“I drove over to Clay Street to pick up my stepson.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“My ex-husband’s wife, Valerie Burghart.” The idea of Valerie talking to the police about me didn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies. Still, I gave the inspector her contact information. “And my stepson, Caleb, of course. He’s in school. And then we went home. To Oakland. We had dinner with my dad and our friend Stan Tomassi.”
“Was your father home all night?”
“Yes, of course he was.” Though I had experienced a momentary twinge of doubt when I first saw Dad at the scene of the crime, I felt a flush of anger at the idea that the inspector might suspect him of something like this.
“You all had dinner together, but can you be sure he was in bed all night?”
“I’m a light sleeper. As is Stan Tomassi, whose bedroom is on the first floor. One of us would have heard him leave.”
“Your father tells me he owns several guns.”
A small arsenal, to be precise. Please let all the guns be accounted for, I thought. I nodded in answer to her question.
“All right,” Crawford said after eyeing me for another moment. A uniformed cop walked up and whispered something to her. She nodded and he left. “Anything else you can think of? Besides ghosts.”
“No, nothing.”
“Do you happen to have an employment address for your client, Jim Daley?”
“He works at Integrated Networking Systems. Their offices are downtown, on Sansome.”
While the inspector wrote down the name, I glanced over at Cheshire House. Katenka stood at the foot of the limestone steps, leaning against the front balustrade, holding Quinn awkwardly on her hip. The baby was not yet a year old, but he looked about half as big as she, as though Katenka were a child herself, babysitting a younger brother. She wore a long, crocheted sweater, but her gossamer dress blew in the chill wind, wrapping around her bare legs.
When I turned my attention back to Inspector Crawford, I noted her gaze had followed the direction of my own. I had the sense the woman didn’t miss much.
“We’re finding Ms. Daley less than cooperative,” she said.
“It could be a language problem. She’s from Russia.”
“Yeah, I figured that part out already. I’m a homicide inspector; I have a sixth sense about these things.”
It took me a second to realize Crawford was joking. I gave her a weak smile.
“If you think of anything else, you be sure to let me know.” She handed me her business card and headed back to the upholstery shop.
I squeezed through the crowd of onlookers to greet Katenka.
“How are you holding up?”
She shook her head.
I held my hands out in a silent offer to hold Quinn. She surrendered him and rubbed her upper arms as though her muscles were sore from his weight.
Quinn had his mother’s big hazel eyes, but his were unguarded, open to the wonders of the world. Reveling in his fresh infant scent and the warm weight in my arms, I bounced a little and made funny faces as he gurgled happily. I felt a palpable sense of relief, knowing he hadn’t been harmed in the night.
I could do without the crying and diapering, but babies sure are cute.
“So, no visits from ghosts last night?” I asked Katenka.
She shook her head. “I told you: with the amulets, we are safe.”
The scene unfolding before us was horrifying, but ultimately it had nothing to do with any of us—unless, of course, my father was actually accused of something. But I refused to entertain that thought at the moment. I had come this morning intending to talk some sense into the Daleys about the apparitions, and the project. “Did you talk to Jim about—”
“He is at work already. He went in early today.” There was alarm in her pretty eyes. “But, Mel, listen: The police say they need to speak with Jim.”
“It’s all right, Katenka; it’s just standard procedure.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice dropped and she glanced around the crowd. “Emile came to the door. Jim told him to stop bothering us. He raised his voice.”
“When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Were—” The baby put his pudgy little hand on my mouth as though to silence me. I leaned my head back. “Were you with him?”
“No, I stay with Quinn. But then Jim followed Emile to the upholstery store.”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“The police? You are crazy.”
She looked shocked, and it dawned on me: Katenka was Russian. I had lived in enough different countries and environments to know that not everyone grows up with the concept of Officer Friendly. In a lot of the world the corrupt and violent local police force was about the last organization you would turn to for help.
“Katenka, you need to be honest with the officers. The inspector’s no fool; she’ll probably figure it out anyway, and if you don’t tell her first, it will seem suspicious. Since Jim didn’t do anything, he doesn’t have anything to be afraid of.” I hoped.
She shook her head and took little Quinn back.
“Did you speak to Jim about the renovation project last night?”
“No. I was going to, but Jim was busy with baby; then Emile came to the door. And he was upset, so I wait.”
I nodded, unsure how to proceed. “So, shall I continue the job? If your home really is haunted, the ghosts will remain whether or not I do the renovation. Don’t you think it’s best, for you and Jim and the baby, to get rid of the ghosts?”
She sighed. “Maybe.”
“Still, it would be great if you could move out in the interim . . .” I had to try, one more time. The idea of the baby in this house with a possible paranormal presence made me very nervous. “Just for a couple of days? If you don’t have anywhere else to go, maybe you and the baby could come stay at my house, even if Jim won’t.”
“I tell you already, this is not possible. Jim will never agree to it.”
“Will you at least think about it?” I handed her my card and wrote my home address on the back. “I’m meeting with someone today at lunch that might be able to help. She knows a lot about ghosts and spirits and houses.”
