Dog shed a lot, but he was a great copilot.
• • •
Back in San Francisco I parked in a lot whose attendant was an animal lover and always made a big fuss over Dog. He agreed to watch Dog for me while I went to the city’s permit office, where I politely harassed the new guy at the counter until he called his manager, Jordan, over. Jordan and I go way back. He knew I was a pain in his neck, but also that I was a stickler for adhering to the city’s building codes. After some good-natured ribbing, he agreed to expedite my permits for a job in Cow Hollow.
On the street I passed a cart selling Belgian waffles sprinkled with powdered sugar. They smelled like heaven, and put me in mind of Luz Cabrera. I checked the time; if I remembered correctly, she had office hours around now.
Luz and I had been friends for years, and she was my touchstone whenever my life started to feel unmanageable. Such occasions weren’t as rare as one would hope, even before I started seeing spirits. And she had a sweet tooth.
I bought two waffles, gave one to the parking attendant along with my thanks and a healthy tip for dogsitting, shared a very small taste of waffle with Dog, and drove over to the urban campus of San Francisco State University, where Luz was a professor in the School of Social Work.
Dog and I waited outside her open office door, unintentionally eavesdropping as a tearful student tried to explain that, although she had managed to show up for only two classes that semester and hadn’t completed the final paper, she felt a failing grade was unfair because “I tried really hard but this class is a lot of work and I have other classes, too, you know.” I imagined the expression on Luz’s face. Luz had clawed her way out of a difficult neighborhood in East LA, won a scholarship to an Ivy League school, and is smarter than almost anyone I know. She doesn’t do excuses.
The student finally gave up and stormed out, threatening to report Luz to the department chair.
I poked my head through the open door. Luz was sipping a mug of coffee and perusing something on her computer screen. She looked singularly unfazed.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Mel! C’mon in. And Daw-ugh, too.” She came around the desk to give me a quick hug and Dog a proper hello, rubbing his neck and accepting a kiss. “He’s not strictly legal in here, you know.”
“I’m calling him my therapy dog.”
“Good. I could use some therapy of the four-legged variety.”
“I brought you a snack,” I said, handing her the waffle bag.
“Mmmmm, waffles! Awesome.” She returned to her seat behind the desk and extracted her treat, while I collapsed into the chair opposite.
“Everything okay with your student?” I asked.
“What student?”
“The young woman who just left . . . threatening to report you to your department chair.”
“She should go, with my blessing.” Luz bit into the waffle and let out a little moan of pleasure. Then she shrugged. “My chair knows the score. Some students—not all of them, thank goodness—think paying tuition guarantees them a passing grade. I keep trying to explain that what they’re paying for is the opportunity to learn, and they have to put in the time and effort necessary to produce results. I design my courses, do plenty of research, write lectures and plans, put extra resources up on my Web page, link to writing tutors and life coaches and—heaven forbid—the library. But if a student’s not willing to help herself, no one else can help her. She’ll figure it out eventually—either that, or crash and burn.”
“Or the crashing and burning will help her figure it out.”
She nodded but seemed far more interested in the waffle than her student’s failing grade.
“Speaking of crashing and burning . . . ,” I said.
“Uh-oh,” Luz said, using a napkin to brush powdered sugar from her lips. “More ghosts? Or bodies? Or both?”
“I see I’m gaining a disturbing reputation.”
“Which is it?” Alarm lit her eyes and she cast a glance around the small office. “Nothing followed you here, did it? I would really like for this to be a safe space.”
Luz wasn’t fond of ghosts. At all. A few months ago she’d had what I thought was something of a breakthrough with the spirit world when she came to the aid of a lost ghost looking for a way home. Apparently I was overly optimistic: While Luz didn’t seem quite as freaked out as she used to be, she was still wary.
“No worries. I left him, or them, on the island.”
“Lighthouse Island? That’s sort of cool though, right? Seems only natural a lighthouse would have a ghost or two hanging around. Sailors lost at sea, shipwreck victims who wash ashore, lighthouse keepers who can’t bear to leave their posts . . .”
“There might be some historic spirits there, true. But the guy I’m most worried about is Alicia Withers’s ex, a man named Thorn Walker. Her abusive ex. He fell down the stairs of the tower yesterday. And died.”
Luz raised an eyebrow. “An accident?”
I shook my head. “He had a knife in his chest, so that seems a little suspicious. The police suspect Alicia.”
Luz snorted. “Alicia? That’s ridiculous. Unless . . . was he trying to hurt her? Was it self-defense?”
“That was the first question I asked her. She said no, he wasn’t trying to hurt her.”
“Still, it could be more complicated,” Luz mused. “There are cases of abused women going after their abusers years later, in what’s seen as a kind of delayed PTSD. I could put you in touch with some specialists in domestic abuse and its long-term effects if Alicia’s defense lawyer needs an expert witness.”
“Thank you, Luz, I’ll let you know if it gets to that point. At the moment, the police are just talking to her. I’m hoping the evidence will point to her innocence.”
“Let’s hope so. Please give her my best.”
