Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  Stan and Caleb did an Oakland-style hand slap, up high, down low, fist bump, finger clench. Then Stan handed me a freshly made margarita.

  “Thanks, Stan,” I said, leaning over to give him a hug.

  “Smells good,” I said, kissing my dad on his whiskery cheek. He smelled of gravy and tobacco. “We having salad tonight?”

  “Nope. That rabbit stuff you get at the farmers market is a rip-off. This is real food. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Caleb and I shared a smile. When Caleb was younger, he would always reply, worried, “But I don’t want hair on my chest!”

  “How’s work, babe?” Dad asked. “Caleb, the table needs setting.”

  “I might have hit a snag in the Cheshire House project,” I said, watching as Caleb took four mismatched plates from an antique pie cupboard. The plates reminded me of my mother, who always insisted she would never have a matched set of china because she didn’t want her children to live in fear of breaking one. “Katenka Daley seems to think that we’re stirring up some trouble with our renovation work.”

  “Trouble with the neighbors? Told you those Union Street folks were touchy.” Dad deftly transferred a pot roast onto a big platter, then surrounded it with piping hot potatoes, caramelized pearl onions, and glazed carrots.

  “No—actually, yes. One guy in particular—an upholsterer. Looks like he’s been there a long time. Emile Blunt?” My dad and Stan had worked high-end construction in San Francisco for so many years that they knew a lot of people.

  Dad shook his head and glanced at Stan, who shrugged.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. I take it he’s a PITA?” PITA was code for pain in the ass. It was a useful term on job sites.

  “You could say that. I might ask you to talk to him at some point,” I said. “I have the sense an old coot like you would understand him better than I.”

  “‘Old coot’? How d’ya like that?” Dad said to Stan, pretending to be outraged, but enjoying the teasing. He pulled a pan of hot rolls from the oven and transferred them, barehanded, to a cloth-lined basket, singing “Hey hot ho hot” and silently whistling. I used to think his reaction was silly, until Caleb pointed out I do the same thing.

  “By the way,” Dad said, “you should take Dog with you tomorrow. I got him a new supply of carsick pills.”

  “You want to come to work with me, Dog?” I asked.

  The mellow canine glanced at me and flicked his tail, a duty wag, before his soulful brown eyes—and full attention—slewed back to the roast sitting atop the counter. When I first saw the dog—a skinny, scraggly, stray brown mutt hanging around a work site—I figured he was a construction pup. But no one ever claimed him, and once I brought him home and fed him, I didn’t have the heart to kick him out. Besides, he was the only living creature—besides me—who had seen the ghost that used to follow me around.

  Maybe I should let him look through Cheshire House tomorrow, see how he reacted.

  Anyway, now Dog was my construction pup. There were only two problems: First, he was yet another speed bump in my long-term plan to run away to Paris; second, the poor canine tended toward carsickness.

  “Dinner’s on!” Dad called out, even though we were all right there.

  We took seats around the scarred farmhouse table in the kitchen and started passing the steaming platters.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t the neighbors I was referring to,” I said as I slathered butter onto a hot roll.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I hesitated, took a deep breath, and dove in.

  “Katenka Daley thinks the renovation work has stirred up . . . ghosts.”

  Chapter Four

  Three sets of eyes fixed on me. Four, if you counted the dog. But at least the canine’s motivations had to do with the possibility of cadging a piece of meat or a dropped roll rather than concern for my mental state.

  Dad shot Stan a look before digging into his potatoes.

  “I know you heard me,” I said.

  Dad didn’t want to talk about my apparent ability to see ghosts any more than he had when my mother had exhibited the same tendencies. Stan and Caleb seemed more open to the idea—sort of—though more out of their loyalty to me more than any belief in the supernatural. Suffice it to say that none of my current companions was exactly on board with it.

  “Something weird’s been happening at the job site. That’s for sure,” I said. “Things going missing, strange noises . . .”

  “Sounds more like a disgruntled worker,” suggested Stan. “You make anybody mad lately? Or how about that guy from across the street you were just talking about?”

  Could Emile have been screwing around with things at Cheshire House? Trying to drive the Daleys out by scaring them, perhaps? I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak over at night to dink around with supplies and sabotage power tools.

  Still and all, that wouldn’t explain what had happened this afternoon. I had seen something in that dining room. Something real.

  “I wish I knew more about this sort of thing. I can’t even put together a proper history of the place, much less whether it was said to be haunted.”

  “Hey, last time my sister was in town we went on a ghost tour of Pacific Heights,” Stan said. “The guy sounded like he knew a lot about local history, and if I believed in that sort of thing, I guess I would have believed him.”

  “Ghost tour?”

  “Olivier something . . . I forget his full name, but he takes a group out just about every evening from that hotel that’s supposedly haunted—what’s it called? The Eastlake? French fellow. He’s got a Web site.”

  “You think the guy who cashes in on tourists’ superstitions might know something about my house?”

  He shrugged and passed the salt to my still-silent dad. “Worth a shot.”

  “And he’s French,” Caleb pointed out. “Aren’t you looking for a French guy?”

