Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Crazy talk, somethin’ about ghosts in an attic. And people say I’m nuts.”

  “Anything else?”

  The man tilted his head. “Yeah. Asked about a key.”

  “A key to what?”

  “A door, I think he said.”

  “What about it?”

  He closed his eyes and didn’t answer. I waited.

  His eyes popped open. “He asked if the key to the door was safe.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  As I drove to meet Zach, I thought again of the letters Katenka told me Jim had found, the letters that seemed to be influencing him. I felt sure the key to it all was in the house’s past. If I could get ahold of those letters, perhaps they could shed more light on the house and the family who had once owned it. The ghosts hadn’t wanted their history known, had “told” Hettie Banks to destroy the files at the historical society. They must have had a reason.

  Just as I was pulling up to a parking spot, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “This is Mel,” I answered.

  “Mel. Thank goodness. I don’t know where to turn. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Katenka for days.”

  “Elena?”

  “Yes, of course. Have you spoken with her? There are so many things to go over for the party . . .”

  I let her vent for a moment, only half listening, wondering what to say. If Katenka had stepped out for a couple of days to cool off, I imagined she still wanted the party to take place. It was her son’s first birthday, after all. But if something unspeakable had happened to Katenka, an elaborate Russian-themed birthday party would be in poor taste, to say the least.

  I hoped Graham hadn’t confided to Elena my fears about Katenka and Jim. That would be awkward.

  “I think you should make the decisions for the moment, Elena. Katenka has been out of touch, I know. But this is why you’re the professional, right? You make all the right sort of party choices.”

  “But the event’s only two days away!”

  “I realize that, but since you only started planning it a few days ago, percentage-wise, two days is huge. Think of it that way.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I have to go now, but I promise I’ll let you know when I hear from Katenka. For now go make some party favors so everything will be just glorious, okay?”

  “I . . . all right. Thank you, Mel. I appreciate it.”

  I made a gagging noise upon hanging up, then felt bad. What was I, twelve? There was nothing wrong with Elena. She was perfectly nice. And it wasn’t out of line for her to be worried about the party that was supposed to take place in two days.

  I parallel-parked in a residential area a couple of blocks from Caffe Trieste, an unassuming little coffee shop that has occupied a quiet North Beach corner for about as long as anyone can remember. It’s a local favorite and serves the best coffee in the world, hands down.

  Zach was waiting for me at a small table by the window. He gestured to the barista as I sat down.

  “I ordered you a double latte.”

  “Nonfat, please,” I called to the barista.

  “Fat lattes taste better,” said Zach with a smile. “How about a chocolate croissant or something? A sweet for the sweet?”

  “Tell me what you learned.” I was not in the mood.

  “You’re a tough nut to crack, Mel. Know that?”

  “Maybe I’m just a nut.”

  He gazed at me intently. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Zach, please. What did you find out?”

  He sighed. “Katenka said she met her husband online, when she was living in Russia, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “That was stretching the truth. She worked in the city long before she met Jim, online or otherwise. Paid a pretty penny to be brought in and ‘allowed’ to work at an underground club called Jelly’s.”

  “Hard to picture Katenka as a dancer.”

  “That’s because she wasn’t, not in the strictest sense. The women at Jelly’s do a certain kind of dancing, if you catch my drift. It may not be what she thought she was signing up for in Russia, but once they’re brought here, they’re stuck. If the women run away and file a complaint with the police, all they’ll get out of it is deported back to Russia. Either way, they lose.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “Things are tough in the former Soviet Union. There’s a line a mile long of women trying to get out, and there aren’t many legal ways to do it. Anyway, Katenka was one of the lucky ones. The bartender said she didn’t work there for long. Turns out she met up with an old man—would that be her husband?”

  I shook my head.

  “I got the sense this guy was something of a barfly. The bartender didn’t know his name but said he was an American who spoke Russian. Learned it from his grandparents, who were immigrants, according to the bartender.”

  Emile Blunt, I thought. “What happened then?”

  “Far as the bartender knew, that was the whole story. Katenka didn’t show up for work one day, slipped away somewhere. Must have laid low for a while with her sugar daddy. Within a month she sent money to pay off her debt with her employers, so they let it go. Probably used her as a ‘success story’ to lure other women. Come to America, marry a rich man.”

  “The man was rich?” I asked. Maybe it wasn’t Emile.

  “All men in America are rich, haven’t you heard?”

  “Guess I missed the memo.”

  Zach handed me the photo of Katenka that Ivana had given me. I searched her pretty face, the trace of a smile I had rarely seen on her.

  “By the way, you’re in my debt.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I had to slip the bartender a Benjamin to get him in a chatty mood.”

  “A Benjamin? Oh, that’s . . . a hundred?”

  Zach gave me a crooked grin.

  “I thought you said you were broke,” I pointed out.

  “I am. It’s my mad money.”

  “A hundred bucks is your mad money?”

  “I don’t often get mad.”

  “And that’s it? This doesn’t tell me where to find Katenka.”