“She will chase the ghosts from the house?”
“I’m not sure if she knows how, but I’ll bet she can give me some names, at least.”
Katenka looked doubtful. “There is too much to be afraid of. I go call Jim, warn him of the police.”
She went into her house, using the basement-floor access door to the left of the main stairs.
I wondered if I should pass on what she’d said to the police. I’d had a less than satisfying interaction with a cop myself not too long ago. But I got no such vibe of incompetence or self-interest from Inspector Annette Crawford.
Still, since they knew his place of employment, the police would find Jim easily enough, and Katenka’s knee-jerk secrecy would be a moot point. And I really didn’t want to be in the position of tattling on my clients. My very well-to-do clients, who provided me and mine with a living.
“Poor bastard.” Dad’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He had come to stand next to me, watching the commotion with his arms folded over his chest.
“What are you doing here, Dad?”
“Last night you mentioned I might be able to talk to your neighbor, man-to-man.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Speaking of shooting . . . you left your guns at home, right?”
“You think I shot an unarmed man?”
“No, of course not, it’s just . . . the inspector seemed suspicious.”
“That’s her job. She has to consider us all suspects until she starts ruling people out. It’ll all get sorted down the line.” My dad had a lot of faith in authorities, and believed that “the truth will out.” I wished I shared his confidence.
We fell silent for a moment, watching as grim crime-scene personnel unloaded bags of equipme
nt and carried them into the upholstery shop.
“You’ve taken on a lot, sweetie,” Dad said, his voice serious, low. “The business, all that and more . . . I want you to know that I know it.”
My throat swelled, robbing me of speech.
Here was the sensitive New Age version of my father. Theoretically, I appreciated his newfound soft underbelly. But where was the cantankerous, emotionally distant former marine I had known, loved, and railed against my whole life?
When my mother passed away, Dad, who had remained unflappable through two tours of Vietnam, fell apart. And I mean he totally lost it, was unable to function without his trusted partner in business, love, and life. As much as I wanted to run away to Paris and hide in some obscure Left Bank garret after my divorce, I couldn’t bring myself to abandon him, or the construction business he’d built up over the past thirty years, or his cadre of loyal employees. So I moved back home and took the reins for “a couple of months.” Months had turned into years, and since then Dad had made no mention of my stewardship of his business, much less of his making a move to come back to work.
We stood there awkwardly for a minute, not meeting each other’s eyes, instead looking around at the hustle and bustle.
“All set for Stan’s party tonight?” Dad broke the silence.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll pick up the cake and should be home a little after five. Could you and Caleb start decorating when he gets home from school?”
He gave a brusque nod and walked away. I watched as he spoke briefly with Inspector Crawford, then strode off toward his dented Ford truck, climbed in, and drove off.
Chapter Six
Turning my back on the crime scene, I took a moment to look over the exterior of Cheshire House.
Like most Queen Anne Victorians, it showed its best face to the street. Tall and elegant, two turrets of differing heights and stepped-out features gave the house asymmetrical charm. A flight of stone steps led to a heavy oak door topped by a stained-glass transom. Jigsaw-cut gingerbread woodwork—some of which I had to have remilled—embellished every eave, corner, and window frame. Multicolored decorative shingles—many of which needed to be replaced—formed an intricate pattern on the steeply pitched roof. And a wrought-iron widow’s walk sat atop the highest turret, just for show.
Curved leaded and colored glass sash windows marched up one turret; two of the openings were temporarily covered in plywood, as they had slumped so badly they were currently being restored by a talented stained-glass artist in Carmel. The exterior paint was peeling, and scaffolding had been set up on one corner to accommodate trim repair and painting prep. The small front yard was a disaster area of dirt, weeds, dust, and a few hopeful bushes that were struggling to survive.
To my eyes it was one big, gorgeous project.
I moved my car to a legal space and brought Dog back to Cheshire House with me. Katenka and Jim didn’t mind having him on the job site, as long as he stayed in the messy construction areas. As soon as we entered the house and I undid his leash, Dog barreled past me and up the stairs, barking at something I couldn’t see.
Knowing Dog as I did, I realized this wasn’t necessarily indicative of ghostly activity. He ran after nothing all the time, in what I assumed was a bid to seem useful and on the job.
The real fellow on the job at Cheshire House was Raul Ramirez. Raul was smart, competent, and almost preternaturally calm in the face of construction mishaps. He had failed the contractor’s exam, undoubtedly because of his limited English writing skills, not a lack of knowledge. He was taking classes at City College and planned on retaking the test. I wished Raul only the best, but if I were completely honest, a part of me was relieved that he wasn’t yet licensed. Good foremen were worth their weight in gold, and I knew how lucky I was to have him. He kept the subcontractors in line, and everyone on task and on schedule. He was also blessed with people skills, which was important because he interacted with the clients on a daily basis. Having a foreman like Raul freed me up to move around, keeping several jobs in various stages of completion going at once.
Or investigating ghosts, as the case might be.
