Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “You are all right?” Katenka asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good. The police talk to us, but I could not help with much. Please to join the party. Try the salads. Very traditional for Tree celebration.”

  I’m not exactly a mayonnaise fan. But I helped myself to some goose and caviar, and had to admit that the sbiten wasn’t bad. Especially when spiked with vodka. I noticed a sign in front of the punch bowl alerting parents to the dangers of young children ingesting honey.

  The parlor soon filled with neighbors and friends, some of whom spilled out into the entryway and dining room. The presence of the police had caused quite a ruckus, but Elena had managed to distract the children by suggesting they open the presents. Torn tissue paper littered the floor like multicolored confetti.

  “It is our tradition to wrap the presents several times,” Katenka explained. “Each layer is marked with the name of a child. First child takes off first layer, and passes it to next child named. Until finally the name on the last layer is the one to receive gift.”

  “That’s a lovely custom. This party turned out great, Elena,” I said as the party planner joined us. “You sure came through in a crunch.”

  “Really?” She sounded breathless.

  “Really. I’m impressed. A lot of my clients give big parties and events—if you give me a stack of your cards I’ll hand them out.”

  “That’s so thoughtful, Mel. Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Oh! I have to check in with the caterer, get the birthday cake ready,” said Elena. She hurried off toward the kitchen.

  “What happened upstairs, Mel? Can you tell me?” asked Katenka.

  “It’s sort of complicated.”

  “I cannot believe that Janet, the cat-catcher . . .” She shrugged. “And the . . . entities?”

  “I think they’re gone. I can’t promise—maybe we should get Olivier back out here with his machines to test things, just in case. But it feels different to me. It’s hard to describe, but the place feels benign now. Like a great old house full of metaphorical rather than real ghosts.”

  “I don’t know this word, ‘metapharcal.’ ”

  “Sorry. I just mean that the ghosts are gone, I think. Now it’s just a beautiful historic structure.”

  “It is a home,” Katenka said. “Our beautiful home.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  There were no further signs of ghostly activity in Cheshire House. Katenka and Jim had the caskets pulled out of the attic and buried. They asked us to seal off the entire attic, though, just in case. It was an easy fix—some sheetrock, a little mud on the edges, a little paint, and it was a done deal.

  I kept the strange key to the secret closet and hung it on my own key chain as a reminder of death, and of life. Memento mori.

  Raul was driving his wife so crazy at home that she sent him back to work. The Daleys, true to Jim’s word, moved into an extended-stay hotel, so the Cheshire House renovation was progressing at a nice clip.

  I was back on the job, and today was overseeing Jeremy, the talented carpenter, while he was creating ornate on-the-job scrollwork with a jigsaw. Meanwhile I was using a nail gun to build up a lush, multilayered gingerbread trim around the front door. The exertion of using the heavy nail gun, the smell of the fresh sawdust, and even the intermittent, deafening rat-a-tat-tat of the compressor calmed my nerves, letting me know I was back to my real work.

  There was only one problem. Lately, in addition to being sensitive to ghosts, I seemed to be hypersensitive to at least one living, breathing man: Graham Donovan, green builder extraordinaire.

  For instance, I didn’t have to turn around to know he had come to stand behind me while I nailed up the last wooden curlicue. I waved at Jeremy, and Graham and I descended the steps to escape the noise of the compressor.

  “What’s up?” I asked, real casual-like, as we went to stand in the narrow alley at the side of the house.

  “Stan tells me you’re in the ghost-busting business for real now.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But I do have a lead on a fascinating new renovation in the Castro. The owners are actually hoping their ghosts will stick around.”

  Stan was still fielding calls from folks looking for help with their ghosts, and though I wasn’t about to start doing this sort of thing full-time, I had noticed one particularly intriguing job: an old colonial revival whose owners wanted to convert it into a bed-and-breakfast . . . a haunted bed-and-breakfast. Apparently the building came ready-made with ghosts, and the owners wanted me to take on the renovation while squaring it with the spectral residents.

