First ghosts, then a neighbor’s murder, now a children’s party. What had happened to my job site? I glared at Graham, who looked relieved when someone called his name. He hurried off. Coward.
Elena smiled, her teeth so white she looked like a toothpaste ad. “Isn’t Graham darling? So manly. Not exactly tuxedo material, but I’ll rectify that soon enough.”
“Think so?”
“You wait and see.”
At long last, Dad returned with a Chardonnay for Elena and a vodka martini for me.
“Lovely to meet you, Bill. And so nice to meet you, too, Mel. I’m looking forward to our working together.”
She drifted off to join Graham. I downed a good portion of my martini.
“What the hell happened?” Dad said. He’d been angling for me and Graham to get together ever since Graham shut down one of my job sites months ago. “How’d you let him get a girlfriend?”
“I was supposed to keep him locked in a tower? I’m not in charge of the man’s love life, Dad.”
The house phone rang just then, signaling Stan’s imminent arrival. Dad, Caleb, and I rushed around switching off the lights, and the guests scurried to hide behind sofas and chairs. When the door swung open and Stan rolled in, everyone leapt out and yelled “Surprise!” Stan faked having a heart attack, a big grin on his face. I had to hand it to him: He did an admirable job of pretending to be shocked.
After greeting his guests, Stan came over to me. “Great party, Mel. Much obliged for all the trouble you went to, and I mean that. Soooo, who’s the woman with Graham?”
“Party planner.”
“She planned this party?”
“No, that’s what she does for a living.”
“Okay, let me rephrase: What’s she doing with Graham?”
“I don’t want to think about what she does with Graham, if you don’t mind.”
Stan let out a silent whistle.
Caleb joined us. “Who’s the ho with Graham?”
“Caleb, that’s not nice.”
“So who is she?” he asked, helping himself to a root beer.
“Party planner,” said Stan.
“What’s he doing with a party planner?” Caleb said. “I thought you liked him, Mel.”
“Why do you all think that I’m the man’s social secretary?” I could hear a screechy note in my voice. This whole situation was rapidly veering toward the pathetic.
I refreshed my drink, found a spot partially hidden by the arched entrance to the living room, leaned against a wall, and observed the party. Luckily for me, Stan’s friends didn’t require a hands-on hostess, and Dad was there at the ready to keep everyone happy. They ate and drank and traded stories, filling the old farmhouse with energy and life.
Good thing they weren’t depending on me to set the tone of the evening.
Just then my friend Luz arrived. I love Luz, but she’s the type of woman who arrives late to surprise parties. After dropping a small gift on the pile in the dining room, giving Stan a big kiss, and, after flirting with a blushing Raul, she got herself a drink and leaned against the wall next to me.
“So. Who’s the chick with the Louis Vuitton handbag?”
“I wouldn’t know a Louis Vuitton from a Louis L’Amour, as you well know.“
“Okaaaay,” she said, looking at me sideways, holding back a smile.
Luz and I met years ago, when she took my course on anthropological field methods. The anthropology didn’t stick, and Luz pursued sociology instead, where she didn’t have to get her hands dirty. She now taught social workers at San Francisco State. Luz knew everything there was to know about psychological conditions and how to treat them. She didn’t have clients, though, because she didn’t like to hear people “whine about their problems.” Luckily for our friendship, she made an exception for me.
“But if you’re asking about the only woman under sixty at this party besides you, me, and the women steaming tamales, she’s Elena Driscoll.”
“And this Elena Driscoll is with . . .?”
“The man standing next to her.”
“Ah. The man you were going to make a play for tonight.”
I sipped my drink.
“Graham,” she clarified.
I sighed.
“You’re mooning,” she said.
“I’m not mooning. I’m contemplating the joys of a solitary Left Bank existence.”
“Not that old saw again. Face it, Mel, you are not moving to France.”
“I am. Just as soon as things settle down around here, I am.”
“Uh-huh.” Luz scored a plate of tamales from a man passing them out and dug in, gesticulating with her plastic fork. “You do realize, don’t you, that things will never ‘settle down.’”
“I’m not listening.”
“She’s pretty enough,” Luz said in a thoughtful tone, taking a big bite. “Probably smart, too, if Graham is with her.”
I glared at her.
“I mean, we don’t like her. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“What’s to like?”
“Thank you.”
“You know who you should go after? That Zach guy.”
“Zach? Zach Malinski? The man who kidnapped me six months ago?”
She shrugged. “Kidnap’s a little strong, isn’t it? I’m just saying, he was pretty cute. I liked his energy. And he sure liked you.”
“He liked the gun. Anyway, even if he weren’t a criminal, he’s nine years my junior.”
“So? My mom’s fourteen years younger than my dad. How come it’s okay when the guy’s the older one?”
“Because men are generally less mature than women? I don’t know. I’m not sure it is okay. I’m just . . . I can’t imagine going out with someone not even thirty.”
“I can’t imagine walking on the moon. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try it if the situation presented itself.”
“I’ll be sure to let NASA know you’re ready to go.”
