“Mostly they seemed happy to see us working on the building. They weren’t shy about voicing their opinions, but we were working off drawings that were already approved, so mostly I just listened politely.”
“Did you hear about a reality TV show to be filmed at the Crockett?”
“You mean Isadora’s brother’s thing? Last I heard, she was dead set against it. Called reality TV ‘dreck,’ if I recall. You’ve met her, I take it? Quite the character. You should ask her about it directly.”
I realized Josh hadn’t heard about Isadora’s fate. This was awkward. “Um, I hate to tell you this, but Isadora . . . Isadora is dead.”
He stilled. “She’s—? What? When?”
“Yesterday. She was found dead in the theater.”
“An accident? Did she fall or get sick?”
“There’s no official cause of death yet, but it looks suspicious.”
“Suspicious? As in murder?”
I nodded.
“I . . . I don’t . . .” He shook his head and let out a long breath. “What a shame. She was so young, and she was . . . a real character.”
“What can you tell me about her? Did she give you any problems when you were working on the theater? Mix it up with any of your guys or anything like that?”
“You mean, did one of my men go back to the Crockett and kill her?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just asking questions, trying to figure it out.”
“Like you did at the haunted B and B.”
“Something like that.”
“You seem to deal with more murders on the job than the norm.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Don’t envy you that,” Josh said with a sigh. “Anyway, no, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill Isadora. She asked a lot of questions, mostly about the ownership of the theater, that sort of thing, but—”
“What, you mean like she wanted to buy the place?”
“Why would you think that? She’s homeless.”
“She’s a Sepety; I’ve been told the family is quite wealthy.”
“Oh right, of course. Still. I had the sense she was asking more about the Xerxes Group—their right to be renovating the place, that sort of thing. Look, Mel, I didn’t know any of the squatters well, but I liked them well enough. Other than the fact that they wanted us gone, they weren’t difficult to deal with. I’ve had much worse times with cranky homeowners, if you know what I mean.”
“I certainly do.”
“Plus, we didn’t run into them often.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “There was one fellow, though . . . Mitch? I think? He was a little confrontational, got in our faces a bit. But it was no big deal, mostly name-calling, silly kid stuff.”
I nodded. “They seem to have vanished into the ether after Isadora’s death. I get the sense they’re not fond of the police. I was hoping to talk to at least some of them, ask if anyone saw anything.”
“No offense, but isn’t that something the police should be doing?”
“I have specialized knowledge the police don’t have.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I found you, didn’t I? Bet the police haven’t contacted you yet.”
Josh inclined his head. “I see your point.”
“Don’t worry. If I learn anything useful, I’ll take it to the police.”
“So, do you think one of the other squatters killed Isadora?”
“I have no idea. The security guard mentioned she had more than one boyfriend, so maybe it’s simple as jealousy run amok.”
“She did have a way about her. Such a shame.”
I stood up to leave when Josh said, “Hey, have you tried the tattoo parlor?”
“What tattoo parlor?”
“Down the street from the theater. One of the squatters worked there . . . Can’t remember her name. She always wore shoes with a mirrored finish; I think it was her signature.”
“It’s a place to start. Thank you.”
“Good luck. And, Mel? Be careful with the Xerxes Group. Everything was going just fine, we’d hit a few snags but nothing insurmountable, and were even running ahead of schedule. Then out of the blue, I get a call from their flunky, that too smooth Thibodeaux guy, canceling the contract and threatening legal action if I didn’t just walk away.”
“No reason given?”
He shook his head. “Not really. It took me by surprise.”
“How did you respond?”
“I walked. They made it easier by sending me a nice check; wasn’t worth the headache to pursue it. There are plenty of juicy renovation jobs in the Bay Area at the moment.”
True enough. And his projects probably weren’t even haunted.
* * *
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time I left the offices of Avery Builders. What now? I supposed I should get back to work, but . . .
I looked up Eamon Castle on my phone. Yet another local place of interest I’d never heard of, though in a relatively small city like San Francisco, the number of historical nooks and crannies was impressive. If Eamon Castle had always been in private hands, it made sense I didn’t know about it. I thought about driving by and checking it out, but it was on Innes Avenue, not far from the old Candlestick Park. At this time of day, traffic on the freeways leading south was brutal.
Besides, what did I hope to find? Josh had said Alyx no longer worked there. Still, I was interested to see the building and check out Avery Builders’ work. If Alyx seemed tight with the Petersons, they might help me to locate him.
I called the Eamon Castle phone listing and asked a very nice woman named Shanice if I could come by to see the place as a possible wedding venue. Even though it was a holiday weekend, she mentioned she was working to set up an event, so we made an appointment for Saturday afternoon. Then I tried the Petersons’ home phone number, but no one answered. I left a message asking them to call me back about Eamon Castle, at their convenience.
I checked my phone: None of the squatters had called me back. No surprise there.
After responding to a few queries from my crews on our current jobs, I had a long conversation with Mateo about the windows at Turner Villa. I was committed to saving the original old wavy glass, but that meant the wood frames would have to be rebuilt. That would be no easy feat and would cost a small fortune.
