“Exactly. But I’ve never heard of a George Vigilance, have you?”
I nodded. “He became a lighthouse keeper, but he grew up in San Francisco, on Bush Street.”
Cory was so excited he couldn’t contain himself. He jumped out of his chair. “Robert Louis Stevenson lived on Bush Street in 1879! How old would George have been?”
“He was about thirty when he became lightkeeper in 1899, so that would make him ten in 1879.”
“That fits perfectly! The serialized story was published as a book in 1883, at which time Stevenson must have sent this to George Vigilance. Hot off the presses, so to speak. Now do you understand why it’s so valuable?”
I nodded.
“And who is this ‘little pirate’ in the other inscription?” Cory asked.
“George’s son, Franklin.”
“Isn’t that lovely. You have yourself a real collector’s piece, here, Mel. A real treasure. Keep it safe.”
• • •
“I have to admit, I had my doubts,” said Landon that evening when I teetered down the stairs from the ladies’ room at the War Memorial Opera House, where the ballet was presented. “I always thought ‘lemon chiffon’ was a kind of dessert. But you look incredible.”
When Landon first saw me in Stephen’s inspired design at home, he hadn’t uttered a word but instead gave me a slow, warm smile that made me blush. My discomfiture only grew when I realized that Dad and Stan were waiting in the living room to watch me descend the stairs, as though I was coming down to meet my prom date.
I loved them, but I really had to find a new place to live. This regression to the age of seventeen had to stop.
“Thank you,” I said, glancing up at Landon through my lashes in a coquettish move that seemed silly, but right. I felt good, actually. Better than I ever thought I would encased in lemon chiffon. Stephen had come up with a creation that highlighted my decidedly curvy figure.
Earlier in the day I had been late returning from Cory’s Tiburon office, so what with getting all dolled up, I made us too late for the before-ballet cocktail party. But it was worth it. My hair was up, my nails were buffed, I was wearing perfume, and with Landon on my arm I felt pretty close to being the belle of the ball. The only problem was the shoes: I was so accustomed to my steel-toed work boots that the heels I was wearing—which weren’t very tall at all, according to Stephen—made me feel slightly wobbly and disoriented. My legs, however, looked fantastic, so I made sure to lift the skirts whenever I got the chance. Like coming down the stairs from using the restroom.
The San Francisco Ballet Gala was clearly the event for wealthy Bay Area movers and shakers to see and be seen. For some reason this surprised me. In large part, San Francisco didn’t really do obvious displays of wealth and power. This wasn’t New York, after all, much less London. But I knew the city was full of exceedingly wealthy people—I worked for many of them—so had I supposed they wouldn’t find excuses to wear their finest gowns?
And as it turned out, the ballet was amazing. Much better than my admittedly vague childhood memories of The Nutcracker.
Before arriving tonight, Landon had handed me a present about the size of a large bar of soap. I was just glad it wasn’t small enough for a ring, or I might have fainted. I opened it to find an pair of antique opera glasses, made of a brass frame inlaid with mother of pearl, nestled in its original velvet-lined leather case. Where he had found them I couldn’t guess, but they were a far sight better than a ring. It was such fun to watch the action on stage through the elegant opera glasses, to be able to see the beaded details on the costumes, the muscles of the dancers through their tights, alternately clenching and relaxing as they hurled themselves gracefully across the stage.
As much as I enjoyed the production, my mind kept wandering to Ida and her little boy, Franklin, out on Lighthouse Island with an abusive man. What must Ida have felt when she was locked in the attic? If my imagination was anything close to the truth, she must have experienced fear, rage, panic.
I knew for a fact that I would have killed anyone who threatened Caleb. Without compunction, without hesitation, I would have struck and, like a she-wolf, would have gone for the throat and viscera. And I wouldn’t have been sorry.
Was I right, had Franklin gone missing when Ida was locked in the attic? And by the time she escaped, he was gone? Had she confronted her husband at the top of the tower stairs, and pushed him to his death? And all these years later, might her spirit have managed to push Thorn Walker—another abusive man—down those stairs?
Ida had looked for Franklin for ten years, hope ceding to the grim knowledge that he must be gone, but never finding his body, never knowing for sure what had happened to him. How many scenarios had run through her mind, how many horrors had she conjured wondering what fate had befallen him? Until at last she had tried to put an end to the pain by throwing herself off the lighthouse tower. But death didn’t put a stop to her anguish; even as a ghost she searched for him still, unceasing, until repeatedly giving up hope and killing herself, over and over again.
Then my musings turned to Alicia in jail. At least she had someone wealthy enough to post her exorbitant bail. But what would it be like, knowing you were going to be put on trial for a crime you were innocent of? Her lawyer couldn’t use the abused-woman-syndrome defense unless Alicia confessed to a murder she hadn’t committed. When it came right down to it, I didn’t feel any closer to finding out who else might have been hiding up in that tower.
I felt Landon’s eyes on me. He winked and squeezed my hand before turning his gaze back to the stage. Once again I had to wonder—why was I so lucky? Why were people like Ida subject to such torturous lives?