  “No one’s seen her for years now. But it does tell you something about her background.”

  “Did the bartender say anything more about the old man? Does he still come in?”

  “He apparently disappeared around the same time as Katenka.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One thing that stuck in his mind—the guy was into taxidermy, stuffing dead animals.”

  It was Emile, then, for sure. How many old Russian-speaking taxidermists could there possibly be in San Francisco?

  So Katenka had a deep, dark secret and a history with Emile Blunt. As his mistress? Or had Emile suggested Katenka find his lonely, wealthy neighbor Jim online so that the two could meet and Emile could then . . . what, milk her for money? Was the money I found in the settee one of her payments to him?

  I sipped my latte and turned possible scenarios over in my mind. Could Katenka have killed Emile, tired of the blackmail? Or had Jim Daley discovered what was happening and killed Emile to keep him quiet about Katenka’s past? Maybe to punish Emile for his relationship with Katenka and for stealing Jim’s money through blackmail? Or was Jim Daley a jealous husband who, upon learning the truth about Emile and Katenka, had killed them both?

  Maybe.

  Then again . . . Dave Enrique argued with Emile the night he died. Could he and Emile have been enemies since their days at the Cheshire Inn? Could there have been some kind of romantic triangle involving one or both of the men and Janet, Hettie’s daughter? I rejected that idea. Emile was old enough to be Janet’s grandfather, and Dave was a good ten or twenty years Janet’s senior. A romantic triangle involving those three seemed far-fetched.

  Plus, it was icky.

  Besides, Hettie Banks and Emile Blunt were former flames. And white cat hair had been left on the
sofa in Emile’s shop the night of the murder. Cat hair meant cats, which suggested Hettie. She might be getting up there in years, but it didn’t take much strength to pull a trigger.

  I thought about calling Inspector Crawford again, but decided against it. I had nothing even remotely resembling evidence to implicate anybody in Emile’s death, and for all I knew Katenka came home last night, and was even now enjoying a champagne brunch with Jim and the baby at the Palace Hotel.

  Zach interrupted my reverie. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Penny. For your thoughts.”

  “My mother used to say that.”

  “So did mine. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Listen, Zach, I have to run. I don’t have a Benjamin on me. Can I send it to you?”

  “Why don’t I give you a call? We’ll get together when you have more time, and arrange for repayment.”

  “Okay, whatever works. And thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  I pondered possible suspects and scenarios as I walked to my car. Before I started up the engine, Hettie called.

  “Need a favor.”

  “Okay. . . .”

  “Will you feed my cats?”

  “I . . . uh . . . why? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t get to ’em for a while. Key’s under the mat. There’s food in the cupboard. They share a can morning and night. Oh, and change their water.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m down to the police station.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “It’s not looking good, tell you the truth. They say I had motive, opportunity, left some of Pudding’s hair on Emile’s couch, and even took a souvenir from the crime scene like they say some disturbed people do.”

  “Souvenir?”

  “They found a rhinestone cat collar on Pudding. I didn’t put it on ’im.”

  “Have you called a lawyer?”

  “I’m not worried about me. Heck, I hear in prison they got free medical care and cable TV and everything. But promise me you’ll take care of my cats.”

  “What about Janet? Have you called her? Could she help?”

  “Janet hates cats almost as much as she hates me. She oughta be happy now, though. Guess she’ll get a building on Union Street after all. Seems least I could do is leave her that upholstery shop if I’m going to San Quentin.” I heard a commotion in the background. “Listen, I gotta go. Are you gonna do this for me, or not?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll take care of them.”

  An hour later I walked into my dad’s house with a struggling cat under each arm and a bag of cat kibble slung over my shoulder. I was scratched up and down my arms, covered in fur, and in a truly foul mood. I also had a newfound respect for Janet Banks and the feral feline rescue squad.

  Dog went nuts upon sensing felines. The cats hissed and broke free, leaping from my arms and running to hide.

  Dad dropped his chopping knife and after much human yelling and canine barking, Dad grabbed Dog by the collar, dragged him outside, and shut the kitchen door.

  “You’re adopting cats now?” Dad demanded. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “You okay, Mel?” asked Stan.

  I dropped the bag of food on the floor and went to the sink to wash my hands. Between my mottled cheekbone and the red furrows on my arms, I was starting to look like an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie.

  “Learned something new today: Cats don’t like to ride in cars,” I said.

  Corralling the cats at Hettie’s condo had been hard enough, but I finally managed to get them out to the car. The moment I started the engine, both cats lost their minds. At one point Pudding was literally standing atop the steering wheel while Horatio paced back and forth across the backseat, howling. It was a long ride home.

  “Some cats don’t mind cars.” Stan chuckled and coaxed Horatio out from behind a cupboard and into his lap. Pudding was nowhere to be found.

  I leaned against the counter as I dried my hands.

  Dad returned to chopping onion and celery. “Gonna be a damned menagerie in here by the time you’re through.”

