A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  “My friend spoke to his great-granddaughter,” I said gently. “Franklin was taken in by a shipbuilder’s family in San Francisco. He grew up and married, Ida. He had children. And they had children. One of his descendants had a daughter who is the spitting image of you. I’ve seen her. That’s how I figured it out. And she has a son, about Franklin’s age when he disappeared.”

  Ida seemed to be struggling to take it all in.

  “I could ask them if they’ll come out here to meet you, if you like.”

  “Franklin? My boy?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Ida. Franklin passed away many years ago. But he didn’t die here on the island. He grew up in San Francisco and had a family, and died when he was in his eighties. Do you understand what I’m saying? Your little pirate lived a long and happy life.”

  • • •

  A week later, Landon stood at the helm in his Scottish cable-knit sweater, once again looking like an advertisement for men’s cologne. The taciturn Lyle was piloting the boat for us. Annalisa Alva was also there with her husband and their six-year-old son, Jeffrey, who wore a tiny, bright orange life preserver.

  Annalisa seemed a little wary of me, but somehow Landon had managed to explain the situation to her. She had run from me at the ballet, apparently, because I was standing next to Major Williston. Major and Terry were “treasure hunters” who had heard rumors of a treasure on the island and were convinced they would be able to find it, if only they had more time. Major had figured out what happened to Franklin before I had; apparently the file he’d stolen included a newspaper clipping of a “little stowaway” found wandering the busy wharves in 1905, with a note written by a former historian at the archive questioning whether the child might have been the missing boy from Lighthouse Island. Williston had been trying to convince Annalisa to talk to him about stopping the development project on the island, thinking her high-society influence would come in handy. But he struck her as unhinged, and she feared he was stalking her.

  Annalisa’s attitude toward me improved when I gave her Franklin’s old copy of Treasure Island. Even though there are “finders keepers” rules that state whoever owns the house when something is discovered can keep the goods, I had spoken to Ellis Elrich, and he agreed that this particular treasure should remain with the family.

  “Island!” shouted little Jeffrey, pointing as we came close. He had a delicate face, rather like his great-grandfather’s at his age. But it was his mother’s face that haunted me; she truly was the spitting image of Ida. It was when Landon showed Annalisa the photograph of Ida, sitting with Franklin in her lap, that she was convinced. The photograph wasn’t a death portrait after all; it was merely the only known photo of Ida Prescott Vigilance, with her beloved son in her lap.

  Our party disembarked at the harbor and headed toward the tower and the Keeper’s House. Jeffrey ran ahead, picking up rocks to throw into the woods and charging about with a stick, pretending it was a sword. It was not difficult to imagine little Franklin doing the same, on these same paths, more than one hundred years ago.

  As we neared the Keeper’s House, I glanced up at the attic window. Ida’s face was pressed against the glass. She had spotted him.

  Jeffrey stopped in his tracks, looked up at the window, and waved.

  “Who are you waving at, sweetie?” Annalisa asked her son.

  “Lady in the window.” He pointed.

  “I don’t see her,” said Annalisa. “Where?”

  “Right there. She’s smiling, see?” He looked at his mom, then to the attic window again. He giggled. “She looks just like you, Mom!”

  And even though it was daytime, the light in the tower shone brilliantly.

  • • •

  Alicia had been released and the charges dropped when Duncan was taken into police custody. Once Ellis Elrich heard Duncan’s full story, he had offered, as I suspected he would, to pay Marla Chu to defend him. I wasn’t sure how much even the best lawyer could do—Duncan had confessed to murder, after all. Still, I had gone to visit Duncan at the Richmond jail, and he seemed remarkably serene about the whole thing, saying, “Life is good.” I just hoped he kept bending like a palm.

  The work on the lighthouse was moving along at a great clip. Plumbing and electrical would be finished in the next week or two, and then we could start closing up the walls and finishing floors and installing new fixtures—the fun part.

