Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “That was ten years ago, maybe more. He used to work for a lumberyard in the East Bay; don’t know if he’s still . . .” Her pale eyes narrowed. “Hey, why you looking into this? I thought you said you were renovating that old place; you were a lady builder.”

  “I am, yes. I’m the general contractor on the job. But I thought that while I looked into the architectural history, maybe I could find out something about the less savory aspects of the place, as well.” I chose my words carefully. “Did anything bad ever happen in the boardinghouse while you were there? Was anyone hurt? Did anyone pass away?”

  She stuck her chin out a little and shook her head. “I took good care o’ my boarders. Even the spirits were just annoying. Mostly, I let ’em have the attic to themselves. That’s why that one fella got so scared: He and Janet went into the attic. I never went up there, never used it.”

  “Katenka Daley, one of the new owners, thinks she’s being menaced by a ghost. Or several ghosts.”

  “I guess she is, then. I told that man, the guy who bought it, not to bring his wife and child into that house. But he didn’t listen.”

  “When was this?”

  “Before he bought it. My Realtor showed me the offer, and I said I wanted to meet the buyers. Couldn’t let ’em walk into that without a warning, could I? Wouldn’t be right.”

  “Did the new owner, Jim Daley, say anything to you?” She shrugged and hugged the cat closer to her plump chest. “He laughed at me, same as the others. But that little gal who bought it, the Russian? She came by and said she heard cats in the walls still. But that’s not possible, is it? I would feel terrible if we left one behind. I was in jail at the time, or I woulda helped to gather them all up, find ’em homes. But my girl was there, at least.”

  “You mean Janet?”

  “That’s right.” She got up and gestured for me to follow her. “You know, if you want to talk about the house, you should check this out.”

  Hettie had re-created a Cheshire Inn in miniature. It was an amateur effort, closer to a dollhouse than a precise architectural model, but it was a beautiful rendering of the house, using dark woods and patterned wallpapers, all the fireplaces built with tiny tile facades. It was helpful to see a three-dimensional rendition of the place, and to talk about the structural changes Hettie knew about. Junior had operated the place as a boardinghouse pretty much as-was, but when Hettie and her husband took the place over, they added small sinks in each room. The bathrooms were precisely that: rooms with only baths in them. The toilets had only toilets.

  In the attic, I noticed Hettie had misrepresented one area—I recalled the layout well enough to remember there was something different there.

  “Do you know what this is, here?” I asked as I pointed to a line in the interior that didn’t match up with the exterior, as though there were a void in the wall.

  She hesitated before shrugging her shoulders. “Like I said, I didn’t really go up in the attic much, so I sort of fudged it.”

  Then she fixed me with a steady gaze. “Be careful there, Mel. They don’t like young women.”

  “One more question,” I said. “Did you know the neighbor with the upholstery shop across the street, Emile Blunt?”

  Her eyes seemed to flash, but she averted her gaze and looked down at her cat.

  “Emile? A little.”

  I hesitated. “He passed away this morning.”

  Her pale eyes flew up to mine. “Emile? How?”

  “It looks like a burglary. He was shot.”

  She took a deep breath, shook her head.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “The ghosts. They didn’t care for him, not one bit.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lived at the Cheshire Inn for a couple of months when his plumbing busted. Seems like they took a shine to him. They wanted him to stay.”

  “To stay?”

  “Like, for good. Forever.”

  Chapter Nine

  I left Hettie’s condo with a whole new set of questions, plus the contact information for her daughter, Janet, and the name of the lumberyard where Dave Enrique—the boarder who claimed to have seen ghosts in the attic—worked, last Hettie knew.

  Why would the ghosts have wanted Emile Blunt to remain at the house? Did that have anything to do with his desire to purchase it? And could they have killed him in his shop across the street? Could ghosts kill people? Could they even cross streets?

  I closed my eyes and blew out a breath.

  Within the last six months I had gone from denying the existence of ghosts at all to wondering if they could roam the streets and handle a gun.

  Perhaps the real question I should be asking was, Why should I take the word of a crazy old cat lady?

  I had looked up the ghost tour leader, Olivier Galopin, on the Web last night. When I called the number listed, an upbeat, French-accented voice on the answering machine said it would not take any messages but that tours left every night except Thursday at eight, rain or shine, from the haunted hotel at the corner of Steiner and Pine. I hung up, frustrated. I didn’t want a ghost tour; I just wanted to talk with the guy.

  After returning a few professional calls, I rang the San Francisco Ghost Society. They told me they record evidence of paranormal phenomena, but don’t perform cleansings. For that, they referred me back to Galopin.

  I sat in my car, frustrated. All these phone calls and I hadn’t really gotten anywhere. What was I doing? If Katenka and Jim didn’t want me to finish the job, perhaps I should just let it go. The haunting was not my concern if I was no longer renovating the historic house. I had other jobs I could be working on, projects that were starting up that I could push. Running a construction company meant scheduling—and rescheduling—jobs according to permits, architectural drawings, environmental reports, and the availabilities of subcontractors. It was a juggling act, and the general contractor who let one or two items spin out of control found herself booed offstage and out of work. I’d proven very good at keeping my employees working and Turner Construction in the black, and at transforming crumbling, abused structures like Cheshire House into showcases of craftsmanship.

