The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I’m surprised you don’t live here.”

  “The wife and I have a place on the Peninsula. This is just a hobby, or so says the wife. An expensive hobby, though. Want to pour your money down the drain, might as well get a boat. Am I right?”

  “Wait—you and your wife own this place?” That’s where I’d heard the name before. “You’re Alan Peterson?”

  “I am, yes. Excuse me! I should have introduced myself. Alan Peterson, at your service. And you are . . . ?”

  “Mel Turner, of Turner Construction. You know, it occurs to me why we might look familiar to each other: I was at the Crockett Theatre the other day. I’m doing the renovation there.”

  A hard look came over Peterson’s features. “That’s the one they took away from Avery.”

  “I had nothing to do with that—just ask Josh Avery. He’s a friend.”

  “My apologies. I jumped to a conclusion. Please, have a seat.” He pulled out a redwood chair from a patio set, and we sat down.

  “No worries. I do that all the time. Tell me, are you the Alan Peterson who is the city liaison for that renovation project?”

  “In theory. Someone has to oversee the money, and I don’t trust that Xerxes Group as far as I can throw them.”

  “Why not?”

  “They . . . It’s hard to explain.” He crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knee. “They just don’t feel right. I realize that’s vague, but it’s true. I’ve worked on a number of preservation and renovation projects, including this one, and after a while, you get a nose for these sorts of things.”

  “Do you know the squatters there?”

  “Are you asking about the young woman who was killed? Such a tragedy. Have you talked to her brother yet?”

  “You mean Ringo Sepety? I haven’t spoken to him—do you happen to know how I could get in touch with him?”

  He shook his head. “I know his idea of a reality show set in the theater sounds nuts, but I was actually in favor of it. If done right, it could have produced a lot of revenue for the project, and promoted public awareness of the importance of renovating instead of destroying old buildings.”

  ‘Why didn’t it happen?”

  “In a word: Isadora. Without her support and cooperation, the rest of the squatters wouldn’t sign on, and without them, there was no show. It could have been great, showing them working on their art, falling in love, fighting, all that kind of thing, with the backdrop of that great old place.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe what I read in the paper about what happened to her . . .”

  “What did the Xerxes Group think about the idea?”

  “You got me,” Peterson said bluntly. “I never was able to get past that flunky, Thibodeaux. Usually investment groups are more accommodating and will at least meet with me to hear a proposal. Not this one. I’ve never dealt with such a secretive group. So all I know is that Gregory Thibodeaux was dead set against it, and that was that. I don’t even know if he brought the idea to the consortium itself.”

  “And what about the audit of the city funds? Does anything seem strange about how the money is being handled? Josh Avery said something about no-show positions?”

  An uncomfortable look came over Peterson’s face. “I really don’t know what was going on there. I’m not even sure I was right. It’s just that I couldn’t figure out who was drawing the money . . . I trust Avery. He did a great job here and no problems at all. So I’m inclined to believe him when he says he was innocent. These jobs are so big, and there are so many people involved, that those no-shows could have been set up by anyone, really. We weren’t able to track the money, so we finally had to take the hit and write it off.”

  “That sounds frustrating.”

  He nodded. “They’ve gone through a lot of the city money already, but these projects are expensive, as you know. But we haven’t had a full audit yet. I’ve been pushing for one, but Thibodeaux, or Xerxes, or someone, must have a lot of clout with the city.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The audit never gets approved. The paperwork always gets lost.” Peterson stood up and began pacing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His voice dropped, and he looked at me with suspicion. “So were you actually here looking for a wedding venue, or did you just want to talk with me about the Crockett? You could have called me, if so.”

  “I left a message on your home phone, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sorry. I should check it more often.” His eyes dropped to my ring finger again. “I thought that rock looked fake.”

  “It is not,” I said, rather indignant. “I am engaged, to a Berkeley college professor in fact, and I’m looking at possible venues. Ask Josh Avery. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “My apologies. As you can tell, I’m a little on edge these days.”

  “Understandably. I’ve enjoyed seeing what you’ve done with Eamon Castle. It really is quite special.”

  “Thank you. But you really shouldn’t leave without seeing the caverns. It’s the whole reason this place was originally built.”

  I hesitated, but followed him around to a wooden door in one wall of the terraced courtyard. He unlocked it, stood back, and waved me through. Narrow stone stairs led down into a deep, cool cave.

  “The original builders were beer brewers who saw the potential for a brewery built on top of a natural spring. They dug out and deepened these cisterns; but as you can see, it’s beautifully clear water.”

  It was a clear, soft aqua color, enticing on this warm day.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said.

  “After the brewery shut down, Eamon Castle was owned by an artist, and then by a spring water company. But now I’m the only one who drinks the water. We put in a whole filtration system; it’s really good. Would you like to try it?”

  “I’m okay for now, but thank you. Did you do all this yourself?”

