The spoons twirled, catching the light of the bare bulb in their depths and reflecting circles of light. As I watched, the dots played across Selena’s face, then began to gather. They spun together and created a cone of light over Finn.
He collapsed and lay twitching on the ground.
“Did I kill him?” Selena asked in a voice so small I could barely make out her words.
“No . . . he hurt himself,” I said quietly.
“I wanted to kill him,” Selena said, her eyes narrowed. “He killed Emma’s mommy. He . . . he acted nice to me. But he was using me.”
“Listen to me, Selena: It is a terrible feeling to be lied to and taken advantage of. I know. But Finn can’t hurt you anymore.”
Oscar ran in through the door. He stopped short, looking down at Finn.
“Dang. You killed him?”
“He’s not quite dead. And I didn’t touch him, and neither did Selena. He hurt himself, thinking he was hurting me. Finn became the object of his own destruction.”
“Good witch trick,” Oscar said with a nod. He yanked one thumb in my direction. “Hey, Selena, this one has plenty of secrets up her sleeve. She’ll teach you well.”
Chapter 28
That Saturday was the Haight Street Summer of Love Festival. We dressed in our sixties garb, like a rather unconventional hippie family: me and Sailor, Selena and Oscar, Maya and Bronwyn and Duke. We strolled around, looking at arts and crafts and eating corn on the cob while listening to classic rock inspired by famous former Haight-Ashbury residents like Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and Ike and Tina Turner.
After the festival, Sailor and I took Selena to the Golden Gate Bridge where we met up with Carlos Romero. Waiting for us at the center of the bridge were Gary and Emma, and Knox and his wife and their four kids. They had brought flowers to throw off the bridge in Nicky’s memory.
Afterward, Carlos would take Selena home to El Pajarito. The charges against Ursula Moreno had been dropped when the DA conceded he couldn’t make a case against her. I had already spoken to Ursula, who hadn’t realized the extent of her granddaughter’s power, about the necessity of training Selena properly.
Among so many other things, Selena needed to learn whom she could trust, and how to open up. Fortunately for her, there were good people in the world, and an entire magical community waiting to embrace her. She would be all right. Ursula and Sailor and Aidan and I would make sure of it.
Sailor and I hung back as the group said their last good-byes to Nicky Utley.
I felt Aidan’s approach long before I saw him.
Sailor moved to stand between us, bodyguard-style. “What do you want?”
Aidan smiled, but met my eyes rather than Sailor’s. “Lily and I have some unfinished business. You understand.”
“Not really, no,” replied Sailor.
“Listen, guys, this isn’t the time or the place,” I said in a low voice. “There’s a memorial service happening. How about we go to the Buena Vista and try their famous Irish coffees? It’s on me.”
I forced myself to refrain from rolling my eyes as Aidan and Sailor had a macho staring contest, not blinking for a full minute.
Finally, Aidan gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I love Irish coffee.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Sailor.
“Great!” I said, feeling more cheerleader than witch. “What with training Selena and saving San Francisco and all, we have a lot to talk about. Let’s go.”
A flash of light drew my gaze. From the midpoint of the Golden Gate Bridge, Selena had thrown a silver spoon over the railing. Its shiny surface caught the sunlight as it twirled through the air, finally splashing into the churning gray waters below.
She smiled before turning away from the bridge.
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GIVE UP THE GHOST
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It’s hard to ruin a Pacific Heights mansion. After all, it’s Pacific Heights.
One of San Francisco’s nicest neighborhoods, Pacific Heights sits atop a crest with world-class views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Bay, the Palace of Fine Arts, and Sausalito. In the late 1800s, following the gold rush and the acquisition of California, when robber barons were exploiting workers and stealing land to amass their fortunes, this is where many of them chose to spend their ill-gotten gains: on the mansions studding this hill, one after the other, like a lineup of enormous ten-bedroom, five-bath, turreted, multistory, wooden-and-stucco beauty queens—historic testaments to taste, craftsmanship, wealth, and ruthlessness.
