“Anyway, I buttonholed my colleague the other day,” said Luz. “The one who researches memory, remember? Want to hear what she said?”
“Shoot.”
“Basically, the medial temporal lobes retain long-term memories of events. Some say the rhinal cortex function commands feelings of general familiarity, while detailed recollection is located in the hippocampus.”
“I think I need a diagram. Illustrations of the brain or something.” This was a little like listening to Landon’s exposition on multiple universes. It served me right for asking academics to expound upon topics of particular interest to them.
“Want me to whip up a PowerPoint presentation?”
“Would you? That would be helpful.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on it. In the meantime, here’s where it gets interesting,” Luz continued. “Some epilepsy patients experience déjà vu at the onset of a seizure.”
“That is interesting. Except I’m not epileptic. At least, not that I know of.”
“I realize that. But epileptic seizures are connected to electrical activity in neurons within focal regions of the brain. These neurons can originate in the medial temporal lobes.”
“Which are connected to memory.”
“Exactly.”
We had finally inched our way into the maze, and traffic had picked up a little.
“Sorry, Luz, I’m not following. Are you saying my feeling that I’d been in that house before indicates I’m developing epilepsy? Is epilepsy something a person can develop? Wait—could that be what my vertigo is about?”
“No, I think your vertigo is connected to the scumbag who tried to push you off a roof. I’m mentioning epilepsy because it’s really the only scientific research out there on this kind of memory glitch, which is what déjà vu seems to be.”
“It’s a glitch?”
“It seems so. Electrical disturbances in the medial front lobe can generate what’s called an aura of déjà vu prior to an epileptic event. All of this leads to the theory that what we know as déjà vu is caused by a dysfunctional electrical discharge in the brain.”
“So you’re saying my brain’s shorting out? That can’t be good.”
“I’m not saying that at all. Everybody experiences a little electrical discharge now and then. Ever have that feeling of jumping right as you’re falling asleep? It’s called a hypnagogic jerk. Same type deal. Anyway, some researchers think déjà vu is a kind of memory error, where new information bypasses the short-term memory and goes straight into long-term, making us think we knew something all along.”
“So it’s random?”
“Depends. Have you experienced a similar sensation anywhere other than in that house?”
I shook my head. “Not like that. Never anything like that.”
“Then no, it’s probably a psychic thing.”
“You are exactly no help.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you got all woo-woo ghosty on me. I knew you when you were just a normal, grumpy contractor. I think I’m doing my part by not disowning you, frankly.”
We sped past the Port of Oakland and the abandoned Army base, then came to another near standstill when 880 merged with 980 near Jack London Square. As usual at this point, I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of fleeing the freeway in favor of trying my luck crossing town on the surface streets. But the exit ramp was jammed; I wasn’t the only one who had thought of it.
“There are some who think déjà vu is a kind of a glimpse from past lives,” Luz continued. “Or inherited memory, or precognitive dreams, or even alien abduction.”
“Any of those people not associated with the tabloids?”
“A few,” Luz said. “But not many.”
“I’m going to stop you right here, Luz. I’d like to state for the record that while I talk to ghosts, and might even accept the idea of multiple universes and crossed wires and even past lives, I am not going to talk about the possibility of alien abduction. Do I make myself clear?”
“You’re the expert,” said Luz with a grin.
“Anyway, I’ll take memory glitches over the idea that I’m possessed, any day.”
“Who said you’re possessed?”
“Olivier mentioned it as a possibility. But he got pushed around by some demons or something in Hungary, so his attitude hasn’t been the best lately.”
“I gotta hand it to you, chica. You lead a very interesting life.”
• • •
We pulled up to Dad’s house fifteen minutes later and went down the side path to the back door into the kitchen, as was our habit. We were greeted by a wildly ecstatic Dog and the mouthwatering aroma of sautéing onions, garlic, and mushrooms. Dad stood at the counter chopping vegetables, while Landon stirred a mushroom risotto on the stove. Both men wore aprons and sipped glasses of cheap red wine. Dog was doing his part by making sure the floor was kept free of food-like items.
“Well, my, my,” said Luz, fanning herself and speaking in a fake southern accent. “It’s like I died and went to heaven. Two handsome gentlemen cooking something that smells divine for little ol’ me? How do you stand it, Mel?”
Dad and Landon beamed.
I gave Dad a kiss on the cheek, Landon a kiss on the mouth, and left Luz in their capable hands while I went down the hall to a small den behind the kitchen, which held our home office. Stan was the phone with someone I assumed was a prospective client, since his Oklahoma accent was slightly exaggerated and he was at his charming best.
He hung up and waggled his eyebrows at me. “Belvedere.”
“Bad traffic.”
“Great bank accounts.”
I smiled. “I’ll give them a call tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I was near there today, in Tiburon.”
“What’s in Tiburon?”
“A numismatist.”
“You found some old coins?”
“How is it that everyone knows that word?” I demanded. “I didn’t know that word until today.”
“I collected coins when I was a kid. Fun hobby. Maybe I’ll take it up again.”