There was no answering that question. The best I could do, I supposed, was to enjoy my good fortune, to revel in my family and the love of old homes and a good man.
I used my new opera glasses to check out the action on stage, and then perused the crowd. My gaze drifted over the occupants of some ornate box seats, the men in black tie, the women dressed to the nines, their hair professionally done. Probably their makeup, too. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Why did such things never occur to me? I’ll bet they occurred to my sister Cookie. She never would have contemplated going to the eighty-fourth annual ballet gala with makeup and hair done by a blister-plagued Stephen.
I scanned the next section of box seats, then—wait. I pointed the glasses back to someone I had just skipped over . . . was that . . . ?
After a moment of searching, I found her again. A woman in a deep red gown. She looked a lot like Ida Vigilance. A lot. Same cheekbones, same heart-shaped face. Same serious expression. This woman could have been Ida’s doppelgänger.
I put the glasses down and stared at her with my naked eyes. She was still there, hadn’t vanished into thin air.
An apparition, or flesh and blood? Or . . . a doppelgänger?
Chapter Twenty-six
I could hear Olivier’s warning in my head: Don’t take your abilities lightly. Give the spirits the respect of being prepared. I hadn’t been expecting to see a ghost at the ballet tonight, but I was getting the sense lately that all bets were off.
The thing was, this woman didn’t look like a ghost, and didn’t act like one either. She said something to the man next to her, smiled, and lifted her own opera glasses to her face.
She looked like a living, breathing person.
“See that woman over there?” I whispered to Landon. “Second box seat, in the dark red gown? Do you know who she is, by any chance?”
He took the opera glasses and held them to his eyes. Shook his head. “No, but as you know I’m fairly new in town. Other than university affiliates, and you Turner lot, I haven’t met many people.”
“But you can see her, right?”
“Yes, of course I can see her. Why?” He frowned. “You think she’s a ghost?”
&nbs
p; “No, not if you can see her. But, maybe a doppelgänger?”
Landon smiled. “Only you, Mel Turner, could go to a ballet gala and find a doppelgänger.”
“I’m serious,” I said, pointing. “The woman in red, right there. See her?”
He nodded.
“You saw the photo of Ida, the lighthouse keeper. Don’t you think . . . ?”
An elderly woman seated behind us leaned forward and shushed us.
“Sorry,” I whispered over my shoulder.
Landon looked through the little binoculars again, then handed them back, and raised his eyebrows.
As soon as the ballet ended, I asked the elderly woman if she knew the lady in red, but she shook her head and departed in a huff, clearly annoyed that she’d been forced to sit within the vicinity of the likes of us. I hoped I wasn’t going to ruin Landon’s reputation. He didn’t deserve to be tarred with my strangeness.
“Let’s go,” I said, and we hurried out to the lobby, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman in red. It was a mob scene. I had hoped her brightly colored dress would make her easier to spot, but no luck. We watched and waited until the theater had practically emptied out.
I must have looked disappointed, because Landon said, “All is not lost. Most of the notables at the performance tonight are headed to the after-party. Shall we give it a try?”
I nodded.
“You honestly think you saw Ida, come back to life?” Landon asked as we walked—actually, Landon walked while I teetered—across the street to City Hall for the after party.
“No, not really. I just can’t imagine any reason why this woman would look so much like Ida Vigilance. She didn’t have any surviving children that I know of. I wonder if she had a sister or some other relative. If so, maybe there was some family lore handed down . . .”
Landon looked doubtful.
“. . . I know, it’s a long shot. I’m probably inventing something out of thin air. But—”
“‘It’s worth a try.’” Landon finished my sentence for me. “That’s your personal motto, isn’t it? I should have it translated into Latin for you.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. But he was probably right.
“And you’re sure she was the spitting image of Ida Vigilance? All I’ve seen was that faded photo, so while there’s a similarity, I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“You forget, I’ve seen her in action, up close and personal.” I thought of the times Ida had materialized right in front of me. A little misty, yes, but her features were distinct. “Honestly, if you changed the hairstyle, this woman would be her twin.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to corner this doppelgänger and ask her about her grandparents, or great-grandparents.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. If she’s related to your lighthouse keeper, she’s likely proud of the story. People love to know these sorts of things about their families. If we see her at the party, we’ll go say hello, and try to put an end to this mystery.”
The gala after-party was held in the domed City Hall, a Beaux Arts monument to the City Beautiful movement. Proud San Franciscans liked to point out that its dome rose forty-two feet higher than that of the United States Capitol building in Washington, DC. I was never quite sure why that should matter, but the locals seemed to think it did. Inside, the vast rotunda was made truly impressive with a grand sweep of a marble staircase, and the second floor consisted almost entirely of balconies overlooking the first, which made for a lovely venue.
It was also the site of some interesting history: Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe had been married here in 1954, and Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk were murdered here in 1978.
I had been to City Hall many times, of course, finagling building permits or looking up property records. I once attended an impromptu wedding on the balcony. But tonight was different. Massive sprays of flowers decorated huge tables covered with white cloths, champagne and canapés were being passed around by white-gloved waitstaff, the women’s gowns were dazzling, and the men looked elegant in their black tie, many in tails. And even though I was partial to Stephen’s lemon chiffon, I was pretty sure most of the women were wearing dresses not created by a former barista–turned–lousy construction worker.
