Stillwell considered the question for a long moment. “Do you think you can do that without alerting your buyer to our offer?”

“I’m the only one who knows about it, and I’m not going to tell him.”

“What excuse will you use for breaking the contract, then?”

“That’s my problem, isn’t it? But don’t you worry. I’ll do it.”

“I wish you good luck, Mr. Waterson.”

“And if I succeed, will you still be interested in buying the land?”

“We will certainly be willing to negotiate with you. In fact, let me give you my card.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small silver case. Inside were his business cards, engraved on ivory vellum. They practically screamed money. He laid one on the table and slid it over to Waterson. “Feel free to contact me whenever you find yourself unencumbered.”

“I certainly will,” Waterson said happily.

“But I must ask you to keep Standard Oil’s interest in this property confidential. If word gets out, I’m afraid we will have to withdraw our offer completely.”

Waterson figured they didn’t want to get into a bidding war with Texaco, although it might be highly beneficial to him if the two giant oil companies were bidding against each other. “I understand. You have my word.” For what that was worth.

“Thank you, Mr. Waterson. It’s a pleasure doing business with a man who understands these things.”

—

How did you get involved with Madame Ophelia?” Jake asked Persephone while they waited for their dinners to arrive. They had returned to the same restaurant as before—since it was supposed to be Jake’s favorite—and the waiter had already filled their wineglasses. Jake again noticed Persephone didn’t take more than a sip or two.

“Madame Ophelia was a friend of my mother’s,” Persephone said without hesitation. When people were lying, they usually hesitated before answering, getting their story together before speaking. But then Persephone might have told this story often enough that she didn’t have to think about it anymore.

“And she hired you to work for her?”

“Not exactly. She took me in when my mother died. I was only fifteen, and all alone in the world. She’s always treated me as if I were her own child.”

“Then I can understand why you’re so devoted to her. Was she already doing séances when you went to live with her?”

“She . . . she already knew she had the gift, but she was just learning to use it.”

“When did she start the séances?”

“A few years ago.”

“That must have been exciting.”

“I—”

“There you are,” a woman said, startling them both.

They looked up to see Frederica Quincy glaring down at them.

“Freddie,” Jake said, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing here?”