Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Does she have that kind of money?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I admitted as we left the shop and I closed the door behind us. “Anyway, the crime-scene tape’s down.”

  “She probably took it down herself. Doesn’t mean you can go poking around someone else’s property.”

  “I just . . .” As we crossed the street toward Cheshire House, I wondered whether I should tell him the truth, that I was trying to conjure Emile’s ghost. That sounded crazy, though, didn’t it? “I was wondering if Emile’s death might be linked to the strange things going on at the Daleys’.”

  “Linked how?”

  “I have no idea. But I . . . I seem to have some sort of connection to these . . . entities. Spirits. Whatever.”

  “So you did see a ghost.”

  “Maybe.”

  Graham leaned back against his truck and crossed his arms over his chest. I could see his jaw clench, but he said nothing.

  “What,” I pushed, “are you going to pretend you didn’t feel something up in that attic?”

  “I felt something—that’s for sure.” His gaze flickered over the length of me, then returned to mine. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “I felt like kissing you. And a whole lot more.”

  “I . . . I think maybe the ghosts sensed something between us and piggybacked on our emotions, ratcheted things up.”

  “Or maybe it was just high time I kissed you.”

  I swallowed, hard, and tried to keep my mind on the supernatural, rather than the very real chemistry I felt whenever I was anywhere in the vicinity of this man. “I think it had more to do with ghosts than with . . . with you and me. It was like they took control of our conversation, remember?”

  “Okay,” he said. “For the sake of argument let’s put aside everything science has taught us for the past century and pretend you can talk to the dearly departed. What makes you think you’re qualified to deal with them?”

  “Who else is there?”

  “Surely there’s someone who knows more than you about this sort of thing.”

  “I’m working on it. I met a guy last night who might be able to help. He leads ghost tours out of the Eastlake Hotel. If Katenka agrees to hire him, he’ll come take a look at the house.”

  Graham let out an exasperated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose as though fighting off a sudden headache.

  “Olivier something? French guy?”

  “You know him?”

  “He came to Matt’s house once, shadowed the film crew. He’s an actor, Mel, out to fleece the tourists. Get serious.”

  “If you have any other suggestions, I’m all ears. I’m skeptical of Olivier, too, but what are my options? There’s something strange—and maybe dangerous—going on with this house. I don’t know if I’m supposed to find a priest to conduct an exorcism, or contact a Mexican limpiadora, or what. But I need help, and it’s not like there’s a section for ‘ghost busting’ in the Yellow Pages.”

  “Have you looked?” Graham smiled. “This is the Bay Area, you know.”

  Actually, I hadn’t. I ignored this. “I’ve seen things, Graham. I can’t pretend I haven’t.”

  “That’s what worries me. If this is true . . . Has it occurred to you that you stir them up? Maybe if they couldn’t sense that you can see them, they’d go away.”

  “And how do you propose I do that? Spray myself down with a can of Ghost-B-Gone?”

  Graham didn’t answer for a moment. I avoided his eyes, but I could feel him studying me.

  “I’ve never thought of you as a woo-woo Berkeley type,” he said at last.

  “I’m not.” I shrugged. “But ever since what happened at Matt’s place, and even before that, with my mother . . . let’s just say that I have a whole lot of questions and not many answers. At the very least I keep my mind open.”

  He nodded. “Listen, I hate to change the subject, but Elena’s inside talking to Katenka about the party. I saw you going into the crime scene when I pulled up, and figured you might want a say in the matter.”

  “Graham, seriously, can’t you use your masculine wiles to put a stop to this stupid party?”

  “Sorry. Must’ve left my wiles in my other truck.”

  We found Elena and Katenka in the kitchen laughing like old friends as they pored over Elena’s portfolio and a stack of design magazines. Smiling and talking, wearing a floaty yellow dress, Katenka looked like a girl, perfectly at ease. She never acted like that around me, I noted sourly. Katenka wasn’t my favorite person, either, but at times like this it struck me that being able to make a perfect miter cut didn’t make up for all the things I was bad at.

  “Mel!” said Jim, the baby in his Snugli kicking his legs. “Glad you’re here. Graham and I wanted to include you in our discussion about some of the green techniques we’d like to incorporate into the house.”

