The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Any idea how to get in touch with them?”

  Skeet shook his head. “I already told you that, and I told the police, too. Anyway, ma’am, I think it’s time you moved along now.”

  I held his gaze for a moment. His laid-back, friendly demeanor was gone.

  “Sure,” I said. “But this sidewalk is public property, right?”

  “Now you sound like those squatters.”

  “Just checking. No need to get testy.” What was with the attitude? Had the phone call he had received been about me? “See you around.”

  I returned to the parking spot where I had left my old Scion, climbed in, and sat for a moment behind the wheel. What now?

  I checked my messages and found a text from Luz:

  “Fly-fishing or archery?”

  “What?” I texted in reply.

  “Fly. Fishing. Or. Archery.”

  I stared at my phone, then typed, “I’m going to need more info on what you’re talking about.”

  “Double date. Hello?”

  Fed up with texting, I called her. “I repeat: What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I’m working on the agenda for our double date, of course. What did you think?”

  “I thought maybe you’d graded one too many student papers and lost your faculties. Get it? ’Cause you’re a faculty member?”

  “Very funny. Did you know you could fly-fish in Golden Gate Park? There’s even a casting pond, stocked with fish.”

  “I have questions. First, does Victor like fly-fishing?”

  “I don’t know. But if not, there’s an archery range.”

  “There are also buffalo in Golden Gate Park. Maybe we should go buffalo riding.”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “Luz, I think simplicity is the key here.”

  There was a pause. “You’re saying I’m trying too hard?”

  “Just a tad. How about something wild and crazy like dinner and a movie? Or drinks and then dinner?”

  “I want the evening to be memorable.”

  “Well, somebody getting shot by an arrow would make the evening memorable. But maybe something a little more low-key is in order.”

  “That sounds boring.”

  “You’ll be there, and you’re you, which means it is simply not possible for the evening to be boring. Trust me.”

  “You sound on edge. Did you go back to the theater?”

  “I did, but I didn’t get past the security guard.”

  “You must not be trying hard enough.”

  “Probably.”

  “That was a joke, my friend. Please promise me you won’t go back in there until the authorities say it’s safe. What if the murderer is still there, lurking behind the curtain or something?”

  “I don’t think we have final confirmation on the murder part. Maybe it was natural causes.”

  “Like maybe she was frightened to death by ghosts?”

  That was a disturbing idea. “No. In fact, I’m hoping the ghosts might be able to tell me something about what happened.”

  “You know that won’t stand up in a court of law, don’t you? Pretty sure spectral evidence was outlawed after the Salem witch trials. Besides, ghosts are usually clueless about such things. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

  I had to admit she had a point. “Right.”

  “Did the last contractor see the ghosts? Is that why they left?”

  “Good question. I really don’t know. Anyway, my vote for our double date is to nix the fly-fishing and archery and focus on dinner.”

  “Fine.” Luz sighed. “Too bad it’s not Easter.”

  Luz is my oldest and dearest friend, and I usually understood her, so I searched my brain for relevant Easter events . . . “You’re referring to the Bring Your Own Big Wheel race down Vermont Street?”

  “Exactly. Most people think Lombard is the crookedest street in San Francisco, but it’s really Vermont Street.”

  “Victor’s a native San Franciscan, though, right? So he probably knows that already.” Something occurred to me. “But wait a minute. We’re going out this Saturday, right?”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Problem solved: Saturday is the Fourth of July. Drinks, dinner, then fireworks. Fun and patriotic.”

  “You don’t think that’s lacking in imagination?” Luz said. “Oooh, wait—what about renting Segways and touring Golden Gate Park? You know, those scooterlike things?”

  “Sure—that way, the four of us could spend quality time together in the ER after I run into a redwood tree. It’ll be great, Luz.”

  “Just dinner and fireworks, huh?”

  “Dinner and fireworks. Pick a restaurant. We’ll talk later.”

  I headed farther down Mission Street to the Office of Permit Services, located on a nondescript city block full of office buildings, where I searched their database for the permits that had been pulled on the Crockett Theatre. But when the files came up, I saw the name of the original contractor had been blacked out. The only name on the forms was Gregory Thibodeaux “for the Xerxes Group.”

  “Hey, Renata, could I ask you a question?” I said. Renata had worked at the clerk’s office for years, and knew me from way back.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Why is this information redacted?”

  She spun the computer monitor around, perched a pair of pink-and-black polka-dot reading glasses on her nose, studied the permits, and frowned. “That’s odd, for sure. I have no idea.”

  “You don’t remember this project?”

  “The old Crockett Theatre? I remember the place, and I remember hearing talk about fixing it up, but that’s happened a few times over the years. A while back the city wanted to demolish it for a parking lot, but a community group got involved and shut that idea down, but a place like this is always debated for a long while. Usually nature eventually does the work of making it uninhabitable, and then it’s a tear-down anyway. Sometimes owners do it on purpose, let the roof go until the place falls apart and becomes a public nuisance so they can get a demo permit.”