  “I want to live in France, not get a French boyfriend. Big difference.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever. Close enough.”

  “You know, that’s not a bad idea, Stan. At least it’s someplace to start. Thanks. I’ll look him up.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Stan. “There were two phone calls to the office today, asking if you offered ghost-hunting services.”

  I choked on my water.

  “What?” I sputtered. “They wanted my ghost-hunting services?”

  “That’s what they said,” replied Stan.

  “My ghost-hunting services?”

  “I told ’em they were barking up the wrong tree, but wrote down their info in case you were opening up a side business.”

  “I was thinking of having an open house for Christmas Eve,” Dad said in a blatant bid to change the subject. “Mel, honey, you see Graham, be sure to mention it, will ya?”

  “He’s coming tomorrow night, isn’t he?” Stan asked.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “For my birthday party.”

  We all stared at him.

  “Birthday fail,” whispered Caleb.

  “Was it supposed to be a surprise?” Stan asked.

  I cast a dirty look in Dad’s direction. He ignored me.

  Stan grinned. “Right sweet of y’all. But if it was meant to be a surprise, you shouldn’t have given out the home phone as the RSVP. Bill, I got one word for you: E-vite. Been tellin’ ya you need to get on the Internet. Password protection, dontcha know.”

  “Oh, Dad,” I said with a sigh.

  “Ah well,” Dad grumped. “I told you it didn’t make sense to try to finagle a surprise party in the man’s own house.”

  “What time you want me back from my weekly chess game?” Stan asked.

  “We told everyone to arrive at six, so if you come at six thirty, that would be perfect,” I said. “And do me a favor? Act surprised. Real surprised.”

  “You got it, boss lady.” He gave me a little salute and dug into his roast.

  Half an hour later, up to my elbows in
sudsy water—Stan and Caleb cleaned the table and loaded the dishwasher, but I was stuck with pot duty—I made a mental list of last-minute items for tomorrow’s party.

  Call about the tamales. Pick up cake by five. Decorate between five and six. Desperately try to ignore the fact that Graham Donovan was coming. Shave legs and wear perfume.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. If I was brave enough to chase ghosts, surely I could handle one red-blooded, live male. Even a well-built, dark-eyed manly man with a wry chuckle who had a way of looking at me that made a deep, secret part of me start to melt.

  Graham used to be an inspector for California’s office of OSHA, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. In fact, he had helped to shut down a job site of mine not long ago. But long before that, Graham worked for my father, and I had developed a mad crush on him while I was in graduate school. He never seemed to return the interest until shortly before my wedding, when he made an entirely uncharacteristic, rashly romantic play for me and tried to dissuade me from marrying Daniel. Our one passionate, out-of-control kiss had been so unexpected and . . . thrilling . . . that I had to struggle not to compare all subsequent kisses to it.

  Despite such a powerful inducement, I went ahead with the wedding. It didn’t take long to realize that Graham had been right about Daniel, a fact that mortified me then as well as now.

  Graham had been traveling for the past few months, studying green technology around the world. He was back in town and apparently swamped with all the details involved in setting up his new business. I’d only seen him briefly, by chance. Last time we ran into each other he said he had something to tell me, but we were interrupted by the high-pitched whine of a circular saw and a slew of workers needing guidance. The moment passed.

  The thought of what he’d wanted to tell me prompted my mind to cast about in wild speculation. He could have simply called, would have called, had it been something business-related. Wouldn’t he?

  I was trying to convince myself to pull up my big-girl pants and call him. This was the twenty-first century, as Caleb so often reminded me. No reason to wait for the man to ask.

  But when it came to romance, my self-confidence had taken a body blow. And it had been a decade since I’d been in the dating world. Still, the party tomorrow was the perfect opportunity. It was about time I moved on, shook off my damned divorce hangover once and for all. Daniel certainly had.

  Resolute, I stripped off my yellow rubber gloves, downed the rest of my drink, and headed for bed.

  Usually I was up early and on the job site by seven at the latest, but I’d told Caleb I would drop him off at University High School across the bay in Pacific Heights, so I spent the early morning in the home office with Stan, going over the payroll, signing vendor checks, and reviewing client contracts and schedules. After dropping off Caleb, I stopped by city hall to check on the progress of a couple of building permits. Dog waited in the car, greeting me each time I returned as though he’d thought he’d never see me again.

  It was past ten by the time I headed to Cheshire House.

  Since I hadn’t heard from Jim and Katenka, I was determined to carry on as usual. If they decided to sell the house to Emile Blunt, I doubted he would require the further services of Turner Construction. But ghosts or no ghosts, I couldn’t imagine Jim Daley abandoning his Cheshire House dream so easily.

  But I wasn’t able to turn onto Union Street; it was blocked by a police cruiser. A young, fresh-faced uniformed officer was turning away traffic, insisting there was “nothing to see.”

  Nothing but an ambulance, a paramedic truck, and a half-dozen police cars, red and blue emergency lights flashing.

  Right in front of Cheshire House.