  “Uh-huh,” Graham said, his dark eyes searching my face. “If you’re going into this sort of thing for real, you and I might need to work on your new ghost-busting technique.”

  “What technique would that be?”

  “That mouth-to-mouth technique.”

  “Ah. What about Elena?”

  “Elena and I have decided we’re better friends than lovers.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry . . .”

  He grinned. “Liar.”

  “Anyway, I already told you that new ghost-busting technique . . . that was sort of by the seat of my pants. An experimental type deal.”

  “It might need some fine-tuning. If you’re going to go around chasing ghosts, we’ll definitely need to practice. Hone our skills.”

  “I do love skilled labor.”

  “I know you do, boss lady.”

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  Author’s Note

  The entirely fictional events in Dead Bolt were inspired by a true strange tale from San Francisco’s past. The Atherton Mansion, at 1990 California Street, was built by a rather dysfunctional family in the late 1800s. George Atherton lived there with his wife and mother, and, according to legend, tried to “escape” the women by boarding a ship bound for Chile. While at sea George died of kidney failure. His body was preserved in a keg of rum and sent back to San Francisco, where it was delivered to his family’s doorstep. The poor butler opened the mysterious keg to discover his former master pickled in rum. The women of the house came to believe George’s lingering spirit was haunting them. They sold the grand mansion, which changed hands several times before becoming a boardinghouse in the 1920s. Former tenants have complained of cold spots, mysterious knocking, and other strange events; some even claim to have seen actual apparitions.

  Don’t miss the next book in Juliet Blackwell’s Witchcraft Mystery series,

  In a Witch’s Wardrobe

  Coming in July 2012 from Obsidian.

  I’m not a necromancer, so I can’t see ghosts. Normally.

  But tonight felt like a different story. The brightly lit streets of downtown Oakland were host to women seemingly from another era, in beaded flapper dresses, glamorous 1930s-era gowns, and vibrant swing costumes. Accompanying the feathered-and-spangled partygoers were men clad in tuxedos with tails, white bow ties, and shiny black shoes.

  A black Model T Ford, polished and gleaming, glided to a stop in front of the magnificent Paramount Theatre, and the couple that emerged could have stepped out of the pages of The Great Gatsby.

  Among these apparent spirits-from-another-time was a sprinkling of witches.

  “The top hat is wrong,” murmured Aidan Rhodes, one such witch. His blue-eyed gaze flickered over the formally attired man who opened the theater door and welcomed us to the Art Deco Ball.

  “Top hats are elegant,” I replied. “They’re never not right.”

  “But it’s not authentic. Top hats were already out of style by the twenties. And, my dear Lily, you of all people should know: the devil’s in the details.”

  “I hope you don’t mean that litera—”

  I was shoved from behind. Aidan’s strong arms caught me before I toppled off my unfamiliar high heels and plunged down a short flight of stone steps.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” exclaimed a you
ng woman as she steadied herself. “It’s these dang shoes!”

  “Miriam, you okay?” asked her gray-haired escort as he wrapped a beefy arm around her shoulders.

  “Fine. Just clumsy. I’m more of a barefoot gal.”

  The woman named Miriam had hazel eyes that echoed the sea foam shade of her dress, and her honey-colored hair was covered by a glittery beaded cap. Unlike many of tonight’s guests, who had clearly modified or sewn their dresses, this young woman’s gauzy number was authentic. It was a diaphanous flapper dress; beaded and fishtailed, it hung loose on her creamy shoulders. My vintage-clothes-dealer sensibilities kicked into high gear, leaving me wondering where she had found such an incredible gown in mint condition.

  “I know the feeling,” I commiserated. “No harm done. I have to say, your dress is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Yours, too.” She smiled. Her expression was warm, but strangely . . . vacant. Off-kilter. Though undeniably pretty, her face appeared flushed but pinched, as though she were feverish.