Still, antique wavy window glass? How great was that?
I fielded another text from Luz, this time suggesting a hike to the labyrinth created by Eduardo Aguilera at Land’s End, with sweeping views of the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.
I responded: Dinner. Fireworks. ’Nuff said.
Phone business concluded, I headed to the Haight, an area famous as San Francisco’s former “hippie haven.” Long before young people flocked to the neighborhood in search of gentle people with flowers in their hair, the Haight had been an ethnic enclave, providing low-cost housing for Irish and Italian working-class folks. The Haight’s once “humble” old Victorians now sold at a premium. These days there was no such thing as reasonably priced housing anywhere in the Bay Area, but especially within the San Francisco city limits.
Hence the rise in the number of squatters.
I knew someone in the Haight who might be able to tell me a little something about the dress Hildy had given me, which had provoked such a disturbing image when I tried it on. Her name was Lily Ivory, and she owned a vintage clothing store on the corner of Haight and Ashbury streets. She was a somewhat odd but very interesting woman whom I had met one memorable Halloween while dealing with seemingly possessed dolls found in the attic of an old Victorian named Spooner House.
Lily knew a lot about old clothes, and even more about spirits and magic and things that went bump in the night.
After a few loops around the bustli
ng main shopping drag, I found a tight parking space on a residential side street and made my way down crowded Haight Street, dodging tourists and panhandlers, until I came upon Aunt Cora’s Closet.
As I entered, a bell on the door tinkled overhead.
Walking into Aunt Cora’s Closet, with its scents of clean laundry and the faint perfume of herbal sachets, was like walking into another world. Taffeta and crinolines, sequins and satins filled the place, reminding me of Hildy’s overstuffed closet. Parasols, hats, and gloves graced the shelves, and truly antique dresses and laces adorned the walls. In one corner was an herbal stand touting custom teas and featuring a sign with a quote from the amiable Wiccan Rede: An it harm none, do what ye will.
I spend all day, every day, working primarily with men, so it was fun to find myself in such an overtly feminine, woman-focused arena.
“Why, Mel Turner, I do declare!” Lily exclaimed as I came clomping in, my work boots ringing loudly on the bare wood floors. She spoke with the soft drawl of her native West Texas. “It’s been too long. What with your wardrobe proclivities, I thought you’d be in here more often.”
Lily’s pet, a miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig, trotted up to greet me with a snort. I scratched his pink neck.
“I keep planning to drop by,” I said. “But life has a way of intervening.”
“Don’t I know it. What’s up with you these days?”
“Oh, you know . . .” I shrugged off her question. Two college-age girls were flipping through a rack of fringed leather jackets, but otherwise we were alone in the store. “How’s Maya doing?”
“She’s great.” Lily’s eyes were so dark they were almost black, and had a way of fixing on me as though she were reading my mind. Lily had sworn to me she did not have that ability, and promised that she wouldn’t use it without my consent even if she did. But at the moment she didn’t need to read my mind as much as my face.
“I’m afraid you find me alone today, with only Oscar for company,” Lily said with a tilt of her head. “Are you sure everything’s okay, Mel?”
I nodded but let out an admittedly shaky breath. “It’s been an eventful couple of days.”
“‘Eventful’ usually means a bit scary in our lives, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t know Lily well, but we had shared enough to know that we both tripped over bodies much more than was considered normal. She probably had the cell number of an SFPD homicide inspector memorized, as well.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” she continued.
I glanced again at the girls looking at jackets, but they turned and left, the bell ringing over the door. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure how this sort of thing went, so if Lily “saw” what I had seen when I put on the dress . . .
“At the moment, I’d like to ask you about something unrelated. Or . . . actually it might be related, but I have no idea how.” I pulled the dress Hildy had given me out of my tote bag, and spread it on the horseshoe-shaped glass display case that doubled as a counter.
“Oh!” Lily exclaimed. “Isn’t this lovely! I adore this era of clothing.”
“Me, too.”
“I have too many curves to really pull it off, though.”
“Me, too.”
Lily chuckled. “Bust and hips. They get you every time. Ruin the line.”
I noticed she hadn’t touched the dress, but her nostrils flared slightly.
“Cedar and cigarette smoke?”
I nodded. “It was kept in a cedar closet.”
“With a smoker?”
“Yes.”
Our eyes met.
“What can I help you with, Mel?”
“I tried it on last night and saw something. Like a vision.”
Her eyebrows arched. “And that’s not typical for you, to see something when you touch a historic item?”
“Not at all.” Please, oh please don’t let this be some sort of new psychic ability, I begged. Seeing ghosts was weird enough. I could just imagine experiencing visions every time I touched something in a historic home. “Is . . . Do you happen to know anything about seeing things in mirrors—things that aren’t there?”
“I’m no expert, but many believe mirrors can be portals to the backwards world.”
“The backwards world.”