  Chapter Five

  I should have tried harder to convince them to leave last night, I thought as I double-parked and jumped out, taking time only to crack the window for the dog.

  Running, I said a flurry of silent prayers that nothing had happened to Jim or Katenka or . . . worst of all, to the baby.

  As I pushed my way through the small crowd of curious onlookers, my concern for the young family vied with wondering how to explain this to the police: You see, officer, there were mysterious footprints, and a shad-owlike figure, a strange dark cloud.

  That ought to go over big.

  But the stretcher with the blanket-covered body didn’t roll out of Cheshire House. It came from across the street—Emile Blunt’s upholstery shop.

  Relief washed over me. But on its heels came shame.

  Could that too-still form on the stretcher be Emile? What had my parting words been? “Move it, old man, before I run you down”?

  No matter how obnoxious the old upholsterer was, I should have held my tongue.

  And then I saw a familiar face in the crowd near the ambulance.

  “Dad?”

  To my knowledge, Dad hadn’t set foot on a job site since I had taken over the management of Turner Construction two years ago.

  I felt suddenly wary. My dad was in his midsixties, but he still had a decent form, wiry and strong. I had never seen him become violent, but if he felt threatened—or more to the point, if he felt his daughter was being threatened—he might lash out enough to do some damage. And the truth was that ever since my mom’s death, his behavior had been less than entirely predictable. Could he have—?

  “I found the poor guy on the floor of his shop,” Dad said. “Looked like a bullet wound. Lots of blood, I’m sorry to say.”

  A woman walked up to us, her head held high, her carriage elegant, as though she’d been trained to walk while balancing a fat book of etiquette on her head. Tall, solid, strong-looking. Regal.

  “This is my daughter, Inspector,” said Dad. “She’s the general contractor on the job site across the street.”

  “Good morning,” she said, flashing a shiny SFPD badge. “I’m homicide inspector Annette Crawford. You’re Melanie Turner? Your father tells me you knew the deceased.”

  “Yes, I didn’t know him all that well, but as the neighbor.”

  “And as a pain in your ass?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Homeless fellow over there says you threatened the victim last night.”

  Dad looked at me, eyebrows lifted. I felt the sting of a blush.

  “I didn’t threaten him, exac—”

  Inspector Crawford glanced at her notebook. “‘Move it or I’ll run you over.’ Something like that?”

  Dad rolled his eyes.

  “Um . . . okay. But I didn’t—”

  “I’m not accusing you of homicide, Ms. Turner.” The inspector paused, and I would have sworn there was a silent “yet” at the end of that sentence. “Just trying to put together the sequence of last night’s events.”

  “Yes,” I conceded. “We had words.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I had just left the job site for the day, so a little after five.”

  “Tell me what happened, as precisely as you can.”

  I tried to recall our talk. Mostly I remembered being annoyed.

  “It was nothing new—we’d had the same conversation a thousand times before. He was complaining about the noise and the mess of the construction project. But I can assure you we’re in full compliance—”

  “Nothing stood out to you about the conversation?” she interrupted, and I guessed homicide inspectors weren’t the same division as the noise police. “Anything different this time?”

  “Only one thing: He told me he wanted to buy Cheshire House.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  I shook my head, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Last time I had encountered ghosts, at a once-palatial home on Vallejo Street, a mystery man showed up out of the blue, claiming he had purchased the house—though it wasn’t for sale. That had been a case of deliberate malfeasance, however. In this case . . . what could be the explanation? At least Emile Blunt hadn’t claimed he was buying the house, just the desire to do so. Heck, we
all wanted to buy houses all the time, right? And considering how much he hated the construction process, Emile probably wanted to buy it simply to put an end to the noise. Still . . . it was hard to imagine he would have that kind of money stashed away in his broken-down upholstery shop.

  “Blunt mentioned that he had spoken with Katenka Daley, one of the owners, and that she had told him she was unhappy,” I continued. “He thought therefore she might want to sell.”

  “Does she?”

  “I don’t really know. I’m sure her husband doesn’t, but . . .” I trailed off. If I told the inspector the whole truth, she’d think I was nuts. I glanced at my dad, who was still standing within earshot.

  Inspector Crawford caught the look. She gave a subtle head-jerk toward a beige sedan and we walked over to stand by it, where we had a semblance of privacy.

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “Try me.”

  “Yesterday Katenka confided in me that there might be . . .” I trailed off, looking into the homicide inspector’s serious, no-nonsense, sherry-colored eyes. No way this woman would believe a word of it.

  “Might be . . . what? Out with it.”

  “There have been some odd events taking place on the job site recently. Katenka Daley expressed the belief they might be caused by . . . spirits. In the house.”

  Crawford was silent for a full beat. “House spirits.”

  I nodded.

  “As in ghosts.”

  I nodded again.

  She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then she rubbed her brow.

  “Sometimes I hate my job,” she murmured. “Okay, owners of this place think they’re being haunted, which leads the deceased, the neighbor across the street who hates the construction noise, to think they’ll sell cheap. Did I get that right?”

  I nodded.

  “After your little run-in with the victim, what happened?”