Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

“Excellent point.” She took a huge bite of her favorite, carnitas. Talk about your unnatural occurrences: I would never understand how Luz kept so slender given her voracious appetite.

  “What can you tell me about animal hoarders?” I asked as I unwrapped my pollo asado taco.

  “Like crazy cat ladies?”

  “Yes, crazy cat ladies, or deranged dog gentlemen, or whatever else there might be. Women can’t be the only ones who own lots of cats, can they?”

  “Not at all.” Luz chuckled. “In fact, one of my students did a research paper last year on animal hoarding, and its many permutations—it’s seen in both genders, all walks of life. But did you know there’s actually a group on the Web known as Crazy Cat Ladies? They’re trying to reappropriate the term. Like hussy.”

  “We’re reappropriating ‘hussy’?” Even when I was young I was always out of touch with the latest trends, and this tendency seemed to be getting worse with age.

  “If we’re not, we should. It’s a good word.” She elbowed me. “For instance, if you ever had sex again in your life, you could come in here and I could say, ‘You hussy, you.’”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” I said. “So how’s the Crazy Cat Ladies Society doing?”

  “No idea,” she said with a shrug, taking another big bite. “I just thought it was interesting. Anyway, animal hoarding is an actual psychological condition. It’s related to obsessive-compulsive disorder, marked by delusions and the inability to judge reality. Animal hoarders tend to believe they can provide proper care for their pets, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

  “I visited a former hoarder yesterday. She still has a couple of cats, but they seem well-treated.”

  “That’s good. They’re usually true animal lovers, you know. The problem is that they can be a bit like alcoholics ; it’s hard for them to stop at anything like a reasonable number. They get overwhelmed, and then they’re afraid to ask for help, even if they do recognize they’re in over their heads. Hey, how come you got green chile?”

  I handed over my foil-wrapped taco. “Here.”

  “No, that’s okay. You should eat it.”

  “I already had chicken. And I’m saving room for a protein shake.”

  She took the taco.

  “You think I should turn her in?” I asked. “I believe her probation stipulated she stay away from all animals, particularly felines.”

  “That’s a hard call,” Luz said, sitting back with a sigh. “It’s not like it’s a snap to find a good home for another unwanted pet. I’m guessing she doesn’t have a lot else in her life?”

  “One daughter.”

  “Are they close?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hmmm . . . I presume this is related to the house you’re redoing? I thought the cat lady was long gone.”

  “She is. But there’s . . . something from the past, sort of, that’s come up with the house.”

  “From the past?” Luz had polished off the green chile and was munching on chips, eyeing the extra bag of tacos I had brought for Jeremy. She was a phenomenon.

  “There have been some odd events, not quite . . . natural, if you get my drift.”

  “As in . . .” Luz trailed off and fixed me with the kind of look only a close friend could muster, the kind that registered concern, annoyance, accusation, and humor all at once. “Wait, don’t tell me: The ghosts are back.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I blew out a breath, then nodded. “I think so. There were some odd handprints on the ceiling, and footprints on the floor.”

  “And surely no human could leave handprints and footprints.”

  “The handprints, possibly, but the footprints appeared right in front of me, while I was watching. No one else was around to leave them. And earlier today Dog and I had a rather interesting encounter with a guy in a mirror. I’ll spare you the details.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “They say ghosts don’t like their surroundings disturbed,” said Luz.

  “Maybe it really could be . . . you know . . . something slightly more prosaic.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Do you think someone could want me to think there are spirits haunting my job site?”

  “Why would anyone want you to think that? Other than your ex-husband, that is. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  I smiled. Luz made it a practice to lay all manner of sin at the door of my ex-husband.

  “I can’t imagine he’d bother to arrange such an elaborate hoax,” I replied. “But neighbors always hate the noise and mess of construction projects. I thought at first maybe it was that weird guy from across the street, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “He was found dead yesterday morning.”

  Another pause.

  “Please tell me it wasn’t death by nail gun like the last time.”

  I shook my head. “No, but it looks like a homicide for sure. The police are investigating. In fact, Dad found the body. I’m afraid he might even be a suspect.”

  “You didn’t tell me any of this last night.”

  “It was a birthday party. Not the place for talking about ghosts and murder.”

  “It’s starting up again, isn’t it?” One of the many things I appreciated about Luz was that although she initially thought my previous ghost sighting might have been the result of emotional trauma, she believed me when I told her the whole story. Like me, she didn’t understand it, but she believed me. In fact, she had asked me to check out her apartment to be sure it was “phantom-free”—because one of the few things that scared her was ghosts. And clowns. A ghostly clown might just send her round the bend.

  “Is this guy following you around now?” she added.

  “Who?”

  “The dead guy. Isn’t that what happened last time?”

  “What a horrible thought.” I was surprised it hadn’t occurred to me. I couldn’t imagine having Emile Blunt, of all people, dogging my footsteps. Something like that might just send me round the bend.

