Stan and I headed down the hall to the office to catch up on business. I showed him the Facebook page set up by the Crockett Caretakers, and he showed me a stack of phone messages inquiring about how to deal with “unwelcome visitors” and asking about my ghost-busting services.
“Already referred those to Olivier Galopin,” Stan said. “He should pay you a finder’s fee.”
“I’ll suggest that to him,” I said. “Stan, let me ask you something: Have you ever had any doubts about Mateo?”
“Our Mateo?”
I nodded.
“No, why? Did something happen?”
“Nothing really. It’s just that his name came up last night with Inspector Crawford.”
“Mel, I know he has a past, but I would no more suspect him of homicide than I would suspect you. You know him as well as I do.”
“You’re right. I agree. Just wanted to check.”
I called Mateo, but he didn’t pick up. I left him a message to call me back.
“They’ve been awfully patient,” I said, riffling through my other phone messages.
“Who?” asked Stan.
“The Xerxes Group. Nobody’s called to see where the project stands. I figured after Thibodeaux was hurt, someone would get in touch.”
“It’s only been a few days.”
“I get that, but they lost their first contractor, finally signed a second contractor—us. Then their guy on the scene, Thibodeaux, gets hurt and is out of commission—and nobody from the consortium that is investing millions of dollars in the project reaches out for a status update? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Like I said, it hasn’t been that long.”
“How long is it before we normally hear from clients during construction delays?”
“That’s a good point.”
“Here’s another question,” I said. “Who’s the city liaison for the Crockett Theatre?”
“No one’s listed,” said Stan. “I asked Gregory Thibodeaux about that when we were going over the initial proposal. He said there had been turnover in the city office and he’d get back to me with the name. Never did.”
“That’s odd.”
“There are a number of odd things about this job.”
“You can say that again. But, Stan, you should see the place.”
“These photos are pretty impressive—that’s for sure,” he said as he flipped through the pictures posted on the Facebook page. “There are a lot more here than what Thibodeaux sent.”
“It’s an amazing theater. It’s going to be a masterpiece when we’re done. It’s not particularly wheelchair accessible at the moment, but that’s something we’ll be amending.”
“I have no doubt,” said Stan.
“Gregory mentioned the consortium renovated a small theater in Oregon; do you have the name there?”
“Let’s see . . .” Stan selected a folder from his meticulously kept files, and scanned a few papers. “The Strand, in Roseburg.”
I looked it up on the computer. The photos were charming: The Strand was a much smaller theater than the Crockett, but featured a lovely neon marquee and a sweet façade with an octagonal ticket kiosk of its own.
But then I found a newspaper article stating that the entire city block had been sold to a developer, and the theater torn down. I felt a chill run over me.
“What a shame,” said Stan, reading the article over my shoulder. “Not to mention a waste of time and resources. Why tear down a building that’s just been renovated?”
“Let’s find out,” I said, calling Gregory Thibodeaux.
This time he picked up. He said he was feeling much better, and should be back to work on Monday, adding, “I saw you on the news yesterday.”
“Yeah . . . my fifteen minutes of fame are up, or so I hope. Anyway, it wasn’t intentional. I sort of got ambushed by the Sepety family.”
“I think that’s their specialty.”
“Still, they’re grieving a profound loss, so I suppose we should cut them some slack.”
“Of course. I still can’t believe what happened to poor Isadora. And we had just been talking to her, not two hours before.”
I nodded, then realized I was on the phone. “Yes, it’s hard to accept.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you called. I wanted to let you know the latest from the police is that the scene should be released by Monday, but there’s no immediate rush. Another week or two won’t matter in the long run, and it’s critical that the police have everything they need.”
“Of course. Thanks.” No way was I waiting a week or two—I was itching to get started at the Crockett, now more than ever. “Gregory, do you remember seeing anyone before you fell?”
“I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember anything after going up to the balcony. It’s really strange, as though I had blacked out, like a drunk, which is odd because I don’t drink. The doctors say with head injuries it’s normal not to be able to remember what happened, but it’s an odd sensation.”
“I’ll bet. One more thing: I wanted to ask you about the city liaison.”
“What about him?”
“Who is it?”
“The name must be in the paperwork. You probably overlooked it.”
“Don’t think so.” I might have overlooked such a thing, but Stan was a details guy. “I just checked.”
“Let me see.” I heard papers rustling. “Here it is: Alan Peterson. I’ll send you his contact info.”
“Alan Peterson . . . Why do I know that name?”
“I have no idea. Head injury, remember?” He chuckled. “I can milk that excuse for a while, don’t you think?”
“Lemonade out of lemons,” I said absentmindedly, quoting my mother. “Oh, before I let you go—you said the Xerxes Group funded the renovation of a theater in Roseburg, Oregon. Did you know it was recently torn down?”
There was a long pause. “What? Are you sure?”
“According to an article in the local newspaper, complete with before and after pictures.”
“I’ll look into it.”
* * *
* * *
I stashed my backup EVP recorder, EMF reader, and thermal camera in my backpack, grabbed Dog’s leash, bid good-bye to Stan and Dad, and made plans with Landon to meet up this evening in San Francisco for the big double date.