  It was a bright, sunny Sunday, and Alicia had organized a barbecue and picnic to thank the workers, and her friends, for their support and their continuing interest in the Bay Light project. She invited every resident in Point Moro, and quite a few of the Pirates came over, many in their own boats. I spotted Fernanda and her daughter, Waquisha and her father, and a few other familiar faces.

  Besides my work crew were several friends, including Luz and Trish, Stephen and Claire, and the whole Turner Clan including Dog, of course. I had also invited Dr. Weng. Landon teased me about matchmaking, but the look on Luz’s face when Victor alit from the boat—now captained by one of the Point Moro Pirates—made it all worthwhile.

  Ellis Elrich made an appearance and didn’t leave Alicia’s side for a second. He thanked me profusely for “finding the killer,” but I told him the truth: I hadn’t done much. Duncan probably could have gotten away with it if he’d kept his mouth shut. But in the end, he had done the decent thing.

  We feasted on barbecued chicken and smoked sausages, potato salad and fruit compote and several gluten-free and vegan specialties as well. Cupcakes and ice cream for dessert. The sun shone and the bay breezes carried the tang of salt air; birds chirped in the trees, and the water lapped gently at the docks.

  Landon and I were eating cupcakes, leaning against the eucalyptus tree where I’d first seen Thorn’s ghost. I hadn’t spied him since before the storm, and was hoping that now the truth was known about his killer, perhaps he’d finally walked toward the light. If not, I would have to deal with him more forcefully; Olivier was researching ghost-banishing techniques. But at least I knew Ida was at rest. Landon had volunteered to clean out the attic with me, and he wasn’t pushed down the stairs or tormented in any way. I hadn’t seen her, either, but there was yet another treasure map left in the middle of the floor: on it, there was a drawing of a little boy looking up at the window, and an “X” marked the spot right there on the Keeper’s House. That was her treasure.

  “So, I have news: I bought a house,” said Landon.

  “A house? Wow, Landon, that’s big news.”

  “It is. I have ten days to back out if I want to, but I really like it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Oakland. Near the Grand Lake Theatre.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. The bathrooms and kitchen need to be redone, there’s no heat or hot water, and the yard’s a disaster. But the bones of the place are gorgeous. The thing is, it’s a little big for just me.”

  “Is . . .” I had to clear my throat. “Is that so? Too big for one man?”

  “The thing is . . . my girlfriend has this big, crazy family made up of a motley assortment of friends and relatives, and a big brown dog, so I figured it would be better to have a little extra space. They’ll probably be over all the time, or at least I hope so. Also, she’s going to need a lot of room for all the salvaged items she can’t bear to throw away. I’ll want to make at least one of the rooms into a library and study, of course, and from what Virginia Woolf tells us, a woman needs a room of her own, as well.”

  “A woman?”

  “A very special woman.”

  “Landon . . .”

  “I figured we could redo the place at our leisure. I’ll keep my apartment for the interim, and you can stay with Caleb at your dad’s house until he goes off to college in the fall.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s simple, even for a complicated woma
n like you. Just say, ‘I do.’”

  This time the box was tiny. Ring-sized.

  But I didn’t feel dizzy at all.

  Author’s Note

  The following works are helpful resources for anyone interested in lighthouse research.

  General history of lighthouses: https://www.uscg.mil/history/articles/h_USLHSchron.asp

  Coast Guard’s history of women keepers: https://www.uscg.mil/history/uscghist/Women_Keepers.asp

  United States Lighthouse Society: uslhs.org

  History of East Brother Light Station: http://www.ebls.org/history-of-the-light-station.html

  Blair, Richard, and Kathleen Goodwin. Point Reyes Lighthouse. Point Reyes, CA: Color and Light Editions, 2014.

  Perry, Frank. East Brother: History of an Island Light Station. Richmond, CA: East Brother Light Station, 1984.

  What makes a house look haunted?