  “I haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  All this talk of being followed around by spirits made me nervous, so I gathered up our trash, unwrapped the paintbrush, and started in on trim. The standard base paint for gold gilt is red oxide, a deep earthy color that looks a lot like blood. It made me think of poor grumpy old Emile Blunt, lying in a pool of blood in his upholstery shop. Though I hadn’t actually seen it, my unruly imagination had taken a stab at re-creating the scene.

  “So,” Luz said, all innocence, “aren’t we going to talk about Graham?”

  “What about him?”

  “‘What about him?’” Luz mimicked. “How about the fact that he showed up to Stan’s party with a woman on his arm and you spent the rest of the night moping?”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m beginning to think he went to Europe just to get away from me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’d both been in the city for years and hadn’t seen each other. Why would he have to leave the country to avoid you? Seems to me he does a fine job avoiding you when he’s right here.”

  I grunted.

  “You never slept with him . . . did you?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “I would have slept with him.”

  “Okay, it’s not like I didn’t think about it. But no. We were barely in contact for a few days, and if you’ll recall, they were very busy days.”

  “I’m just saying . . . you could have fit in some romance if you’d really wanted to. No wonder he found another girlfriend.”

  “Yes, thanks, Luz. You’re always so loyal. It warms my heart.”

  She laughed. “I’m just saying. With a man like Graham, there’s not a lot of waiting around. One of these days you might just figure out that you miss male companionship, despite whatever shenanigans Daniel pulled, and he’ll stop calling the shots.”
>
  “Daniel doesn’t call the shots.” My voice sounded defensive even to my own ears.

  “Sure about that? You’re making decisions shaped at least in part by the way Daniel treated you. I’d say there’s a lot of shot-calling still going on.”

  Sometimes it was a drag that my best friend was a mental health professional. A brutally honest mental health professional.

  “I don’t get what Graham sees in her.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t check out that perfect hourglass body. She doesn’t have to have a scintillating personality when she’s got a booty like that.”

  “What about my booty?”

  “Your booty’s darling, but you don’t swing it like she does, is all I’m saying.”

  “In my profession, you swing your booty too enthusiastically and you might get something taken off with a power tool.” I laid a bit more paint onto the trim, taking extra care in the corners. “Anyway, I guess I thought the man might be deeper than that, character-wise.”

  “You know what they say: When you can’t figure out why a couple’s together, it’s probably due to what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “I don’t want that visual! Why do I talk to you about these things? Now it’s worse than before.”

  “So make a move on him already and stop whining. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m not whining,” I whined. “Anyway, I missed my chance. He’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Was there a ring on her finger?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s still up for grabs.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, stroking on the red paint with a sure hand. “Sounds like work for a professional, and I’m strictly amateur hour. Not even that, when it comes right down to it. I think I should stick to dealing with ghosts at this juncture—I think my odds are better.”

  “Hey, how come you can paint so fast? It would take me all day to do that much trim, and you didn’t even use blue tape!”

  “I never use blue tape. It’s way too expensive. I haven’t kept Turner Construction in the black for two years by overspending on frivolous supplies.” Good lord, I was beginning to sound like my father. Next thing I knew I’d join the NRA and start watching football. “Besides, blue tape lulls you into a false sense of security with your edges.”

  “I like feeling as though my edges are secure. We don’t all have your hand-eye control, you know.”

  “You know what blue tape’s excellent for? Sealing up cabinets when you’re sanding. Keeps the dust out. Right tool for the job. Hey, will you go on a ghost hunt with me tonight?”

  “Uh, no.” Luz looked aghast. “I told you, ghosts scare me.”

  “It’s not like there will be real ghosts there. It’s just a tourist thing. I think.”

  “Then why are you going? Besides, I thought you were trying to stay away from ghosts, not hunt them down.”

  “I don’t quite know who to talk to. I need to sort out this ghost situation at Cheshire House. I’m hoping the ghost tour guide might be legitimate. Matt knows him, says he’s a good guy.”

  “Matt? Now there’s a sound judge of character.”

  “Plus, the local ghost society referred me to him.”

  “There’s something called a ‘ghost society’?”

  “Believe it or not.” I nodded. “Interestingly, though, they’re more about documenting ghosts than running them out.”

  She started applying blue tape to the bottom edge of the egg-and-dart trim.

  “I guess it takes all types. Anyway, you know I’m there for you when you think you’re crazy or want to discuss your love life—or lack thereof. But ghosts, mi amiga . . . ?” She shook her head. “You’ll have to find another playmate for that.”

  “All right then, how about going with me to talk to someone at a botanica?” I was willing to try just about anything at this point.

  “Why?”

  “In case they speak Spanish.”

  “It’s good for you to practice.”

  “I don’t want to miss anything. And I don’t want to go alone. Do you ever use botanicas?”

  “Do I look like I frequent botanicas?”

  “I have no idea what someone who goes to botanicas looks like. Come with me tomorrow, and I’ll buy you lunch in the Mission.”

  “It better be a good lunch.”

  “Have I ever failed you?”

