Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “And there’s been no . . . aftermath?” Matt asked. I had told him an abridged version of the ghosts I had seen in this house, months ago.

  “I haven’t seen the victim, if that’s what you’re asking. But . . . I’m afraid there may be something in the Daleys’ house, though it’s not the location where the murder occurred. So I doubt the ghosts had anything to do with that, right?”

  “I have no idea. But if you’re thinking there are malevolent spirits, shouldn’t you walk away?”

  “I can’t. There’s a young family living in the house. And besides, I guess I’m supposed to communicate with these things. Maybe that’s why they’re appearing, because they know I can see them.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Truthfully, I have no idea. I’m making this up as I go along.”

  “Hey, have you heard of the ghost-whisperer guy who leads tours out of the Eastlake Hotel?”

  “His name’s come up a few times recently. Do you know him?”

  “A little, only through TV connections. He’s been working on getting a series himself, so he came over once to check out what it’s like to live with cameras. Seemed like a good guy. He might even be on the up-and-up. Oh, hey,” Matt added with a light in his blue eyes, “he’s sort of cute, darling accent . . . and I think he’s single.”

  “See you later,” I said, gathering my notes and giving Matt a hug and a reluctant smile. “You matchmaker, you.”

  Chapter Ten

  I sat behind the wheel of my car and pondered.

  It was only four fifteen, but I wasn’t kidding when I told Matt it had been a long day. Hearing Emile Blunt was murdered. Finding that my father had discovered the body. Being interviewed by the police. Still not knowing what was happening with my clients. And plagued by a strange sense that Blunt’s death had something to do with the ghosts on my construction site. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way—but then I couldn’t explain why I saw ghosts, either.

  I had to pick up Stan’s cake by five, and leave myself enough time to get in a festive mood. Maybe allot a few minutes to panic over talking to Graham about something other than business . . .

  Get a grip, Mel. You’re not sixteen years old.

  But if I left now, I could make it over to the animal shelter, which was kind of on the way home. If one thought creatively.

  I would really love to see whether Hettie was the monster the press made her out to be. She didn’t seem like it, one-on-one. On the other hand, if her current cats were in danger, I would have to turn her in. I hated the thought of it, but somebody had to do it. Animals couldn’t advocate for themselves.

  I drove out to the San Francisco animal rescue center.

  The shelter was located across from a mediocre Mexican restaurant where I’d eaten once, years ago, when I accompanied Caleb’s third-grade class on a field trip to the animal shelter. Caleb’s teacher confided later, over margaritas, that the trip had resulted in more tears than any other school outing and, she said with a conspiratorial smile, half a dozen pet adoptions. Eight-year-olds and abandoned animals were a potent combo.

  When I walked into the animal shelter, I noted a distinctive scent: animal and cleaning products squished together on the bottom of a rubber-soled shoe. I could hear the muffled sounds of dogs howling and cats mewing in the rooms beyond. I was suddenly in touch with my inner eight-year-old, and tried to harden my heart, doing my best to ignore them.

  After all, not so long ago I had adopted Dog without ever intending to. Despite my protests that all I wanted to do was to rid myself of baggage, I had acquired a construction company, a teenage boy, and a dog. One of these days I was going to have to take a good, hard look at why my actions didn’t match my words.

  For the moment it was easier to wallow in the conviction that the world was out to get me.

  A few minutes after I told the receptionist what I wanted to talk about, a stunningly beautiful woman came out to meet me. She wore no makeup and didn’t need to. Her skin was otherworldly, pearlescent; her brown hair long and shiny; her lips a natural rosy red. But when she turned to address me, her left eye wandered off to the side, and then down, giving her an off-kilter look.

  “I’m Mel Turner,” I said, trying not to look at the wandering eye.

  “Eva Briggs. You had some questions? I’m happy to answer them, but do you mind following me around while I multitask? It’s a busy day.”

