Since it looked like I would wind up living in a house Hildy was haunting, those were encouraging words.
Lily folded the dress carefully and placed it in a bag. From the shop floor came the sounds of women chatting and the bell tinkling as people went in and out.
I stood to go and let Lily get back to work, but one more thought occurred to me. Could Jimmy Delucci have threatened Darlene, Hildy’s daughter? I would kill anyone who threatened Caleb . . . In fact, it was always my go-to example when trying to understand being pushed far enough to take a human life. If anyone tried to harm my stepson, I doubted I’d hold back.
“Could it have been self-defense?” I asked. “Or maybe she was protecting her child when she struck out with the knife?”
“That would make more sense to me than premeditated murder,” said Lily.
“But if Hildy had been protecting her child . . . why would she have turned the knife on herself?”
“I suppose that’s the question. Maybe that is part of the misunderstanding.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Olivier Galopin’s “Ghost-busting Shoppe” was on the other side of town, not far from City Lights Bookstore in North Beach, which Luz had—finally—decided to set as our rendezvous point for our double date.
I called Luz to let her know I would meet her at City Lights, but she insisted I pick her up early and come with me.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You’re not fond of the whole ghost-busting angle, last time I checked.”
“It’s either that or let me wait here. I’m so nervous that if left to my own devices, I’ll start drinking till I’m too drunk to go anywhere.”
“Luz, there’s a reason you like Victor. He’s a very gentle, decent man. What are you so nervous about?”
“Just never you mind. Come get me, will you, please?”
When I pulled up to her apartment building, she was waiting at the curb, resplendent in a pearl gray silk wrap dress with a peekaboo camisole, matching high heels, and artsy silver jewelry. Her sleek black hair was done up in a “sloppy” knot on the top of her head, which I’m sure took at least twenty minutes to accomplish, and she had a white swing coat draped over one arm and a white designer clutch tucked under the other.
I glanced down at my bright red shift dress and leather bomber jacket—interesting, yes; classy, not really—and wondered how we managed to remain friends.
“You look wonderful, Mel,” Luz said. “I love that dress on you.”
And that, I thought, was why we remained friends.
“Thank you,” I replied. “And you are simply drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Not too uptight?”
“Perfect.”
“Distract me,” Luz demanded as we headed across town to Jackson Square, so I gave her the update on what had been going on, including my trip to the theater with Annette.
“I thought Inspector Crawford had more sense than that,” she said.
“Dad said the same thing. By the way, we’re on for tomorrow: Niles Canyon and then dinner and movie night, yes? Caleb’s joining us.”
“Count me in,” she said, and seemed to relax a bit.
We reached Jackson Square and spent fifteen minutes looking for a parking space. Even though it was early, this area was full of restaurants, nightclubs, and tourists, and filled up fast on a Saturday evening.
Originally from France, Olivier Galopin was a ghost enthusiast who made money selling ghost-hunting equipment and occult paraphernalia, and by exploiting his natural tendency toward showmanship. He led popular ghost tours through the city and even taught ghost-busting classes in the haunted hall above his store. I had taken a few sessions and learned a thing or two.
I wasn’t sure, though, that I agreed with a lot of what Olivier said. Ghosts and ghost busting were complicated stuff.
Olivier’s assistant, Dingo, was a grizzled old fellow with a lot of opinions. We found him at his usual post behind the counter.
As I was introducing Luz to Dingo, Olivier joined us.
“Mel! I saw you on television yesterday. ‘Up-and-coming ghost buster,’ it said below your picture. Congratulations!”
“I had no idea so many people watched the local news anymore,” I said. “Believe me when I say it wasn’t on purpose.”
“You are too modest,” Olivier said. “I wish you had mentioned my shop, though. I couldn’t buy that kind of publicity.”
“I bet you could if you wanted to,” Luz said, looking around the large and well-appointed shop. Jackson Square was not a cheap address. “Nice place you got here.”
“I told all the folks who called me after the broadcast to get in touch with you,” I said. “And I’m not even asking for a finder’s fee. So that should keep you plenty busy.”
“I am very grateful,” Olivier said, smiling.
“Also, I’m pretty sure having to replace this extremely expensive and often quite useless ghost-busting equipment you talked me into buying, which broke yesterday by the way, will help keep you in the black,” I said, placing a bag with the many parts of my former EMF readers and EVP recorders on the countertop.
“You bought two sets of everything just a little while ago,” said Dingo, peeking into the bag. “What happened?”
“Long story,” I said with a shrug.
“Were ghosts involved?” Dingo asked.
“When are they not?” I replied.
Olivier beamed at me.
“Are you that happy to see me?” I asked. “Or are you just seeing dollar signs?”
“Both, I assure you,” said Olivier, his smile broadening. “What can I help you with today, ma chérie? I am here for you. Ask me what you will.”
“First off, I wanted to clarify something: Ghosts don’t have to haunt the place where they died, right? They can go other places sometimes?”
He nodded. “Sometimes they attach themselves to an object, such as a painting or piece of furniture, or even to the land itself and linger after a building is destroyed.”
