was simply too much to do and not enough time to prepare. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to deal with Marianne’s Golden Gate Expo party until after the Winchester Mystery House party. I just hoped she didn’t evict me in the interim. I caught her flirting with Brad several times and had a feeling if she found out Brad and I were “together,” she’d send me back to the condemned barracks.
The Séance Party invitations had gone out three weeks ago. Jonathan suggested using a picture of the Winchester Mystery House on the cover of the card, with a superimposed 3-D holograph of Mrs. Winchester, who seemed to blink on and off the page, depending on how you held the card. I whipped up a prototype, he approved it, and off they went, with the party details, and promise of a “surprise” visit from a “special guest.” The invitation was apparently intriguing. In spite of the short notice, positive RSVPs streamed in. Jonathan was going to have a full 160-room house.
While the invitations went smoothly, the rest of the party planning wasn’t so stress-free. Jonathan kept changing his mind about who would lead the séance, how the ballroom would be set up, and what to serve as appetizers.
His wife, Lyla, was worse. She seemed to think the event was a reflection of her, rather than a showcase for her husband’s 4-D Projection. She insisted on hiring the chef from Hella-Graphics, Rodney Worth, instead of using my caterer, which didn’t make Rocco happy. We compromised by having both—Rodney in charge of appetizers, Rocco doing dessert. I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into the Battle of the Diva Chefs.
As for decorations, Lyla found a magic shop at Pier 39, and for some reason thought props and tricks from the store would provide the perfect atmospheric touches during a séance. “And they’ll make great party favors, Priscilla,” she said, still calling me by the wrong name. “After all, a séance is really nothing more than a magic show, right?”
At that point I gave up on trying to control the planning. This was essentially Jonathan’s party—and apparently his wife’s—and I was just there to choreograph the event. My only concern was his insistence on secrecy about everything from the guest list to the food. And the hope that Zachary Samuels—the guy who’d tried to run us down in the Winchester Mystery House parking lot—didn’t crash our killer bash.
When the day of the event dawned, I woke up from a nightmare where I was being chased by a faceless man in a black BMW. As I stood at the edge of a cliff, watching the car speed toward me I realized there was nowhere to go—but down. When the image of Sarah Winchester appeared hovering over the abyss, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. My startled cats leaped off the bed as if being chased by a rabid dog, and hid.
“It’s okay, guys,” I said, trying to reassure Thursby, Cairo, and Fatman. At the sound of kibble tinkling into their bowls, they came running from their various hiding places. Full bowls of gourmet cat food seemed to help calm their nerves, but mine were still on edge.
I peeked out of the kitchen window while waiting for my latte to brew. Touches of spring were evident in a couple of neighbors’ flowerpots, but the fog was thick, making it a great day for a haunting. I’ve become somewhat of an expert at identifying different types of fog in the San Francisco Bay Area, since I’ve lived with it all my life. Plus it impresses the tourists.
The most common is Radiation Fog, which sounds scary, and simply means there’s a layer of moist air near the ground. It’s also called Valley Fog but I call it Blanket Fog because that was what it looks like—a big blanket covering the ground. It usually goes away when the sun comes up.
Checking my watch for party countdown—fewer than twelve hours before the first guests would arrive at the Winchester House—I jumped into the shower to wash off the sweat from my nightmare. I dressed in
The Séance Party invitations had gone out three weeks ago. Jonathan suggested using a picture of the Winchester Mystery House on the cover of the card, with a superimposed 3-D holograph of Mrs. Winchester, who seemed to blink on and off the page, depending on how you held the card. I whipped up a prototype, he approved it, and off they went, with the party details, and promise of a “surprise” visit from a “special guest.” The invitation was apparently intriguing. In spite of the short notice, positive RSVPs streamed in. Jonathan was going to have a full 160-room house.
While the invitations went smoothly, the rest of the party planning wasn’t so stress-free. Jonathan kept changing his mind about who would lead the séance, how the ballroom would be set up, and what to serve as appetizers.
His wife, Lyla, was worse. She seemed to think the event was a reflection of her, rather than a showcase for her husband’s 4-D Projection. She insisted on hiring the chef from Hella-Graphics, Rodney Worth, instead of using my caterer, which didn’t make Rocco happy. We compromised by having both—Rodney in charge of appetizers, Rocco doing dessert. I just hoped it wouldn’t turn into the Battle of the Diva Chefs.
As for decorations, Lyla found a magic shop at Pier 39, and for some reason thought props and tricks from the store would provide the perfect atmospheric touches during a séance. “And they’ll make great party favors, Priscilla,” she said, still calling me by the wrong name. “After all, a séance is really nothing more than a magic show, right?”
At that point I gave up on trying to control the planning. This was essentially Jonathan’s party—and apparently his wife’s—and I was just there to choreograph the event. My only concern was his insistence on secrecy about everything from the guest list to the food. And the hope that Zachary Samuels—the guy who’d tried to run us down in the Winchester Mystery House parking lot—didn’t crash our killer bash.
When the day of the event dawned, I woke up from a nightmare where I was being chased by a faceless man in a black BMW. As I stood at the edge of a cliff, watching the car speed toward me I realized there was nowhere to go—but down. When the image of Sarah Winchester appeared hovering over the abyss, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. My startled cats leaped off the bed as if being chased by a rabid dog, and hid.
“It’s okay, guys,” I said, trying to reassure Thursby, Cairo, and Fatman. At the sound of kibble tinkling into their bowls, they came running from their various hiding places. Full bowls of gourmet cat food seemed to help calm their nerves, but mine were still on edge.
I peeked out of the kitchen window while waiting for my latte to brew. Touches of spring were evident in a couple of neighbors’ flowerpots, but the fog was thick, making it a great day for a haunting. I’ve become somewhat of an expert at identifying different types of fog in the San Francisco Bay Area, since I’ve lived with it all my life. Plus it impresses the tourists.
The most common is Radiation Fog, which sounds scary, and simply means there’s a layer of moist air near the ground. It’s also called Valley Fog but I call it Blanket Fog because that was what it looks like—a big blanket covering the ground. It usually goes away when the sun comes up.
Checking my watch for party countdown—fewer than twelve hours before the first guests would arrive at the Winchester House—I jumped into the shower to wash off the sweat from my nightmare. I dressed in
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