A Ghostly Light

by Juliet Blackwell

  No, I thought as I settled in behind the wheel. That wasn’t the problem. I didn’t want to phone Detective Santos because I knew from the look in his eye that he was convinced Alicia had murdered Thorn and believed I knew it, too, and probably assumed I was supporting Alicia in some kind of gender solidarity. And that meant that I had to tread carefully, because if I wasn’t absolutely sure of what I was saying, and didn’t express myself well, I would make everything worse and probably wind up incriminating Alicia.

  In short, Detective Santos made me nervous.

  Annette’s words made me smile. She was right; she used to make me very nervous, too. Still did, in some ways. But I now knew how smart she was, and how dedicated to finding justice for the victims with whom she dealt, from the humblest junkie to the wealthiest debutante. She was a great cop. So I should take her word for it that Santos, too, would impress me.

  For now, I needed to get back to work. My phone had been beeping while I was with Annette. I answered several texts—including one from Landon, Just checking in; stay away from ghosts!—made a couple of phone calls, and then drove to my friend Matt’s house in Pacific Heights, where two of my crew were putting the finishing touches on a new Murphy bed in his state-of-the-art, entirely paneled library.

  Matt’s house was also, coincidentally, the first place I’d ever seen a ghost. At least, that I knew of. Turns out, I’d probably seen one or two as a kid, but had assumed they were figments of my imagination.

  They weren’t.

  Turner Construction had been working on Matt’s house for several years at this point. Not constantly, but consistently. As with most big projects, we had finished the bulk of the work—foundation repair and upgrade, replumbing and rewiring, knocking down walls, putting up others, reimagining space, renovating the kitchen and bathrooms, re-doing HVAC, applying new stucco, and installing new moldings—in the first few months. It was the other stuff that dragged on: the surprise water issues that developed with the first rain; the wildly expensive dishwasher that didn’t work properly; the garden water feature that looked great on paper but in reality became a slimy mosquito breeding ground due to lack of water flow. There were always a thousand small, miscellaneous items that drove contractors crazy.

  And that’s not including the problems caused by the whims of the wealthy client. Matt was a lovely person and a good friend, but prone to changing his mind, as when he realized that the east-facing bedroom window he had insisted upon meant the sun would awaken him at dawn each morning. “Sorry, love, keep forgetting I’m on the West Coast,” had been his nonsensical explanation. “Be a sport and relocate it, yes?”

  I found Ramon and Emerson upstairs and hard at work, fitting together joinery, covering up unsightly hinges and nails and screws. The room smelled of freshly milled, hand-polished wood and boasted a breathtaking view of the Palace of Fine Arts and the Golden Gate Bridge. I always felt like I was sitting on a movie set when I was in this third-floor library.

  I checked the overall progress and we discussed the solution for fitting a straight molding into a crooked frame. Then Ramon, Emerson, Matt, and I had a nice visit over lunch on the terrace. One thing I loved about Matt was that even though he had made a fortune years ago as the lead singer of a wildly popular rock band, he was simple and straightforward, unaffected by fame. Everyone on the job came together at lunchtime to break bread, whether architect, project manager, gardener, or day laborer. Today Matt had arranged for lunch to be catered by an Italian deli: prosciutto and salami sandwiches and caprese salad.

  Matt had once been falsely accused of killing a man, so he listened with interest to my tale of what had happened on Lighthouse Island.

  “This is probably out of left field, as you Yanks say,” he said in his charming British accent. “But this wouldn’t have anything to do with the alleged treasure, would it?”

  “Treasure?” I asked around a mouthful of Italian cold cuts. “What alleged treasure?”

  “There’s buried treasure on some of the islands in San Francisco Bay, haven’t you heard?”

  “You’re probably thinking of Treasure Island,” suggested Emerson, slipping Dog a bite of his sandwich.

  “Which is a way cool name for a fairly boring place,” I said. “That’s the ‘island’ the military built and attached to the natural Yerba Buena Island.”