The pup was ecstatic to be invited along on a car ride, even though he had a tendency toward motion sickness. We had been working on it, and he was better than he used to be, but the struggle was real.
We headed to our new house—MelStone, maybe?
I exited the freeway at Grand Avenue and, as I waited for the light to change, studied the Grand Lake Theatre on the corner. It, too, was a grand old movie palace—not nearly as over-the-top as the Crockett, but still built in the florid style of the early movie palaces.
I had gone to many movies at the Grand Lake over the years; it was my favorite theater in Oakland, hands down. In the lobby, the owner had put historic camera equipment on exhibit, and a panel of antique Tiffany stained glass was behind bulletproof glass. I remembered wondering if anyone had ever tried to steal those precious items, though it would have been tough to get them out of the lobby unnoticed. A large glass panel was not something that could be snuck out under a sweatshirt.
Could there be something similarly precious hidden amongst the junk and ephemera in the Crockett? Something that had been ignored through the years of abandonment and neglect? Maybe the Crockett’s ghosts had protected their home by keeping scavengers and looters at bay. But the squatters lived there—had Isadora found something? And if she had, why would she want to confide in Skeet, of all people?
I pulled up to our “new” old house. All was quiet this morning. When we’re behind schedule, we work on Saturdays, but this job was on schedule so far
, and whenever possible I liked to give my crew a full weekend off to spend time with their families.
And at the moment, I was happy to have the place to myself. I wanted to check on the progress of the renovation, but also maybe have a little chat with a ghost named Hildy.
In the yard there were a stack of slate intended for the backyard patio, a pile of two-by-fours, a dumpster, and a bright blue Porta Potti that we had tried, with only partial success, to camouflage with lattice.
Inside the house, evidence of the ongoing renovation was everywhere. Power tools, air compressors, lumber of various sizes and quality, and above all the scent of freshly sawn wood. I took a deep breath. To me, this was the beloved aroma of childhood. The old lathe-and-plaster walls were peppered with exploratory holes, and in one corner the 1950s-era grass wallpaper had been pulled off to reveal a penciled message underneath. I hurried over, hoping to read some amusing old graffiti, or maybe even a secret message, but saw instead: “Splice to center of batten piece.”
Oh well. Even old construction notes like this one were a fun connection to the past.
This was my favorite moment in the construction process: When the historic bones of a home were laid bare, but the possibilities were still limitless. Would this wall be better moved or taken out altogether? Should we replace the French doors that used to be here, or leave as is for more wall space? How would that stained glass window look once it was cleaned and releaded? I loved creating peace of mind by installing new electrical wiring and copper piping, playing with the paint colors and wallpapers. The woodwork on this home, miracle of miracles, had never been painted, which was rare for a home that had been around for nearly a hundred years. I thought of the back hallways of the Crockett Theatre, painted a putrid pink. I would have to make that right.
Despite all the frustrations, despite the difficult clients and the cost overruns and the surprises behind every wall, I was clearly in the right business.
Dog sniffed around, seemingly unperturbed. I had brought him with me partly to give him a walk in the woods after we were done, and partly because he was the only one of my family, besides myself, who could sense ghosts.
Ostensibly I was here today to start going through all that junk/fabulous stuff in the attic. But I imagined I might well also run into one Hildy Hildecott.
I didn’t know much more about Hildy than I had yesterday, but I trusted Lily’s assessment of the dress, which was that Hildy didn’t “feel” like a murderer. And I wanted to ask Hildy if she had indeed spoken with my mom. If that went well, maybe I’d also ask if she had any idea about how she died, why she was still hanging around this house, and what I might do for her.
As I mounted the stairs, I heard something.
Music. Very old music, as from the 1920s.
Then something—or someone—bumping around in the attic.
Those of us who have contact with the spirit dimensions, who are able to access the portals through the veil that separates our worlds, are few. My mother was one. I am another. As Lily Ivory had pointed out, it was a “privilege.”
“It’s a privilege,” I said to Dog as we climbed the stairs. “I can’t chicken out.” Dog indicated that he agreed with me completely.
But when we reached the upstairs landing, Dog started doing the strange crouching, mewling thing that he did when he sensed ghosts. He wouldn’t be able to go up into the attic anyway; he wasn’t about to scale those ladder steps, and he was too big for me to carry.
“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”
I held the EMF reader in one hand and had the EVP recorder strapped to me. I took a moment to ground myself, stroked the ring on my necklace, then pulled down the hatch, folded out the ladder, and climbed the steps up to the attic space.
Hildy was out of her closet, making me wonder: Did she have access to the entire house, then? Or just the attic?
She was dancing to a scratchy old song playing on an ancient radio. A radio that wasn’t plugged in.
“Have you ever heard such a thing?” she asked, panting, the look on her face delighted. “I finally figured out how to work this piece of machinery!”
The radio was probably from the 1940s. I had never given much thought to how ghosts from different eras might interact with items from the current world, but I supposed it made sense that if she was trapped up in the attic space for eternity, she had time to figure it out. Where the music was coming from, exactly, was another question.