  And from her vibrations I could sense . . . something was wrong.

  Wrong, and yet familiar. Had we met before? I hadn’t sold her the dress she was wearing—I would have remembered such an exquisite antique gown.

  Unfortunately, when the young woman stumbled into me, I had been distracted by the touch of Aidan’s warm hands; they had, as usual, sent an annoying yet intriguing zing of electricity through me. So whether the disturbing vibrations I noticed emanated from Miriam’s garment or from the woman herself, I couldn’t know unless I touched her again.

  As she turned to continue up the steps, I reached toward her bare shoulder.

  “Leave it,” Aidan whispered, resting a white-gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not that kind of night.”

  I hesitated, and lost my chance. The young woman and her escort disappeared into the crowd.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t offer to help her until you’d run a credit check on her,” I said, miffed at his interference.

  Aidan sold his magical services. Many talented witches did. We’re human—we need to eat and pay rent just like everyone else. Still, it galled me. It seemed so crass to cash in on our special abilities. I prefer to keep my talents separate from money, which is one of the many reasons I opened Aunt Cora’s Closet, my vintage clothes store, where I earn a legitimate living the old-fashioned way, just like every nonwitchy merchant on Haight Street.

  Usually. I might utilize my witchy wiles from time to time to gain an edge in the cutthroat vintage clothing business . . . but I tried to keep it to a minimum. It seemed only sporting.

  Aidan, unfazed, smiled as he led me into the grand lobby of Oakland’s Paramount Theatre. The 1920s Art Deco extravaganza was the ideal locale for the annual Art Deco Preservation Ball.

  I paused, taking it all in. The massive carved glass “Fountain of Light,” over thirty feet tall, dominated the entrance, casting a rich amber glow throughout. Overhead a vitreous green panel was bordered by labyrinthine fretwork and diamond-shaped gold patterns. Flanking these were vermilion piers, bas-relief sculptures, white-veined black marble trimmed in silver gilt, a plush red carpet, and accents of burnished gold throughout.

  They sure didn’t make movie theaters like this anymore.

  In one corner a man with slicked-back hair stood near a grand piano, singing a lilting tune from the twenties. And the crowd was, to a person, dressed to the nines in outfits from the heyday of the Art Deco movement.

  It didn’t take a wild imagination to feel as though we had just stepped into a ghostly reenactment of a high-society soiree from days gone by.

  “Do me a favor?” Aidan asked.

  “Hmm. That depends. . . .” With a powerful witch like Aidan, an offhand promise could lead to something one didn’t intend: a life of servitude, for example. It paid to be a little paranoid.

  “Relax and enjoy yourself tonight? As a woman, not as a witch.”

  I laughed. “I’ll try. The woman part I’ve got down. It’s the dancing bit that’s making me jittery.”

  “Surely you’ve been to a formal dance before. What about senior prom?”

  “Closest I came was a hootenanny, when I was eight.” That was before the good people in my hometown decided to shun me.

  “Well then, this is a special occasion. Chin up, my dear. You’re making a grand entrance.”

  “I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You look stunning,” he whispered. “Just look.”

  I scoffed but followed his gaze, glancing at my reflection in the mirrored wall.

  Land sakes. I did look nice. I don’t know why I was so surprised. I often tell my customers that when their clothes change, they change. No reason this transformation wouldn’t apply equally to me.

  I had chosen the dress carefully . . . or perhaps it had chosen me. I had been planning to wear a peacock blue cocktail gown from the 1930s, but when I received a call from an elderly woman in Bernal Heights with two generations’ worth of fine formal garments hidden away in her crammed walk-in closet, my options increased exponentially. The moment I picked up the tea-stained silk chiffon, I knew I had found my dress. The fabric was embossed with beads and flat gold-leaf sequins in a twisting-vine pattern. Simple spaghetti straps led to a deep V-neck, and the bottom was trimmed in a sassy beaded ruffle. Two handmade silk roses sat on the drop waist, along with a velvet sash.