  “We’re doing a good deed,” I said. “And it’s only temporary.” I hoped.

  “That’s what you said about Dog. And Caleb . . .”

  “Hey, Caleb’s nonnegotiable. He and I are a package deal, so if you don’t want him here, just say the word and I’ll move out.”

  “Me, too,” said Stan.

  Dad shrugged. “Nah, Caleb’s a good kid. I put him and his buddy to work out in the yard today, cutting back those shrubs by the garage.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Out with a couple of friends, jogging around Lake Merritt. Said he’d be back for dinner, asked if he could invite them along. I said sure.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Not sure about those cats, though. You remember the time you brought home that flea-bitten Siamese?”

  “That was one of your other daughters. Charlotte always liked cats.”

  “You sure? I could have sworn it was you.”

  “I’m sure. I was there.”

  He shrugged and transferred the onions and celery into a pan of heated olive oil, where they sizzled, sending out an enticing aroma. My stomach growled.

  “Mel, why don’t you go take a shower while Bill finishes supper and I introduce Dog to the cats?” suggested Stan. “They’ll get along fine once they know one another—you’ll see. This one here’s a real sweetie.”

  “Thanks, guys. You’re lifesavers. What would I do without you?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The next day the phone rang while I was still in bed, pretending to sleep. I wasn’t sleeping, of course, because now that I awoke at five every morning for work I had become the sort of person who can no longer sleep past dawn. Plus, there were two cats and a dog sleeping in the room, and at least two of the creatures snored. Pathetic.

  I reached for the phone, covers still drawn over my head.

  “Hello?” I croaked.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  I sat up. “Graham?”

  “Sorry to say this isn’t a social call. Matt’s about to lose it over the tile in his kitchen.”

  I sighed. “What’s up?”

  “Apparently they’re the wrong height, so the kitchen floor will be higher than the existing wood floors in the hall and dining room.”

  “Significantly higher?”

  “About three-eighths of an inch.”

  I heard Matt’s voice in the background, slightly hysterical, exclaiming, “Whoever heard of height? Width and length, but height? Is that Mel? Tell her to come save me!”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  So much for a day, much less a weekend, off work.

  “Why are you meeting with Matt at this hour?” I asked when Graham opened Matt’s door.

  “Green consultation with the architect over breakfast. Apparently I’m now on call twenty-four hours a day. OSHA’s looking better all the time.”

  “Mel, thank heavens you’re here,” said Matt as he rushed up to us. “I’m beside myself.”

  I checked out the kitchen floor, and the new shipment of tile. Three-eighths of an inch was too much of an elevation shift to bridge with a simple wooden threshold. It would never look right.

  “The tile guy should have alerted you, Matt. I apologize on his behalf. I’ll follow up with him, but for now you have a decision to make. You either have to take out the subfloor—which is a pretty big deal—or simply choose a different tile.”

  “But I had my heart set on those,” Matt said.

  “I’ll go tile shopping with you, if you want. It’ll be fun.” That was an exaggeration. What it would be was a huge time-suck, like all shopping trips with clients. But if Matt’s project fell behind, so would Cheshire House. Since we shared the same workers and subcontractors, one problem led inexorably to another, like topplin
g dominos.

  “Okay, if you’ll come and hold my hand. It’s hard to decide these things.”

  “Sure I will.” I checked my BlackBerry. “We can do lunch on Tuesday or Wednesday, if you want.”

  “One more thing. I think the ceiling in the library is too low.”

  I froze. This wasn’t a three-day tile job fix we were talking about. This was serious.

  “You want to redo the roof.”

  “I want it done right.”

  Was it the effect of the cameras? Was he becoming a prima donna?

  “I have to level with you, Matt. It’ll be exorbitantly expensive. Raising the roof means new permits, and requires getting the neighbors’ consent because a raised roof may impact the view of the houses behind you. There’s something called discretionary review here in San Francisco, which means that if the neighbors consider your project ‘exceptional and extraordinary’ they can request a review by the city planning commission, even if the project has already been given approval.”

  Matt gave me a blank look.

  “Bottom line: If you get approved—and you probably won’t—it means a delay of at least several months, possibly more. Not to mention the additional construction costs, which will be substantial. If you really want to do this, the first people to convince are your neighbors. You’ll also have to talk to the architect to commission new drawings. In the meantime, I suggest we leave the roof as it is.”

  “One good thing: If we change the roof we could put solar panels up there. Graham was just explaining their advantages.”

  I glared at Graham. He smiled.

  “That’s a special permit process, as well,” I said. “But then as my mother always used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “How many pounds?” asked the Brit.

  “Many, many pounds.”

  Graham walked me to my car.

  “Have you heard from Katenka?” he asked.

  “No sign of her.”

  “Elena’s been trying to get in touch with her about the party, which is coming up.”

  “Yes, she called me yesterday.”

  “Don’t suppose you know anything new?”

  “Actually, I asked someone to look into the club where Katenka used to dance, when she first arrived from Russia. Remember Zach Malinski?”