  On the other hand . . . even if I figured Katenka and Jim could hold their own against the ghosts, could I abandon baby Quinn to the strange happenings? If a ghost had actually murdered Emile Blunt, and I was one of the few people around who might be able to communicate with the angry spirits, could I live with myself if I just walked away?

  And finally, what if my father really was named a suspect? After all, he had found the body . . . and I myself had been overheard threatening to run the old man down. I cringed, once more, at the memory.

  My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was the foreman on the Vallejo Street job, the house where I had encountered my very first ghost.

  Good. Work I could handle. And I knew for a fact the ghost haunting the Vallejo Street house wasn’t out to hurt anybody.

  My first ghostly project was a fine Beaux Arts mansion, one of a pair built by a man made wealthy during the gold rush. It featured broad, low arches and monolithic rather than fanciful details. In marked contrast to Cheshire House, the only frilly trimmings were the wrought-iron balconies on the front of the building, which had been reworked by a brilliant metal artist who based the design on a Greek-inspired laurel-wreath frieze we copied from one of the carved fireplace mantels.

  My friend Matt, who was supposed to be “flipping” this house, recently had been offered his own reality show, to document the life of a washed-up musician who was still good-looking and slightly outrageous, and who surrounded himself with good-looking, outrageous friends. With the exception of me, of course. I was happy for Matt at this unexpected turn of events, but it was annoying to have to deal with cameras and sound people every time I wanted to talk with him.

  “Mel! Great to see you, pet!” exclaimed Matt in his British accent. Matt gushed like Old Faithful at the best of times; now, with the camera docume
nting his every move, he was eternally pumped up. “Graham and I were just discussing the range of paints that aren’t off-gassing, which if you ask me sounds a little like what happens after a midnight trip to the taco truck, am I right?”

  I smiled. An old joke, but we were on camera, after all.

  “Great news—I might not try to flip this house after all,” said Matt. “With the show and all, I might be able to buy out the investors and keep the place.”

  “Matt, that’s great,” I said, wondering how he could stand to live in a house where a friend had been fatally injured. On the other hand, it was an incredible home, a grande dame in the best sense of the word. And the renovations had been so extensive that very little had remained of the original walls, floors, and ceiling where Kenneth Kostow’s messy death had occurred.

  Still . . . another ghost lingered in this home. I felt his presence from time to time, smelled the smoke from his pipe, heard the rattling of his newspaper. But he was a forlorn, sad ghost, not at all like the more powerful sensations I felt in Cheshire House. This ghost wouldn’t bother anyone. And in any case, Matt was not the most astute fellow when it came to the subtle sensations around him, living or not.

  I met with the faux finishers and the painters, making sure all the details were coming along well. This was the fun stage, when months of hard work, scheduling and rescheduling, and juggling came together in the finishing touches. The exterior had been done in integral color plaster, which meant never having to paint—though you had to be okay with the plaster discoloring here and there due to water runoff, and, in earthquake country, the occasional crack. But in general the final result was a mellow, multihued finish reminiscent of historic homes.

  Each room here had a different theme, but they were united by complementary colors. In Cheshire House they would all be variations of Victoriana, since the designs of those houses dictated the internal design. But Matt’s house was more open, a conglomeration of styles. While I was there I spoke to the faux finishers about coming by Cheshire House with some books and sample portfolios of classic Queen Anne designs. The head finisher, Dallas Finkel, was a hardheaded businessman who brought the work in on time and up to my standards. All his artists were women, because according to Dallas only women could be trusted not to make a mess and to get the job done. I tried not to think in gender terms, but I had to agree with Dallas on this one. The construction site was dominated by testosterone up until the finishing artistic touches, which were often completed by women.

  As I looked around, I sighed in pleasure. The building had reclaimed its original character, in the graceful bones and elegant lines. No wonder Matt wanted to stay here.

  I was just wrapping up with Dallas when Graham Donovan walked in.

  “Graham.” I nodded, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.

  “Mel. Nice to see you.”

  “You, too.

  As usual our gazes held a little too long.

  Matt noted the interaction with interest. Ever since we’d become good friends, Matt had been trying to set me up on dates. I hoped to keep my history with Graham under wraps, but among the workers were a few who had known me and my dad for fifteen years or more. And construction workers were gossips of the highest order.

  I pulled Graham outside, where the narrow passageway between the houses gave us a little privacy.

  Unfortunately, this meant we stood close to each other. I hadn’t been much good at chemistry in high school, but I sure seemed to be experiencing a lot now. Whenever I was within ten feet of Graham my hormones shifted into overdrive. He looked good, and smelled better. But he was cautious in the romance department. Welcome to the club.