  “Of course. I know that feeling,” I said, trailing her down a narrow corridor. “I wanted to ask you about a woman named Hettie Banks.”

  “The crazy cat lady?”

  “Um . . .” For some reason I thought the shelter folks would be more sensitive. I stepped aside to let a plump teenage girl pass; she was leading a limping collie on a leash.

  Eva ducked into a cubicle, dropped two folders on a generic metal desk, and took a seat. Her eye skewed off to the left and up toward the ceiling, but when she smiled, the effect was dazzling.

  “Have a seat. I’m sorry if I was rude. In this line of work we have a rather dark sense of humor. It comes from dealing with tragedies like that every day. I could tell you stories. . . .”

  “Please don’t. I’m about at my limit for the day.”

  She smiled. “So yes, we handled the Cheshire Inn cats. The Cheshire cats, as we called them. It was a big deal because the media jumped on it. They love all those stories of mummified bodies and hoarders and whatnot.”

  “So I hear.”

  “For a few days we could barely get past the cameras to get to work. We try to use those occasions to highlight the need for loving adoptive parents, for people to come to us when they’re looking for pets, rather than to puppy mills or breeders, but it still made it hard to get work done.”

  I nodded and waited while Eva reviewed a dog food order with a young employee.

  “But here’s the weird thing,” Eva said, turning her attention back to me. “The Cheshire cats were actually well taken care of. They might have had a few issues, but Hettie Banks wasn’t the horror show they were always talking about in the news, some poor person whose neglect was essentially cruelty.”

  “Then why did the police get involved? How many cats can a person legally have?”

  “The law’s not clear—it’s supposed to be three within the city limits, I believe, but unless someone’s really bothered, no one’s going to complain if you go one, or two, or even five cats over the limit.”

  “Do you know who turned her in?”

  She shook her head. “It could have been anyone. One of the neighbors, probably.”

  I thought of Emile, who also referred to Hettie as a crazy cat lady.

  “How many cats did she have?”

  “I can’t remember offhand exactly how many there were. I’d have to look through the paperwork, and frankly, I’m swamped. Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I do know the daughter helped to gather the cats, so she might know.”

  “In the news they always report sixty or seventy,” I said. “But I didn’t see a final number in the article I read.”

  “It must have been bad in the house; that’s all I can imagine. Since they pressed charges and everything. I know they found a number of bodies buried in the yard.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  She shrugged. “Lots of people do it—I grew up doing that for my pets. It’s only recently, and in specific urban areas, that people pay for pet cremation or interment. Tell half this country they have to pay to bury Fifi when she goes, and they’d call you certifiable.”

  I nodded, remembering Dad taking our beloved pup out to the woods and burying her.

  “Look, I don’t know what else to tell you,” Eva said, grabbing a stack of files as she moved from the office into a small conference room cramped with cardboard storage boxes in all the corners. “Sorry about this place—there’s too much need and not enough money. One thing I’ll say for Hettie Banks: She’s more than made up for her h
oarding ways.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She gave a huge grant to our feral feline rescue group. The fix and release program. Her daughter, Janet, is part of that.”

  “What does the program do?”

  “Folks go out and catch feral cats, and we spay and neuter them, give them their shots. Then they’re released back into their territory.”

  “You don’t keep them, try to find homes for them?”

  “We do with the kittens, and an occasional adult. But the mature cats are rarely socialized to humans, and it’s tough to rehabilitate them. We’re overwhelmed as it is with domesticated animals needing loving homes. We’re nowhere near able to take them all in. It’s a very effective program; within three generations we can reduce the feral population dramatically.”

  Before I left, I wrote the shelter a large check. My inner eight-year-old was appeased. For the moment.

  My next errand was to pick up Stan’s birthday cake from Neldam’s Danish Bakery; then I hurried home.

  Passing through the kitchen I was glad to find the tamales had been delivered, and Dad had huge vats of beans and rice simmering on the stove. A couple of our workers’ wives, who had been hired to help for the evening, were making guacamole and fresh salsa. The scents of lime and cilantro filled the air. Caleb and a couple of other friends were taking care of the decorating. They had already hung streamers and tacked balloons to the walls.