“Could they attach to clothing?”
“They could, yes. It seems feasible.”
Of course, what Olivier deemed “feasible” could fill a book. I wondered why Hildy would have been so attached to my house. Was it just the dresses or something more?
“Okay, next question. Let’s go over why spirits linger at all,” I said, and gave him the CliffsNotes version of what I had seen, heard, and felt at the Crockett Theatre.
“Most often seen and felt are the tortured souls, deaths by suicide and murder, unfinished business . . . ,” Olivier began.
“Why would theaters have a reputation for being haunted, then?” asked Luz. “I mean, they don’t see more tortured souls than other places, do they?”
“They might, as a matter of fact,” said Olivier. “Artists in general tend to be more open-minded and nonconformist, and seek something beyond the here and now. Sometimes that leads to a sense of tortured souls. Some buildings are more attractive to spirits than others—obviously anyplace old, but especially insane asylums, prisons, theaters, caves, or any kind of underground labyrinth—”
“Why are caves or underground areas prone to ghosts?” I interrupted.
“Some say it has to do with the electromagnetic fields that can be felt there,” said Olivier. “But I’ve always believed that it is because the areas under the earth are sheltered from light and noise, from the outside world in general. A cocoon, in a way.”
“A ghostly cocoon?” Luz said. “That must result in one hell of a moth.”
Olivier looked unsure how to respond.
“Continue,” I said.
“Also, subterranean spaces are primordial, closer to the core of the Earth.”
“And creepy crawlies,” Luz muttered, then wandered off to check out the display of crystals.
“What about waterways?” I asked. “I’ve heard that water is an attraction to spirits.”
“Yes, certainly. There has been a lot of writing about this. Some think it is because of the ionic changes of the air near water; some think that, like a mirror, water offers a passageway to the backwards world.”
I thought of the hands Annette and I had seen on the mirror in the ladies’ lounge vestibule at the Crockett Theatre. Could those be trapped souls, trying to reach out . . . ?
Luz rejoined us and said, “Wait just a darned minute, here. You’re saying the mirror in my bedroom is a door to the backwards world? What is that?”
She glared at Olivier, who simply smiled. Dingo shrugged and scratched his ear.
“Just don’t say Bloody Mary three times, and you’ll be fine,” I suggested.
She looked horrified.
“Seriously, Luz,” I said with a chuckle. “Millions of people look in the mirror every morning but don’t get sucked into the backwards world.”
“A few of them do,” Dingo piped up.
“That’s not helping, Dingo,” I said.
“Mel is right, Luz,” Olivier said, his accent turning “Luz” into a long, soft sibilant that was lovely to hear. I saw Luz relaxing. “I promise you, this is not something you need to worry about. Although Mel is correct: It is best not to tempt fate with the Bloody Mary dare. Let us return to Mel’s experiences at the Crockett Theatre. What are you doing there, Mel? They hired you to rid the building of ghosts? That would be a huge job and probably not possible.”
“No, I was hired to renovate the theater, which is a huge job in itself,” I said. “Have you heard anything about spirits in the building?”
“Isn’t that the place with the usher?” asked Dingo. He started flipping through a massive journal into which he jotted down ideas and stories of hauntings. It was a wealth of information but was recorded in his illegible chicken scratch, and there appeared to be no organizational system for the information.
“There is an usher there,” I responded. “I’ve encountered him several times.”
“Excellent!” said Olivier. “Did you get him on camera?”
“I don’t think so . . . but I can’t really tell.” I held up the broken camera.
“That is not a problem,” Olivier said, plucking the SIM card out of its little chamber. “The images are on here.”
He popped the SIM card into a slot on his computer. The images displayed reflected what I had seen and experienced, but at the same time was nothing like it. It looked like some kind of indie film project, shaky and the lighting was off. Then he did the same with the EVP recorder. There was a lot of static and unidentifiable noise.
And then a ghostly sound, muffled and distorted.
“May I . . . ?”
“What was that?” Luz asked, looking ill.
“Mel, is that one of you speaking,” Olivier asked. “Or is it a spirit?”
“I think that’s the usher,” I said. “He kept wanting to show me to my seat. He was pretty pushy.”
Olivier stared at me. “Do you realize what you have captured here?”
“An incomplete recording?”
“The voice of a person who has passed on! And the words are so clear, too. Such a thing is very rare. Did you remember to ask questions and note the time, as we have discussed, time and time again?”
“Um, not exactly,” I said. There was a whole science—some would say pseudoscience—connected with how a professional ghost buster was supposed to go about collecting data. Since I wasn’t a professional ghost buster so much as someone who stumbled her way through these things, I wasn’t overly concerned with being consistent in my evidence gathering. Olivier, on the other hand, truly wanted to document information in a rigorous and scientific manner that could be used to prove to the world that ghosts existed.
Olivier pursed his lips in irritation. I was simultaneously his best student and his worst student.
“What does this mean, Olivier?” Luz asked, curious now.