  “I went there once,” said Matt. “I kept seeing the Treasure Island exit signs on the Bay Bridge, and got curious. Drove around the island to check it out, and was sorely disappointed. I think I’d been imagining a scene reminiscent of Disneyland. Took me forever to get back on the bridge.”

  I nodded, having done the same thing once. Treasure Island was a former military base that now had a spooky ghost-town feel. There was a lot of cheap military housing, some larger abandoned buildings, a few attempts at renovating some of the structures, and incredible views. But Treasure Island was most famous locally for being difficult to merge back into traffic on the Bay Bridge.

  “Still and all,” Matt said with a shake of his head. “I thought there was something more to a treasure . . . Wish I could remember. Probably the drugs.”

  During his years as a rock musician, Matt had partied hard and abused all kinds of substances. He’d since retired, and had been clean and sober for a while now. His new wife seemed intent on his staying that way.

  “Something about a ship from Peru,” Matt mused. “It was down there during the Peruvian revolution, or something like that, and a bunch of rich people asked the captain to keep their gold for them offshore so it would be safe. But they never came to get it and the ship’s captain finally left with the treasure on board, and sailed to San Francisco.”

  “And buried it on an island in the bay?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” Matt said. “Not ringing any bells?”

  I looked at Emerson and Ramon. They both shook their heads.

  “I hate to admit it, but I have absolutely no idea when the Peruvian revolution took place,” I said. “Not even which century. Anybody?”

  Ramon shook his head. “Ours started in 1910 in Mexico, but it lasted another ten years.”

  “We had one in 1944 in Guatemala,” offered Emerson, handing me the salad. “But then the US unseated our democratically elected president in 1954.”

  “Oh, um, sorry about that,” I mumbled around a mouthful of food. I never knew quite what to say in these situations.

  Emerson shrugged. “United Fruit Company had a lot of clout, back then.”

  “I’m impressed with both of you,” said Matt. “Personally, I can barely remember our own revolution.”

  “You guys didn’t have one, remember?” I said. “We colonials did, though: kicked you out in 1776.”

  “Hey, we had the ‘glorious revolution,’” Matt said. “Not terribly exciting, all things considered. Still stuck with the queen and all that rot.” I smiled. I knew he was secretly enthralled with Prince William, his wife Kate, and their roly-poly royal babies.

  “So, that’s all you got?” I said. “Maybe some captain sailed in with treasure from Peru and buried it on an island in the bay?”

  “It’s possible. Remember what happened here in this house? How those guys were looking for jewels from back in the Gold Rush days? It was a wild place back then, the Barbary Coast and all that.”

  True. Maybe I should run the idea by my friend Trish, who worked at the California Historical Society. Still, I recalled that the treasure map I found had shown the keeper’s buildings on the island, so unless the Peruvian revolution took place after 1871, it couldn’t have applied.

  “Matt, I have an unrelated question for you,” I said after Ramon and Emerson excused themselves and went back to work. Matt was fixing me an espresso with a huge brass contraption he’d had shipped over from Milan. “Have you ever heard of the Palm Project?”

  “Sure.”

 
“You have?”

  “It’s up the coast, isn’t it? Past Green Gulch Farm?”

  “That’s what I hear, yes. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  The espresso machine belched steam and made a racket, while dark brown goodness streamed into a delicate little cup.

  “I don’t know much, except that it was offered to me as an option when I needed rehab. I went to the New Leaf Clinic instead, but to tell you the truth, I can’t remember exactly what factored into my decision. Why?”

  “The fellow who died on Lighthouse Island, Thorn Walker, had graduated from the program recently. He was very proud of himself.”

  Matt nodded. “It’s a pretty big deal to make it through one of those programs. You have to face some hard realities, and commit to changing your life, to changing yourself.”

  “You believe people can fundamentally change, then?”

  “With the proper motivation,” he said with a quick nod. “If I didn’t, I’d be dead by now, wouldn’t I?”