“I’ve heard younger men have certain advantages that older men lack.”
“Experience not being among them.”
Luz laughed. “Okay, chica. I just hate to see you grumpy. That’s all.”
“I’m always grumpy. Besides, at the moment I’m more pissed than grumpy.”
“At Graham?”
“At myself.”
“Give yourself a break. You’ve had a few things going on. As my papa used to say, ‘mejor un pedo entre amigos que el cólico solo.’”
“You lost me after ‘mejor.’”
“It means . . . actually, it’s better in Spanish. Seems downright rude in English, now that I think about it. Point is, enjoy your friends and relax. Don’t worry so much. It’ll all work out in the end.”
“Think so?”
“I’m a mental health professional. I know these things. Oh hey, is that Caleb? I’m going to go say hi.”
I meandered into the kitchen to fetch paper party plates and plastic forks for the cake. Then it dawned on me: I’d forgotten to get birthday candles. We must have some around here somewhere . . . I started yanking out drawers, searching them, and slamming them back. The near-violent level of force felt good.
“You okay?” I looked up at the sound of the voice. Graham.
“Sure. The party’s going well, don’t you think?” I was determined to keep things light between us. What was I going to do at this point—confess to a little-girl crush? “Did you try the tamales?”
“Had to stop myself at three.”
I slammed another drawer shut.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I yanked open one more drawer, pushed a bunch of junk around, and voila, five little birthday candles in a very old box. I put them into the cake.
“I heard about what happened across the street from the Daleys’ today.” He searched my face. “This isn’t the first time this has happened to you.”
As unsettling as it was to talk about murder, it beat
discussing romance, I thought. Or was that weird?
“It didn’t happen ‘to me.’ I had nothing to do with it.”
He nodded. Our gazes held for too long, as they almost always did. This is ridiculous, I chided myself. Say something real to the man. I opened my mouth to speak when Caleb stuck his head in from the dining room.
“Almost ready for the cake?” he asked in a loud whisper.
I nodded. “Give me two minutes, then turn out the lights.”
He ducked back out.
Graham helped me light the candles.
“So, Graham, a party on a job site? Really?”
He had the good grace to look sheepish.
“I already tried to talk her out of it, but she and Katenka are determined.”
“I take it you introduced them?”
“My bad. And I’m sorry I didn’t mention her before.”
“Why would you? None of my business.”
“Maybe I like to think you might be interested in my business.”
“I don’t tell you about my love life.” Not that I had one.
Graham hesitated, as though he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t.
In the other room, the lights went out and the crowd began to sing “Happy Birthday.”
“All right then, tiger.” Graham gave me a crooked smile. “Hang in there.”
He reached out one hand and . . . ruffled my hair. Swear to God.
“Make yourself useful,” I said, since it was either order the man around or inflict bodily harm. “Carry the cake.”
I woke up the next morning in a foul mood, equal parts hangover and regret. I took two Excedrin, fended off my father’s loving offers of breakfast in favor of an extra-large travel mug of French roast, tossed my satchel and Dog into the car, and tried to throw myself into work.
After the usual round of phone calls I met with the engineer for a hillside project in Marin; the “renovation” had begun with an avalanche of engineering reports and technical drawings. This was earthquake country, after all. The structural issues were beyond the scope of Turner Construction’s capability; we did foundation work on many jobs, but this project’s steep grade required sophisticated engineering and heavy machinery. I was coordinating the work, helping to bridge the gap between the structural engineers and the architect, all the while keeping in mind the long-term goal of transforming the early 1960s beach shack into a graceful Prairie-style home.
Back at Cheshire House by midmorning, I met with the landscape architect.
Dog, tail wagging, checked out the smells while Claire, the landscape architect, and I stood assessing the backyard. Aside from a row of dusty cypress trees at the back, remnants of an old brick walkway, and a surviving bush here and there, it was nothing but holes, piles of dirt, and whatever hardy weeds had grown since the winter rains. The surrounding wood fence was gray and cracked with age.
“Did they try to rototill it or something?” Claire asked in her smoky voice. She was young, dressed like a tattooed, gothic-inspired hipster, and swore and drank whiskey like a sailor. But she was one of the best landscape designers I had ever met—creative, flexible, and great with clients.
“I was told they dug up some cat remains.”
“Ew. Why?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Did the police use the remains as evidence in their case against Hettie? And what could cat remains tell a person, anyway? Did they even perform autopsies on cats? It seemed hard to believe they would bother, in these days of budget shortfalls. The charges had been reduced to mere probation, so it wasn’t as if they brought her case to trial. But Hettie said “the law” had dug up the yard. . . . I wondered if it would sound too trivial if I called Inspector Crawford and asked her about it. Probably. I couldn’t imagine cat remains were high up on the list of things to worry about during a homicide investigation.
While Claire took some final measurements, I searched the entire perimeter of the house, looking for small crevices or cracks where a cat might enter the walls from the outside. Dog helped, sniffing along behind me. Neither of us found any access points, much less actual cats.
