The Cliff House Strangler Read online

  Despite her unorthodox costume, the psychic’s most distinctive features were her dark brown—almost black—eyes. The heavy kohl she had applied to outline them was obviously for dramatic effect, but there was a deeper, almost magnetic quality about them that transcended artificial enhancement. To say that they were penetrating would be an understatement; I found them absolutely compelling.

  Madame Karpova was effectively using them now to capture her guests’ attention. One by one, every eye at the table fixed upon her. Except for the uneasy shuffle of Robert’s feet and the sound of rain beating upon the roof and windows, the room was eerily silent. Like an actor milking every ounce of drama from a scene, she waited several long moments before speaking.

  “Welcome, my friends,” she said at last. “I am Madame Olga Karpova.” She paused, as if to give this pronouncement the significance it deserved, then gestured to the beautiful young girl in her mid- to late teens seated to her right. “This is my daughter, Yelena.” Turning to the dour man who had let us in, and who was now seated directly to Robert’s right, she added, “And this is my brother, Dmitry Serkov. It is my practice to dispense with further introductions to protect the privacy of my clients. Be assured that those spirits beyond the pale require no introductions. They come to us in peace, bringing comfort and enlightenment to those loved ones who have been left behind.”

  The clairvoyant’s voice was deep and richly textured. Although I detected a Russian accent, her command of the English language was surprisingly good. It was so exceptional, in fact, that I questioned her insistence that she had only left her native Russia three years earlier.

  Once again, she paused, taking us all in with that darkly intense gaze. “I have one implacable rule. Those entities who choose to join us this evening are to be treated with the utmost respect and deference. Is that understood?”

  This was answered by a surprised nod of heads and a general, albeit hushed, murmur of agreement.

  Seemingly satisfied, Madame Karpova turned to her brother. “If you please, Dmitry.”

  Silently, the tall man stood and, with a lumbering gate, made his way around the room snuffing out candles. As he slowly but methodically set about this task, Madame Karpova explained what we might expect to see that night.

  “Unlike many spiritualists, I disdain the use of cabinets, curtains, or other such props. They are for those pretending to possess the gift, that rare ability to communicate with those souls who inhabit the nether world beyond our own.”

  She spread her arms to indicate the empty space surrounding the table, and particularly the area around and behind her chair.

  “I, Madame Karpova,” she went on with histrionic self-importance, “have no need to hide behind such artifice. I will remain in your sight throughout tonight’s reading.“ Her dark eyes captured those of each of us in turn. “Even when I am no longer in possession of my body.”

  This last bit was said in a voice so pregnant with implications that it precipitated another low, nervous murmur around the table. She quickly squelched the response.

  “There are some of you in this room who scoff, who doubt not only my powers but the very existence of life beyond the dark portals of death. Oh, yes, I know who you are.” Her voice rose to a crescendo, drowning out even the storm. I felt Robert stiffen beside me, and could not deny my own quick intake of breath. If nothing else, Madame Karpova certainly knew how to mesmerize an audience.

  “Yes,” she went on. “I tell you the world is filled with disbelievers. But cynics beware. The spirits have been known to exact a terrible vengeance upon those foolish enough to deny their existence.”

  She paused, and such was the sheer magnetism of the woman that not a single sound filled the sudden void.

  “I must also caution you,” she resumed in low, compelling tones, “I have no control over which entities will choose to join us tonight. My primary control—the spirit I will allow to inhabit my body during tonight’s reading—is Tizoc, an Aztec priest. But even a spirit over a thousand years old has limited influence over those who have traveled beyond our earthly plane.”

  As she droned on about the world on the “other side,” Robert leaned close to my ear and asked what I knew about the others seated at the table.

  Thanks to my brother Samuel, who had somehow managed to obtain a list of tonight’s attendees, I was able to identify most of the guests. I required no list, however, to recognize the distinguished-looking man sitting directly to my left, at the opposite end of the table from Madame Karpova.