  While I was out in the Avenues, I thought I might as well chase the lead from a Craigslist ad for molded iron fire-back plates. A fellow named Nelson claimed to have fireplace equipment from the era that Cheshire House was built.

  When I talked to Nelson by phone, he had the quailing voice of an elderly man, which was a good sign. Old-timers were by far the best resources for this sort of thing. When I pulled up to the ramshackle house out near San Francisco State University, I wasn’t disappointed. The porch and yard were crowded with the sorts of items some people refer to as junk, while others consider them treasures.

  The man who met me at the door looked to be in his seventies, wearing suspenders that held up stained jeans far too big for him. He’d either lost weight recently, or he was wearing someone else’s pants.

  “Guess I spoke to you on the phone,” Nelson said. “You the one who called ’bout the fireplace parts?”

  “Yes, I’m Mel Turner. Nice to meet you.”

  “C’mon in. That’s Al. He doesn’t get up.”

  Al was sitting in a recliner in front of a large plasma flat screen. True to Nelson’s word, Al held up one hand in greeting but didn’t take his eyes off the movie on TV. I recognized the music for The Bridge on the River Kwai. My father loved that movie, and was probably parked in front of his own massive television right now, sitting back in his recliner and watching it for the umpteenth time.

  I followed Nelson through the living room and kitchen, out a back sunporch, and down into a yard that was dotted with dozens of vintage wood-burning and gas stoves under plastic sheets, in varying states of repair.

  Under the back porch, which was at the level of a second story, was Nelson’s workshop. As a builder, I salivated at the view. This was the sort of collection it took a lifetime to build up—every sort of tool imaginable, vises, cutting tables, and hardware from antique to shiny new.

  “Wow, this is great,” I said. “My father would be jealous. Heck, I’m jealous.”

  “You in the trades?”

  “I’m a general contractor.”

  “Good for you. Not enough women in the field.” Amen to that. “Now, where are those fireplace pieces again . . . ? Oh, right. Over here.”

  He pulled back a blue tarp, moved a motorcycle frame that had been stripped down to the gas tank, and leaned in.

  “They’re a little rusty,” he said with a grunt as he pulled out a panel and passed it to me. “Need restoration, sure. Meant to get around to it, but never did. We’re trying to get rid of stuff if we don’t fix it up within five years. New get-organized plan.”

  I smiled at the idea of this place being organized. Nelson chuckled.

  “This motif, the acanthus leaves surrounding a face like this . . .” I said, tracing the relief with my fingers. “There’s something very similar in the house I’m renovating. In fact . . . I can’t believe how similar it is.”

  “You said the house was built in 1891? That’s the same era as these. There weren’t all that many foundries casting this sort of thing, and it was a common motif.”

  “I hadn’t seen it before.”

  “Probably because most people pulled ’em out later on. Got more superstitious, maybe, or just didn’t want symbols of death all over the place. Acanthus leaves themselves are symbols of death, you know.”

  “I thought they were associated with eternal life.”

  “Only in the sense that they symbolize rebirth. The natural cycle of death in winter and rebirth in spring. But the way I heard it is that in the early days of Christianity, believers wanted to shift folk
s to thinking that they would be reborn in heaven, not here on earth. So the acanthus leaves—which are thorny by the way, like the thorny crown of Christ—came to be associated with earthly death.”

  I love old-timers.

  “That’s fascinating. I had no idea. And you’re right: The house I’m working on does have death symbols all over the place.”

  “I’ve got a book. . . . Let me see. . . .” He ducked into the basement, which, quite unlike the basement level apartment of the Daleys’ house, looked like a real basement. Musty, dank, and full of scary-looking hidden rooms.

  “Here it is.” He unearthed a book from a cardboard box. The pages were yellowed and foxed. The spine cracked as he opened it, releasing that distinctive smell of must and mildew, as in used bookstores.

  He looked up something in the index, and then flipped to another page.

  “Yup, that’s what I was thinking of,” he said, tapping the picture and holding the book out to me. It was a line illustration of a similar motif. On the opposite page was a paragraph describing the design, and discussing the fascination with death symbols.

  “‘It was common to invite death,’” I read aloud. “‘To observe it and fear it as one would God.’”

  Our gazes met and held.

  “As they said back then,” Nelson said, “Life is uncertain; death is the cure.”

  I cleared my throat. “So how much for the book and the fireplace backs?”

  “Fifty for the fireplace pieces, if you take ’em all and get ’em out of my way.” He snapped the musty book closed and held it out to me. “And this book is my gift to you. Good luck.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back at Cheshire House, I brought my toolbox in with me. After checking in with Raul, I wanted to examine the fireplaces to see if the newly purchased firebacks would fit. This might well entail dismantling the internal structure and modifying it to accommodate the iron slabs, since cutting the iron wasn’t an option. There was no point in having the pieces restored if they weren’t going to work.

  I looked up to see Graham walk through the front door.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him as I set my tools on the plywood worktable in the front hall.