“I’ll have to check with the interested parties and see what they want to do. I’m supposed to do a walk-through tonight, so I’ll let you know what happens then. Maybe there will be no need for a séance after all.”
“Or perhaps there will be more need than ever.”
“So how would the séance work, exactly?” I asked. “How many people do we need, and can we summon the ghosts in some sort of controlled fashion? What if the spirit of the father is violent? Would we be putting people at risk?”
“Excellent questions all. I am a ghost hunter, not a medium. I believe we need an expert to make contact with the ghosts. You are a medium, of course, but you are still untrained and unsure. It’s best to have someone experienced to conduct the séance so as to control the situation better.”
“By all means, let’s call in someone experienced. Believe me when I say I have absolutely no ego attached to being the one who talks to ghosts.”
“I will make some phone calls to see if it is possible to set it up for this Friday. Presuming, that is, you still want to after your walk-through tonight.”
I nodded.
“Mel, I want you to know I am very proud of you,” said Olivier. “When I met you just a few months ago, you were afraid to go into the building by yourself. But this time you have not even asked me to accompany you on your walk-through.”
“Thanks. I guess I’m getting a little more accustomed to the idea. It helps to have a sense of what to expect.” I didn’t think I would ever become blasé about ghosts—it was just too weird an experience—but there was no denying that repeated exposure to the beyond had led to a certain amount of desensitization.
Downstairs in the shop, Dingo was finishing up a makeover on Cookie. She was covered in chain jewelry and bedecked like an adolescent Goth. All she needed was heavy black eye makeup and black lipstick, and she would be the perfect Queen of the Dead.
“Remember that look for next year’s Halloween Party,” I said as I stripped her of the jewelry. “Ready?”
We bid farewell to Olivier and Dingo and headed out to my car.
“So listen,” I said, glancing over at Cookie from the corner of my eye. “I have to go and do a thing this evening, so I’m going to drop you off at BART.”
BART, or Bay Area Rapid Transit, is our local subway system. By and large, it is fast, efficient, and environmentally friendly. I would take it into the city more often if I could, but since I was usually running from one worksite to the next, it simply wasn’t practical. Still, it was a great train service.
“BART?” Cookie gaped at me, as though I’d suggested she ride a water buffalo while wearing her favorite Jimmy Choo shoes.
“Sure. Dad can pick you up from the Fruitvale station.”
“I don’t take BART. I have never taken BART. I don’t even know how to go about taking BART. Do I need a ticket?”
“Of course you need a ticket. It’s not free.”
“I don’t know how to buy a ticket.”
“Then this will be a whole day of firsts for you. Hanging out on jobsites, going to a ghost supply shoppy, buying a ticket for BART. Where will the adventure end?”
“Getting mugged and murdered on BART?”
“You’re not going to get mugged or murdered. Good heavens.”
“How do you know?”
“Because BART’s safe. I take it all the time.”
“Not at midnight, you don’t.”
“Actually, I do take it at midnight. And anyway, it’s nowhere near midnight.”
“It’s dark.”
She had me there. “BART’s perfectly safe.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have something to take care of.” Carting my sister around jobsites was one thing, but of this I was sure: I did not want Cookie tagging along on my ghost walk.
In the end, I had to park the car and go into the station to physically assist Cookie in buying a ticket from the machine, since BART really did suck at customer service. Once you knew what you were doing, it was a simple enough system, but it was far from intuitive; the uninitiated usually took a while to figure it out or were forced to rely upon the kindness of strangers. I had lost count of how many times I had helped some hapless tourist buy a ticket from the machines, get through the turnstiles, and figure out which train to take.
Of course, Cookie probably would have fared just fine with any one of the men who would likely have flocked to help her, but she got stuck with her sister instead. It worked out, though, so she could complain to me the whole time and try to wheedle me into driving her home.