  Is it enough to appear abandoned, run-down, bleak? To creak and groan when long fingers of fog creep down the nearby hills? Or is it something else: a whisper of a tragic past, a distinct but unsettling impression that dwelling within is something indescribable—and perhaps not human?

  Beats me. I’m a general contractor with a well-earned reputation for restoring and renovating historic homes in the San Francisco Bay Area, and an abiding desire to chuck all my responsibilities and run off to Paris. Reconciling those two imperatives has been hard enough, but recently my life was made even more complicated when Haunted House Quarterly named me “California’s most promising up-and-coming Ghost Buster.”

  A misleading moniker if ever there was one. When it comes to ghosts, I’m pretty clueless. Not that I let that stop me. Recently ghosts had appeared on a couple of my jobsites, and I’d done what any really good contractor would: I handled them as best I could, and got back to work.

  But at the moment I was standing—on purpose—on the front stoop of an alleged haunted house in San Francisco’s vibrant Castro District.

  The graceful old structure didn’t look haunted, what with the cars parked in the drive, the cluster of red clay pots planted with marigolds on the porch, ecru lace curtains hanging in the front windows, and a folded newspaper on the sisal doormat. But the current residents were certain they weren’t the only ones inhabiting the place—and they liked it that way. In fact, they planned to renovate it and transform it into a haunted bed-and-breakfast.

  The house was massive, built in a neoclassical revival style with Italianate flourishes. The street-side facade was symmetrical; the peeling paint on trim and walls alike was a traditional monochromatic cream. There were long rows of tall, narrow windows with ornamental lintels, and the low-pitched roof was supported by ornate corbels that marched along the underside of the eaves with military precision. Where the city’s famous Queen Anne Victorian homes were decorated with scads of elaborately painted and gilded gingerbread flourishes, the neoclassical style was understated, its only frills the “wedding cake” effect of the lintels and corbels, and the Corinthian columns supporting a demilune roof over the front-door portico.

  As usual when facing a magnificent structure, my heart swelled at its history, its artistry . . . and its needs.

  My practiced eye noted a host of problems: One corner under the roof overhang gaped open, inviting vermin. The gutter had detached in a few spots, and the roof displayed long streaks of bright green moss that hinted at water issues. Window sashes sagged, indicating rot. Such obvious signs of neglect meant a thousand other problems would be uncovered once the walls were opened.

  And then there were the purported ghosts.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Here goes. Looking around for a bell or knocker, I found an ancient intercom system to the right of the front door. A quick press of the button was greeted by a burst of static.

  I had just reached out to knock on the door when it swung open.

  I squeaked and jumped in surprise, my hands flailing.

  This was another glitch in any of my ghost buster career aspirations: I’m not what you’d call cool in the face of . . . well, much of anything. At the moment, for instance, I appeared to be at a total loss when faced with a rosy-cheeked little girl, with long chestnut hair and big eyes the deep, soft brown of milk chocolate.

  As I tried to pull myself together, she giggled.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and striving to regain my composure. “My mind was somewhere else.”

  “My mama does that all the time,” the girl said with an understanding little shrug, displaying a preadolescent sweetness of a child who was oh-so-familiar—and patient—with the mysterious ways of adults. Though she held herself with great poise, I pegged her age to be ten or eleven. Give her a couple more years, I thought, and she’d be as snarky and sullen as my teenage stepson.

  She stepped back. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bernini . . . Is she your grandmother?”

  The girl laughed and shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m Anabelle. Anabelle Bowles. I’ll take you to the parlor. Follow me.”

  I stepped into the front foyer and paused, savoring the moment.

  In the old days all buildings were custom-designed and custom-built, so each historic house is unique. My favorite part of my job, bar none, is stepping into an old structure for the first time; one never knows what to expect.

