Midnight Jewels

slid between her teeth and his fingers moved enticingly under her hair. Mercy heard her own soft moan and knew that Croft had heard it also. When he released her she was breathless. His eyes were brilliant as he looked down at her.
    "I'm not a ghost, Mercy. When this is all over I'll take great pleasure in letting you prove to yourself just how solid and substantial I can get."
    Mercy fled from the bathroom. She ought to ask Isobel for pointers, she decided.

    By ten o'clock that evening Gladstone's party was in full swing. Mercy was torn between fascination and a distinctly uneasy sensation. She had never seen anything quite like this crowd, even though she had been raised in California. As Croft had once observed, she had apparently led a sheltered life.
    For some odd reason the noise level bothered her most. A sophisticated music system was piping progressive jazz and rock to all three levels of the house, but that wasn't the main problem as far as Mercy was concerned. The increasingly high pitch of the laughter and the rising decibel level of the conversations were what was really beginning to bother her. She didn't see how anyone was managing to communicate at all in the living room or anywhere else on the first floor.
    She did overhear several shouted arguments about the merits of some of the artwork that filled the house, but Mercy decided that they couldn't really be classified as conversations. Everybody involved appeared to be interested only in what he or she personally had to say. Other people's input was obviously a distraction and an annoyance.
    It was a strange self-centered group of people, not quite real in their wild, arresting clothing and their obviously intense need to focus interest on themselves.
    The wine and liquor were flowing freely, but Mercy suspected that wasn't all that was contributing to the general gaiety. Here and there she caught whiffs of the acrid scent of marijuana along with some less identifiable aromas. She had seen more than one person exit the room discreetly and return a few minutes later looking unnaturally euphoric.
    Croft might think her naive, Mercy decided, but she wasn't stupid. And she
had
been raised on the West Coast.
    "Why are you standing in a corner looking so serious? This is supposed to be a party. Act happy, Mercy."
    Croft's voice came from her left, sounding strangely cheerful. Too cheerful, considering the situation.
    "There you are." She realized she was feeling both relief and acute anxiety. "I was wondering where you'd gone. I couldn't see you in the crowd and I was afraid—" She broke off uneasily, glancing around. But no one seemed to be paying any attention, and any listening devices that might be planted in the living room would already be awash with static. She glared at Croft. "Why are you smiling like that? You almost never smile. Are you all right?"
    "You know, you're kind of cute when you snap at me." He took another sip of the drink in his hand. "I am fine. Peachy keen, in fact. Rarely have I felt better."
    "I'm glad to hear it because you're looking a little frayed around the edges."
    "Camouflage," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Got to appear to be part of the crowd."
    "Right. Well, you're doing a good job of it."
    "You're not. You're standing around looking morbid. What are you drinking?" He peered at the glass in her hand.
    "Water."
    "Ah ha. That explains it."
    "Explains what?"
    His brows came together and he gave his head a small shake, as if to clear it. His eyes darkened briefly. "Never mind." He glanced around at the loud, colorful throng. "Time for all good ghosts to be about their business, hmm? Time to practice disappearing and materializing and assorted skills."
    Mercy leaned toward him. She was intensely worried now, not just nervous but downright scared. "Croft, are you sure you want to do this? Isn't there some other way of answering your questions about Gladstone? If you get caught—"
    "I won't get caught."
    "That's very reassuring," she snapped, annoyed with his blithe lack of concern. It struck her as both unnatural and un-Croftlike. "But what happens if you do?"
    "You pretend to be as shocked as everyone else."
    "What are you talking about?"
    He patted her head as if she were an eager puppy and said with exaggerated patience, "If I get caught you just pretend to know nothing about what I was doing in the vault. You tell everyone you're shocked and stunned. Appalled, even. I must have been using you to get access to