  One nice thing about living in a house with patched walls in need of paint, and wood floors begging to be sanded and refinished, was that we didn’t worry about pinholes or tape marks.

  I set the cake on the round dining room table, which was dressed up with a clean, snow-white tablecloth, and headed upstairs.

  “What do you need to get changed for?” Caleb called after me. “With your sparkles, you always look like you’re on the way to a party.”

  “Yes, well . . .” The truth was that I wanted to shower off the job site, and then magically transform myself into a woman who would inspire Graham Donovan to spit out the words and ask me out, or else into a woman brave enough to ask him out. No way was I going to try to explain that to my stepson. “I want something new. Girl stuff.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  Unlike the rest of the house, my room was beautifully finished—it’s my sanctuary. I faux-finished the walls in an ochre evocative of Venice, and one wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held not only books but also salvaged and junk-store finds. A bunch of old skeleton keys rested in a carved brass Moroccan bowl. An antique mannequin stood in one corner. A hat with ostrich feathers hung on a hook. A mobile of old crystal doorknobs, many of which had turned differing shades of violet from exposure to the sun, turned lazily in a slight breeze from the open window.

  A big cherry armoire held my assortment of dresses, most of which were every bit as sparkly as Caleb had claimed. After a quick shower I tried on one after another, calculating the effect in the freestanding antique mirror. By the time I was done the room looked as though a bomb had gone off in a craft store, with feathers, spangles, and shimmers everywhere.

  If you aren’t careful, Mel, old girl, you’ll wind up as eccentric as Emile Blunt.

  I heard the revelers start to arrive and decided Dad could handle it. They were mostly his and Stan’s friends anyway, as well as a lot of the crew.

  Back to the business at hand. What do you wear to a party to look special when your everyday clothes are so over-the-top?

  I got so frustrated I ended up putting my original spangled outfit back on, dressing it up with nylons and strappy heels, a step above my usual work boots. I piled my hair on top of my head, letting curls dangle. Added shoulder-sweeping crystal earrings. Applied a little makeup. A couple of necklaces. Made it three. Took one off and changed the crystal earrings for smaller hoops.

  Yelled at myself for being so lame. Enough already.

  I was just about to go when I noticed my grandmother’s wedding ring, a plain, thick band with the mellow gleam of old gold. The ring reminded me more of Mom than my grandmother, and it made me miss her with a visceral yearning. I thought of the moment she placed it in my hand and gave an almost embarrassed laugh, suggesting I might want to wear it when I got married. “It will be a talisman for you,” she had said, cupping my hands in hers.

  I was feeling in great need of a talisman. I hung it on a thin black satin ribbon, tied it around my neck, and went downstairs to join the festivities.

  Since the guests thought the party was a surprise, they made sure to arrive on time. In honor of the occasion we greeted them at the front door instead of the kitchen entrance. By six fifteen everything was ready. Stan’s friend Angelo had taken him to play chess at the Union Hall; he promised to call when they pulled up so we could be poised to yell.

  I was arranging appetizers on the food table when I looked up to see Graham walk in, wearing a camel hair sports coat over a white shirt, new Levi’s, and brown leather boots. He had a blue wool scarf tied at his neck, against the December chill. He was so tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, it made me happy just to look at him. He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  Until I saw the woman who walked in right after him.

  She was pretty. Elegant. Thin yet curvy. Not flashy, just stylish and sleek where I was peculiar and . . . not sleek.

  “Who’s that with Graham?” Dad growled.

  “How should I know?”

  Dad glared at me, as though I were somehow responsible.

  My stomach churned and my mouth went dry, as if I were back in the middle school cafeteria when Chris Marriott, who had kissed me behind the bleachers, walked right by me to sit with my archenemy Candy Grayson. Or worse, as if it were the day my now ex-husband walked into our divorce “mediation” with Valerie on his arm, a massive diamond on her finger and a superior smile on her face.

