I stared after him, finally lifting my glass to my lips and draining it. I walked home…it wasn't that far, but there were a few steep hills between my place and lower Pacific Heights. However, the walk and fresh air did me some good. I kept my senses and sights on alert for Edgar and the Watchers, not that I knew what they looked like…
Chapter 11
I didn't sleep much that night and when I finally drifted off, I was plagued with strange dreams about evil doctors and their unfriendly apprentices, specifically Edgar. After some breakfast and a lot of coffee, I decided that I needed to know more about Dr. Vokkel. So I retired to the couch, laptop in hand, and began to scour the Internet. Unfortunately, I didn't find a whole lot more than what I already knew.
I wondered if I could locate his house, perhaps take a stroll by it and see what I could see. The thought intrigued me so, still having access to my real estate data bases from work, I logged onto the one we used to determine property ownership and plugged in Vokkel's full name. I wasn't surprised to find that no one with the last name Vokkel owned property in the city; it wasn't uncommon, especially for rich or eccentric people, to put the properties into corporations or trusts that bore little or no resemblance to themselves. I tried some variations and happened upon a corporation under the initials of FV. The property asset was in Pacific Heights, and I jotted down the address with the intention of taking a little walk later that afternoon.
The address was in a section of Pacific Heights where you would typically find nothing but mansions, pretty swanky digs if you could afford them. I stood on the opposite side of the street under the shadow of a large tree. The place was pretty impressive, a stunning Second Empire Victorian, complete with slate mansard roof, double door entrance, and central tower that rose above the main structure. The house was painted Charleston Green, so dark it was almost black. It was surrounded by an eight foot tall brick wall with a wrought iron gate in the center. Most of the brick was covered with rich green ivy that played nicely off the house color. To the left of the gate was a polished brass panel, and as I stood staring, the mailman approached and pressed a button in the panel while digging some sort of package out of his pouch. Beyond the gate I could see the large double oak front doors. One opened and Edgar stepped onto the porch, made his way to the gate, accepted the package without a word to the mail carrier, and turned back to the house. The mail carrier moved on, but when Edgar reached the top of the stoop, he turned and looked right at me.
I was startled; not only was I under the shadow of a large tree, but I was standing partially behind its massive trunk. To make matters worse, the sun was shining directly in Edgar's eyes, yet he wasn't squinting. We stared at each other for over a minute. Finally he motioned me forward with a wave of his hand. Without having any memory of crossing the street, I suddenly found myself standing at the front gate. I felt like I was in some sort of trance, conscious of my surroundings, but unable to control myself. He walked to meet me, and when we were face to face he said, “Mr. Sinclair, Dr. Vokkel would like to make your acquaintance. Come in.”
I couldn't say a word in response, but when he opened the gate I went through it and followed him up the walkway and into the house. Somewhere deep inside my head I could hear screaming, a warning telling me to turn and run, but I couldn't seem to heed it. If Edgar said anything more, I didn't hear it, and the next thing I knew I was alone in a large foyer.
The floors were highly polished marble that reflected the light coming off the ornate chandelier above my head. But even with the light on, the room was dark, probably due to the rich blue wall color and dark woodwork. To the right side of the foyer, a carved staircase ascended, with a hallway flanking its left side, I assumed that was where Edgar had disappeared to. A painting hung halfway up the staircase, and I moved closer to get a better look at it. It was the only artwork in the space. It was large, probably close to six feet in length and four feet in width. The edges of the canvas were dark and faded inward to lighter shades of blues, almost like a twilight sky. The eye was drawn to the center of the painting where a form appeared, perhaps a person, but to me it looked like a ghost—more specifically, like the swirling grey ghosts that met the tip of my trusty number two pencil. As if to confirm this, another form, yellowish and more human in shape, seemed to be pointing at the grey mass.
I was seeing all of this in a dreamlike state when suddenly car horns started blaring and I heard yelling. It shook me, woke me from whatever spell I was under, and I took one more look at the painting, shivered, and then quickly left the house. When I reached the gate I could see my saviors; a delivery van had double parked, blocking the narrow street and making it impossible for anything bigger than a bicycle to pass. Several cars and a trash truck were all trying to get by. I didn't wait around to see who was going to win—I needed to get away from Edgar and Vokkel as fast as I could, so I ran.
Chapter 12
At that point, I felt a bit on the loony-tunes side of things. After all, I'd been warned about Edgar and Vokkel, and yet I not only went to their house, I got caught and I went inside, where they could have killed me, cut me into little pieces, and sent me down the garbage disposal without anyone being the wiser.
At some point I had stopped running and was now walking in a daze of confusion, paying little attention to my surroundings. I was surprised when I found myself suddenly standing in front of my building, with no recollection of having directed myself there. And I wasn't alone.
Most buildings in the city didn't have front gardens or lawns, but mine had a small front courtyard that recessed into the building. It was adorned with a few topiary trees in large planters and two stone benches flanking the double front doors. Sitting on one of these benches, fiddling with something in her hands, was a woman with long, slightly tangled jet black hair that covered most of her face. She was wearing all black clothing that looked a little rough around the edges, as if she'd been on the road for a while. A large, battered backpack was sitting on the bench next to her, which seemed to confirm her vagabond condition.