But I had to hand it to Andrew Stirling, the fiftyish, plump, rather pallid man standing with me in the foyer. The mansion called Crosswinds now gleamed with the plastic-feeling newness of a really expensive, really modern, really wretched remodel.
And, apparently, it was beset by ghosts.
“Cost me millions to bring this place into the twenty-first century,” Stirling was saying while I tried to rein in my distaste. That was a challenge, as I don’t have much of a poker face. “Wasn’t easy to bring it up to snuff. Used to be nothing but dark wood paneling in here. And see that fireplace surround? Gorgeous Brazilian granite. Sleek, simple. Real class, something like that. Used to be carved marble, with cupids.” He shook his balding head. “So kitschy.”
“Mmm,” I grunted. This was my go-to response when I was too busy biting my tongue in order not to alienate the überwealthy potential client in front of me to formulate words.
My eyes cast around, searching for signs of history. Gone were the subtle dents and nicks, the soft edges and refined imperfections seen in historic moldings. Victorian-era parlors and chambers once divided by paneled pocket doors had been opened up and merged into one massive “great room” with no regard for the original floor plan. The windows no longer opened, since the house was now “smart” and climate controlled, the air filtered and recirculated as in a modern hotel. Can lighting in smooth, flat ceilings had no doubt replaced the engraved plaster medallions and crystal chandeliers common to buildings from the late 1800s.
“Not to mention that I paid twelve million for it in the first place.” Stirling let out a rueful sigh. “Twelve million for a fixer-upper, basically. But what can I say? I’m a visionary.”
“And your Realtor said you were asking thirty-nine million?” I asked. Even for San Francisco, that was a lot of money.
“Most expensive property on the market. Historic, really.” He nodded, his pale eyes surveying the open white-on-white decorating scheme of the first floor. “Well worth it, for the right buyer. This location is priceless, of course, and have you checked out the views? Not enough money in the world for something like that. And then the remodel on top of it, everything totally updated, with all the latest technical advancements—what’s not to love?”
“Yet you haven’t been able to sell it,” I pointed out.
“No. Obviously.” There was a little tic over his right cheekbone. “That’s where you come in.”
I’m a general contractor, head of Turner Construction. We specialize in renovating historic buildings. But not like this. Never like this.
Besides, there was nothing left to redo. Unless I missed my guess, this place had been gutted, taken back to the studs, and rebuilt with all new materials. They had kept the classic exterior shell and built themselves a brand-new Sopranos-style home within.
Still, Crosswinds had been whispering to me since I stood outside at the base of the limestone stairs, looking up at its rococo Victorian facade, complete with turrets, carved garlands, and gold-gilt shields.
It needed someone to save it. And if the past few haunted-home renovations I had done were any indication, I was that someone. Whether I wanted the title or not. Just call me Mel Turner, historic home renovator and up-and-coming Ghost Negotiator.
“And you want me to do what, exactly?” I as
ked.
“Karla tells me you have experience with this sort of thing,” Stirling hedged.
Karla Buhner was the no-doubt frustrated Realtor trying to off-load Crosswinds to some poor sucker for the equivalent of a small country’s gross national product.
“What sort of thing would that be?” I asked, all innocence.
People like Andrew Stirling wanted underlings to read their minds, to offer to help so they wouldn’t have to be explicit. It was a strangely childish habit that annoyed the heck out of me, and prompted me to respond in an equally childish manner. I wanted to force him to say what he needed.
“It’s . . . All right, dammit, it’s haunted,” Andrew said, the visible tic speeding up. He rubbed his cheekbone with a hand sporting two gold rings, which glinted in the sunshine streaming in through spotless plate-glass windows.
“Really? Haunted?”
“The ghosts, or whatever it is, appear to be running people off. Every time we have an interested buyer in the house, things . . . act up. Karla says you’re the person to deal with this sort of thing. She said you’ve dealt with things like this before. We need you to fix it.”
Just then I heard a squeaking noise overhead. My eyes were drawn up toward the ceiling. “What’s that?” I asked.
