A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  Thus armed, I went to chat with a ghost in the woods.

  Chapter Six

  Thorn was leaning against a eucalyptus tree, his hands moving restlessly, toying with a long, fragrant leaf. Eucalyptus is an invasive, nonnative species that was brought to California from Australia, and a lot of conservationists were trying to eradicate it. But I loved the tall, soaring, pungent trees. Their strong astringent scent brought to mind memories of being a kid, running through the Presidio or making forts in Golden Gate Park.

  And those memories, in turn, served as a reminder to ground myself, to do a calming body scan before speaking with Thorn, to assure myself that I was of this earth.

  “Hi, Thorn,” I said as I approached. I often—though not always—saw ghosts only in my peripheral vision, which made it hard to have a face-to-face conversation. To get around this, I had learned that I could see the ghost’s reflection in a mirror. Sure enough, whenever I looked straight at Thorn he disappeared, so I brought out Alicia’s compact to look him in the eye while we spoke.

  “What is going on?” he whined.

  “It’s a little hard to explain.”

  “I want to talk to my wife.”

  “First off, she’s not your wife. She’s your ex-wife. Second, I have some news.”

  After a pause Thorn said, “Bad news?”

  “Well, that depends.” I leaned against the tree next to the ex-human ex-husband, and met Thorn’s eyes in the mirror. “It’s all in how you look at it. Do you remember what happened at the lighthouse?”

  “I have a headache,” he said.

  “I’m not surprised. You fell down the lighthouse stairs.”

  “I did?”

  I nodded. “But before that, someone beat you up. And stabbed you. Any idea who that was?”

  Thorn looked blank.

  I cleared my throat. I was going to have to get better at this sort of thing.

  “The thing is, Thorn—and this is going to be tough to hear, much less believe—but the truth is, someone beat you up, stabbed you, and then you fell down the stairs of the tower. All the way down.”

  “Then how am I able to walk? That makes no sense.”

  He held up his hands, as if just now noticing the blood. Then he looked down at the knife in his chest. A look of horror came over his face. “What’s happening to me?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Thorn, but you died. Maybe from the fall, maybe from the knife. But ultimately it doesn’t really matter. You died.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your spirit is still here, but your body is dead.”

  “Dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to believe I’m dead?”

  I nodded.

  He sneered. “What the hell kind of game are you playing? I knew you were up to no good the minute I spotted you. The bossy type. Did you take my boat? I can’t find it.”

  “No, Thorn, I—”

  All of a sudden Thorn lunged at me. I dropped the mirror as I instinctively dodged him. He tumbled to the ground at my feet.

  As disconcerting as it is to have a spirit try to tackle you, nothing actually happens. Spirits are immaterial; they’re spirits. An older, more experienced ghost might be able to inflict some damage—where ghost abilities were concerned I was still learning—but Thorn was a newbie spirit. I had nothing to fear from him.

  Being threatened by a ghost was still pretty strange, though.

  I retrieved the compact to keep an eye on Thorn. He kept shaking his head.

  “What is going on?” he repeated.

  “It’s like I said. This is a whole new phase in your life. Or your, er, existence. I’m not sure what happens now, but try to think of this as an opportunity to make a fresh start.” Just call me Mel Turner, general contractor and motivational ghost whisperer. I wondered whether the Palm Project might have a position for me. “Or, if you see a bright light, you might want to walk toward it.”

  I watched his expression in the mirror. Realization seemed to dawn.

  “You’re saying . . . I died? As in dead, dead?”

  I was getting impatient, acutely aware that Buzz and Alicia could hear me talking—seemingly to myself, like a crazy woman. Alicia knew about my spirit-communicating talents, but I wasn’t sure about Buzz. Plus, I hadn’t liked Thorn when he was alive, and while I tried to work up some compassion for his current situation, nothing about his attitude was changing my opinion. Another thing I had learned about ghosts: Those who were jerks in life tended to be jerks after death, too.