  I nodded, sipped my espresso, and pondered that for a moment. “One more thing: You got pretty close to other people in the program, right?”

  “Sure. You can’t bare your soul to people without feeling a certain closeness, can you? No secrets, everything out in the open, totally vulnerable.”

  Thorn didn’t know a lot of local people, but he’d been at the Palm Project long enough to claim to have made some fundamental changes. Might he have shared some secrets that were worth killing over?

  I thanked Matt for lunch, the conversation, and the espresso, and drove north over the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin to Wakefield, Ellis Elrich’s Scottish castle retreat center. My crew had long since finished reconstructing the old stone walls that had been shipped over from Scotland, but as always there were thousands of details: interiors, baseboards, painting, and everything it took to transform an ancient Scottish monastery into beautiful guest quarters and conference facilities. In order to meet an insane deadline for a grand opening, we had divided the project into several phases, and were now on the third phase. This included creating extra accommodations in several outbuildings, as well as installing decorative landscaping not included in the organic garden and composting stations.

  Today I needed to help my guys rejigger the bathroom layouts. We had managed to carve lavatories out of the former monk’s cells—needless to say, back in the day the monks didn’t have plumbing, much less en suite bathrooms—but the way the architect had drawn them up wasn’t meshing with reality.

  There was a lot of grumbling on this job, partly because of the commute. Most of my crew lived in the East Bay—in Oakland or further out, in Concord and beyond—and would be glad when the job moved to Lighthouse Island, which would be much closer. Then, of course, they would grumble about having to park their trucks at Point Moro and taking the boat over instead of being able to drive to the jobsite. It was always something. Luckily, most of my crew were easily cheered up with donuts.

  I was not above bribery.

  In addition to helping with the bathrooms, I was anxious to see Ellis Elrich and get an update on Alicia. But when I knocked on the door of his house, it was opened by my wannabe innkeeper friend, in the flesh.

  “Alicia.”

  We hugged. And held on for a long moment.

  Why is it that some people seem to live charmed lives, while others take a pounding at every turn? Alicia had grown up with an abusive alcoholic father, married a charming fellow who turned out to be an abuser himself, was forced to go in hiding to escape him, and now stood accused of his murder. Why had she pulled such a short stick?

  Other than getting divorced, and my mother dying too early, I had lived a remarkably charmed life.

  “Ellis hired the best lawyer,” said Alicia as she poured us cups of coffee. I thought about my earlier discussion with Luz; maybe she was right, I should consider cutting down on my caffeine consumption. But not today. “Her name’s Marla Chu. And I haven’t actually been charged with anything.” The “yet” hung in the air, unspoken. “And anyway, I didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m sure it will all be worked out. Of course I had motive to harm Thorn, but as I explained to Detective Santos, that doesn’t mean that I did harm him.”

  “And what did Detective Santos say?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Alicia?”

  “He didn’t seem convinced. But then, I suppose he’s just doing his job. Why should he believe me? Marla says they’re probably doing forensic testing and that sort of thing. If someone else’s prints are on the knife, I should be off the hook.”

  I hated to be the one to point out the obvious, but . . . “Didn’t you say you grabbed the knife as he fell?”

  “Yes, but we’re hoping someone else’s prints are on the knife as well. Or there might be evidence that someone else was there at the top of the tower. There were only a handful of people on the island when this occurred; how difficult could it be to figure out the killer?”

  Faces flashed through my mind: Terry Re, Paul Halstrom, Major Williston. Happily, my people had left the island before the murder. But did that mean much? There were no controlled borders; Thorn had pulled his boat to shore elsewhere on the island than the yacht harbor, and, as Alicia had pointed out, in calm weather a person in an inflatable dinghy could make it across to the island from the Richmond shore easily enough. So who was to say there wasn’t someone else on the island yesterday? Someone who landed on the island unseen, climbed the wide-open tower, and had done the dirty deed.