  “That’s state senator Percival Gaylord,” I informed Robert quietly. My elder, sadly narrow-minded brother Frederick was also a member of the California senate. Since I had been forced to listen to him gush ad infinitum about Gaylord, who, for reasons best known to himself, had become Frederick’s mentor, I’d been more than a little surprised to learn he would be present tonight. What would my brother think, I wondered, if he knew his revered adviser was taking part in a séance?

  “That’s the senator’s wife, Maurilla Gaylord, seated to his left,” I went on in a hushed whisper.

  Robert gave a derisive grunt, then nodded toward the young man seated to Mrs. Gaylord’s left. “What about the boy? He looks too young to be taken in by this spirit nonsense.”

  Unobtrusively, I peered down at Samuel’s notes, which I’d placed in my lap. My brother’s horrible handwriting and the dim light made them difficult to read. Yet because of the young man’s age, there could hardly be a mistake.

  “That must be Nicholas Bramwell,” I told my companion. “He’s the younger son of Edgar Bramwell—you know, the San Francisco contractor. Samuel says he recently graduated from Yale University’s School of Law. That must be his mother, Philippa Bramwell, seated to his left.”

  I nodded toward a plump middle-aged woman stylishly dressed in a burgundy silk gown, the long cuirass bodice decorated with narrow satin stripes that gleamed in the candlelight as her breath moved in and out of her ample bosom. Atop her perfectly coiffed brown hair perched a small but elaborate burgundy hat, trimmed in feathers, jewels, and the same satin material.

  “The elderly widow next to her is Mrs. Theodora Reade. Apparently, she and Mrs. Bramwell are devotees of spiritualism and rarely miss one of these events.”

  “Then we have Yelena, Madame Karpova’s daughter,” Robert murmured, admiring the lovely dark-haired girl sitting to Madame Karpova’s right. “By the silly look on the Bramwell boy’s face, he’s clearly taken a fancy to the lass.”

  I had also noticed the admiring looks the young man was bestowing upon the medium’s daughter. Although Yelena pretended to be unaware of young Bramwell’s attention, the occasional sidelong glances she gave him from beneath long, thick black lashes told me she was very conscious of him indeed.

  Seated directly to Madame Karpova’s left was another unlikely attendee: Lt. Frank Ahern of the San Francisco Police Department. Ahern was a short, rather burly middle-aged Irishman with a ruddy, good-natured face and sandy-colored hair liberally sprinkled with gray. His eyes were a vivid blue, and seemed to gleam with ill-disguised skepticism as he regarded the Russian clairvoyant. To his left was his wife, Nora, a small, pleasant-looking woman who was watching Madame Karpova with single-minded intensity.

  “By the horn spoons!” Robert exclaimed after I’d identified the Aherns, his so-called whisper loud enough for Madame Karpova’s penetrating eyes to fasten on us in silent disapproval. “A state senator and a police lieutenant. You’d think they’d be the first ones to escort this Karpova woman and her bag of tricks out of town.”

  “Shh,” I hissed, as other faces at the table frowned in our direction.

  With a final disapproving glare at Robert and myself, Madame Karpova’s attention went to her brother. In that same ponderous pace, Dmitry Serkov extinguished the last candle—save for the white pillar positioned in the middle of our table—then once again took his seat between Robert and Mrs. Ahern. The light cast by this sole remaining candle barely
penetrated beyond the twelve of us, leaving the rest of the room in virtual darkness.

  Madame Karpova cleared her throat and solemnly announced that we were ready to begin. “I would ask each of you to relax and concentrate on the entity you wish to contact,” she instructed. “Please remember, once I have entered into a trance, I will be in an altered state, delicately balanced between this world and the next. While I am out of my body, it is vital that no one make any sudden sounds or movements, or attempt to—”

  CLIFF HOUSE DINING ROOM Seating for Séance

  Her words abruptly cut off as the dining room door swung open with a bang, and the room was vividly lit by another flash of lightning. Startled, we all turned to see a large man standing framed in the doorway. At least I supposed the intruder was comprised of flesh and blood. In truth, he was so bizarrely dressed in a long black cape and matching cowl pulled low over his eyes that for a wild moment I thought he might actually be one of Madame Karpova’s spirits.