Landon moved through the crowd with ease. Not only did he look completely at home in his tuxedo, he was also unfailingly charming, and had a way of inviting complete strangers to stop and talk. It was fascinating to watch.
And it made me wonder if I was right for him.
Wouldn’t that tall blonde look better draped on his arm? Or the brunette in the glasses who looked like she had a PhD but still managed to get her hair done in a salon? Or any other woman here? Dr. Weng’s comment kept coming back to me: Could my acrophobia be connected to my relationship to Landon somehow? And if so, what did that mean for me? For us?
Don’t think about that now, Mel, I told myself. You have more important things to do, such as enjoy a gala that few people ever have the honor of attending, and spotting Ida Vigilance’s doppelgänger to see if she might shed some light on a murder and a long-lost boy.
I scanned the crowd. I didn’t spot the woman in red, but I did see several former clients. I waved at one, a woman with a house off Presidio who looked elegant in a long white satin sheath. Also Andrew Flynt, atop whose Pacific Heights roof I had rolled around not so long ago, directly resulting in my acrophobia. When they saw me their smiles froze and they seemed to lose track of what they were saying. Even though we were friendly, and I occasionally helped solve murders at their houses, most of my clients and I didn’t move in the same social circles. I figured it must be like when young children see their teachers outside of class.
“And you thought you wouldn’t know anyone here,” said Landon after a polite but awkward exchange with Andrew Flynt.
“That was wishful thinking, I suppose,” I said as I waved to yet another client.
He smiled down at me. “Tell the truth: Are you having any fun at all?”
“I’m enjoying this building. Did you know Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe got married here?” I was just hoping there weren’t any ghosts. On the other hand, it would be interesting to have a chat with Harvey Milk. I would have liked to ask him what he thought about Sean Penn playing him in the movie.
“Is that so?”
“In 1954,” I said with a nod. We were near the base of the stairs; I stepped up a few to get a better look at the milling silks and satins. Normally I would have headed straight for the second-story balcony overlooking the rotunda, but under the circumstances, I thought it best to stick to flat land. Even though . . . I was hesitant to put too much faith into acupuncture just yet, but it was possible the treatments—or maybe the little mantra Dr. Weng had given me—were helping. Just slightly. I felt a little less panicky at the thought of falling.
“One thing I’ll say for sure,” I said. “People always fawn over the women’s gowns, but I’m always most impressed by the men at an event like this.”
“How so?”
“Everything’s so casual in the Bay Area. I’m not used to seeing men in suits, much less black tie. You look good.”
“At your dad’s house you said I looked like a penguin.”
“I just said that so it wouldn’t be obvious that I was drooling over you.”
“I think you’ve got everyone fooled.”
“I—” I cut myself off. I peered closer, trying to see a woman’s face in the crowd on the second-floor balcony. Dark hair pulled back, solemn blue eyes. A heart-shaped face.
“Isn’t that her?”
“Try the opera glasses,” suggested Landon.
“Good idea!” I took the glasses from my purse and scanned the balcony. It took me a few minutes to locate her with the glasses, but when I did . . .
Sh
e turned and looked down. Right at me. As though she knew she was being watched.
I turned away, pretending to be studying the architecture. “I think she saw me.”
“She’s moved behind the column,” said Landon.
“I . . . can’t go up there,” I said.
“I understand. I think she spotted you anyway. Let me go. Wait for me here.”
I watched as he climbed the staircase, passing through the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. He turned left at the top and disappeared behind the column.
“I think you lost her,” a man said from behind me.
It was Major Williston, looking marvelous in a nice tuxedo. Terry Re joined him, putting her hand through his arm.
“Hi . . . you two.” Speaking of being nonplussed when seeing people out of context: I was so used to Terry and Major on the island, in their casual sailing clothes, that I was shocked to see them here. Shocked, and wary.
“Where’s Paul?” I asked.
“Still looking for ghosts,” said Major.
I glanced up to the balcony, hoping to spot Landon. But he was nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd.
“I don’t suppose you know what happened to my son’s backpack, by any chance?” Not that I expected a truthful answer, but it was worth a shot.
Major shook his head. “I haven’t noticed anything like that—was it on the island?”
“It was. So, you two are fans of the ballet, are you?” I asked.
“Cut the crap, Turner,” said Terry. “We’re after the same woman.”
“Who would that be?”
Terry gave me a fake smile.
Just then, I spotted the woman in red coming down the stairs, on the other side of the broad steps. I started threading my way through the throng of well-dressed ballet aficionados, but Major was way ahead of me.
The mystery woman spotted us, turned, and hustled her way through the crowd, glancing over her shoulder, her solemn eyes wide with fear.
“Ida?” I called out. I didn’t really believe I was seeing the incarnation of Ida Prescott Vigilance, but one never knew. Stranger things had happened to me since embarking on my ghost-busting career.
A Ghostly Light Page 25
