Page 2 of The Magic We Made

“It’s so lovely,” she goes on, glancing back at me. “You’d never suspect.”

“Suspect?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I bought five hundred dollars’ worth of wine and other groceries when we got here, and then yesterday morning, when I woke up and went into the kitchen, it was gone.”

“Gone?”I’m startled. And it takes a lot to startle me. “What do you mean gone?”

“Gone,” she repeats. “All except the frozen cauliflower-crust pizza. I guess the dead don’t care for cauliflower.”

“The dead?”

“Yes. It’s the only explanation.” Mrs. Baumgarten is still white-knuckling her cardigan. “It’s not the money that bothers me; it’s the fact that this morning when I checked it, the front door was still locked. Yet everything I bought is gone, except the pizza crust. They even took my reusable grocery totes.”

My reply—“I’m so sorry that happened to you”—comes out automatically. My mind is reeling. I can’t think what else to say.

But it doesn’t matter, because Mrs. Baumgarten isn’t finished.

“It can’t have been humans because they left my jewelry.” She releases the cardigan long enough to gesture at the diamond solitaire at her throat, which is only slightly smaller than the ones on her fingers. “And all of the electronics. I would think that a human would have taken those. Those are things you can sell.”

“Right,” I say. I try to keep my tone as soothing as when I speak to my patients. “Have you called the police?”

“No, I waited to tell you.”

“Me?”NowI’mthe confused one. “Why me?”

“Because Mark said you’d be able to help. It’s clear the house is haunted, and you’re a parapsychologist, aren’t you?”

Frankie

I’m going to kill Mark.

“Psychologist,” I correct my new neighbor. “Not a parapsychologist.”

Mrs. Baumgarten looks bewildered. “You don’t study psychic phenomena?”

“No.” The next time I see him, Mark is dead. So dead. “My specialty is financial therapy.”

“Financial therapy?” Mrs. Baumgarten looks even more bewildered, but I’m used to that. Hardly anyone has heard of what I do for a living.

“Three-quarters of Americans report feeling stressed about money,” I explain. “I try to help my patients figure out ways to manage that stress.”

“Oh, no.” Now she looks embarrassed. “I’msosorry. I must have misunderstood—”

“You didn’t misunderstand,” I assure her. “Mark’s my little brother. He loves playing pranks.”

“Pranks?”

I don’t blame her. I blame my brother. Mark knew this poor woman would buttonhole me with her claims of paranormal phenomena the minute I walked out my front door. He must have had a good laugh at the idea.

And it’s a shame, because Ruth Baumgarten—with her graying bob and thick sweater—seems like a nice woman, if maybe a little high-strung.

But who wouldn’t be after being robbed by “ghosts”?

“Yes, I’m afraid Mark considers himself a bit of a comedian. I’m sure he thought he was being funny.” I continue to try to keep my tone soothing and upbeat. No need to let this lady know that later on today, I’m going to murder my little brother. “But your house isn’t haunted. I’m guessing someone broke into it—probably someone who has the code to the lockbox.”

Or possibly someone who still has a copy of the key. Did Ash even bother changing the locks after he bought the house from my wonderful former neighbors, the Blancos, who never rented out the place to Summer People?

The woman blinks. “But who would take such inexpensive things and leave the rest?”