A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  What was this guy, psychic?

  He continued, gesturing with his large hands as he spoke, “But in my system of health, I don’t see mental health as distinct from physical health. It’s one thing to break a bone, of course, but in other health issues . . . I see the body—and mind—as made up of different systems of energy—yin and yang, hot and cold, excess and deficiency, external and internal—and qi. Your qi is out of balance. This could well be from the trauma you experienced, but it might be tied in with—or aggravated by—other big events in your life. Now . . .” He paused, and I realized he had a needle poised above my wrist. “Ready?”

  “Um . . .”

  “The needle is tiny, see?” He held it up to me. “Not even as thick as a hair. Remember to breathe, and try to relax.”

  I pulled away. “One more thing before we start: How do you feel about coffee?”

  “Strong and black. I prefer Peet’s.”

  So at least I knew he wasn’t a sociopath. I rested my hand on the pillow.

  He slipped the needle into a point on the back of my hand, between the middle and ring fingers. I felt it, but it wasn’t painful. Not at all. Not even a pinch.

  “You okay?” he asked. At my nod, he continued, placing needles in the backs of both hands, my forehead, and my ears. One or two pinched a little, but the pain was nothing compared to the common scrapes and bruises I encountered every day on construction sites. He returned to a few of the needles, twisting gently.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I could feel a slight hum running between some of the needles.

  Weng kept his eyes on me. “We carry currents of energy within us, along meridians. You feel it?”

  I nodded. The talk of currents of energy made me think back on what Landon had said about different forms of energy and planes of existence.

  “Now what?” I asked him.

  “Now you try to relax, breathe, and clear your mind. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes to check on you, or call out if you need me.”

  “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

  “Depends on how long you feel you need. I recommend at least half an hour, but some people stay for an hour or more. A lot of people feel so relaxed they fall asleep.”

  I scoffed. “Please. I’m not going to fall asleep in the middle of the day with needles sticking out of me like Pinhead.”

  He smiled, dimmed the lights, and shut the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Apparently, I was snoring,” I said, popping a shrimp dumpling into my mouth. “And it’s possible I drooled a little bit.”

  Luz had a supremely self-satisfied look on her face as she used one chopstick to spear a slippery pot sticker. “Did I tell you, or did I not, about Vincent?”

  “He’s pretty good, that’s for sure.”

  Dr. Weng had returned, extracted all the needles, and sent me on my way with a little mantra to say whenever I felt the fear: The things that bring me joy ground me; the things that bring me hope lift me. He recommended I repeat it not only when facing heights, but whenever facing trepidation.

  I felt mellow, a strange mixture of floaty and energetic. This must be how people who meditate feel, I thought. And here I’d made fun of “Berkeley types” my whole life.

  I had coasted on over to the dim sum parlor to meet Luz for lunch. We ordered drinks, she showed me what she’d bought—a silk kimono (she already had two), a silk clutch, and a silk lamp shade—and then started pointing to dishes on the metal carts that clattered by, pushed by grumpy, tired-looking waiters.

  Dim sum was not the best option for those of us with issues of impulse control. Especially when we’re hungry. On the lazy Susan in front of us was more food than could be consumed by my work crew: dumplings, fried radish cake, lotus-wrapped meat-and-bamboo-filled sticky rice, and plump steamed buns filled with barbecue pork, called char siu bao.

  “Too bad he’s married,” said Luz.

  “Who?”

  “Victor. Dr. Weng.”

  “How do you know he’s married?”

  “He was wearing a wedding band. That’s usually a sign.”

  “Not today he wasn’t.”

  That got her attention. “He wasn’t?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Could it be . . . ?” I searched Luz’s face and slowly shook my head. “. . . that Luz Cabrera has a crush on a doctah? You could do worse.” I said that last in a terrible imitation of the stereotypical Jewish—or Italian, or Slovakian for all I knew—mother. In fact, it was probably a great imitation of my father, as well, or any parent who hoped their children would “marry well.”

  Luz shrugged and toyed with her chopsticks, a study in nonchalance.

  “You do! Seriously, Luz, you like him?”

  She shrugged again.

  “I have to say, he has a certain air about him . . .”

  She gave a shy, conspiratorial smile. “He does, doesn’t he? I met him at a conference a few years ago, and we really hit it off, and then I noticed the ring. I went to see him a couple of times when I threw out my back, but stopped because it felt like we had a connection—and that’s inappropriate between doctor and patient.”

  “Especially if he’s married.”

  “Especially then.”

  “Well, he was not wearing a ring today—I would have noticed. I was pretty focused on his hands.”

  “Those hands . . .” She let out a little sigh. “But, he probably just took it off for treatments. Lots of doctors do.”

  “Maybe. I’ll find out next time I go.” She was blushing now, and had even stopped eating. I decided to change the subject. “Anyway, I have a less pleasant topic for you: Do you think a wife beater is redeemable?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m a hard-liner on this topic. I think all T-shirts should have sleeves.”

  “Very funny. I didn’t mean that kind of wifebeater, as you very well know.”