True to form, Raul wasn’t impressed by the crime scene across the street, and made sure the crew kept their minds on their work. According to our schedule, the final in-wall electrical and plumbing was to be completed today so that the walls could be repaired. Then the last phase of the painting prep—patching and priming and sanding—would begin. The finish painting would start after that, presuming I could pin down Jim and Katenka on their final color choices.
Raul and I went over the schedule and the thousand details that come up every day on a construction project, and then I took a walk through the house, checking in on the various workers. A small crew was removing paint and shellac from the original redwood wainscoting and crown moldings that featured egg and dart, acanthus leaf, and dentil designs. Once it was stripped back to the original wood, we would dress it in a mahogany stain. Victorian architecture could be rather gloomy inside with all the dark trim, but the wood was too beautiful to cover up. Since Jim was willing to foot the bill for the laborious process of stripping, I was more than happy to oblige.
Besides, Katenka had showed a definite taste for the gloomy in her design decisions. She might be afraid of ghosts, but she had had no qualms when faced with one of Cheshire House’s more unusual features: The repeated motif of acanthus leaves surrounding winged skulls topped by angels holding scythes, as though snuffing out life.
This sort of design used to be a reminder of the sanctity of life, a warning to be good and pure while you could, because you never knew when your time would be up. It was a holdover from an era when death and dying took place at home, surrounded by the living, rather than in sterile environments, dealt with discreetly by hospital workers and funeral homes, the way it now was for most of us.
One of my favorite features of the house was its five fireplaces. In the finest Victorian tradition, the hearths were not meant simply to provide heat and a cheery blaze. They were robust combinations of display shelves, seats, decorative panels, and works of art, a complex ensemble that served as a room’s focal point. Though distinct, each was adorned with glazed tiles with relief decoration, an overmantel with a paneled frieze, a mosaic hearth, and a fire-back, a thick iron plate placed at the back of a hearth to protect the wall and reflect heat into the room.
Two of the fireplaces had their original firebacks, with the acanthus leaf motif, but the other three were missing. Searching Craigslist, I had found some possible replacements. The seller had identified them as “old fireplace things—thick sheets of metal with embossed designs.” Worth a look.
“Mel, you got your coveralls with you?” asked Andrew, the plumber.
“Always,” I responded. I might traipse around in skirts and dresses, but as a contractor I was always prepared to crawl through cobwebs. “What’s up?”
I crouched down with him and looked through a gaping hole in the corner of a third-floor bedroom, where his crew had removed a small corner sink. Back when the building was used as a boardinghouse, each renter had his own sink in his room, while sharing the toilet and bath down the hall. Katenka and Jim had decided to remove the sinks in favor of more traditional bedrooms.
“What do you want us to do with the pipes left in the walls? Easiest thing is to just cap them and leave them,” said Andrew. By “easiest,” he meant “cheapest.”
“Let me take a look.”
I donned my coveralls and crawled through the hole in the wall, then squeezed under the eaves to check out where the old pipes connected to one another. Could some of the troublesome knocking and banging be coming from them? Old houses didn’t need ghosts to make strange sounds at all times of day and night—that’s just the way they were. Some called it character.
One reason Turner Construction was in demand was that we did the job right, not only by meeting code requirements and following basic installation guidelines to the letter, but also b
y not leaving a mess, even if it was unseen, in the walls or crawl spaces. You never knew when those messes would come back to bite you.
“No, go ahead and take them back to the junctions with the new copper pipe, and remove all of these old lead ones. Abandoning them isn’t a very elegant solution,” I said.
Andrew barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He was two days behind on the job here, which meant he was now operating on his dime rather than the Daleys’, since the delay was his own fault. He was anxious to move his crew on to the next paying gig. I understood, but I wasn’t willing to cut corners for the sake of anyone’s schedule, not even my own.
As I walked down the third-floor catwalk, a hallway with a railing open to the floor below, I thought I heard something overhead. A scratching, whispering noise.
And the metal-on-metal scraping sound of a heavy bolt unlocking.
There was no one in the attic. The hatch was closed.
I stood still and held my breath, straining my ears, trying to tune out the saws, banging, and radio noise of the workers throughout the house.
More scratching. That could be rats. Or the cat Katenka thought she heard.
But whispers?
Dog ran up next to me, barking and whimpering, agitated and intrigued, the way he was when he treed a raccoon.
After another moment of hesitation, I reached up, grabbed the string, and pulled open the attic access door. The whispers grew louder.
Was it . . . could it be calling me?
“Mel?” The voice startled me. It was Raul, coming up the stairs. All sounds from above ceased.
“Hey, Raul.”
“Before you go today we need one of the Daleys to sign off on the paint schedule.”
“Right,” I said, glancing back up into the dark nothingness of the attic.
“What’s up, puppy?” he petted Dog, then addressed me. “Something wrong?”
“What? No, nothing’s wrong,” I fudged. “I was just about to check the insulation.”
“Newspapers.”
I nodded. Back in the day, newspapers were a common form of insulation. And as free materials go, they weren’t bad. As any homeless person could tell you, they’re cheap and effective. Newspapers pulled out of walls and ceilings of old houses could also help date a home, and made fascinating reading.
Dead Bolt Page 5