  But who? And almost as important, why?

  Some random person who held a grudge against Thorn? Another ex-wife, perhaps? Or a girlfriend? Or even more likely: the loved one of someone with whom he’d been violent, or had stalked?

  Or . . . could this all be about buried treasure? Could Thorn have known the location of something, and refused to tell? Or maybe he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? But how coincidental that Alicia would be working on that same island? And if the incident wasn’t directly tied to Thorn at all—if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—then was there still danger surrounding my lighthouse project?

  It was all very complicated.

  I spent the rest of the day trying to gracefully shoehorn modern bathrooms into medieval-era stone chambers. Though it was frustrating, it was a lot more straightforward—and a darned sight more fun—than figuring out what had happened to Thorn.

  By a long shot.

  Chapter Twelve

  I honked the car horn lightly at the pack of students hanging out in front of the Pacific Heights high school. Caleb looked up, said something to his friends, and ambled over to the car.

  “Hey, Dog!” he said, tossing his backpack in the rear seat and encouraging Dog to yield the shotgun position. As he strapped on his seat belt Caleb asked, “So, is this Landon person going to be at dinner?”

  “Hello, sweetie pie,” I said. “What, no kiss?”

  He snorted. “So is he?”

  “Just like last night,” I nodded. “And the night before.”

  “That was sort of my point.”

  “I know you love Graham, Caleb. So do I. But . . . none of this is Landon’s fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way it is. Life is . . . complicated.”

  He shrugged and stared out the window.

  Then we stopped by the Russian Hill project to pick up Stephen.

  “How was your day?” I asked, my tone forced cheeriness.

  “I have three new blisters,” he whined, inspecting the palms of his pale hands.

  “Well, girls like blisters. Right, Caleb?”

  Caleb shrugged and put his earphones in. I turned up NPR and headed into the thick traffic on the Bay Bridge inching toward Oakland, glad to be headed home.

  The old farmhouse was redolent of spices and ground beef.
As we walked in the kitchen door, we found Dad at the old Wedgewood stove, making enchiladas. It was one of several dishes he had learned how to make from some Latino college students who stayed with us for a few days while I busted the ghost in their apartment. The students preferred cheese in their enchiladas, but Dad was a big believer in beef.

  “Hey, babe,” said Dad as I kissed his cheek. “Enchiladas and guacamole for dinner. Landon just got in.”

  “He did indeed,” Landon said, stepping into the doorway from the living room. Caleb rolled his eyes and went upstairs to his room.

  “He’ll come around,” said Dad.

  “That’s what I said,” said Stephen.

  “Before he goes off to college, you think?” I asked.

  “Give him time,” Landon said, and gave me a kiss before opening a hearty Bordeaux and pouring each of us a glass. We sat at the kitchen table watching Dad cook while Stephen regaled us with a funny story about getting a piece of sawdust in his eye and sending a plank flying. Stephen was a lovely person but a truly wretched construction worker.

  “You think that’s bad,” said Dad as he shredded a mix of Monterey Jack and cheddar cheese to melt on top of the enchiladas. “I remember one time . . .”

  He continued, making us laugh with his own funny story of the worst worker he’d ever had, on a job in the Mission, who forgot to turn off the water before opening a pipe, resulting in a waterfall from the fourth floor; and the time a bathtub fell from the second floor, clear through the ceiling of the first.

  A home owner prone to anxiety should never listen to construction workers swap stories after hours. One would think working on a home was nothing but plumbing snafus and falling bathtubs.

  As we chatted, I realized Landon was staring at me. I was trying hard to pretend I didn’t notice, but couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

  “What?” I finally whispered.

  “Do you have any gowns?”

  “Gowns? Like . . . nightgowns?”

  “Evening gowns.”

  “You mean, dressier than this?” I looked down at the bright green sparkly shift I was wearing under my sweatshirt. It was one of Stephen’s Vegas-inspired designs. “This is one of my favorites.”