  Although the lines of this house were neoclassical, the interior details were eclectic. The front entry was airy and open, the intricate woodwork painted a creamy white throughout, rather than stained or shellacked. The brightness was a welcome change from the dark woods so characteristic of the Victorian style, as in the house I was finishing up across town. These walls were lined in high bead-board wainscoting. Tall sash windows allowed sunlight to pour in, giving the home an airy, sunny feel. An enormous fireplace, missing several of its glazed blue green tiles, was flanked by built-in display cases. Each newel post on the banister leading upstairs was carved in a different pattern: One was a series of different-sized balls; another was geometric boxes; yet another sported a face carved into the lintel.

  In marked contrast with the home’s exquisite bones, the interior decorating was appalling. Everywhere I looked there was a pile of clutter: a sagging floral sofa sat along one wall, one missing leg replaced with a stack of old magazines, and an overstuffed velvet armchair was covered with a faded Indian-print cloth. The walls and shelves were lined with children’s school photos, several slipping and crooked in their cheap plastic frames. Newspapers were piled in one corner, and flyers from local merchants littered a scarred maple coffee table from the 1960s. Shreds of discarded paper and a pair of scissors suggested someone had been clipping coupons. And there was a distinct chill to the air, so it felt almost colder than the winter afternoon outside—I imagined the windows were single-paned and leaky, or the heater was broken. Or both.

  It got worse as I studied the walls and ceiling. Rather than strip the faded wallpaper above the old wainscoting, someone had simply painted over it; it was pulling away from the walls and hung in crazy-quilt patches. Rusty water stains bloomed in several spots on the peeling ceiling, and the broad-planked oak flooring was warped and discolored in several places.

  Beneath the papers and layers of grime that had settled across everything, I thought I spied a marble-topped antique credenza as well as a few light fixtures that appeared to be original handblown glass. In general, though, the turn-of-the-century home’s ambience was, by and large, twenty-first-century Frat Boy. It would require a lot of work, both structural and cosmetic, to transform this historic home into a welcoming B&B.

  Haunted or otherwise.

  “Have you happened to see our dog?” asked Anabelle. “A little cocker spaniel puppy?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “I’
ve been looking for it. I’m sure it must be around here somewhere. This way.” She led the way down the hall to the left.

  Several broad corridors spiraled off the central foyer. The hallway we walked down was lined with so many identical cream-colored doors the place felt a little more like a hotel than a private home. We passed a formal dining room with a built-in china hutch, a carved marble fireplace, and two impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling.

  The size and grandeur of the room was compromised by the delaminating linoleum-topped table surrounded by at least a dozen mismatched chairs.

  “I like your dress,” said Anabelle, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you could be in Ringling Brothers. We saw them when they came to town. They say it’s the greatest show on earth.”

  I looked down at myself. It’s true, I have a tendency to wear offbeat clothing. Nothing inappropriate, mind you, just . . . unexpected. I chalk this up to the years I spent in camouflage when I played the role of respectable faculty wife to a respectable Berkeley professor who turned out to be a not-so-respectable, cheating slimeball. The minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers, I yanked every scrap of my expensive Faculty Wife Wardrobe out of my closet and drove the whole kit and caboodle over to a women’s shelter.

  Once freed from my “respectable” constraints, I indulged my fondness for spangles and fringe with the help of my friend Stephen—an aspiring costume designer and the much-loved only son of a Vegas showgirl. It started as a joke, sort of, but soon became a “thing.” My unconventional wardrobe inspired good-natured ribbing on the jobsite, where denim rules the day, but I’m serious about my profession: I always wear steel-toed work boots and bring along a pair of coveralls so as to be ready for any construction-related contingency.

  But today I was meeting a client for the first time, so I had left the sparkles shut away in my closet in favor of a simple, above-the-knee patterned dress topped by a cardigan. Although an odd ensemble for me, to my eyes at least nothing about the outfit screamed “circus.” Then I reminded myself that the residents of the Castro were famous for their outré fashions. Perhaps Anabelle wasn’t accustomed to such uninspired attire in this neighborhood.