  Since he was illuminated for only a fleeting moment, I had to question whether the figure had truly been there at all. But when a second bolt of lightning quickly followed the first, I knew the stranger had been no figment of my imagination.

  With a muttered oath, Lieutenant Ahern rose halfway out of his chair. By the light of the table’s flickering candle, I could see that his expression was a cross between anger and barely suppressed fear.

  “Darien Moss!” the police lieutenant hissed. “What in the name of all the saints are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a long moment, the stranger didn’t move. Then, as if he were the long-awaited guest of honor, he threw back his rain-soaked cowl and walked boldly into the room. To my left, Senator Gaylord cursed softly, and his wife stifled a gasp. Looking toward the head of the table, I saw Madame Karpova’s body stiffen; then, glancing to my right, I noticed a look of outright malevolence cross her brother Dmitry Serkov’s scarred face.

  The newcomer was well over six feet tall and on the brawny side. Despite Moss’s long cape, it was apparent that his youthful muscles were beginning to lean toward flab as he approached his middle years. It was too dark to see his features clearly, but I knew from the way he swaggered toward us that he was enjoying every minute of our stunned reaction to his appearance. The man had obviously timed his entrance to create the utmost drama. And it had worked.

  “Who’s Darien Moss?” Robert asked in a whisper I was sure could be heard around the room.

  “He’s that nasty tell-all reporter from the San Francisco Informer,” I told him with distaste.

  Robert chuckled. “You mean the one who called you a silly, empty-headed society girl pretending to be an attorney, when she should have been home playing with her dolls?”

  I was not pleased by the humor in his tone. “Yes, that one,” I replied tightly.

  As if he had overheard our conversation—which he very well might have, given Robert’s version of a whisper—Darien Moss glanced in our direction.

  “Ah, Miss Woolson. Fancy finding you here. Does this mean you’ve given up your”—he gave a rude chuckle—“law practice in favor of more esoteric pursuits?”

  Not only was the reporter insulting but his high-pitched voice had an annoying whine to it. Considering the man’s venomous pen, it seemed distinctly ill-suited to his persona. I was trying to come up with a stinging rejoinder, when I realized the man’s small gray eyes had already moved farther down the table.

  “Well, well. Senator Gaylord, and Lieutenant Ahern. I hardly expected to see two of our city’s most noted public servants seeking advice from the spirit world.” Both men turned red in the face, but Moss gave them no chance to object.

  “Mrs. Bramwell,” he said, nodding his head at the woman sitting bolt upright in her chair, a disapproving frown on her haughty face. “I should have known that San Francisco society would be represented at this little soiree. I suppose an empty mind must find something to fill the void, no matter how ludicrous.”

  The matron’s green eyes turned hard as nails as she fixed the reporter with an icy glare. A satisfied smile curled the corners of Moss’s mouth, as if he was pleased that his barb had once again found its mark, and he turned to the young man seated to the woman’s right.

  “And this must be your younger son,” he said in that thin, stri-dent voice. “Janus, is it? No, sorry, I believe I have the boy confused with a god from Roman mythology.” For some reason, he seemed to find this mistake vastly amusing. “Ah, yes, I remember now. It’s Nicholas. I heard you’d passed the bar, young man. I’m sure your father will find your legal expertise a valuable asset to his company.” His smile turned nasty. “Given his penchant for cutting corners and padding his pockets on certain government projects.”

  Heat rushed up Nicholas Bramwell’s neck, suffusing his face and turning it a dark red. He was halfway out of his chair before Philippa Bramwell took hold of his arm and forced him back down.

  “Do not waste your breath, Nicholas,” she told him with a dismissive sniff of her oversized nose. “The man is a reprobate, an unscrupulous boor. He is totally lacking in ethics or the basic principles of civil behavior. Darien Moss is the worst-possible example of modern journalism run amok.”

  Moss laughed out loud, slapping his thigh as if greatly amused. “Well, that puts me in my place, doesn’t it? I’m gratified to know that one of the most supercilious citizens of our city deigns to read my modest paper.”

