Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I see you like cats.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Can’t have a live one, on account o’ all the hair.” He gestured at the stuffed tortoiseshell feline, his gaze lingering, lovingly, for a moment. “Did a great job on that one, though, didn’t I? Real lifelike.”

  I’m a strong believer in pursuing one’s passions, but taxidermy . . . ? Outside of the Museum of Natural History, it just seemed creepy.

  “I understand the former owner of the Cheshire Inn liked cats,” I said.

  “That crazy cat woman?”

  “I take it you didn’t get along?”

  “You know she buried a bunch of her cats in the yard? I offered to take care of ’em for her, but she wouldn’t have it. Anyway, I didn’t ask you here to talk about her. I want you to help me. I wanna make an offer on the house.”

  “What house?”

  “The Cheshire Inn,” he said, giving me a “what an idiot” look.

  My cell phone rang. As much as I wanted to extricate myself from this conversation, I let it go to voice mail. Better to finish with the eccentric Mr. Blunt before taking calls.

  “It’s not my house,” I said.

  “I realize that,” he said, his voice betraying what he thought of my intelligence quotient. “I want you to facilitate things for me with the husband. He’s being difficult.”

  “I’m sorry, Emile. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. You’ve hated this project since it began, and now you want me to help you buy a house that’s not for sale. If you wanted it, why didn’t you bid on it when it was on the market a couple of months ago?”

  “I wasn’t in the position to buy it then. But I understand the current owners might be unhappy. That little Ukrainian gal talks to me sometimes. She wants me to upholster an old settee.”

  “She’s Russian, not Ukrainian.” I stopped myself before adding that she was a grown woman, not a little girl. Weariness washed over me. It had been a long day, and I had just seen a ghost . . . or something. Why was I bothering with Emile Blunt?

  “Listen, if you’re seriously interested in the house, you should speak directly to the Daleys,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I really do need to get going. I’m already into rush hour traffic.”

  Without waiting for an answer I fled the shop, relief wafting over me as I stepped out into the fresh evening air.

  Unfortunately, Emile Blunt was hard on my heels.

  “We’re not finished!”

  “I believe we are,” I said, hurrying to my car. “If you want to buy the house, you’ll have to speak with the owners, who happen to be home at the moment. I have to go.”

  “Listen to me, lady: If you refuse to help me, you’ll be sorry.”

  I opened the car door but paused to look at him.

  “Are you . . . threatening me?” I wasn’t sure I could believe my ears. When he didn’t answer, I climbed into my boxy Scion, locked all the doors, and started the engine.

  Blunt planted himself, sumo wrestler–like, in front of my car.

  I glanced behind me. A brown delivery truck was parked there, preventing me from backing up.

  I seethed. What in the world had gotten into this guy?

  On the sidewalk a bearded homeless man watched the action, a broad smile on his face. He gave me the thumbs-up. At least the Roman crowds were with me.

  My phone rang again.

  “What?” I answered, adrenaline pumping through me.

  “Um, sor-ry. Maybe I’ll talk to you later,” came the voice of my sixteen-year-old stepson, Caleb.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, kiddo. A grumpy old man is standing in front of my car because I told him I wouldn’t sell him a house I don’t own. Go figure. Plus my clients might be firing me.” I skipped the part about seeing ghosts. “And how’s your day been?”

  “I’m just so sick of it all. I wish I were, like, dead.”

  Nothing like the histrionics of a teenager to put things in perspective.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Dad, like, left on a research trip. Valerie’s here. I so totally don’t want to be here with her. Could I crash with you for a couple of days, a week max? Mom’ll be home next Monday, and I can go to her house.”

  “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your folks. Want to check with them first?”

  “Valerie kinda, like, kicked me out? So I’m pretty sure it’s all good with her.”

  “And where’s your mom?”

  “She’s in LA for a couple of days. I already talked to her and she said it was fine if it was okay with you.”