“I’ll do that. But that wasn’t actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You okay? Now that you mention it, you seem a little worried.”
“I’m spooked, to tell you the truth. I just checked out a house in Oakland, for my Realtor friend, Brittany, who wanted to know if it might be haunted. It’s a really great old place, and I didn’t see any ghosts—and neither did Dog. But when I went inside, it was like a case of déjà vu—only ten times stronger. I knew the house. I knew the layout, the floor plan, everything, like I know the back of my hand. Every inch of that house was familiar. It was downright spooky.”
“Was it a place your parents worked on, at some point?”
I shook my head. “I’ll check with my dad to make sure, but I don’t think so. The former owners had lived there for fifty years, and it didn’t look like they’d had any professional renovations done.”
“You see a lot of houses. Could you have just guessed the floor plan?”
“There was more to it than that, Luz. There was an old laundry chute; I knew exactly where to find it and had a memory of climbing into it, and sliding down. Outside there was a garden shed that used to be a playhouse, and my mother—”
My voice caught. Though I’m an adult and my mother passed several years ago, losing her was such a great loss that, from time to time, the grief slammed into me like a body blow, out of the blue.
“—I remember my mother being there. Somehow. It was as if I could see her sitting on the window seat in front of the fire. And her hands . . . I looked down at my hands, and it was as though my hands were her hands.”
Luz nodded, almost imperceptibly. She wasn’t a therapist, though she taught in the School of Social Work. Luz was more comfortable with psychological theory than with practice, and always said she didn’t enjoy hearing about other people’s problems because she had enough of her own, thank you very much. Luckily, she made an exception for me.
“So what do you think? Am I nuts?” I asked.
Sh
e gave me a small smile. “A little, but not because of this. Two possibilities come to mind. You ready to hear them?”
No.
“Sure,” I said. “Fire away.”
“Maybe your sensitivity to the supernatural has developed over time, and you have graduated from ghost seer to full-blown psychic.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Seeing ghosts is plenty bizarre as it is,” I replied. “I don’t want to know what other people are thinking all the time.”
“A psychic isn’t the same as a mind reader, Mel. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe not, but I still don’t like it. What’s the second possibility?”
“Something in that house triggered a shadow memory.”
“Shadow memory?”
“Memory is a very difficult and complicated field of research. The more we research the brain and how it works, the more complex and less reliable memory appears to be. I don’t know that much about it, to tell you the truth, but one of my colleagues has built her career researching how humans create and store memories.”
“And what is a ‘shadow memory’?”
“Sometimes our brain creates false memories to explain something we want an answer to; at other times, a memory is stored in a different area in the brain for some reason. But . . . you know, in dream interpretation the house represents the self: If you discover new rooms you didn’t know were there, for instance, or a new attic or something like that, it means you are opening up your mind and your world to new possibilities, discovering new aspects of the psyche.”
“That’s all fascinating, but why this house, as opposed to every other house I’ve ever been in?”
“Good question. Does it remind you of your childhood home?”
“I didn’t have a childhood home. Dad bought the Fruitvale house when I was in my early teens; until then, we moved every couple of years. Mom and Dad bought homes to fix up and flip, and at the time they didn’t have the money to live elsewhere while that happened.”
“So when you say you grew up on a construction site, you aren’t exaggerating.”
“Exactly.”
She shook her head slowly. “I really don’t know what to tell you, Mel. I could do some research if you want, talk to my colleague about it.”
“Really? That would be great, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But just for the record: No, you’re not crazy. I’m a professional. I know from crazy.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I believed her, but was relieved to hear her say it.
“Now, let’s talk about the acrophobia.” Luz had been trying to help me find a way to deal with my newfound fear of heights. It wasn’t going well. “Dr. Peters says you didn’t keep your second appointment.”
“I hate to cast aspersions on your colleague, Luz, but the man’s certifiable.”
“He is certified in therapy, that’s true.”
“You know what I mean. I think he might be a sociopath.”
“His suggesting that you cut down on your caffeine consumption—which, by the way, is excessive by any standard—doesn’t mean he’s a sociopath, Mel. Acrophobia is often connected to general anxiety, which caffeine can worsen.”
“I am not giving up coffee.” I stroked Dog’s velvet-soft head.
She blew out a breath. “And meds are still off the table?”
“I can’t do my job if I’m using drugs.”
“Meds, not drugs. But I won’t argue if you’re dead set against it. Still, may I point out that you can’t do your job if you can’t get off the ground? Isn’t that why you came to me in the first place?”
“I came to you because you’re my friend and I thought you’d fix me. Not suggest I stop drinking coffee, for the love of all that is holy.”
She smiled and started counting off using her fingers. “Let’s see . . . So far you’ve tried and rejected cognitive behavioral therapy, biofeedback, situational conditioning, and hypnotherapy. Sorry, my friend. Next up are needles.”
“I said no drugs.”
“I’m not suggesting drugs, I’m suggesting acupuncture. And stop shaking your head. San Francisco is home to some of the finest doctors of acupuncture in the world. It’s a medical system much older—and some say wiser—than our western approach. Dr. Victor Weng is very good. I wouldn’t refer you to him unless I thought he could help. Shall I give him a call?”