  Then I reminded myself: How would I react to finding out that, in a split second, I was no longer part of this earthly realm? It had to be right up there on the list of difficult things to accept.

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened, Thorn? What were you doing up in the tower? I thought Buzz had escorted you off the island.”

  “He tried,” he said in a boastful tone. “He took me to my boat in the harbor, but I skirted the island, pulled up to the supply dock, and climbed the ladder. I just wanted to talk to Amy.”

  “Alicia.”

  “She’ll always be Amy to me.”

  It was possible Thorn’s spirit still lingered because he was confused and disoriented, and that he would soon depart of his own accord. But what if he didn’t? I would not allow him to haunt Alicia—quite literally—for the rest of her life.

  “So what were you doing in the tower?” I asked.

  “I wish I could remember. It’s all . . . a fog.”

  “And I suppose you don’t remember who beat you up, or why?”

  He shook his head. “I feel really strange.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” I said.

  Death is so final, so irrevocable. And sudden death doesn’t give a person a chance to wrap things up, to come to terms and put things in order. It must be wrenching to realize that this was it, no more do-overs. Unless, of course, death was the ultimate do-over.

  “So, as I was saying . . . if you see a bright light, or something like that, you might just want to walk on toward it.”

  “What are you talking about? The lighthouse light?”

  “No, I’m just . . .” What was I talking about? If Thorn wasn’t still here out of confusion, then there was a reason he was trapped on Lighthouse Island. I just didn’t know what that reason was. Was it simply his obsession with Alicia?

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Just hang out, try not to get in anyone’s way, and let me try to figure out what’s going on and why you can’t leave.”

  “No one tells me when I can or can’t leave. I’ll go where I want.”

  “By all means, feel free.”

  “I can’t find my boat. What did you do with it?”

  “Why don’t you hop a ride on someone’s boat?” I was guessing Thorn’s spirit wouldn’t be able to leave the island, but it was just a guess. Since he was out in the woods, rather than restricted to the tower where he died, I would assume he was limited to the confines of the island. But I could be wrong about that—I was still a little fuzzy on the rulebook for Life as a Ghost.

  Fear washed over Thorn’s pale face.

  “What are they doing here?”

  I turned and saw a police boat approaching the dock, with uniformed officers on board.

  Thorn turned and ran, vanishing altogether before he got past the first tree.

  Talking with cops wasn’t my favorite thing, either. But not only was I a good citizen, I also lacked Thorn’s ability to simply disappear.

  So I headed to the harbor to meet the police.

  • • •

  Detective Santos was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, his pockmarked skin only partially hidden by a scraggly beard. He smelled of cigarettes and didn’t reveal a lot of personality, but I wasn’t fooled. I’d spent e
nough time around police by now to recognize “cop face”: the flat, almost emotionless affect many police officers assume while they size up the difficult situations they encounter.

  The detective told Duncan, the boat captain waiting to ferry us back to the mainland, that it would be a little while before we could go. He spoke briefly with me, Buzz, and Alicia and then instructed a young uniformed officer to watch over us while he and his team checked out the crime scene and the victim. This took a very long time.

  While we were waiting, Major Williston, Paul Halstrom, and Terry Re returned to the harbor—it seemed they had all been out on Terry’s boat fishing and enjoying the day. They were told to be available for questioning as well.

  I passed the time sending text messages. Most were work-related, but I also let my loved ones know I wouldn’t be home in time for dinner. A person did not hold up dinner chez Turner, even in the case of murder.

  After a spectacular sunset cast the lighthouse tower, the greenery, and our faces in gold and pink light, darkness fell and the fog for which San Francisco is justly famous rolled in off the Pacific Ocean and crept along the shores of the bay. The foghorn blared its mournful moan, and the tower light swept by us with a regular rhythm.