“It’s another world, one that mirrors ours but is autonomous . . . It’s actually pretty complicated to explain.”
“What I saw was historical, I think, and attached to this dress. I think.”
Lily stuck her chin out as though lost in thought, and then gave a firm nod. “Best not to tell me too much, right off the bat. I don’t like to have preconceived notions when I feel for things.”
“Okay . . .” The pig came prancing over, butting at my ankles. I leaned over to scratch him behind his pink ears.
When I straightened, Lily was cradling the dress to her chest, her eyes half closed.
She dropped it on the counter.
“Huh,” she said.
“Huh? That’s all?”
“Well, Mel, you seem to have quite a find here. Where did you say it came from?”
“From an attic closet in a home that Landon and I are renovating in Oakland. It will be our home together.” My ring glittered, and its lights caught my attention. I didn’t wear it most days, because wearing a ring can be dangerous on a construction site. But on days like today, when I was just meeting people and talking, I enjoyed the audacious sparkle. “Did I mention Landon and I got engaged?”
“No, you did not. That’s wonderful! I was married recently myself. Well, actually, it was a witchy handfasting in the redwoods, so I suppose it isn’t legally a wedding per se, but it is to us, and that’s all that matters.”
I wasn’t certain what a “witchy handfasting” might entail, though in my mind’s eye, it included a lot of nudity and dancing under a full moon. But perhaps I was too influenced by medieval woodcuts of pagan ceremonies.
“Congratulations, Lily. I hope you will be very happy.”
“Thank you. But back to this beauty,” she said, laying her hands on the dress again. She looked worried. “Were you planning to wear this for your wedding?”
I coughed. “For what?”
“As your wedding gown?”
“Oh. I don’t think . . . I haven’t really thought about that yet.”
“It can take a while to find just the right dress. I have some options here that I think would suit you, if you’re interested.”
“Oh thanks. Maybe another time.”
“Of course. The thing is, Mel, this dress has seen some trauma.”
“I was wondering about that. What kind of trauma?”
“Could you leave it with me for a day or two? I’ll be able to feel more when I brew.”
“Sure.” I didn’t really understand Lily’s abilities, but I knew I could trust her. “Is there anything you can tell me about it, though?”
“Such as?”
“Was . . . Could the original owner of this dress, for instance, be a murderer?”
She burst out with a surprised laugh. “A murderer? Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I really don’t think so . . . but the poor soul who last wore this dress departed this life far too soon—that much I know.”
“You mean . . . she was killed?”
“I mean she died too young. I just don’t know how or why.”
Chapter Twelve
There was one more item on my to-do list before diving back into traffic and heading for home. I drove toward the Crockett Theatre, not to further harass Skeet but to check out the tattoo parlor that Josh Avery had mentioned.
A glance in the rearview mirror made me ponder what Lily had told me about the “backwards world.” Had I really viewed something through a mystical portal when I put on Hildy’s dress? Or had I simply exper
ienced a vision, like when I first walked into that house and thought I was experiencing déjà vu, when I was in fact “seeing” bits and pieces of my mother’s memories. Was I developing more extensive psychic abilities? Did I even want to? What was I supposed to do with such rarified—and terrifying—abilities? I already had a day job.
None of those questions would be answered anytime soon. I pulled into a parking space not far from the Crockett and headed for the tattoo parlor. I walked in to find a petite, pretty young woman leaning over the beefy biceps of a customer, a lamp shining a harsh bright spotlight on his skin as though he were undergoing surgery. He winced as the woman, peering through a magnifying glass, jabbed him repeatedly with her needle.
The tattoo artist was dressed all in black, but her shoes were as shiny as mirrors. Her name was Tierney, if I recalled our introduction in the Crockett Theatre’s ladies’ lounge. I remembered how her voice rose at the end of each sentence, as though she were always asking questions.
“Got an appointment?” she asked, not looking up from her work.
“No,” I replied. “But I can wait.”
“I’ll be done in a few? But I have another appointment soon? You can look through those books if you’re just trying to figure out, like, your dream?”
Trying to figure out my dream, indeed. I gazed at the art hanging on the wall: The tattoo studio doubled as a gallery. There were scenes of people and nature, landscapes and abstracts. Some were beautiful while others were downright disturbing. All appeared to have been drawn by a different hand.
I took a seat and flipped through the books of tattoo designs. My only experience with tattoos was the transfer kind that came in boxes of children’s cereal and washed off with soap and water. Caleb had been mad for them; I put a whole book of temporary tattoos in his stocking one Christmas, and we spent the rest of the day applying them to any and all visible parts of our bodies. His father, Daniel, refused to try a single one, which was one sign among many that we weren’t right for each other.
I’d never been to a tattoo parlor, and though many people I knew sported ink, it was never something I’d given much thought to. I was surprised at how varied the designs were. There was page after page of options, from the stereotypical sailor’s tats featuring hearts devoted to mom, to New Agey fairies and elves, to all kinds of sayings in various languages. I couldn’t imagine choosing a design to imprint on my skin for a lifetime.
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