“Jesse.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he rose from his chair and swept wordlessly past me—but not, as I initially feared, to lift Paul Slater from his chair and hurl him through the nearby plateglass windows.
To my surprise, Jesse walked right past Paul—who’d shrunk in his seat, clearly expecting some kind of blow—then out of the restaurant, never once looking back, though I called his name again. The last I saw of him, he was disappearing out the front door, his broad-shouldered back stiff as a soldier’s at attention.
“Ouch,” Paul said, straightening in his chair. He reached for his whiskey bottle. “That must have smarted, Simon.”
“Shut up, Paul.” I lowered myself into the nearest seat. Even if I’d wanted to go running after Jesse—and I didn’t see what that would accomplish—I wasn’t sure my legs could support me. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Oh, please.” Paul poured pinot noir from a new bottle into one of the many glasses in front of my plate. “If you two really had such a great relationship, he’d have stuck around, no matter what I said.”
I gave him a sour look. “He left to keep himself from killing you.”
Paul laughed. “Probably. I bet he’s waiting out in the parking lot for you, faithful dog that he is. Woof, woof.”
“You’re disgusting.” But I hoped he was right.
“May I make a suggestion? Leave here with me on my jet. That guy is going to go full Satan’s spawn on Monday, especially now, seeing how much you’ve pissed him off. And as much as you’ve annoyed me, too, Simon, with your behavior tonight, I really would hate to see you die. I dislike seeing beautiful things go to waste. Which reminds me, before we go, help me finish this wine. It’s twelve hundred dollars a bottle.”
That child is lost, and very frightened, and in so much pain, Aunt Pru had said. And lost children in pain can sometimes be very cruel. They lash out and hurt others, sometimes without meaning to. But sometimes on purpose, too.
Maybe she really had meant Paul, and not Lucia.
“Paul,” I said, ignoring the wine and reaching into my bag. “Do you recognize this photo?”
Paul glanced briefly at the screen saver on my cell phone, then shrugged.
“Sure. You showed it to the dirtbag earlier. Why?”
“They’re my stepnieces.” I scrolled through the photos of the triplets on my phone, giving him a brief slide show. “Brad and Debbie Ackerman’s triplets. Only you knew her as Debbie Mancuso, of course.”
“That’s fascinating, Suze. How come you’re not trying the wine? You really shouldn’t miss it. It’s got some nice earthy undertones.”
“Brad and Debbie’s daughters are mediators, Paul,” I said. “That’s why I’m showing you their photos. Do you know how rare that is? That there should be so many mediators in the Monterey Bay area? Think about it. There’s you, Paul. And your little brother, Jack. And Father Dom, of course. And now Jesse. And then Debbie Mancuso’s triplets, which she conceived very shortly after graduation night.”
Paul had taken a sip of the twelve-hundred-dollar wine he’d ordered. But when I said the words graduation night, he choked. He managed to get everything down except a little trickle that dribbled out of the side of his mouth. He wiped it away with his napkin, glancing down to make sure none had gotten on his precious suit.
“Really?” he asked. “Like I said, fascinating. But why are you telling me all this? I’m not a huge fan of kids. I’d rather talk about us.”
“This has to do with us,” I said, resting my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand as I regarded him closely. “You, me, and Jesse, and what’s going to happen on Monday if you tear down my house. If that curse is real, and Jesse does start going after everyone he loves, that’s going to include those kids. Those kids who see ghosts. How do you think Debbie Mancuso ended up with triplets who see ghosts? Especially since she’s never shown any sign of being a mediator, and neither, as we all know, has my stepbrother Brad. I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”
“Me?” Paul pointed at himself, his eyebrows raised as high as they would go. “What would I know about it? I don’t know anything about kids.”
“To my knowledge, lack of information about children has never medically impeded anyone from having them.”
“Look, I know what you’re getting at, Simon, but they can’t be mine,” Paul declared. “I don’t care what Debbie’s been telling you. I have never not used a condom in my life, and for very good reason. Do you have any idea how much I’m worth? Do you think I’m not fully aware that there are desperate women all over this country who’d love to trap me into fathering some snot-nosed brat so I’ll be paying them gold ducats until the kid is eighteen? No, thank you.”
“Paul, please,” I said, looking around at all the diners who were now staring at him. “No one is trying to trap you into paying anything, particularly not Debbie. She’s never said a word about this to me—”
“I should hope not!” He pointed at me. “I am a very, very careful guy.”
“Paul, I don’t like this any more than you do. I love those girls, and I would give anything for Brad to be their father. He is their real father, in my opinion. But not genetically. You yourself admitted to me that you weren’t too careful graduation night. You said you barely remembered what happened. You used your drunkenness, in fact, as an excuse for what you did to me. But you weren’t too drunk,” I went on, “to remember that later on that evening, Debbie Mancuso, and I quote, straddled me like she thought I was a damned gigolo, unquote.”
Paul dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, hell. Fine. One time. I may have forgotten to use a rubber one time. But how could she have gotten knocked up with three kids from one time?”
“Teens and women over the age of thirty-five are more likely to give birth to twins and triplets than women aged twenty to thirty-five.” When he stared at me in disbelief, I shrugged. “It’s called science. Look it up.”
“Well, if you think you’re getting a cheek swab out of me for a paternity test, you’re—”
I leaned forward and lifted the wineglass from which Paul had been drinking. I poured its remaining contents into the floral centerpiece, then wrapped the glass loosely in my napkin and tucked both glass and napkin into my bag.
“They can lift DNA for paternity suits from all sorts of things these days, Paul,” I explained. “It costs a bit more, and takes a bit longer, but they can do it.”
Paul looked as if he was about to have a coronary. “You can’t . . . I’ll . . . My lawyers will . . .”
“No, they won’t. Because the test’s going to come back positive. Those girls are your daughters, and they’re already starting to need special care. They can’t tell the dead from the living.”
“What do you want from me, Suze?” he asked, spreading his hands wide, palms up. “I think it’s pretty clear I’m not going to be any help to them. I’m not mediator material.”
“No, you aren’t. Fortunately they have a doting aunt who’ll help teach them those skills, now that I know that’s what they are.”
He looked relieved. “Fine. No problem. You did a great job with my kid brother, Jack. He doesn’t even speak to me, but whatever. So what do they need, then? Money?”
“No. They already have parents—and grandparents—who love them and will provide all they need in that department . . . for now. But you still need to step up. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to Debbie that you’re the father of her children, or if it has, she’s never seriously considered pursuing it. But she may now that you’ve been going around buying up property all over Carmel. Things aren’t going so well between Brad and Debbie. A chunk out of your wallet would probably go a long way toward helping her with some of the stress of raising rambunctious five-year-old triplets who see dead people. Then suddenly you’ll be saddled with them. And with Debbie, of course. Maybe I should mention to her that—”
He blanched. “You’re bluffing. Brad’s only your stepbrother, and you know he’s a chump, but you still love him. You’d never put him through something like that.”
“Wouldn’t I? I’m not so sure. Maybe he has a right to know. And I’m sure Debbie Mancuso’s father, the Mercedes King of Carmel, would be delighted to find out his granddaughters are yours and not Brad Ackerman’s—”
“Fine, Simon. I get it, okay? If you promise not to tell anyone about me possibly being the father of those kids, I won’t tear down 99 Pine Crest Road.”
“Oh,” I said. “You’re definitely not tearing down 99 Pine Crest Road. Do you want to know why? Because you’re giving it to me.”