When she noticed me, she turned in my direction. Her skin was pale and smooth and accentuated by very dark lipstick. Most importantly, she was wearing the Harry Potter/John Lennon glasses. I stopped abruptly and began to dig around in my pockets for my little yellow friend.
I must have been staring too, because she suddenly said, “What are you lookin' at?”
I stepped back in surprise. The ghosts had never talked to me before. Then I noticed what she'd been so preoccupied with. She had been reading something on her cell phone; my ghosts weren't of this day and age, so no cell phones. The second thing that struck me was that her glasses weren't eyeglasses, but sunglasses…although in my defense, the lens tint was very light for the most part. She must have been a real woman, and of course the “real woman” thought made me laugh out loud, which made her scowl.
“Sorry, you just startled me. Can I help you? Are you waiting for someone?” I asked.
She stood up and her hair swung away from her face, giving me a clearer view. She wasn't super-model pretty, but there was certainly something about her that made you want to stare just a second or two past what would be considered polite.
“Of course I'm waiting for someone, why else would I be sitting here?” she asked sarcastically.
I arched one eyebrow and replied with equal sarcasm. “And who might that be?”
She didn't lose the attitude when she responded, “I'm waiting for my aunt, that's who.”
She was starting to piss me off. “Does your aunt have a name?”
This time she snickered and said, “Of course she has a name.”
That was it! I'd had a rough day so far and wasn't in the mood for this lady, and suddenly wished she was a ghost so I could poke her with my trusty number two and go about my business. Instead, I tossed out the old standby for whenever I found an unwanted visitor in our little courtyard.
“Lady, this is private property. Unless you have legitim
ate business with one of the residents, get out of here or I'll call the cops.”
She snickered again, but then it turned into a smirk that was almost a smile and said, “Sorry. I'm waiting for my Aunt Justine, Justine Wilkinson.”
Now that was a real problem. Justine had told me on many occasions that she was an only child and had no living family. I was immediately suspicious and started to reach into my pocket for my cell phone. Perhaps calling the police wasn't a bad idea after all.
“I know her and she doesn't have any siblings or family for that matter. I'm calling the cops now. You have until I finish dialing to get out of here,” I said as I entered the pass-code on my phone.
The woman shrugged and reached for her backpack, shouldering it with surprising ease despite its size, and said, “Call 'em if you want. Justine just sent me a text and said she'd be here soon. I'll wait on the sidewalk.” She walked past me and plopped down on the curb, dropping the backpack as she did so.
I wasn't sure what to do. Should I wait to see if Justine really was on her way, or should I just call the cops? I decided to go inside and wait on the steps in the lobby. If Justine showed up soon and recognized the woman, then at least I would feel better about her loitering.
The woman was right. Justine arrived by cab not ten minutes later. I watched them hug before they both turned to enter the building. I didn't want to confront her again, so I high-tailed it up the stairs before they made it to the door.
I thought I'd check in with Justine in a little while to be sure all was well. I waited fifteen minutes and then called, and she answered with her usual cheerful tone. I'd learned a while ago that Justine preferred straightforward people, so I didn't bother trying to sugarcoat my concerns.
“Hi Justine, how are you?”
She recognized my voice immediately. “Oh George dear, I'm just fabulous. How are you?”
“I'm good. I wanted to check in on you. There was a woman waiting for you earlier. She wasn't exactly friendly. Is everything okay?” I asked.
She laughed mischievously. “Yes dear, everything is fine. That was my niece Billy…well she's my cousin's granddaughter, but niece is much easier to explain. I do apologize dear. The girl can be a bit brazen at times. She mentioned your meeting and I intended to ring you. Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? Be here at seven dear—smooch, smooch.” She hung up before I could respond. I suddenly had dinner plans with my favorite neighbor and her brazen niece.
Chapter 13
I don't like showing up to dinner invitations without an offering of some sort, so I grabbed my keys and headed to the market on the corner. The proprietor of Albert's Market and Deli was none other than Bob, Albert's son and a connoisseur of fine wines; thus he stocked the market with quite a selection. Since I had no idea what Justine had on the menu, I decided to buy a red and a white. After a jovial discussion with Bob about baseball (the Giants were his second love, wine his first), I explained my dilemma and he helped me select two bottles of moderately expensive wine. The whole trip took less than twenty minutes, giving me several hours to kill before I was expected for dinner.
The day had informally introduced me to two very strange people: Edgar, the mysterious assistant of Frederick Vokkel, and Billy, the unpleasant niece of Justine that wasn't really Justine's niece. I was curious about them both, but I didn't know Edgar's last name, so I knew that would be a bust. I also didn't know Billy's last name, but perhaps a search on Justine would net me some information about her cousin and I could go from there.