“This is what I’m telling you about. That’s the sound of the old weathervane. It was the first thing to come down in this house, but you can still hear it when the wind blows. What’s that about?”
“And there’s no other explanation? Is there anyone else in the house?”
“Only Egypt.”
“Egypt? I’m going to assume we’re not talking about a country?”
“No. A person. Egypt’s the caretaker, lives up in one of the attic rooms. You know, when I bought Crosswinds, my kids were still young, but it took so long to do the remodel, they’re grown and living on their own. We don’t need this huge house anymore. The wife and I are in Sausalito now, great place: it’s a Bollinger.”
“A Bollinger?”
“Incredible young designer from Germany. Very exclusive. Right on the golf course.”
“Ah.”
“So, anyway, I don’t really believe in this stuff, but things got so bad, my wife, Stephanie, called in a psychic Karla recommended, Chantelle—you heard of her? Goes by just the one name, like Cher or Madonna. Very famous. Hard to get an appointment with her, much less get her to make a house call. Very expensive.”
“Uh-huh. And what did Chantelle make of Crosswinds?”
Again with the tic. He massaged his cheekbone. “She says the ghosts of the family that lived here years ago are angry about us doing the remodel. She says the only way to appease them is to track down some of the original architectural stuff and put it back in.”
He glared at me. As though I had been egging on his house spirits in some sort of supernatural bid to increase my client base.
“I . . . uh . . . Do you have the original fixtures?” I asked. “Did you keep them?”
“Nah. Who wants all this old stuff?” He threw his hands in the air. “I am so sick of this whole place, I can’t even tell you. Here’s what I need: you get ahold of whatever old crap you can to reinstall—maybe starting with that damn weathervane. If you can’t find the original, surely there’s some reproduction that will do. And then maybe the ghosts will be quiet long enough to dump it. Then it’s someone else’s problem.”
A thirty-nine-million-dollar dump. Wow.
But Andrew Stirling had deep pockets. And he was desperate. Not to put too fine a point on it, but those were highly desirable qualities in a client. As a general contractor, I was obligated to make a hefty payroll each and every month.
So yes, I was interested in taking on the challenge of Crosswinds and whatever resident ghosts it might contain. I looked over at the anxious Andrew Stirling, who was jangling his car keys—Lexus, of course—as though he could barely contain his agitation.
Number one rule for dealing with overprivileged clients? Imply that you’re too busy. Drives them crazy.
I sucked air in between my teeth and shook my head slowly. “I don’t know, Andrew. Turner Construction’s pretty busy right now. We’re working on a place in Cow Hollow, and I’ve still got a crew over on the retreat in Marin—”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want. Seriously, I’ll pay double whatever your usual rate is just to take care of this. Track down some of those old fixtures, hold a séance, or whatever it is you need to do, and get these ghosts off my back.”
“Double my usual rate?” In neighborhoods like Pacific Heights, the higher the rates, the more people respected you. It was sort of like wine: exact same bottle could be said to cost twelve bucks or twelve hundred—guess which one tasted better to someone like Andrew Stirling.
Exclusivity was delicious.
I took a moment, looked around, then nodded slowly. “All right. In that case, I think I can help you out. I have to warn you, though, it’s going to make a mess.”
“I’m used to it. This place has been a mess since I bought it.”
“And it’s going to take a while.”
Just then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A woman creeping down the stairs. She had dark eyes, olive skin, and an exotic flair—or maybe that was due to her white dress and the colorful batik scarf wrapped around her hair, as though she had just stepped off a Caribbean island.
My immediate thought was that I was meeting my first specter at the house. Was this the ghost of some long-dead servant, bound to toil in the Crosswinds mansion through eternity?
“Egypt Davis,” said Andrew, “let me introduce Mel Turner. She’ll be working on this place. You’ll give her whatever she needs. Mel, Egypt lives upstairs. Caretaker for the interim.”