  “I oversaw everything, but a young man who worked here did most of it. Nice kid, had a knack for industrial design.”

  Overhead, pipes moaned and water gurgled. It sounded vaguely menacing, like a basilisk moving through deep, wet tunnels.

  “The system makes that sound when someone turns the water on upstairs,” Peterson said softly.

  “Thank you so much for showing me everything, but I really should be going. My fiancé’s expecting me.” I had had about enough of the moody Alan Peterson. There wasn’t anything overtly menacing about him, but I didn’t feel comfortable being alone in these cisterns with him. The water was beautiful, but the place didn’t need ghosts to feel spooky.

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with your industrial designer?” I asked as we climbed the steep stone steps back up to the surface. “His name’s Alyx, right? He moved on to the Crockett?”

  “Alyx is at the Crockett?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “I take it that’s news to you?” I hoped I hadn’t outed Alyx in some fashion.

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Do you have any contact information for him?” I asked.

  “I haven’t heard from him. But you just said he was at the Crockett, so you’d probably know better than I.”

  I was very glad to walk back out into the sunny courtyard.

  “Well, I’ve got my wedding-planning kit for my special day right here,” I said, patting the fancy folder. “So I guess I’m all set. Just have to figure out the date, and we’re golden. I’ll give Shanice a call.”

  Peterson escorted me to the front foyer, gave me another curt nod, and closed the door.

  What had set him off? I wondered.

  * * *

  * * *

  I hurried to my car, locked the door, and thought about what Peterson had said about the city audit—or lack of same. Who do I know who works for the city?

  It was a Saturday—and the Fourth of Jul
y—so I couldn’t check in with my contacts in the permit department, but I doubted they would know anything anyway. They were low-level bureaucrats who handled specialized construction paperwork. Who could Xerxes Group have working for the city, in a position to make requests for financial audits disappear?

  Dealing with city hall was beyond my ken, so I texted Annette Crawford to tell her I had found the “balding, middle-aged white guy” at Eamon Castle, and that he was in charge of oversight for the Crockett Theatre project. She could probably shake things up, learn more from him—or figure out what was up with the city.

  I tried Mateo again, but it went straight to voice mail.

  Then I checked in with Luz.

  “It’s getting late,” she said. “I’m a nervous wreck.”

  “I thought we were meeting at six. It’s not even three thirty.”

  “Yeah, but I have to get ready. Don’t you?”

  “Um . . .” I glanced down at my getup. “I have some shoes in the car, so I can change out of my boots, but otherwise I’m pretty much dressed.”

  “Could you come over and get me so we can ride together?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sure, Luz. I’m running some errands, but I’ll call you when I’m done. Relax, as my acupuncturist would say—Oh wait. He’s your boyfriend!”

  “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are. You should know that. I’m a woman in pain here, Mel.”

  “You’re not in pain, Luz. You’re just a little wound up. Take ten deep breaths. See you later.”

  Just as I was hanging up, I got a call from the Doctor.

  “It was an unusual tap,” he said, dispensing with hellos. “Special ordered from a manufacturer in Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “Are they still being made?”

  “No, of course not. Factory’s long gone. But I noticed there are several for sale on eBay.”

  “On eBay?”

  “Yes, it is an online auction site.”

  “I’ve heard of it.” Funny to have the very old Czech man explaining technology to me. “Where did the taps come from, and who’s selling them?”

  “Someone local, I believe. I will forward to you the link. See if you are interested—it would be less expensive than having them reproduced.”

  The idea appealed to me. How great would it be to have genuine vintage fixtures adorning the restroom sinks? I made a note to review the taps on the website when I got home and could look at them in detail on Stan’s large computer monitor.

  I stashed my phone and headed to Haight Street. As usual, it took me a while to find parking on a residential side street. Just as I reached the corner of Haight and Ashbury streets, I saw Lily slipping out the door and hailed her.

  “Mel! So nice to see you. I was just running for coffee. Walk with me?”

  “I’d love to. I could use a caffeine boost myself about now.”

  “You’ll like this place. It’s Coffee to the People. Ever been there?”

  “I don’t spend much time in the Haight,” I said with a shake of my head. “But I like the name.”

  We walked for a moment without speaking. I noticed Lily paused to collect a few velvety wisteria pods that had fallen to the sidewalk and slipped them into the deep pockets of her early-1960s-style dress. I wondered whether she was going to use them to brew something, and then realized that I was now friends with a witch who brewed potions—and it all seemed perfectly normal. My life had changed a lot over the past few years.

  “What can you tell me about the dress?” I asked Lily as we made our way to the café.

  “Did you notice there’s a tear in it?”

  “I did. It looks reparable, though, right? And it’s sort of hidden by the folds, so it seems worth trying to fix.”

  “Oh yes, I agree. But you should know, it’s not a tear. It’s a knife slash.”

  “A what?”

  “It was caused by the blade of a knife.” We reached the café, and Lily held the door open for me. “I’ll show you when we get back to Aunt Cora’s Closet.”