“As I was saying,” said Olivier, “certain buildings are more prone to hauntings than others. But some of these apparitions are merely energy imprinted onto the physical locale. These we call residual hauntings. They are not interactive but keep repeating, rather like a film on a constant loop.”
“So they’re not looking to move on?” Luz asked.
“Not if they’re merely repeating themselves. Other spirits demonstrate a clear personality and are interactive to some degree. These we call intelligent hauntings.”
I thought of Isadora. Would she be forever dancing upon the stage? And if so, was that okay, merely a residue of her personality lending itself to the character of the historic theater?
“Is there something you feel called to do for these ghosts?” Olivier asked me.
“I’m trying to figure out whether they have anything to do with the tragic death of a young woman.”
“That does not seem likely,” he said. “Spirits may incite feelings in people, and sometimes people act on those feelings. But most often they are simply stirred up by the energy of a tragedy. May I ask . . . who died?”
“A young woman, a dancer, who had been squatting in the building.”
“That the Crockett?” Dingo asked in his raspy voice. I nodded. “I’m surprised. Heard tell was it was gonna be torn down.”
“It was, but a preservationist group got involved, and an out-of-town investor consortium has combined funds with the city to save it.”
“What about the Space Campus?” asked Dingo.
“What’s a Space Campus?” asked Luz.
“Some billionaire wants to build his own rocket, send people into space, maybe even back again,” Dingo said. “Which might be all kinds of exciting. Thought there was a lot of money riding on it . . .”
“It looks like the city decided to do the right thing and preserve the place,” I said. I pulled up the Crockett Caretakers’ site on Facebook on my phone and passed the device to Olivier, who scrolled through the photos, Dingo peering over his shoulder.
“Who maintains this site?” asked Olivier. “I’ve been trying to get Dingo here to create one for the shop, but he’s even less tech savvy than I am.”
“It’s Facebook,” I said. “Even I can handle Facebook. A member of the neighborhood preservation group created it.”
“Nice digs,” said Luz. She was looking at the “about” section, featuring a large photo of the elegant Coco posing in front of her apartment building. Coco was identified as the “founder and chair” of the Crockett Caretakers.
“It’s a great old apartment building,” I said. “She even has a turret seat. I wish I had a turret.”
“Don’t be greedy,” said Luz. “You have a fantastic new house.”
“Still wouldn’t mind a turret,” I said. “But you are right. There are too many people with no home at all.”
“You mean the squatters?” asked Dingo.
“What does this word mean, ‘squatters’?” Olivier asked. “As in the squats we do at the gym?”
“Squatters are people who move into a building, though they have no legal right to be there,” I said. “They’re often homeless.”
Olivier looked troubled. “You are going to run them out of the theater, then?”
“No. I mean, yes. But no worries. Luz will find a place for them. She’s a social worker. That’s her job.”
“That’s right,” Luz said with a touch of sarcasm. “Mel and I are solving the problem of homelessness in San Francisco. Any day now. Don’t know why the city didn’t approach us sooner.”
“This is very good,” said Olivier in all seriousness. “Because it is a real problem that must be solved.”
“Speaking of problems that must be solved,” I said, “every time I’m in the Crockett Theatre, my batteries die. Don�
��t you have some sort of spirit-energy-resistant batteries?”
“Nope,” Dingo said. “But if you ever figure that out, better patent it. That’d be real useful.”
“Well, in the meantime, why don’t you set me up with two more EMF readers and EVP recorders, just in case?” I said, handing him my credit card and wondering if Stan would let me write them off as a business expense.
“Mel,” said Olivier, “may I keep the SIM cards and study them, see if I can see or hear anything more?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said.
* * *
* * *
“Okay, so give me the rundown of tonight’s events,” I said as Luz and I walked along Gold Street toward North Beach, where the Financial District meets Italian meets Chinatown meets sex shops. A little farther down Columbus and we would be at the Cannery, Ghirardelli Square, and the wharf.
“I suggested we meet at City Lights so whoever gets there first can browse the bookstore,” said Luz.
“Great bookstore,” I said.
“Yes, it is, which is why I suggested it.”
“You get me in there, though, and it’s at least an hour.” She looked at me in alarm. “Kidding! I’ll refrain from book shopping even though it’s one of my favorite things in the world. What’s next?”
“Drinks next door at Vesuvio’s—I know it’s a stereotype, but I love that place. Then dinner at Tosca. It’s rated very highly on Yelp. Had to pull a few strings to get a table tonight, but a colleague went to grad school with the maître d’. And then after we can go to the Saloon for music, if we feel like it.”
“There are also fireworks tonight, don’t forget,” I said.
“It’s supposed to be foggy.”
“It’s always foggy in San Francisco on the Fourth of July. But it’s still fun,” I said, turning onto Pacific, toward Columbus. “At the very least, the clouds light up in different colors. In any case, it sounds like a lovely evening. And dare I say, so much more fun than fly-fishing.”
“Have you ever been fly-fishing?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Then how would you know?”
The Last Curtain Call Page 23