  “Is this about Alicia’s husband? I hope you’re not wasting any energy on that turd.”

  “Come on, Luz. You just forced me to let someone stick needles into me for an hour. Humor me.”

  “Wife beating. Okay.” She took a long pull on her Tsingtao beer and sat back in her chair as though going over lecture notes in her head. “According to the literature, it’s mostly connected to an anger management problem, combined with serious self-esteem issues. Explosive anger is treatable, of course, with proper motivation. The fact that the violence is perpetrated against an intimate loved one—as opposed to people who get involved in bar brawls, for instance—makes it more complex. And the fact that those loved ones are usually smaller and physically weaker than the perpetrator makes them true turds.”

  “Turds being a clinical term.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And can these turds be treated? Can they be reformed?”

  “Ah, this is where it gets interesting.” She served herself some chicken and veggie-filled rice noodle rolls glistening with dark soy sauce. “Before you asked me if they could be redeemed. Now we’re talking reformed. That’s a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “In what way?”

  “Think about it, Mel: A person can be reformed in that he or she changes his or her behavior. But to be redeemed is to make amends, to not only be sorry but to make things right. And how do you make things up to a person you’ve damaged beyond repair?”

  “Not all abused wives are damaged beyond repair. They can get out, get help, get better.”

  “But the fear never truly goes away, does it?” she asked me, a troubled look in her eyes. “Sorry, this is where my lack of actual counseling abilities—in other words, diplomacy and tact—really comes out. I believe there are some things one never truly gets over. In some cases those challenges might actually make a person stronger, but they are forever changed by it, one way or the other. So can the pe
rpetrator ever truly be redeemed? Oooh! We’ll take two of those!”

  She pointed at a plate of jin deui, sesame seed balls.

  “What else?” asked the woman pushing the metal cart laden with small plates of noodles and dumplings. She knew big eaters when she saw them.

  “You want spareribs?” Luz asked me. Without waiting for my answer, she asked for plates of spareribs and bean curd rolls.

  “I think we’ll need a doggy bag,” I said.

  Luz just shrugged and kept eating. She was a svelte woman, and no matter how much she ate seemed able to keep it that way. I, in contrast, gained weight just by looking at this much food. The fact that Luz was my best friend, I liked to think, was a testament to my open-mindedness in all matters.

  That, and because she was always there for me, no matter what.

  “Hey! I have an idea,” Luz said. “Let’s go up to the observation floor of the Transamerica building, and see if Vincent fixed you!”

  “Very funny,” I said. Just the thought of the view from that height made the floaty feeling dissipate faster than duct tape on a jobsite, as my father would say. “Anyway, as you know perfectly well, acupuncture doesn’t work that way. It’s a process. Twice a week, Vincent said.”

  “Well, look on the bright side: You’ll get to eat dim sum twice a week. And as your loyal friend who supports you in this process, I’ll join you.”

  After lunch I made a series of phone calls to make sure all the supply trucks had arrived at Point Moro when they were supposed to, and then checked in with Duncan, and the barge pilot Lyle, and Ramon by text. So far, so good. Then I called Annette Crawford.

  “I think one of the sailors on the island used an expired ID to steal a file about the Bay Light and the history of the island,” I told her.

  “What file?”

  “From the California Historical Society, down on Mission.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve got a dead teenager in the Bayview and a dead businessman in the Excelsior. You want me to arrest someone for a fake ID? Or is it the theft of historical information that bothers you?”

  “I just . . . I don’t know, but I thought it was significant. You told me not to hold back, so I’m not holding back.”

  “That’s when I’m working your case. In this case, you should be calling Detective Santos if you think this is significant. Actually, even if it isn’t, let him know.”

  “All right. You’re right.” I hung up, and considered calling the detective. But on second thought . . . I would call him later. After I found out whether the coins I had discovered were worth anything, and could possibly serve as a motive.

  “Where to now?” asked Luz as we walked toward the garage. “Are you going back out to the island?”

  “It sounds like all is well in hand there at the moment. I’ve got a crew working on demo, and they’re running supplies most of the day. The trucks have all showed up, miracle of miracles, and Ramon’s supervising. They don’t need me today. So first I was planning on going over to Tiburon.”

  “New project?”

  “A numismatist.”

  “Really?”

  “You know what that is?”

  “Sure. Why do you need to see a specialist in old coins?”

  Trust Luz to know what a numismatist was.

  “Landon and I found a treasure map on the island, and dug up some coins.”

  She pushed me. “Get out of here.”

  I laughed. “I’m serious.”

  “Really? Like that couple that found cans of coins in their yard? They were worth a lot of money.”

  “Somehow I doubt it’s quite the same, unless a 1903 nickel is worth a fortune.”

  I dug in my bag and brought out the little plastic bag with the two coins in it. They were caked in mud.

  She held it up and peered at them. “They don’t look like much, do they?”

  I shook my head.

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  “Of course—you don’t have to get back to campus?”

  She shook her head. “Gave my lecture this morning, and no office hours today. And now you’ve got me thinking about a certain doctor with great hands, and I need to be distracted before I make a darned fool of myself with someone who’s probably married.”