I hesitated, and she gave me the stink-eye.
“You have a problem, Mel,” Luz said bluntly. “You can try wishing it away, but that hasn’t worked, has it?”
I shook my head.
“You asked for my help, O Stubborn One, but have rejected everything I suggested. Ultimatum time: Either do what I say or stop complaining—your choice. Which is it?”
Chastened, I reached out and took the scrap of paper on which she had written a name and address: Dr. Victor Weng, 142B Hang Ah Alley.
“Hang Ah Alley?”
“Off Sacramento. Right next to Willie ‘Woo Woo’ Wong Playground.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“That’s the man’s name. Willie ‘Woo Woo’ Wong. Why would I make up something like that?”
“I meant about the acupuncture.”
“Perfectly serious. And as luck would have it, there’s a great dim sum restaurant right on the corner. Why don’t I take you to your appointment, and afterward you can buy me lunch?”
This was classic Luz: identify the problem, offer friendship and support, and toss in a little kick-assedness to make sure I followed through.
“All right, sure,” I said, sitting back and giving up. “I love needles. The more, the better. Give Dr. Weng a call.”
She picked up the phone and finagled an appointment for me the day after tomorrow.
“Thank you, Luz.”
“I’m in it for the dim sum. Lunch is on you.”
Chapter Ten
I took Dog for a brief walk around campus to stretch his legs, then headed to Olivier’s Ghost Supply Shoppe, in Jackson Square. This was one of the oldest sections of San Francisco. In the Barbary Coast days—before the city was made larger by way of a massive landfill—it had been waterfront property, and crews continued to dig up the remains of old ships when excavating basements and the like. Because of the age of the neighborhood, there were a number of brick buildings, which were rare in San Francisco. Ever since the devastation caused by unreinforced masonry during the 1906 earthquake, brick was not a popular choice for building materials in the city.
“Ready?” I asked Dog, whose tail beat an enthusiastic rhythm on the car seat. One nice thing about being friends with the shop owner was that I knew Dog was welcome to come inside while I asked Olivier Galopin, the French ghost hunter, for a little free advice.
I found Olivier dusting some crystal pyramids on a display shelf near the front counter, where his assistant Dingo staffed the cash register. Olivier had been traveling abroad recently so I hadn’t seen him for several weeks. He greeted Dog and me with warm hugs, but I sensed something was wrong when the normally voluble Olivier returned to his task without engaging in conversation.
“How was your trip?” I asked.
Olivier shrugged.
“Don’t mind him,” said Dingo in a stage whisper that no one in the shop failed to hear. “He’s been a little down ever since the incident in Hungary.”
Olivier shot him a glare.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Didn’t go well,” said Dingo unnecessarily.
I looked at Olivier. He let out a sigh and finally came over to join us at the counter. “It was a disaster. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”
“I’m alive,” he said.
“Well, that’s . . .” rather ominous, I thought to myself. �
�Good. I’m glad you’re alive.”
“Did you have a question?” Olivier asked. “Not that I have any answers.”
“I would like to ask you something, if you don’t mind.” I gave him the rundown of what had happened with Thorn—and Alicia—on Lighthouse Island last night. While I spoke, Dingo surreptitiously pushed a big coffee-table book across the counter toward me. It was entitled Lighthouses and Their Ghosts.
“Does this book deal with the Bay Light, on Lighthouse Island?” I asked, turning the volume around to thumb through it.
“Nah,” said Dingo.
“Oh, thanks anyway, Dingo, it looks interesting, but I really don’t have time for it at the moment,” I said, turning back to Olivier. “Let me just be clear on one thing: Thorn couldn’t have been pushed down the stairs by a ghost, could he?”
“I don’t think so,” he said with a shake of his head. What could have happened to Olivier in Hungary? I wondered. He was usually so sure of himself, and of the rules—such as they were—of the ghost world. But now there was a decided wariness in his blue eyes. Then he shrugged again. “Or . . . maybe.”
“But you’ve always told me ghosts can’t hurt people,” I protested, perhaps slightly more stridently than I’d intended. A couple of customers looked up from the shelves they’d been perusing.
“I think it’s . . . unusual,” said Olivier. “But I’ve come to believe . . . perhaps if there is enough anger or anguish there . . . perhaps they can build enough strength to make this happen.”
I glared at him. I didn’t like him changing the rules on me. But the truth was, there weren’t any hard-and-fast laws in this ghost-busting business. I’d best get used to doing what I’d done in the past: working the ghost problems by the seat of my pants.
Dingo nudged the lighthouse book toward me again.
“I thought you said it didn’t deal with the Bay Light,” I said.
“It doesn’t, not specifically. But it sure is a beautiful book, ain’t it?”
“It is.”
“And I think a lot of those lighthouse spirits have something in common. If you think about it, it makes sense. The sense of isolation, the commitment to tending the light, night after night—a lot of them can’t bring themselves to stop, even after they pass. I love lighthouses. Visit ’em every chance I get. Know all about ’em.”
A Ghostly Light Page 8