“Do you know how to do the Charleston?” Hildy asked, exhilarated.
“I’m not big on dancing,” I said.
The singer on the radio held a last long note, and the song came to an end. A slower song came on.
Hildy stood, breathing hard, and tilted her head. “You don’t go to the movies. You don’t go dancing . . . What do you do, honey?”
“I work a lot.”
“But ya gotta spend some time havin’ fun, too, right?” A troubled look came into her eyes, and I was sorry to see her frown. “Life’s too short, doll. Take it from me.”
“That’s good advice,” I said.
“At least you’re dressed up real nice,” Hildy said in a perkier tone, her bright blue eyes taking in today’s outfit. It was one of Stephen’s recent creations, a fiery red shift—it seemed appropriate for the Fourth of July—striped with fringe. I had topped it with my dad’s old leather flight jacket to ward off the early-morning chill. “Is that your boyfriend’s jacket? He a soldier? I just love a man in uniform.”
“It’s my dad’s jacket, actually.”
Another wave of sadness seemed to pass over her. “I had a fella in the army once. Real nice fella.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went to fight the Germans. Died in France, they say.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It happens. Anyway, he sent me a postcard from Paris. Can you beat that? Prettiest place he ever saw, he said. Later, my Jimmy said he’d take me to Paris one day, but he never did.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Paris, too.”
“Good for you! You keep your dreams, honey. They’re the only thing a girl has sometimes.” As Hildy spoke she roamed the attic, looking at things: an old lamp, a rocking chair, a stack of books, a bunch of old playbills. As she trailed her fingers over them, I wondered if she was able to open boxes, manipulate them the way she had the radio. I felt I should be more of a scientist, try to figure out some of the details of how this ghost thing worked.
But as I was formulating a question in my head, she said: “Gotta watch out for yourself, ya know, ’cause when it comes to girls like us, no one else will.”
“That’s good advice,” I said, wondering what experiences had led her to this conclusion.
“Only one I really miss—only one I’ll never stop missing—is my sweet Darlene. Jimmy promised he’d take care of her, that he’d take care of us both. And I believed him. I really did. That last night, we was at the picture palace in the city. He said he had something to show me. But I never seen it . . . He dropped it. You believe that? And then after, his brother showed up, and that’s when . . .”
“What happened?”
She shrugged.
“Can you tell me about that last night?”
No response.
“Who is Darlene?” I asked.
“Right here,” she said, pausing in front of a sepia-toned photograph of a young girl dressed in lace, holding a bouquet of flowers that trailed from her lap. Hildy sighed. “Isn’t she just the prettiest thing you ever did see?”
“She’s beautiful. Her name’s Darlene?”
She nodded. “My daughter.”
“And who is Jimmy?”
The song on the radio sped up until the words turned to jibberish. From the hall below, I heard Dog let out a high-pitched howl.
Hildy
froze. She hesitated so long I thought she wouldn’t answer. But finally, in a voice somehow more menacing for its calm quiet, she turned to me and said: “Why, ain’t you read the papers? Jimmy’s the man I stabbed to death, dontcha know?”
Hildy rushed toward me, her face twisted in anger, reaching out, as though she wanted to kill me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ever the professional ghost buster, I screamed and fell back onto my butt. The EVP reader flew out of my hands and crashed, and I felt the recorder in my pocket crunch under me as I fell.
My heart pounded and I felt nauseated, but Hildy was gone and the radio had fallen silent.
Dog was barking like crazy.
Still shaking, I gathered up the detritus of the ghost-busted equipment and deposited it into the ample pockets of the leather jacket, then carefully climbed down the ladder and sank onto the dusty floor of the upstairs landing. Dog climbed into my lap, all seventy pounds of him, and began frantically licking me.
I sat there, hugging him and murmuring reassuring words until my heart stopped pounding.
Well, that was interesting. Hildy had apparently murdered her lover, the father of her child. One Jimmy Delucci, I presumed. What had happened to little Darlene? How old had she been when Hildy died? And why was there a photo of her in this house? For that matter, why was Hildy in this house?
Also, I hadn’t had a chance to ask Hildy about my mom. “Much less go through any of the boxes. Those are both going back on the to-do list,” I said to Dog, who supported my decision.
What now?
Trish had mentioned that Lorraine Delucci, Calvin Delucci’s widow, lived in Montclair. It was a beautiful part of the Oakland hills overlooking the Town and the bay, with San Francisco in the background. It wasn’t far, and I had planned on taking Dog for a hike in the woods near there anyway.
I dialed information and found a listing for Lorraine Delucci in Montclair. That was easy.
Feeling like quite the supersleuth, I dialed the number and explained that I was working on the renovation of the Crockett Theatre. Lorraine Delucci was pleasant enough but hesitated when I asked if I could come by and speak with her about the history of the building, claiming she didn’t know much. When I explained that I was going to be in her neighborhood walking my dog anyway, she said she would love to meet my dog and invited me to stop by for a chat.
The Last Curtain Call Page 20