  This annoyed me. Or maybe I was just feeling generally jumpy, what with ghosts on my job site and all. Whatever the cause, rather than ask the man out as I’d coached myself while washing dishes last night, I snapped at him instead.

  “Hey, what’s with jumping into the Cheshire House job without consulting me?” I said.

  “Remind me?”

  “You have so many jobs you can’t tell them apart? It’s a fabulous Queen Anne on Union Street. Jim and Katenka Daley are the owners. Surely you remember which of my jobs you’re poaching?”

  “I’m not poaching your jobs.”

  “I’m the general contractor. You go through me.”

  “Whoa, back up, Mel. Jim Daley called me in for a consult. It was only after I arrived that I realized it was your job site.” He smiled down at me. “I planned on speaking with you, as I would with any general, but I assumed I’d see you today. And here you are. Hey, maybe I’m psychic now.”

  “Think so? Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re cute when you’re mad?”

  “No, because I’m always mad. And I’m rarely cute.”

  “Okay, you’re not cute. You’re very scary. Intimidating. I’m quaking in my work boots.”

  I tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile. “So what’s Jim looking to do? Can you give me the abridged version?”

  “Basic stuff mostly, things you’re no doubt already planning to incorporate: insulation and double-paned windows. That sort of thing . . .”

  I nodded. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Graham . . . beans. Spill.”

  “He wants solar. He’d prefer wind if we could get the permits, but I don’t imagine his neighbors would go for a windmill in the backyard.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to deal with the decorative shingle patterns on the roof.”

  Some of the most effective green technologies, like solar and wind power, are wonderful ideas in the abstract, but play heck with trying to accomplish historical restoration while maintaining a modicum of aesthetic sensibility. Like many fine Victorians, Cheshire House was roofed in shingles arranged in a decorative pattern. Covering them up with massive shiny solar panels hurt my sensitive feelings—no doubt about that. Other green techniques, such as using sustainable and reclaimed woods and other building materials and incorporating water-saving devices were no problem at all.

  “Sorry,” I said after a moment when I realized Graham was waiting for me to say something further. “I was hoping—”

  “I wanted to talk to you about—”

  We began talking at the same time and then paused, each waiting for the other to finish.

  “Everything okay out here?” Matt interrupted, the cameras tailing him loyally.

  Relationship, Interrupted. Story of my life.

  “So I have to know,” Matt said under his breath a few minutes later. “What’s going on with you and Graham?”

  “You don’t have to know anything, and nothing’s going on. Do you want semigloss or high gloss paint on the bathroom woodwork?”

  Matt and I were flipping through paint chips, and I was forcing him to decide, once and for all, on the paint schedule. The schedule was a flowchart of what paint type, gloss, and color goes where, which was very useful when painting an entire house. Trim, walls, doors; things like mantelpieces and special transoms—everything needs to be thought out. In Matt’s house I was excited about a wall of silver gilt in the master bedroom that was to be hung with beautifully framed original drawings from an art deco dress-design book. Last month Matt had acquired the antique book from, and paid a nice commission to, my friend and personal costume designer, Stephen.

  “Whatever you say. Semi is fine.” Matt dropped his voice again. “So this thing with you and Graham. Is this a past tense situation?”

  “No tenses, past, present, or future.”

  He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, signaling that he didn’t believe me.

  “Could I ask you something, Matt?”

  “Anything, pet.”

  “If I did have something I didn’t want to talk about, what would possibly make you think I’d say it in front
of the cameras?”

  “Hmm, I see your point. Boys, why don’t you take a break?” He ordered the cameras away. “Now tell me. What’s going on between you and Graham?”

  “Nothing,” I repeated with a smile.

  He gave a dramatic sigh. “You’re as bad as Graham. He won’t tell me a bloody thing. The pair of you should be working for the secret service. Mark my words: I’m going to get one or both of you drunk one evening and worm the truth out of you.”

  I smiled some more as I filled in details on the paint schedule. Matt and I had met some time ago—his son, Dylan, is a good friend of Caleb’s. But since working together on his house, not to mention our adventure with murder and ghosts, we’d grown closer. He was impulsive, overly dramatic, and a tad self-obsessed—like most celebrities I’d met—but was also profoundly sweet and kind.

  His determination to fix me up, however, might strain that relationship.

  “Anyway, it’s just as well. I have someone I want to introduce you to. He’s a brilliant fellow—I really think you’ll like him.”

  “Why would I like him? I don’t like anybody.”

  “You like Graham,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “Matt, seriously, keep out of it.”

  “And you like me.”

  “Your word against mine.”

  “I know you like to think of yourself as a loner, but it’s not so.”

  I refrained from grunting. Barely.

  “Just meet him for a drink tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re giving a party for my dad’s friend Stan tonight. And besides that, I don’t go on blind dates. Plus, I dealt with a murder this morning. It’s been a long day.”

  “You dealt with a what?”

  “It was the neighbor across the street from a job I’m working on.”

  Matt looked at me, his blue eyes worried. Unfortunately, he was no stranger to violent death. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks. It had nothing to do with me,” I hastened to add.