“Tell you what: I’ll start your new collection with a Liberty Head nickel and an Indian Head penny,” I said, handing him the plastic bag with the coins. “Turns out they aren’t worth more than a few dollars, but they’re still pretty cool.”
“Why, thank you. Oh, by the way, there’s a storm blowing in this weekend. You won’t be working out on the island, will you?”
“No, just tomorrow. The weather report says the rain isn’t expected until Saturday night or Sunday.”
I flipped through the day’s messages, returned a few calls, and then Stan and I went over the delivery schedule for the Lighthouse Island supplies. Again I marveled that everything was on track—so far. Was this some sort of construction miracle, or was Ellis Elrich somehow working his magic on all concerned?
“Oh hey, your friend the historian called,” Stan said. “Real nice lady.”
“Trish called?”
“Said she pulled together some documents for you, but won’t be in tomorrow. She said she would leave a package for you at the counter. That make sense to you?”
“It does, thanks.” I called Olivier to see if he wanted to accompany me to Lighthouse Island tomorrow. When he readily agreed, I asked if he’d be willing to stop and pick up a package from the California Historical Society on his way out of the city.
As I hung up, it dawned on me that Trish had been looking up lighthouse history for me, Luz had researched déjà vu, and now Olivier was coming to help me figure out a ghost—not to mention picking up my package. It seemed I had minions now. It worked for me; I could see why Ellis Elrich liked it so much.
Finally, I called to check in with Alicia. No news. The police hadn’t found the killer yet, but on the upside, they hadn’t arrested her yet, either.
“Hey, Stan, I have a question,” I said as I finished returning a slew of e-mails.
He looked up from some paperwork. “Shoot.”
“What can you tell me about our newest employee, Waquisha Barnes?”
“Well, let’s see,” he said, reaching for a folder in the file drawer labeled EMPLOYEES, CURRENT in Stan’s careful handwriting. “Hmm. Not much. She didn’t have any recent employment references besides her dad—said she helped him in his woodshop. So we hired her on probation first, until Jeremy was satisfied with her skills.”
“Did you run a background check on her?”
“Just the standard one, but as you know that only turns up really obvious stuff; she doesn’t have a criminal record or significant outstanding debts. Nothing further in the public record. Is there a problem?”
“Probably not. But it turns out she might have known the man who was killed on Lighthouse Island.”
Stan raised one eyebrow. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it, though? I don’t like coincidences.”
“Neither do I. But wait a minute—didn’t you say the Turner Construction people, all except you, of course, had already left the island when the murder occurred? So she couldn’t have been involved.”
I nodded. I had said that. But now that I thought about it . . . did I know that to be true? I hadn’t escorted them onto the boat, after all.
“Why don’t you ask your father?” Stan suggested, sensibly. “He was there, wasn’t he?”
“Good point. But one more thing before I go—did you run a background check on Lyle Burgos?”
“The barge pilot? No, Elrich Enterprises hired the boat pilots directly. Why?”
“It’s probably nothing.” It had dawned on me that Lyle could have shaved his head, and his piercings could be new. Especially if he was trying to adopt a different look, for some reason. “I’ll check with the Elrich security team tomorrow.”
I returned to the kitchen. “Hey, Dad? Do you remember? Did Waquisha go back to Point Moro with you and Dog and Jeremy the day Thorn Walker was killed?”
Dad paused, a turkey baster held aloft over a perfectly golden-brown bird glistening with juices. The aroma of herbed roast chicken made my stomach growl.
“That the young carpenter lady?”
I nodded.
“Come to think of it . . .” He pondered for a moment. “No, she didn’t. She asked if she could stay and take a hike, said she would catch the next boat out. The skipper didn’t mention what time she left the island?”
“No, and I didn’t think to ask until right now.”
“Neither did I. Sorry, babe. You don’t think she’s involved, somehow? She’s quiet, but seemed like a real nice gal.”
The thing was, I had known plenty of “real nice gals” in my time. Turned out some weren’t all that nice.
“Apparently, Waquisha knew Thorn, the victim at the Bay Light,” I said. “And now it seems she might have been on the island when the murder happened.”
Luz and I looked at each other across the butcher-block counter. She sighed. “You’re right. Time to make a phone call.”
Dad went to summon Caleb and Stephen for dinner, and I dialed Detective Santos. While I was dropping the dime on Waquisha, I figured I might as well spread the suspicion around a little. I asked if he’d questioned Lyle Burgos.
• • •
There were too many of us to fit around the kitchen table, so we sat at the big dining room table, helping ourselves to risotto and salad and roast chicken as we passed them around. As usual, Dad grumbled that his perfect chicken was slightly overcooked—it wasn’t—while Stan and Caleb and Luz wolfed down their food with little moans of appreciation, Landon and I tried to keep our eyes off each other, Stephen whined about his blisters and the long day of work on the island, and Dog lay under the table, willing us to drop food.