  Luckily, I got along great with Caleb’s mother, Angelica. Caleb disliked his father’s newest wife, Valerie, so intensely that it wasn’t unusual for him to wind up at my house rather than stay at his dad’s when Angelica was out of town, as she frequently was with her high-powered job.

  A little over two years ago I had walked away from my ex-husband Daniel with nothing but a sigh of relief—and an abiding regret at having wasted so many years on the relationship. But his son was another matter. Caleb had been only five years old when Daniel and I married; he wore a pirate costume and stayed in character for the better part of a year. It was love at first pretend sword fight. During the eight years I was married to his father, I helped teach Caleb to swim and to read. I packed smoked salmon sandwiches because he was the only kid in America who hated PB&J, laughed at countless knock-knock jokes, kissed dozens of boo-boos, and attended never-ending PTA meetings. So even though I no longer wanted Caleb’s dad, I figured I had earned my status as Caleb’s backup mom.

  Emile Blunt still stood in front of the car, arms crossed over his chest, channeling a particularly stubborn rooster. As a city girl, I have no idea whether roosters are particularly stubborn, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

  “I’m ten minutes away,” I told Caleb. “I’ll swing by and pick you up. Get your stuff together and be ready to go when I get there, okay?”

  “ ’Kay. Can you get here any faster?”

  “I’ll do my best, but at the moment I’ve got a man standing in front of my car.”

  “Is he trying to wash your windshield? Just give him a buck and he’ll move. Or rev your engine. Maybe he’ll leave.”

  I gunned it. Emile crouched, hands out, as though prepared to wrestle the Scion.

  “Get this—now he’s gone into some sort of karate stance!”

  “Dude!” Caleb started laughing. I joined him.

  “Okay,” I said, still chuckling. “I’m going to hang up and either run this guy over or talk him into leaving. If I don’t show up soon, come post my bail, will ya?”

  I respect my elders. Really I do. That’s what my parents taught me, and most seniors deserve it. But ever since my divorce I was less inclined to deal with recalcitrant men of any ilk. Plus, I had lots of experience with aging curmudgeons—my father was one of the highest order. Caleb was the only male I had patience for right now.

  I leaned out the window.

  “Listen, old man,” I called. “Move it or I’ll run you over. I’m not kidding.”

  Chapter Three

  Emile Blunt glared and seemed to be swearing at me under his breath. Other than my managing a construction site near his shop, I couldn’t imagine what could have inspired such animosity toward me. It was a little tough not to take it personally.

  I took my foot off the brake. The vehicle started to creep ahead, though my boot still hovered over the pedal.

  Blunt finally stepped aside, glowering.

  I forced myself not to floor it.

  As I prepared to turn the corner, the hairs on my neck stood up. I checked my peripheral vision, hoping no one—or no thing—had hitched a ride from Cheshire House. I was relieved to find nothing occupying the passenger seat besides the pile of job-related files and clipboards that I always hauled around with me.

  But in the rearview mirror, Emile stood in the middle of the street, watching me the whole way.

  Caleb’s dad s
till lived in the pretty Victorian we had once shared on Clay Street. It was less grand by far than Cheshire House, but nonetheless charming and historical. When I lived there, I had painted it in shades of maroon, gold, and dove gray with gold gilt highlights. Shortly after Valerie moved in, she had it repainted in muted tones of taupe and cream, making it blend in perfectly with the staid homes of this affluent neighborhood. Wouldn’t want to stand out.

  I didn’t like coming here. I was slowly—very slowly—getting better about not wallowing in the pathos of my failed marriage, but it still felt like a deep-tissue bruise. It might not be noticeable at skin level, but it hurt like hell when you poked it. Seeing this house was a jab with a sharp stick.

  I nosed my Scion into the shallow driveway, straddling the sidewalk, and called Caleb. He wasn’t ready, of course. His teenage sense of “hurrying” was tortoiselike, at best.

  “I’m leaving in five minutes, whether you’re out here or not,” I threatened. “I am not in the mood.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, not believing for a moment that I’d leave without him. I’m not nearly as hard-nosed as I try to be.