  Philippa Bramwell seemed about to suffer an apoplectic fit. Her distorted face broke out in ugly red blotches, and she sputtered more or less inarticulately as she flailed about in an effort to find words to express her outrage.

  Moss turned with satisfaction to our hostess. “Madame Karpova, we meet at last. I’ve heard some remarkable stories concerning your”—again, the nasty smile appeared, making his face resemble that of a mischievous satyr—“accomplishments. This evening, I finally have an opportunity to view these feats firsthand. I’m sure my readers will be most interested in my observations. Judging from the distinguished company you’ve assembled, I believe I’ve underestimated your resources, or should I say your ability to hoodwink individuals all too eager to reveal themselves as fools?”

  There was a collective gasp around the table as Moss swept off his wet cape and tossed it carelessly onto a table against the nearest wall. “I apologize for being late, but the roads are very nearly washed out in some areas.” He gave Madame Karpova a sardonic little bow. “I’m relieved to see you have not yet begun. I would hate to miss any part of the show.”

  No longer able to contain himself, Lieutenant Ahern came out of his chair, fists clenched, his face beet red. “Watch your mouth, Moss!” he spat out. “If you’ve come here tonight to gloat or gather material for that filthy rag of yours, you can turn right around and march back out that door. And I’d better not see any of our names in tomorrow’s paper, or by God I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what, Lieutenant?” Moss’s smile had become an outright sneer. “Arrest me for employing my First Amendment right to print the truth? For educating the people of San Francisco about their so-called leaders? To let them know how they’re being robbed and hoodwinked—”

  “That is enough!” Madame Karpova’s low voice cut through Moss’s diatribe like a knife slicing through butter. She had not risen from her chair, yet the power of her personality was enough to stop both men in their tracks. “If you cannot behave in a civilized manner, gentlemen, I will ask you to leave.”

  Lieutenant Ahern’s blue eyes remained fixed on Moss with a look of profound hatred. I was afraid he was about to challenge the reporter physically, when his wife took him by the sleeve and urged him back into his seat.

  Frank Ahern hesitated, clearly itching to put Darien Moss in his place. Then, looking around, he realized everyone at the table was watching him. His face turned an even deeper shade of red as he sank reluctantly back into his chair.

  Instead of returning Ahern’s anger, Moss aga
in seemed to have found the entire exchange amusing. “Very sensible, Lieutenant. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything to frighten off Madame Karpova’s spirits—that is, if any of them actually make an appearance tonight.”

  For the first time, Moss seemed to realize there was no room for him at the table. With a shrug, he started toward one of the chairs that had been pushed to the side of the room. “I see I shall have to make my own place.”

  Theodora Reade looked about in alarm. “But that will make thirteen at the table,” she protested. “Thirteen people is—”

  “Out of the question,” said Mrs. Bramwell, interrupting her. She shot the reporter a look of profound dislike. “You are quite right, my dear,” she added, giving the elderly woman a friendly pat on the arm. “Thirteen people at a séance will never do.”

  This caused a general murmur, but before anyone else could voice an opinion, Dmitry Serkov rose to his feet. Giving Darien Moss a last contemptuous look, the Russian stalked heavily, and silently, from the room.

  “It appears you have a place after all, Mr. Moss,” Madame Karpova said. Although her exotic face displayed no emotion, I could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was not pleased by this addition to her table.

  I understood her uneasiness. Yet, what else could the woman do? If she sent Darien Moss packing, she would undeniably pay dearly for the slight in tomorrow’s Informer. Of course, she might well pay the same price if she allowed him to stay. It seemed glaringly clear that there wasn’t one person at the table who didn’t shudder at what he or she might read in Moss’s next column. Including me, I admitted ruefully. The reporter had made it obvious that finding me at a séance would do nothing to improve his poor opinion of San Francisco’s newest female attorney. It was also true that since I had opened my own law office, his power to cause me grief had increased immeasurably.

  Eleven sets of wary eyes followed Moss as he settled himself in Serkov’s vacated chair between Robert and Mrs. Ahern. He made himself comfortable, then reached into a pocket and removed a small black leather notebook and a pencil.