“Oh hey, I almost forgot,” Stephen said, getting up to retrieve something from his backpack. He handed me a yellowing, rolled-up piece of paper. “We found this out on the island. Jeremy said I should bring it to you.”
“Another one?” I said, unfurling the scroll. This map had the “X” marked at yet another site, not far from where Landon and I had dug up the two coins.
“What is that?” asked Caleb.
“A treasure map,” Landon answered.
“A treasure map?” Dad asked.
“For real?” Caleb asked.
“Well, it’s really a map. The ‘treasure’ part is a little dubious,” I said, passing it around. I supposed Trish would suggest we should be handling it with gloves, but I was getting irritated with these maps. Where were they coming from? What could they mean? “We’ve found several so far.”
“Several?” Dad asked.
“That seems weird, right? Who’s ever heard of multiple treasure maps?” I said.
“I have,” said Caleb, helping himself to a chicken leg. “It usually means one is wrong, or is meant to throw someone off the scent.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“I think it was Muppet Treasure Island.”
“Huh, that was a good movie. Not as good as Young Frankenstein, though.” Those had been our favorite movies to watch together when Caleb was young, and he and I shared a smile across the table. Points of connection like this were rare these days, so I cherished the moment. “Okay, so you’re saying maybe one of these maps actually is genuine?”
“Have you tried following them?” asked Stan.
“Landon and I dug at one location marked by an ‘X,’ but all we found were those two coins I showed you. They’re combined worth doesn’t add up to much more than a few dollars.”
“They weren’t even in a special box,” added Landon. “Nothing indicating they were placed there on purpose. More likely they had simply been dropped, years ago, and didn’t have anything to do with a supposed treasure. We also found a marble, a little bottle, and a number of shells.”
Dad passed the risotto around, and we all helped ourselves to seconds. Landon refilled our wineglasses.
“Just for fun, let’s suppose there is a buried treasure on this island,” Stan said. “Where would it have come from?”
“Excellent question,” I said. “There are a few random stories of treasure being hidden at different places in the bay, but that was long before the lighthouse buildings were constructed. The treasure maps we’ve found show the lighthouse and outbuildings, so they have to date from after 1871. Personally I was entertaining the possibility that it might be a famous treasure brought up by ship during the Peruvian War of Independence, but the dates don’t fit.”
“When was the Peruvian War of Independence?”
“It ended in 1824.”
“What about the guy from the smelter?” asked Luz.
“What guy from what smelter?” asked Stan.
“The numismatist mentioned—”
“Wait, Luz,” I said, “excuse me for interrupting, but does everyone know was a numismatist is?”
Everyone nodded, including Caleb.
“I guess I’m the only uneducated one at the table. Sorry. Carry on.” I drowned my feelings of inadequacy in my glass of wine.
“Yes, but bonus points for knowing the year of the Peruvian War of Independence,” said Landon, patting my shoulder.
“It’s called Google,” said Caleb in a snide tone.
“As I was saying,” Luz continued, raising her voice to carry above the fray. “The coin expert told us that at the turn of the century there used to be a smelter in Vallejo, and an employee pilfered gold bars a few at a time for several years. Supposedly he buried them along the bay’s coastline, then was arrested and either forgot where they all were, or refused to say. Maybe he buried some on the island. It’s not that isolated—in calm weather, a person could g
et over there by rowboat.”
“And that was in the early 1900s, so the dates would make sense,” Stan said.
“And the different maps could be pointing to all the different places he buried them,” said Caleb.
“I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “We only looked in one spot; we could try digging up some others. This still begs the question, though: Why are these maps wafting around the island? I’ve seen—what?—four so far, and one of the sailors docked on Lighthouse Island mentioned there were others.”
No one had an answer to that one.
“This would make a good movie, though,” said Caleb. “Think about it: It’s like Treasure Island meets Ghost.”
“Meets Vertigo,” said Luz.
I shot her a dirty look. I had mentioned seeing the movie poster in Dr. Weng’s waiting room today.
“Hey, that’s a great idea, Luz,” said Dad. “They don’t make ’em like Hitchcock anymore. We should watch Vertigo tonight.”
“Isn’t that movie, like, old?” asked Caleb.
“Older than I am,” I said, knowing that would get him. Still, the look on his face made me wonder: just how old did he think I was?
After dinner the younger set carried the dishes into the kitchen and helped with the cleanup, while Dad and Stan scrolled through the hundreds of options on the television to find the famous Hitchcock movie available somewhere for free. My father figured that since he paid for monthly cable service, he shouldn’t have to pay anything extra. Stan was trying to explain that some movies still had to be rented, for less than one would pay for a cup of coffee. But this argument always sent Dad down the path of complaining about people—like his daughter—who insisted on buying expensive coffee at cafés rather than preparing a perfectly decent thermos of instant coffee, like he always had.
The argument was still raging when the dishes were done, so I brought the lighthouse keeper’s logs and photographs down from my room and spread them out on the dining room table to see if my family and friends might have any further insights. Stephen, Luz, Caleb, Landon, and I pored over some of the log entries.
A Ghostly Light Page 19