  My heart dropped when a woman descended the steep stairs from the formal front door. Gray trousers with the subtle sheen of fine linen. A fuzzy lavender sweater, probably cashmere. Long black silky hair. Expensive yet understated gold jewelry around her neck and on her fingers. Leggy, svelte, with the hips-forward stride of a runway model. Valerie.

  Swearing under my breath, I rolled down the driver’s-side window, forced a smile, and kept my tone neutral. “Hi, Valerie. How are you?”

  She rolled her eyes and folded her slim arms over her waist. “Adolescents.”

  I nodded. “He said something about you kicking him out?”

  “I told him if he was going to talk to me like that, he should just leave.”

  “Ah.”

  “I wanted to ask you,” Valerie continued, “do you have more of the original doors for the house stashed anywhere?”

  No, there are no original doors floating around that I just didn’t feel like putting up, I almost answered in the snidest of tones. But I clamped down on my base tendencies for Caleb’s sake. I try hard to be my most diplomatic self whenever I am around Caleb’s father or newest stepmother. Since I have no legal ties to the boy, our relationship is sanctioned only by the good grace of his legal parents.

  But inside, I screamed. I had sweated blood over the renovation of this house, the first project I had done myself, long before I took over Turner Construction. My father gave me advice and loaned me workers, even pitched in himself from time to time. But I was the one who dug up information at the historical society and the hall of records, talked to elderly neighbors to learn about its recent history, found old photos, steamed and stripped six layers of wallpaper, crawled around on all fours studying the marks on the wood floors to determine where walls had been moved.

  At one point the house had been stripped in an appalling effort to “modernize” it, and much of the original charm had been lost. I found reproduction plaster medallions for the hanging lamps, window hardware, and even doors. I made lots of beginner’s mistakes. I hadn’t understood, for example, that copper and lead pipes can’t lead into one another without the proper catalyst. And I replaced several missing fixtures with newly crafted reproductions though I now knew I could unearth genuine articles in thrift shops and salvage yards. Still, I had restored the home as best I could with love and devotion . . . almost as though it were a palette for my marriage.

  Looking back on it now, I realized that in some secret corner of my mind I believed that if I could make our home beautiful and harmonious and perfect, our marriage might reflect those qualities. Turns out, that sort of magical thinking doesn’t really pan out.

  Valerie’s dark eyes flickered over my outfit.

  After years of dressing in a proper “faculty wife” wardrobe to please Daniel—a professor at UC-Berkeley—I had vowed to wear whatever I wanted, whenever I felt like it. As long as I completed the look with my steel-toed work boots and kept a pair of coveralls handy for inching through crawl spaces, I figured I was good to go. Once the men in my employ realized I knew my stuff—and that it was my signature on their paychecks—they accepted my eccentric garb with good grace.

  Which was a lot more than I could say for Valerie. Suddenly self-conscious, I started to shift, pulling up the low neckline of today’s spangled dress.

  “I’m doing a few projects in the house, fixing up some things,” Valerie said. “We’re going to redo the kitchen.”

  I bit my tongue and counted to ten.

  “And probably the master bath as well.”

  “Really.” I had restored those areas with painstaking historical accuracy. “What are you going to do with the fixtures?”

  “Oh, do you want to buy them?”

  I already did, I thought to myself. But I just shrugged; no sense getting into this with Valerie.

  “So, how are things with you?” she asked. “Still living with your dad?”

  “I’m, uh . . .”

  Caleb appeared through the garage entrance, heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, computer case in hand, white wires falling from his ears indicating a hidden iPod. My heart swelled a little just to see him, this boy who seemed to be growing up too fast. His dark hair was disheveled, his cupid’s bow mouth rosy with the perfect blush of youth. He had a face worthy of one of Raphael’s angels, but the sullen air of the privileged American teen. Without saying a word, he opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  “Hi, Goose,” I said, using the nickname I had dubbed him with, back when we used to pretend–sword fight.