  From our position at the harbor, the clutch of keeper’s buildings wasn’t visible, but the top of the tower was. I watched it a long time, wondering if any of my new ghost friends—the suicidal woman, the little pirate, or Thorn—would appear, and who among the living would be able to see them if they did.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, Detective Santos returned to take our statements. As soon as he heard that Alicia had been alone in the tower with her abusive ex-husband shortly before his murder, he announced she would have to go to the station for further questioning and to undergo forensic testing.

  “I’ll call Ellis,” I said to Alicia, who nodded numbly. “Don’t say anything until the lawyer gets there.”

  “Anything else?” the detective asked me, rather pointedly. “Anything at all?”

  The treasure map we had found was burning a hole in my pocket. As Major had said, it was probably nothing, some kind of joke or a child’s game. But still.

  I pulled it out and showed it to Detective Santos.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “You’re saying there’s buried treasure on the island?”

  “I’m not saying anything, actually. It’s just that . . . well, my friend Annette Crawford, she’s your friend, too, right? She’s terrific, isn’t she? I mean, a little intimidating, but really terrific.” When I get nervous I talk too much. And cops make me nervous. “Anyway, Annette—I mean, Inspector Crawford—always says I should tell her everything, even if it doesn’t seem to be directly related to the crime. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m telling you everything, which includes this treasure map. It’s probably nothing, but really, who knows? Not I, that’s for sure. As Annette likes to point out, I’m not a cop, so really, how could I know what’s pertinent and what’s not? If you see what I mean.”

  Santos kept his expressionless eyes on me for another long moment before studying the map in his hands.

  “All right,” he said with a final nod, and tucked the map into his notepad. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Turner. You and Mr. Simoni are free to go. But we might have more questions in the future.”

  “Remember,” I said to Alicia, who remained seated on the bench. “I’ll call Ellis as soon as I get a signal. Wait for his lawyer.”

  “Ah, jeez,” said Buzz, gazing at Alicia and looking as torn as Dog had been earlier in the day, when Dad and I separated. “Mr. Elrich won’t like it if I leave without her.”

  “We don’t have a choice, Buzz,” I said, urging him toward the Callisto, the small passenger boat waiting to ferry us back to Point Moro. “The police won’t allow us to go with her. It’s better that you explain what happened to Ellis. She’ll be okay.”

  I wasn’t sure whom I was trying to comfort with these words, Buzz or myself.

  “Everything okay, Mel?” asked Duncan as we climbed aboard. As usual he wore a navy blue Greek fishing cap and a smile. Duncan was always so upbeat it made me wonder whether the extra-large dose of vitamin D he got from his life on the water made for his sunny disposition. He kept a stack of dog-eared, rather waterlogged paperbacks by his station at the front of the boat to read while standing by to give us rides, which made up most of his job description.

  “Does Alicia need me to come back for her?” Duncan continued.

  “Ah, jeez,” muttered Buzz.

  “She’ll be going with the police to the station,” I said. “I’ll call Elrich as soon as I get reception. He’ll send someone for her, I’m sure.”

  “I’m on it,” said Buzz, puffing out his chest.

  “What happened?” Duncan asked as we headed for shore.

  I shook my head and shrugged, hoping I was pulling off the mien of a clueless contractor rather than a material witness to a crime. “A man was killed in the lighthouse. That’s about all I know.”

  “That’s . . . terrible. But you’re okay?”

  “No one else was hurt,” I said.

  Duncan nodded. There wasn’t much else to say.

  About halfway to Point Moro, my cell phone started working. I immediately dialed Ellis, who absorbed the stunning news in his usual calm manner.

  “Where have they taken Alicia?” Ellis asked. “Is she under arrest?”

  “She’s still on the island, but they’ll be taking her to the Richmond police station,” I replied. “The detective didn’t formally arrest her, at least not that I saw. But he’s clearly suspicious. A Detective Santos is in charge of the case.” I lowered my voice and spoke softly so as not to let Buzz or Duncan overhear. “It doesn’t look good, Ellis.”

  “All right. Please ask Buzz to come see me as soon as he can. Thank you, Mel, for calling. I’ll take care of it from here.”