  “But do you remember any names in conjunction with this latest renovation project at the Crockett? Maybe the contractor associated with these permits?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Mel. You know better than most how much paperwork comes through these doors. I can’t keep track.”

  “Okay, thanks. Hey, how was your daughter’s wedding?” Renata and I were at most acquaintances, but I always asked about her family because my father had taught me long ago that a contractor’s relationship with the good people in the city permit department could make or break us. Besides, she was nice, and efficient, and a very proud mama.

  “Gorgeous, if I do say so myself.” Renata leaned on the counter and scrolled through the photos on her phone, holding out the best ones to show me. “They did a photo shoot at the Japanese Tea Garden. Can you believe how lovely it was?”

  “That’s beautiful. Congratulations.”

  “And how about you?” she asked. “Let me see the ring.”

  I held out my left hand, feeling a bit awkward.

  “That’s quite a rock you’ve got there, Mel. Isn’t that pretty? So, have you and your British beau set the date yet?”

  “Not yet. We’re still figuring it out.”

  In truth, I was still figuring it out. Landon was champing at the bit to set a date and find a venue. Sensing my hesitation, he suggested that if I was overwhelmed at the thought of a big event, we could elope to Vegas and find an Elvis impersonator to marry us. But I wanted my family and friends around me: Dad and Stan and Caleb, Luz and Stephen and neighbors, our crew . . . I just wasn’t ready to say exactly when and where.

  “Don’t wait too long, honey,” Renata advised, patting my hand and closing th
e file. “Marriage isn’t easy, but a good one is worth the trouble.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I put in a call to Stan and explained about the redacted permits.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he said.

  “Neither have I. I really want to talk to the previous contractor, get their take on the theater and the consortium. I’m thinking there are only a handful of companies that could handle a job this size, right?”

  “Locally, sure,” said Stan. “But the investors are from out of town; they could have brought their own crew with them.”

  “Maybe. But when I was talking with Thibodeaux, I didn’t get the impression it was out of town talent. So if it was someone local, who could it be? Bell Construction, the Miller Brothers, Gemini Construction . . .”

  “Don’t forget Avery Builders. Josh Avery has really turned the company around over the last year, and he bids on big, showy jobs like this one. They’d be the likeliest candidate for such a large project, I would think.”

  “Of course. Thanks.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I had met Josh Avery one harrowing night when we were both invited to compete for a contract by surviving a sleepover at a haunted bed-and-breakfast in the Castro.

  That went about as well as one might have assumed.

  Like me, Josh had taken over running the family business, but unlike me, the world of building things and running crews had been entirely new to him. He also did not have sage advisers like my dad and Stan to help him make good choices. But Josh was no dummy, and Avery Builders was once again on solid footing and even boasted a suite of beautiful offices at the San Francisco Design Center with which to impress clients. I sometimes worried that the comparison with Turner Construction’s decidedly down-home office cast us in a bad light, rather like leaving your baby with the unemployed neighbor next door instead of with the professional Irish nanny.

  So far, given my father’s reputation, our lack of professional offices hadn’t been an issue, and Stan had developed and maintained a professional website with photographs of our jobsites and projects.

  Still, I thought as I parked in front of the clutch of brick buildings that housed upscale interior designers, builders, and renovators, it would be nice to have a sophisticated office space like these. On the other hand, the lack of such a fancy storefront kept Turner Construction’s overhead low. That allowed us to invest our profits in the business and pay our crew more than the going rate, which encouraged loyalty and kept turnover down in an industry famous for its itinerant workforce.

  The lobby of the converted brick factory held a café, plenty of verdant potted plants, big multipaned windows, and scads of designer tchotchkes on display for the ladies and gentlemen who lunched.

  In penance for eating donuts with Skeet, I skipped the elevator and climbed the three flights of stairs, and was puffing hard by the time I reached the offices of Avery Builders. In the front lobby, subtly lit niches held lovely objets d’art, and behind the reception desk sat an aptly beautiful man named Braden.

  His angelic face lit up when he saw me, as though my arrival had given special meaning to his life.

  “Oh. My. Lord. If it’s not the ghost buster to the stars!” Braden exclaimed as he came around the desk to give me a hug. “Mel Turner, as I live and breathe!”

  “It’s been a while,” I said, returning his squeeze. “How are you, Braden? And Josh?”

  “Wonderful,” Braden said. “Things have been going really well. I mean, you know how this business is—always a bit crazed, right? But still, business is steady, and our crew is much more settled than when we first met you. Tell me.” His voice dropped. “Are you still seeing spirits?”

  His big eyes glanced behind and around me, as though I might be toting a few phantom hitchhikers.

  A lot of people have problems believing and understanding that I could see such things. Braden was not one of them—he had been an enthusiastic believer from the start.

