“Should I call for you here?” he asked eagerly.

She glanced at the door again. “Uh, no. Do you remember which building I live in?”

“Sure.”

“Call for me there at six thirty. I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled.

“I’ll look forward to it, too.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Persephone had changed into something much more becoming by the time Jake called for her at her apartment house. Plainly, she considered this an occasion. He’d wondered how he would find her, but she was waiting by the door when he arrived. That way he wouldn’t know which apartment was hers, he supposed. Women had to be careful.

“It’s very nice of you to do this,” he said as they started down the sidewalk. The city was crowded with pedestrians returning home or going out for the evening, and the streets were clogged with horses and wagons jostling for position between the motorcars whose drivers obviously felt sounding a horn entitled them to do anything.

“I told you. I’m happy to help. Not many clients offer to take me out to dinner, after all.”

“Since you told me most of your clients are wealthy ladies, I’m not surprised.”

She smiled at that. “You said you don’t know many people in the city. How long have you lived here?”

“Only a few months.”

“Where are you from then?”

“South Dakota,” he said with an apologetic grin.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “That’s a long way. How did you end up in New York?”

“My father had some . . . some business contacts here. One of his old friends gave me a job.”

They had to stop conversing to concentrate on crossing the street without being run over, and when they reached the other side, Jake directed her to a small Italian restaurant he had discovered. He had already tipped the waiter to greet him like a regular customer and show them to a table in a quiet corner. Persephone seemed impressed.

“They know me here,” he whispered unnecessarily. He ordered a bottle of wine, thinking that might help loosen Persephone’s tongue a bit, and spaghetti and meatballs for both of them.

When the waiter delivered the wine, Jake poured them each a glass.

“So,” Jake said, leaning forward to demonstrate his interest, “what happens at a séance?”

Persephone briefly explained the procedure of sitting around a table, writing the questions, and burning them.

“If you burn them without looking at them, how does Madame Ophelia know what questions were asked?”

“She doesn’t need to know. The spirits know and they are the ones who answer.”

“I thought Madame Ophelia answered.”

Persephone gave him a smile reflecting infinite patience with his ignorance. “The spirits speak through her.”

“That must be strange.”

“She does speak in a different voice, or maybe that is the spirit’s voice. At any rate, you can tell when it’s the spirit. Her spirit guide is a German monk.”