Claire got the information she needed, said she’d call Jim and Katenka to make an appointment to go over design drawings as soon as she had them, and took off in her beat-up Jeep.
When I opened the door to go back in the house, Dog ran straight for the basement stairs.
“Out of luck, pal. The baby’s out with his mom,” I called after him, as though he spoke English.
I was about to head upstairs to consult with Raul when I heard Dog barking wildly.
“Stupid dog,” I muttered to myself, heading for the stairs to the basement apartment.
If Katenka had returned, she wouldn’t be pleased about the noise. Dog barked as much when he was happy as when he was on guard. So I imagined he might have found the baby and would be licking him all over, while Quinn giggled and Katenka ineffectually clapped her hands at him.
Just then Dog came tearing back up the steps.
His tail was between his legs, and he was soaking wet.
Chapter Twelve
“What happened to you, sweetie?”
Panting and trembling, he shook the water off, sending droplets everywhere. Wet dog smell permeated the narrow hallway.
Doors locked, showers ran, I remembered Hettie saying. The back of my neck prickled.
“Katenka?” I called down the stairs, just in case she’d come back and decided to hose Dog down. No response.
My grandmother’s wedding ring still hung around my neck, its warm weight reassuring me. I took a moment to stroke it, thinking of my mother. I hadn’t known about her abilities until after her death, but one reason I was able to accept my own strange talents was because I inherited them from her. Looking back on it now, her “knack” for finding the right houses to restore and flip was one of those things my sisters and I took for granted as kids. She would sometimes go into attics or basements or other rooms, lock the door, and stay in there awhile, alone. Now I knew she was most likely seeing spirits, perhaps even communicating with them. But I didn’t remember her ever being afraid.
On the other hand, my mom had a flair for finding warm, happy homes, whereas my special ability—based on my two experiences with haunted houses—seemed to involve death and mayhem.
I descended the narrow steps.
At the base of the stairs was the door to the basement apartment. I tested the knob. The door was often shut to keep out the dust and noise of the construction work, but to my knowledge had never been locked. But now it was.
I knocked. Silence.
Like many general contractors, I’m good with locks. Keys go missing all the time, especially in older homes. In fact, I had gone so far as to take a few lock-picking lessons on YouTube. Luckily, old locks like this one were the easiest to defeat. But first things first: I would try the old keys, just in case. I pulled the ring out of my satchel and tried one key after the other. The fourth key turned the lock.
I was so intent on what I was doing that I forgot to be nervous, much less consider the moral implications of breaking into my clients’ private space. I had been in the basement apartment many times, of course, and I could come up with plenty of legitimate reasons for needing access to it, if I were called on the carpet to explain myself. Still, under normal circumstances I would have asked permission to enter.
But the smell of wet dog spurred me on.
“Katenka?” I called out as I pushed the door in. “Hello?”
The entry led directly into the kitchen. I saw nothing more frightening than the uninspired harvest-gold linoleum and Home Depot pressboard cabinets that I remembered. I was looking forward to tearing all this garbage out of here, once the upstairs was finished. Though there wasn’t enough historical detail to be salvaged, starting with a fresh slate could be fun, as well. We would totally redo the apartment, from the wall placement to the finishes.
I peeked into the bedroo
m, the sitting room, the baby’s room. Katenka had decked the place out in Byzantine-style paintings and posters of the Madonna and child, and there were ornate Russian Orthodox crosses on every door. Candles in various colors adorned at least one table in each room, and the whole place smelled like burnt sage.
In the bathroom, the shower stall was wet, but there was nothing more sinister than a little mold patch in the far corner.
And that was about the extent of the apartment. In the storage room I noticed an old pipe organ in one corner, covered with a tarp. Along with the horsehair settee upstairs, a couple of straight chairs, and the old key ring, the instrument was one of the few traces of the former owners left in the house. I was glad Jim Daley had decided to keep it and refurbish it, as he said, “one of these days.”
I wandered back into the kitchen, staring for a moment out the window over the kitchen sink. It looked out onto the neighbor’s wall, an uninspiring view of dirty beige stucco. I felt strangely let down. Now that I was prepared to see them, I was getting tired of this dink-ing around. Bring it on, ghosts. Let’s get together and talk, get this over with.
Dog let out a single bark, and whimpered.
Just as I was leaning down to comfort him, something caught my eye in the barely-there reflection in the window.
A man stood behind me. I whirled around.
Nothing.
I looked down: Footprints. Wet tracks on the linoleum floor.
“Who are you?”
I tried to see him in my peripheral vision, but couldn’t catch more than quick flashes.
This was ridiculous.
“Follow me,” I said, and headed toward the bathroom. I flipped on the lights and looked into the mirror over the sink.
Lo and behold, there he was.
He looked terrible, even for a dead guy. He was wet, his raggedy linen shirt hung open to show a scrawny chest, and there was a greenish gray cast to his skin. Dark eyes appeared sunken and too-shiny, so I couldn’t see his irises.
Dead Bolt Page 10