Not a ghost, then. Good thing I hadn’t said anything embarrassing. Lately, since I had started seeing the spiritual remnants of those not-quite-passed, it had gotten increasingly difficult to tell reality from . . . my reality.
Egypt shook my hand, and we exchanged pleasantries; I gave her my business card.
“Please let me know if I can help with anything,” said Egypt, casting a rather wary look at Stirling. “You’ll be . . . working here, then? Does this have to do with Chantelle’s advice?”
“Precisely. Turner here will be spending plenty of time at Crosswinds, so you’ll have a chance to catch up. In the meantime, could you gather the list of items Skip removed from the house? Turner will need to know what she’s restoring.”
“Of course.” Egypt’s phone beeped, and she checked the screen. “I really have to run. Nice to meet you, Mel. Give me a call if you need anything.”
Another wary glance in Andrew’s direction, and she left through the front door—a beautiful paneled door with stained glass, no doubt part of the historical facade that Stirling had been forced to keep in order to retain the home’s character for the sake of the neighborhood. I imagined if he’d had his way, it would have been some sort of steel-and-glass concoction.
“Do you have time for a quick walk-through of the house?” I asked my new client.
He checked his expensive-looking watch again, sighed audibly, and then gave me a curt nod.
The tour took a while. The rest of the massive four-story house was more of the same, by and large. Happily the floor plan hadn’t changed upstairs like it had on the main floor, but all of the original molding and what I’m sure had been built-in cabinets and bookcases had been torn out, replaced by clean lines, polished finishes, and vinyl windows.
We were walking down a sleek white corridor on the third floor when I thought I heard music. Classical music—a Strauss waltz.
“Nice,” I said. “Is Egypt a classic music fan?
He gave me a sour look.
“What did I say?”
“Ghost music.”
“Ghost music?”
Andrew nodded. “Incessant. It’s one of those things potential buyers ask about. I try to act like it’s being piped in, but it goes on
and off all the time, randomly throughout the day. Drives me crazy.”
“At least it’s nice music.”
“I’m a Grateful Dead fan, myself.”
I laughed.
“You have something against the Grateful Dead?” Andrew demanded.
“Not at all,” I said, wondering what Jerry Garcia would make of Andrew Stirling. “It just struck me as funny. Sorry.”
Once or twice I thought I heard—or felt—some whispering, but though I searched my peripheral vision, no one appeared. Still, I felt sure Chantelle was right about one thing: there were spirits in this house. Unhappy spirits. Perhaps they would try to communicate with me when Andrew Stirling wasn’t by my side. A lot of times it happened that way.
“How soon can you start?” Andrew asked as we headed out. “Every day it sits on the market, the worse things get. I’ll pay you to drop your other projects and focus on this one.”
“I don’t leave projects half done, Andrew; but I understand your sense of urgency. I’ll get on it as soon as humanly possible, I promise. I’ll have my guy Stan fax a contract to your office. And in the meantime, I’d like to speak with Chantelle and to the remodeler who worked on Crosswinds. Who was that?”
“Skip Buhner.”
“Buhner? Any relation to Karla Buhner, your Realtor?”
“Her husband.”
“Ah.”
I hadn’t heard of Skip Buhner. Not that I knew all the people in this industry, but in the past couple of years, ever since I had taken over Turner Construction “temporarily” from my father, I had become familiar with the major players—our competition—for the high-end historic-homes business. But then, Skip Buhner didn’t appear to harbor much affection for historic homes. He was more the rip it out, buy something new down at the big-box-store type of contractor. I imagined he would have lasted about five minutes, tops, trying to make a crooked original doorframe function before replacing it with a new fiberglass set that was square.
“He’s moved on to a new construction, an office building down on Sansome,” Stirling said. “You want to talk about headaches? Every time they dig, they find evidence of some old ship—did you know that whole area’s landfill is from back in the Barbary Coast days? And then they have to halt construction and deal with it, file environmental reports, and get the bleeding-heart academics out there to excavate and document it. Like anyone gives a damn.”
Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 28