  “I confess, I am,” I said with a wry smile. “As a matter of fact . . . I wanted to ask you and Josh about the Crockett Theatre. Did Avery Builders happen to work on the job there?”

  Braden reared back. “We did. How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “That place,” he said, and shook his head. “Rampant with ghosts—am I right?”

  “Did you experience something there?”

  “Oh no, you know me.” He let out a sigh. “I’m not a sensitive. Oh, how I wish I were, but I don’t have your gift.”

  “Your talents lie elsewhere. Like this gorgeous decorating job. I should bring you over to Turner Construction, see what you can do with the place.” I could just see my father’s face upon walking into our den after a Braden makeover.

  “I would be honored,” he said without hesitation. “Just pick up the phone. But for now you’re probably here to see Josh?”

  “I am, if he’s available.”

  “Go right on in.”

  The interior office was even more muted and sophisticated than the reception area, and that was saying a lot. Mozart played softly in the background, and everything, from the artwork to the bookshelf, was subtly lit.

  Josh stood up and greeted me with a big smile and a friendly hug, and we spent a few moments catching up and gossiping. Although technically Avery Builders and Turner Construction were rivals, it was rare that we competed head-to-head for a project, and because we both believed in playing fair, we even helped each other out from time to time.

  Then I asked him about the Crockett Theatre.

  “Don’t mention that project to me,” he said, frowning.

  “That bad?”

  “Talk about your headaches. I swear, it was as though the investors were trying to make things difficult.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “For one thing, they insisted I work around those squatters. You have any idea what a pain in the ass that was?”

  “I thought they were being civic-minded.”

  “Yeah, not so sure.”

  “Josh, why wasn’t your name on the city permits?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “On the permits you pulled for the foundation work, the contractor’s name was redacted.”

  “News to me,” said Josh. “I pulled the standard permits, like always. Everything passed inspection.”

  I nodded and made a note to push Gregory Thibodeaux on that subject, once he was up to chatting. “Did you . . . I know this is an odd question, but did you ever hear or see anything out of the ordinary there in the theater?”

  “You mean like the haunted B and B where we met?”

  “Yes, just like that.”

  He gave me a crooked smile and a little shrug. “There were times I could have sworn I smelled popcorn, but I’m pretty sure that was simply the power of suggestion. Some of my workers got a little freaked out . . . but we weren’t inside that much.”

  “Which craftspeople did you bring in for the decorative work? Get any bids?”

  “We didn’t get that far. Since we were working around the squatters, we focused first on the foundation. In fact . . . I should tell you, there were some discrepancies in the paperwork.”

  “What kind of discrepancies?”

  “There were some no-show jobs listed.” He held up his hands in surrender. “They weren’t mine, I swear to all that is holy.”

  No-show jobs were the sort of corruption common to big projects: charging the client for carpenters or bricklayers or other skilled labor that never actually showed up to work.

  “You never figured out who set them up?”

  He shook his head.

  “How did you get the gig in the first place?” I continued.

  “Hey, Turner Construction isn’t the only firm with a rep for historical r
enovation. We did the work on Eamon Castle.”

  “And here I thought Turner Construction had an exclusive on castle renovations.”

  “I’ve heard great things about your work in Marin,” Josh said. “Kudos. I’ll have to check it out next time I’m in the area.”

  “You should. But seriously, what’s Eamon Castle?”

  “It’s an old building in Hunters Point, near the old Candlestick Park. It was originally a brewery. The most interesting thing about it, besides the fact that it’s built of stone, is that there are caverns underneath with fresh spring water running through them.”

  “Interesting. Water in the basement is usually a bad thing.”

  “Not in the land of drought,” Josh said. “The brewers used the water to make their beer, and later someone tried to bottle and sell it as spring water. But now it’s just an attraction.”

  “Is it a private home?” I asked.

  “No. The owners live on the Peninsula and renovated it for use as an event venue,” he continued. “They had a caretaker living there for a while, working on the old piping for the water. A young industrial designer, really colorful character.”

  “What do you mean by colorful?”

  “He’s a young man, but he always wore feather boas, that sort of thing.”

  “Was his name Alyx, by any chance?”

  Josh looked surprised. “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. He used to live in Eamon Castle?”

  “Yes, but he left before we finished the project. He was the one who mentioned the Crockett Theatre project to me—that’s how I got the gig.”

  “You don’t know how I could get in touch with Alyx, do you?”

  He shook his head. “You might check with the people who own Eamon Castle, Linda and Alan Peterson. They seemed pretty tight with Alyx.”

  He gave me the Petersons’ phone number. In these parts, “living on the Peninsula” was usually shorthand for “rolling in dough,” especially when combined with owning a castle in San Francisco.

  “What about the preservationists?” I asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Did you have any trouble with them? Were they on your case, that sort of thing?”