  I smiled and flung my arm around her. “Want me to call him right now and ask him? He gave me his private cell number.”

  “Why did he give you his cell number?”

  “Because he likes me,” I teased. “And in case I have a panic attack.”

  “Ah. No, thank you, don’t call him. Just ask him in some casual, natural way next time you go in.”

  “You can count on me,” I said. Now that we were talking about our love lives, I pondered running Weng’s question about my relationship with Landon by Luz. But I decided against it. I’d taken all the introspection I could handle for the moment.

  We got out at the Panda floor, climbed into the car, and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge, to Tiburon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tiburon is a town of fewer than ten thousand residents, but by and large they are exceedingly wealthy residents. Resting as it does directly across the bay from San Francisco, on a thumb of land with views of the city and the Golden Gate Bridge and beyond to the Pacific Ocean, Tiburon features multimillion-dollar homes and a mellow, small-town feel. The compact downtown is charming and vibrant with a few good restaurants, but without the overt air of extreme affluence common to the swankier parts of San Francisco.

  The numismatist’s office was an example of this: It was rather shabby, a 1960s leftover located over a Pilates studio. The walls were lined with framed vignettes of coins and stamps, and a few dozen very old-looking books in a glass-fronted case.

  Cory Venner was middle-aged, paunchy, and pale. He looked like he spent a lot more time inside with his coins and stamps than outside in nature.

  “Oh, you never know, a single coin can be worth a lot,” he said in response to my fear that I might be wasting his time. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I handed him the baggy of mud-caked coins.

  He shook them out onto a black-velvet-lined tray he had set out on his desk, pulled a gooseneck lamp over until the light shone directly on the specimens, and brought out a magnifying glass.

  After a moment, he flipped them over. Then he looked up at me. “That’s it?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe you should have washed them first,” suggested Luz.

  “Um . . . I didn’t want to compromise them. Just in case.”

  “They’re metal, you can wash them, no problem,” Cory said. “But I’m sorry to say, they’re not worth much.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Liberty Head nickel, maybe worth three dollars. If it were in mint condition, uncirculated, it might pull in a hundred bucks at auction. Maybe.”

  “And the penny?”

  “An Indian Head penny can go for up to maybe a thousand dollars, again, if it were in choice condition. This one isn’t. I’d give you five bucks for it, just because I like Indian Head pennies.”

  The disappointment must have been clear on my face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “If you compare to their face value, it’s a lot, but no one’s getting rich with these.”

  “Not enough to kill over,” I mused.

  He frowned. “Kill over?”

  “As I mentioned to you over the phone, I’m working out at Lighthouse Island. A man was killed there, and I’m trying to figure out why,” I said. “I thought perhaps . . . well, I found some treasure maps and thought maybe someone was after a treasure.”

  “Treasure maps, plural?”

  I nodded. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  He shook his head. “No, but there’s buried treasure on these shores, for s
ure.”

  “There is? From the Peruvian revolution?”

  He looked confused. “I’m not even sure when that was.”

  “Me neither.”

  “If only there were some handy device that would tell us . . . ,” said Luz as she looked it up on her phone. “Let’s see . . . the Peruvian War of Independence came to a conclusion in 1824.”

  “Too early,” I said. “The maps include the lighthouse buildings, so they had to have been from after 1870. Okay, Peru’s off the table as a source of buried treasure, but surely there were other fortunes being shipped around here?”

  “Sure,” said Cory. “The Barbary Coast saw a lot of gold coming in and out, silver and copper, too. Coins and dust, nuggets, all sorts. And there were plenty of unsavory characters back then, I don’t mind telling you. Some you would never suspect, as in the case of Selby Smelter.”

  “Who was Selby Smelter?” I asked.

  “Not a ‘who,’ a ‘what.’” Cory leaned back in his chair and looked pleased to have a new audience to tell the tale. “Back around the turn of the twentieth century, there was a place called the Selby Smelter, in Vallejo Junction, where the ores from the inland mines were refined. A man named John Winters worked at the smelter for years, from appearances just a simple workingman doing his job. But Winters had a plan. Gradually, over many months and years, he removed gold bars from the vault where he was supposed to be storing them, hiding them, one or two at a time, in his jacket pocket at the end of the workday. Local legend has it that Winters buried the gold bars along the beach, at the water’s edge. Only a few have ever been found.”

  “How much could he have possibly stolen?”

  “Well, now, that’s an interesting question. Again, there’s face value, and real value. Face value at the time, he made off with nearly a quarter of a million dollars. Real value is much higher than that—these were pure gold ingots.”

  “What about that couple who found the coins in their yard?” Luz asked.

  His eyes lit up. “I consulted on that case, as a matter of fact. Luckiest couple in the world. Moved into a new house, decided to do a little gardening. They were digging around in the yard to plant a few shrubs, and found a couple of old tin cans with some pretty nasty-looking contents. Cleaned them up and found they were old coins. Twenty-dollar gold coins to be exact, Liberty Head designs from the 1890s.”