  Perhaps most important, something about the vibrations of the garment gave me courage, the fine fabrics brushing against my legs as I moved, making me aware of my skin. The dress had been altered so that it fit perfectly: it was loose, as any flapper dress should be, but made the most of my figure.

  My friends Bronwyn and Maya had tortured my straight hair into a wavy Marcel style, then gathered it into a chignon at the nape of my neck and decorated it with a glittery beaded hairnet. My lipstick was a brilliant red, and I wore matte makeup and eyeliner.

  My only complaint was my shoes. Bronwyn and Maya had nixed my usual comfy footwear, insisting the shoes be appropriate to the event. Thus I wore reproduction heels that made me miss my Keds with each uncomfortable step.

  Still, the reflection showed that all the effort had been worth it. I fit in here, with these other would-be spirits from the roaring twenties, and elegant thirties, and swinging forties. . . .

  Until I saw something in the mirror, something besides me and the crowd.

  A frisson of . . . something passed over me. I’m not a sensitive, and have no special gift of sight. Even my premonitions are vague and generally useless, arriving as they do only seconds before something happens.

  But this time, I could have sworn I saw the image of a woman sleeping amidst vines and briars and roses. As I watched she reached out to me. . . . I raised my hand to the mirror. . . .

  “Lily?” For the second time that evening, Aidan laid his hand upon my arm to stop me. His voice was low, but adamant. “What are you doing? You should know better than to place your palm against a mirror. Especially in a theater.”

  As soon as we returned to our table, Susan grabbed my hand, saying, “We have to go powder our noses—girl talk!” to the men, and pulled me along with her.

  “I adore the belowstairs ladies’ lounge. Let’s go to that one. Isn’t this place incredible? It was built back when people really knew how to design things.” Susan often spoke without requiring a response. But instead of being annoyed, I found her enthusiasm charming. “Back then, a restroom was a place one could actually rest in, to escape the menfolk, and to gossip, I suppose. Speaking of which . . . are you and Aidan an item now?”

  “Of course not,” I said, noting the breathlessness in my voice. I held the rail as I descended the great sweep of stairs, worried about my heels and distracted by the gowns surrounding me.

  Attending the Art Deco Ball was not an easy gig for someone in my line of business. I was beginning to feel like I had Vintage Clothes–Related Attention Deficit Disorder. />
  “Check this out,” said Susan when we reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the ladies’ lounge. The outer chamber was encircled by gilt-framed mirrors, each with a narrow glass shelf and delicate iron chairs in which to sit and apply makeup. In each corner was a pair of upholstered armchairs, and there was a brocade chaise longue set in the back. The interior chamber was the actual lavatory, with stalls made of marble, hung with mahogany doors.

  There was a line for the toilets, so I sat down before a mirror to fuss with my hair. I brought my comb out of my vintage Whiting-Davis mesh purse before realizing that the complicated chignon made combing my hair impossible.

  “Excuse me. Hello, again. Would it be too much to ask if I could borrow that?”

  It was the young woman I had met on the front steps, Miriam. Her honey-colored tresses had escaped their pins and had half tumbled to her shoulders.

  “Oh, of course. Here, let me help you.”

  I caught her hair up in the comb as best I could, but I was clumsy—I wasn’t the kind of child who grew up practicing “day at the hairdresser” with friends. I did what I could with the heavy mass, twisting and gathering. As I fussed with the long silken locks, I took the opportunity to concentrate on Miriam’s vibrations. They felt chaotic, as if they were detached from their source. Decidedly odd. She seemed displaced, her expression still vacant. And again, I had a strong sensation of familiarity.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  She met my eyes in the mirror. “Of course.” But her words rang hollow, and her eyes were too shiny.

  “You’re Miriam, right?” I asked.

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “I’m Lily Ivory. You seem so familiar—have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so. . . . Oh wait! On the stairs earlier?”

  “Yes. I meant another time, maybe?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks for the help.”