  Coffee to the People was a funky café that harkened back to the Haight’s hippie heyday. The walls were studded with protest posters that reminded me of the Crockett Theatre’s rolled-up vintage movie posters, and I wondered if any of them were worth money. Collectors would pay exorbitant amounts for the objects of their desire.

  We both ordered double lattes, and Lily ordered a chai latte as well, and waited while the tattooed and pierced barista worked his magic on a large espresso machine.

  “There’s something more, Mel,” said Lily. She seemed to be searching for words.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me,” I urged.

  “Oh, I know that!” she said with a chuckle. “It’s more that it’s hard to put my finger on. Sort of like when you have a vivid dream, but the more you try to remember, the farther away it goes? The visions and sensations are a bit like that.”

  The barista handed us our drinks, Lily thanked him warmly and tipped him well, and we left the café and headed back up Haight Street.

  “Anyway,” Lily said, “there’s violence. That’s obvious. I mean, land sakes, we’re talking about a hole made by a knife. But there’s something else there . . . some sort of confusion or misunderstanding.”

  “You mean the reason Hildy stabbed her lover, and then killed herself, was over a misunderstanding of some kind?”

  Lily stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and fixed me with a look. “She stabbed her lover and then herself?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  “That’s what the newspapers said.”

  “Huh,” she said, walking again. “That would explain things, I suppose, except that . . . it doesn’t quite fit.”

  “How so?”

  “Again, it’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel murderous rage from that dress.”

  “Oh well, that’s good, then.” I thought back to the fierce look on Hildy’s face when she flew toward me in the attic, scaring the you-know-what out of me. That looked like it could have been murderous rage, as far as I could tell.

  “I really don’t feel that,” Lily continued. This was obviously bothering her. “Nor do I feel suicidal tendencies—those are usually terribly bleak or, oddly enough, profoundly self-contained and peaceful. They’re quite specific, is my point.”

  “Okay. Are you sure, really sure?”

  She smiled at me. “Mel, what do you say when someone asks if you’re sure, really sure, that you see a ghost?”

  “I say, you bet your ass I am.”

  “Well, there you go, then.”

  I laughed. Point taken. “So if what you sense from the dress isn’t homicidal or suicidal, then what is it?”

  “Fear. Betrayal. A sense of profound misunderstanding, or perhaps a feeling of being misunderstood. Mel, I think that is what your ghost is trying to tell you. I think that is what she needs to rest: to be understood.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, Maya was tending the store. We greeted each other with a warm hug. I’d met Maya on a volunteer renovation project at a house museum, and she had introduced me to Lily when it turned out there was more to the Spooner House than I could handle by myself.

  “Chai latte for you,” said Lily, handing Maya the cardboard cup.

  “Mmm, thank you!” said Maya. “I’ll see to our patrons—I know you have business to discuss. Cool dress, though, Mel.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” I said as I followed Lily through a curtain into the store’s workroom, where the green dress was laid out on the table, arranged to expose the tear. As I looked at it closely, I noticed faint stains around the torn fabric.

  I touched the slash mark with my fingertips.

  “And that would be very old blood,” Lily said quietl
y. “Someone cleaned it as best they could.”

  “I wonder why anyone bothered to keep the dress at all.”

  “You say you found it in a closet?”

  I nodded.

  “Were there other dresses in similarly good condition?” she asked, a gleam in her eye. “I love this era, and I like your ghost’s vibrations. If you’re ever looking to unload the rest of them, give me a call.”

  “A vintage-clothing merchant to the core, eh?”

  “I suppose I am,” Lily said with a smile.

  “One more question.” I chose my words carefully. “I spoke with Hildy, my ghost, this morning. When I asked about her death and the murder, she became agitated, and flew toward me in a rage. But you’re sure you don’t feel anger from the dress?”

  She shook her head and sipped her latte. “I mean, you probably know this much better than I, communicating with spirits as you do. But I imagine it must be very frustrating to be a spirit and not understand where you are, and what happened to you. Perhaps once the ghost realizes they’ve reached someone in this world who can communicate with them, and possibly help them, they have a slim glimmer of hope. So if you don’t understand what they are trying to convey, maybe they get agitated?”

  “Like a preverbal toddler?”

  “Maybe so.” She chuckled again. “I visited your friend’s shop, the ghost-busting place in Jackson Square? So much fun. I’ll bet he’d be able to offer some thoughts on ghost psychology!”

  “I’ll bet he would.” I needed to pay Olivier Galopin a visit anyway, to replace my ghost-busting equipment. “So, the bottom line is that we still don’t know what happened in Hildy’s last moments.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “Were you able to read anything from what remains of the blood?”

  “There’s a definite shimmer there . . . Mel, I know she scared you, and I could be wrong, but everything is telling me that Hildy was a good person. Ambitious and not especially well educated, but based on what I can feel, she does not have the soul of a killer.”