  “Hey,” he said with an almost imperceptible lift of his chin.

  His current stepmother hovered outside my open window. I imagined she was torn between relief that Caleb was leaving and a vague sense of guilt at having kicked the boy out of his own home.

  “Say something to Valerie,” I whispered to Caleb out of the side of my mouth.

  “Something,” he said in a loud voice.

  “Caleb,” I warned.

  He rolled his eyes, gave Valerie a wave and a tight smile, hunched over, and started texting someone on his phone.

  Valerie rolled her eyes, just like the sixteen-year-old.

  “Bye,” I said, as we pulled out.

  “So how’s school?” I asked Caleb as I headed east across the Bay Bridge. I realized the moment it slipped out that this was the question dreaded by every high schooler.

  He shrugged. “It’s school. Whatever. Hey, did you run that old man down, or what?”

  “He finally got out of the way. Oh, don’t forget—Stan’s party tomorrow is a surprise, so don’t mention it, okay?”

  “No prob.”

  Caleb listened to rap music on his iPod while I tuned into a news channel. Traffic was light, so twenty minutes later we exited the freeway in Oakland. Our neighborhood is kindly referred to as “transitional,” which means there is widespread poverty, a large immigrant population, and a smattering of yuppies redoing the once-grand old homes. Friendly people and the best Mexican food in town, hands-down. I love it.

  I turned onto a residential street. A clutch of scraggly plum and peach trees and the neighborhood moniker of “Fruitvale” were the only signs that this area had once boasted orchards as far as the eye could see.

  Now it was home. Temporarily.

  “Hey, look,” I said, hoping to wrest Caleb’s attention from his cell phone. “Dad put up the Christmas lights.”

  “Cool,” he mumbled out of duty more than interest.

  As we got out of the car, a barking bundle of brown fur barreled toward us. My dad must have heard my car pull up and had released the hound.

  Dog came flying down the pathway, joyous at our reunion. The canine was happy to see me, but went bananas greeting Caleb. He twisted around so far that his shaggy, wildly wagging tail whapped his head repeatedly.

  “Hey, boy, I miss
ed you!” Caleb said, dropping to his knees to hug the ecstatic dog. His teenage ways were so typically monosyllabic that it warmed my heart to see him gush unabashedly when it came to Dog. “Do you have a name yet?”

  “Not yet,” I answered for the dog. “You know how we are here at chez Turner. We’ve had the poor mutt for months now, and he still has no name.”

  I glanced up at the second-story window sashes that were sagging. Back in the day, my father would never have put up the Christmas lights without first attending to the broken windowpanes or the detached gutter . . . or the hundred other things that needed fixing. Since it didn’t seem like he’d be stepping up to the plate anytime soon, I would have to take this never-ending project in hand one of these days. But for now the old farmhouse was like the proverbial cobbler’s child, running about town without shoes.

  Dog, his tail held high, led the way along the broken flagstone path to the back door, the entrance used by friends and family. A small mudroom opened onto a big old-fashioned kitchen that tonight smelled of meat, gravy, and Parker House rolls.

  Dad ruled with a wooden spoon at the antique Wedge-wood stove.

  “Hi, babe. Heya, kid,” he greeted us.

  “Hey, Bill,” Caleb replied. “Hey, Stan.”

  “Caleb, my man, long time no see. What’s up?” Stan replied, rolling over in his wheelchair.

  A couple of years ago Stan Tomassi had one moment of sloppiness and slipped off a second-story roof, fracturing several vertebrae. Single and alone in the world, he had no one to care for him when he was released from many months in rehab. So Mom and Dad built a ramp onto the old farmhouse, revamped a downstairs room to Americans with Disabilities Act standards, and moved him in. Not long afterward Mom passed away, and Stan helped my dad through the dark times. Now the two men were like an old married couple: bickering good-naturedly over politics, sports, and what to watch on the massive big-screen TV.