I'd never thought to look up Justine on the Internet. We were close friends and I assumed she'd told me about the important stuff already, which was why I was surprised to find that she had her own Wikipedia page. It detailed her lineage, early life and education, charitable contributions, and the fact that she was still the majority shareholder in the company her father had started more than eighty years ago. Justine had never mentioned any involvement in the company, so I assumed she let someone else run it and she just collected a check. The page had hyperlinks for her father and the company itself, so I started with dear old Dad.
Justin Wilkinson had been a dock worker in his early teenage years and had managed to get hooked up with a shipping company and work his way up rather quickly—apparently he was a quick study. Eventually he gained control of said company and from there he expanded on a regular basis. The company was now one of the largest international shipping firms in the world. I was sort of surprised at the modesty of his only daughter. It was clear that she was well off, but no one would know by Justine's home and her lifestyle that she was that wealthy.
I scanned the page for any mention of other relatives and located what I was looking for toward the bottom. William Wilkinson, Justin's only brother, was listed as one of the company's officers. He had been brought in as a manager and as the company grew, he grew with it. He took a position in the hierarchy in the 1940's and stayed there until his death in 1959. It went on to say he was survived by his only child, a daughter named Wilhelmina. The fact that both men had named their only daughters after themselves wasn't lost on me.
Since Wilhelmina was the only relative listed aside from Justine's father and uncle, I typed in her name, using Wilkinson as the last name and adding San Francisco to the search in the hopes that her activities were local. The combination produced manageable results, so I began to scan them, hoping something would jump out at me. On page two I found a link titled The Haunted City. A Wilhelmina Wilkinson was listed with it, so I clicked that. It turned out to be an old article from a periodical that was circulated in the 1970's by a paranormal research group that focused on haunted places in San Francisco.
This particular article was focused on haunted people, particularly the socialite niece of shipping mogul Justin Wilkinson of San Francisco. According to the article, Billy, as they affectionately called her, was able to see ghosts. In the interview, she described these ghosts as cruel apparitions that would appear when someone was ill. She went on to say that she began to kill them by— you guessed it… poking them. The writer described Billy as an artist, whose paintings were displayed at the Motique Art Gallery on Haight Street. The article didn't say much more, so I looked up the gallery. It was still around.
Motique was founded in 1975 by a group of painters and sculptors that had been unable to get their work into more reputable (and profitable) galleries. Today it still displayed and sold the work of the unknowns, some of which had gone on to be famous. The left side of the main webpage had several options to find out more, one of which read “Past Artists.” That sounded promising so I clicked it, and halfway down the page I found her, Wilhelmina Wilkinson. It listed her vital statistics, the fact that she'd left a sizable sum to the gallery upon her death, and that she was one of their original artists. It also listed the titles of several of her paintings, the most famous one called “What Haunts Me,” which I recognized immediately. The painting was sold shortly after she died to an anonymous collector and hadn't been seen since. I wondered if I should tell them where it was. There were other paintings as well and I clicked each one to get a better look. All of Wilhelmina's work was similar; dark and haunting. The last painting I viewed was a landscape and looked familiar. I realized why later that evening.
Chapter 14
At six-thirty I showered and dressed in khakis, a button down collar shirt, and a pair of polished, lace-up black leather shoes. Justine wasn't formal, but she abhorred sloppy apparel, which made me think of Billy and her disheveled road-weary appearance. Taking the two bottles of wine, I left my apartment and walked the twenty feet to Justine's front door. After a quick jab at the doorbell, I was greeted by Anne, Justine's “companion” for lack of a better word. Anne maintained the household, occasionally drove Justine here and there, and was an amazing cook. Although most of the building occupants were well off, Justine was the only one I knew of that had live-in help. Anne was a little intimidating if you didn't know her; she was about 5' 7” and sturdy,
with broad shoulders and a stand-offish demeanor. That's not to say she was rude, she just wasn't the friendliest person if she didn't know you, and she was extremely protective of Justine, which made her A-okay in my book.
As I mentioned before, my apartment and Justine's apartment occupied the sixth floor, which was also the top floor of the building. My humble space was on the smaller side, while Justine's was simply huge. She had told me all about the building's history; it started off as an apartment building, and at some point was converted into a tenancy-in-common building, which was similar to a condominium structure, but not quite the same. As the individual apartments were sold, many of the one and two bedroom units were purchased in pairs and converted to larger dwellings. Justine's was actually three units combined into one, making it the largest in the building. Her living room occupied the southwest corner and was surrounded by floor to ceiling windows on one side and French doors that led to a small terrace on the other. The doors were open and a light breeze ruffled the silk drapes.
Her taste was fairly simple, but even this untrained eye knew the pieces were also very expensive. She preferred natural earth-tone colors for the upholstered furniture and richly stained antiques for the solid pieces. Her artwork consisted of large, colorful canvases, mostly landscapes, and their vibrancy offset the simplicity of the room's color palette. I glanced around, letting my gaze fall on the alcove at the back of the room. The space was designed as a reading nook, open to the room, but not actually part of it. Floor to ceiling bookcases occupied all the walls with the exception of the center of the back wall, which held a cozy fireplace.
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