  And all because of a man who had been emotionally distant with me, and then was absent for months. Had I really expected a good-looking, sexy, smart guy like Graham Donovan would remain unattached in a place like the Bay Area?

  That did it. I was getting on that plane for Paris, come hell or high water. And soon.

  I needed a drink. Maybe a few. I started for the bar.

  Too late.

  “Mel, Bill, I’d like you to meet Elena Driscoll. Elena, this is Bill Turner, an old friend of mine. And this is Mel Turner . . .”

  Graham’s dark eyes were unreadable.

  “. . . Mel runs Turner Construction.”

  “So nice to meet you both.” Elena leaned in and gave us each a gracious shake of the hand before allowing that same hand to rest on the small of Graham’s back.

  So much for the slender hope that Elena was Graham’s sister or a casual acquaintance.

  “When I heard the party was for the famous Turner Construction crew, I insisted Graham bring me along. We’ve been seeing each other for months and I have yet to meet most of his friends. Can you imagine?”

  “Tuesday’s your yoga night,” said Graham, his voice quiet. “I didn’t think you’d want to give up downward-facing dog for a bunch of sweaty construction workers.”

  I felt vaguely insulted. Elena laughed, high-pitched and nasal. Grating. But now I was just being mean.

  “What’s everyone drinking?” Dad asked, and before I could offer to go, he took our requests and hurried to fetch the drinks.

  Elena turned to me.

  “I understand you’re working on the Daley house on Union Street?”

  I nodded, but avoided making eye contact.

  “Charming place, loads of potential,” she said. “Katenka Daley’s such a sweetheart. And her darling baby, of course.”

  “You know Katenka?” I asked, glancing at Graham. Now he was avoiding my eyes.

  “She spoke to me about throwing a party.”

  “A party.” Where was Dad with those drinks?

  Elena laughed, for no apparent reason. I took a deep breath and counted to ten.

>   “A holiday-themed event for her son’s first birthday,” she said. “Sort of a Russian New Year Tree party, though a bit early. I just adore Russian cultural traditions, don’t you?”

  “Oh sure, who doesn’t?” I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a call. Why did it not ring? It always rang.

  “The tale of Snegurochka and Ded Moroz . . . no? The Snow Maiden and Father Frost? I’m a professional party planner, so I know a lot about different cultural traditions. Wonderful inspiration.”

  “How interesting,” I said, wondering what Elena-the-wonder-planner thought of our green and red crepe paper streamers, which had been put up with much more enthusiasm than skill and were already sagging. I imagined we were a little lowbrow for her tastes.

  “You have no idea the fascinating people I meet in my line of work.”

  “I’ll bet.” Where the hell was Dad? I really needed that drink. Was I becoming an alcoholic?

  “The thing is, I was thinking about staging it in the house. Maybe use the construction as a transition theme. Children just love Bob the Builder.”

  I was only half paying attention, distracting myself with anything at hand. At the moment I was analyzing the line of the crown molding in the parlor—was it my imagination, or did it bow out just slightly?

  Until her words registered. . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  “Wait—you want to throw a party on my construction site?”

  “I think it’s a splendid idea.”

  “A party? With, like, children?”

  I gaped at Graham, expecting the former safety inspector to step in and rescue me. He just smiled and gave a little half shrug. So much for gallantry.

  “I’d love for you to take a look at the plans as they develop,” Elena said. “Obviously we’ll work around you.”

  “Just when is this shindig supposed to take place?”

  “Next Monday—Quinn’s actual birthday. That’s why she asked for my help. She couldn’t accomplish what she wanted in such a short time frame. I happened to be available—I’d just had a cancellation—and this will be a small affair, and after all, who has a party on a Monday? And we really just clicked, so it all fell together. I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but you’ll see. It’ll be fun!”