lifted a hand in answer. "It's okay."

"Please," Doctor Yip said again, encouraging her into the car. "Won't take long. I think you will be quite interested in what I have to tell you. We can drive across the street to the Automat."

It was silly to be hesitant about getting in a car with the old man. He'd helped them, after all, and they'd attracted Ju's thugs into his quiet shop. She glanced down and saw he was still wearing his quaint Chinese embroidered slippers. The least she could do was listen to whatever news he had. He gave her a kind smile.

She slid in the backseat, b.u.mping into a man who was already sitting inside. "Excuse me," she said. "I didn't know anyone was in here."

She looked up. The man held a rag in his hand that smelled of noxious herbs. A dark scab marred his cheek, just below his eye.

All at once, she noticed the driver's nose was taped up; his hat nearly covered up his cauliflower ear.

The door shut behind her as Doctor Yip spoke from her side. "Now, my little spirit medium-are you going to play nice, or shall I have one of my new worker bees make you go to sleep?"

TWENTY-EIGHT.

AN HOUR AFTER AIDA LEFT, WINTER FELT THE AFTERSHOCKS OF their fight lessening. Two hours, and his heart was heavy with regret. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, he was pacing the floors, working himself into a state that seesawed between impatience and desperation.

"Should I fetch her from the club?" Jonte asked.

Her show would be ending now. It usually took her a half hour to sign a couple of autographs, get out of her stage clothes. "I'll go with you," Winter decided, grabbing his hat and coat. A couple of minutes later, they were pulling out of the driveway.

In the dark of the car, Winter watched his sleeping neighborhood sail by the window. It was selfish to have withheld the news of Emmett Lane's check from her-he understood that now. Stupid, stubborn pride. She was obviously worried about a safety net if she was talking about marriage.

Marriage.

He still couldn't believe she brought that up. She knew how he felt about the subject. Never again, not after what he went through with Paulina. Maybe she was trying to wrestle some kind of sacrifice out of him, because she saw leaving her club career as a compromise. Because what else could it be if she wasn't after his money-and of course she wasn't, so ridiculous of him to even entertain that idea for a second-and she wasn't in love with him.

Was she?

She wouldn't say the words. And that upset him more than he cared to admit.

Maybe she would come to love him. If it took her more time to get to that place, better it be here than somewhere across the country, days away by train. Christ, when it came down to it, he'd rather she hate his guts and open her business here, where he could protect her and watch her and keep her safe.

"You should let her drive the Packard."

Startled, Winter glanced at Jonte in the rearview mirror. "What's that?"

"If you marry her, you should let her drive the Packard. She's been taking it out with Astrid all week. Whether or not Astrid learns to drive is one thing, but a girl that young in a family this notorious should not be driving alone. One of your rivals could harm her. Miss Palmer is older-she's not naive like Astrid. Miss Palmer should drive the Packard."

Winter sat in silence, unable to believe what Jonte was saying. The old man never b.u.t.ted into his business. Granted, everyone else in the household did-G.o.d knew Greta couldn't go two hours without giving her opinion-but Jonte was an island, silent and stoic.

And second, his driver had just made the a.s.sumption that Winter might marry Aida. Where did that come from? Surely half the staff heard them arguing, and five minutes couldn't have pa.s.sed before they told the other half what they'd heard. Was Jonte so far removed from the gossip that he didn't know what had happened?

"Not my business," the old man said. "But she would make a fine wife. Help you forget about the first one, which, by the way, I told your pappa many times was a bad match. Your mother was only trying to look out for you, but she made a mistake."

"Maybe some people aren't meant to marry. I might be one of them. My job is dangerous and disreputable."

"It's the same job your pappa had, and he was married and raising a family."

"Mamma hated it."

"She was afraid one of you would get killed or end up in jail. She was not ashamed of the work. She was proud of your pappa. Proud of you, too."

Winter glanced out the window in silence.

"And if you don't mind me being frank, Miss Palmer is made of sterner stuff than your mamma ever was."

"I had no idea you had an opinion about such matters," Winter admitted.

"You don't pay me for advice. That doesn't mean I don't have opinions."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned. Maybe all that running you did when you were chasing down Astrid and Aida knocked some of those opinions loose, eh?"

"Maybe so," Jonte said with a quirk of his lips, then returned to his usual silent self.

Winter lifted his hat and swiped his hand over his hair.

How had life gotten so complicated?

All he could wrap his head around was that he'd made a terrible mistake in sending Aida out of the house like he did. She probably thought he was a monster, the way he yelled at her. He didn't want to be that person anymore. Especially when it came to her. All of this bulls.h.i.t with hauntings and the fire and the G.o.dd.a.m.n Hive or Beekeeper-whatever the h.e.l.l the enemy was calling himself-all of it was making him agitated, bringing out the worst in him.

Because that wasn't really him . . . was it? It couldn't be. He didn't want to live the rest of his life being that person.

He would not.

An accident at Broadway and Columbus held them up. When they finally made it to the club, it was almost midnight. They idled by the curb for several minutes, then Winter sent Jonte to see if she was still inside while he scanned the taxi line out front. He didn't want to miss her.

He waited five minutes for Jonte to return. Ten more. When the old man finally strode back, he knew something was wrong.

"Daniels claims she left half an hour ago."

"Where did she go?"

"Men working the entrance said she didn't leave that way."

Winter directed Jonte into the alley. He'd go up and find Velma. Maybe Aida told her where she was going. He could call home and see if they'd crossed paths.

Stepping out of the car, he spotted one of the club's bouncers guarding the door. One of the men who'd carried him up to Velma's apartment the night he was poisoned.

"Evening, Mr. Magnusson."

"Manny, is it?"

"That's right."

"I'm looking for Miss Palmer. Did you happen to see her leave?"

The man nodded. "Half an hour ago, thereabouts."

"Did she happen to say where she was going?"

"No, but she seemed to know the man she left with."

Every muscle in Winter's body tightened. "Which man?"

"Old Chinese man pulled up and waved her into a black Tin Lizzie. I asked her if she was okay. She seemed surprised to see him, but she said it was fine."

Winter's heart began pounding. "Did he give a name? What did he look like?"

"She called him 'doctor.' Funny old man with a long gray braid. British accent."

Doctor Yip. Confusion clouded Winter's thoughts.

"The man said he had some information about you, in fact," Manny said. "Said he wanted to talk about it over tea. I asked her if she was okay, and she said yes," he insisted again. "Did I make a mistake?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw silver shining on the asphalt. He picked up Aida's lancet. His mind raced to fit puzzle pieces together, and he suddenly remembered the way the herbalist had flinched when he set eyes on Winter-not in fear, but in recognition!-and he remembered the man's Chinese slippers, embroidered with honeybees.

Shock struck his solar plexus like a physical blow.