  And with that, he hung up. Though still worried for Alicia, I felt some relief knowing Ellis Elrich was on the case. The man had resources. If anybody could help her, he could.

  Next I called Landon.

  My boyfriend.

  Boyfriend. My mind stuck on that word, for many reasons. It sounded so high-schoolish, like we should be “playing kissy face”—as my father would say—and going steady. Why wasn’t there a grown-up name for an adult’s love interest? For another thing, I had gone through a doozy of a divorce a few years ago and for a while had sworn off men altogether. And for another, when I met Landon, I already had a boyfriend named Graham.

  So that was awkward.

  Graham was a wonderful man who had been part of my life, and my father’s, for decades, and I genuinely hoped we could remain friends. Recently he had signed a yearlong contract to consult on green building techniques in Paris. He still wanted me to join him in France, and occasionally tried to tempt me with e-mails and photos of pastries and little wrought-iron balconies. But before he left I had come to believe we wanted different things in life . . . and then I met the quirky, absentminded mathematician named Landon.

  My heart fluttered at the sound of Landon’s voice on the phone, and a welcome warmth surged along my skin as I shivered from the bay’s cold wind and spray. My light jacket had been fine for a temperate winter’s day, but was wholly inadequate once the sun had gone down.

  “Mel. Where are you?” Landon asked. “Are you all right? I was about to rent a boat to come after you myself.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I would have called earlier, but my cell phone doesn’t work on the island.”

  “I figured as much. You’re sure you’re okay? According to your father, you must have found a body, or a ghost, or both.”

  “Dad knows me well.”

  “Which was it?” Landon’s tone was grim.

  “A bit of both, actually. I’ll explain when I get there. How was dinner?” />
  “Excellent, as always—a culinary delight your father referred to as ‘Turner Steak.’”

  “I love Turner Steak,” I said, a wistful note in my voice. My stomach growled. Turner Steak was one of my father’s specialties: slow-cooked beef with onions and mushrooms in a rich brown gravy, served over rice. It was a classic comfort food, reminding me of my childhood, of home and safety. Just thinking about it brought the sting of tears to the backs of my eyes.

  “Your dad saved you a plate. It was a nice dinner. Stan was as friendly as ever, and regaled us with stories from his childhood in Bull Hill, Oklahoma. Caleb still doesn’t care for me, but I’m working on him. There’s a postcard of Paris from your ex-boyfriend placed prominently on the refrigerator. And Stephen joined us, of course. He is now plagued by blisters, a complaint which appears to confuse your father.”

  This summed up my life lately. After a difficult divorce I had moved into my parents’ house when my mother passed away suddenly and Dad needed my help. Stan Tomassi, an old family friend, lived with us and managed the Turner Construction home office. My teenage ex-stepson, Caleb, now also resided full-time with Dad and me; we were very close, though he hadn’t forgiven me for ending my relationship with Graham, and blamed Landon for the breakup. My good friend Stephen had been evicted when his San Francisco apartment house converted to condos; he couldn’t find an affordable apartment so was temporarily sleeping on our couch, and because his barista job in San Francisco was no longer worth the commute, I’d given him a menial job with Turner Construction. Stephen wasn’t cut out for hard manual labor, but there wasn’t a lot of demand for his true talent, which was dress designing, Vegas showgirl–style.

  Landon had joined this already full household for a short time while his Berkeley apartment was being fumigated for termites. My Dad couldn’t hold a grudge against anyone who loved his cooking, so even though he was still very fond of Graham, he had warmed up to Landon.

  So that was my life: I worked all day, most days, almost exclusively with men, and lived with a passel of them as well. Even Dog was a boy. If it weren’t for a few clients and my best friend Luz—and now Waquisha—I would have no women in my life at all. And that was not acceptable. I’d grown up with a mother and two sisters, and missed feminine company. I dreamed of a jobsite full of hardworking women. Not to be sexist, but I was willing to bet the porta potties would stay a darned sight cleaner.