  And why did I always get stuck talking with the men? How come the men never huddled in the kitchen talking about party favors while the women were designing the solar heating system? But then I might as well ask why I was one of only a handful of female general contractors in the Bay Area, arguably one of the least sexist places on earth.

  “How’s the design coming?” I asked the men.

  “Jim and I have come up with a plan. I’d like to go over it with you in detail, when you have a chance,” Graham said. Was it my imagination, or did his eyes rest on me just a little too long?

  “Sure,” I said. The idea of “going over designs” with Graham, just the two of us, was very distracting.

  “Mel, what you think?” Katenka asked.

  “About what again? Sorry, I lost track of the conversation.”

  “For the party, we’d like to have things more or less like they are now,” Elena answered. “Would it be a problem to work on another part of the house for a while and leave this area pretty much as is?”

  I felt the words bubble up, tried to suppress them, and failed.

  “Want me to take out everything we’ve spent the past three months on, make it look like it used to?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?” Elena said.

  Katenka might not be fluent in English, but she sure spoke body language.

  “Is joke,” Katenka said to Elena, her tone conciliatory.

  “Besides,” Elena continued, “that would be prohibitively expensive, don’t you think? There’s no call for such a thing for a baby’s birthday. Unless, of course, you’d like to, Katenka.”

  I felt Graham’s hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

  Elena continued, oblivious. “Or do you think you could have the place done for the party? I know! If you can finish up within the week, we could go the other way, have a lovely Victorian-themed tea party with lace tablecloths and cucumber sandwiches—”

  “We’re three months into a six-month rehab, Elena,” I said through gritted teeth. “We can’t ‘finish up’ in a week.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, gathering together her portfolio. “That’s fine, just fine. I’ll figure something out.”

  Katenka was avoiding my eyes. I thought of how happy and easygoing the two women had seemed before I arrived on the scene. Make an effort, Mel, or you’ll become as churlish as Emile Blunt, the pooper of every party.

  “I’m sorry, Elena. Why don’t you and I go into the front room and you can explain what you have in mind. I’m sure I can find a way to work with whatever Katenka wants.”

  Jim and Graham beamed at me approvingly, and I had to stifle the desire to do something with a nearby rotary sander that would violate numerous safety regulations.

  “One problem is the kitchen,” Elena said as we went into the front parlor. “The caterer simply can’t cook in the kitchen the way it is.”

  “We could expedite delivery of the new stove and install it, if necessary. But it doesn’t make sense to change out the counters yet, as the new cabinets aren’t finished. What will you be cooking?”

  “
Katenka tells me the Tree party traditional meal is an apple-stuffed goose, sausages, mayo-based salads, salted fish, cheese, caviar.”

  “Seriously? This is a birthday party for a one-year-old child, right?” I glanced over at Katenka, thinking she should be in on the menu planning. But she, Jim, and Graham were discussing something, heads together as though in a huddle.

  “Parties for children this age are more for the adults than for the children,” Elena said.

  “Okay . . . but what are the children going to eat?”

  “Mel, I appreciate the concern, but why don’t you concentrate on what you do, and I’ll take care of the party planning. I’ve found a wonderful caterer who specializes in the traditional salads, which include dill, peas, carrots, and potatoes. Lots of mayo, I’m sorry to say. And kalach sweet bread, and sbiten, which is a hot honey drink with herbs.”

  Once again I looked over to Katenka, hoping to catch her eye. What were the three of them talking about so intently?

  “Babies aren’t supposed to eat honey,” I said. “Because of the allergies. Or something.”

  “Do you have children, Mel?”

  “A son.”

  “Caleb? I thought he was your stepson.”

  “He is, yes.”

  “And you were with him since he was a baby?”

  “No, but I can read. And babies aren’t supposed to eat honey.”

  Jim’s angry voice floated over to us.

  “Get your hands off her.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Katenka was resting her hand on Graham’s forearm as she leaned in to ask him a question.

  She looked at Jim, guilt in her big hazel eyes. What did she have to feel guilty about? I might be a failure at male-female relations and not have a clue about the workings of a man’s mind, but I knew one thing with great certainty: Graham was not fooling around with this wisp of a Russian.

  “Jim. Don’t make scene.”

  “Jim, I wasn’t—” Graham began.

  “I know what I saw,” Jim said, jutting his chest out and glaring at Graham. “She’s a beautiful woman—it’s no surprise. But understand this: You ever get any closer to her and I’ll make you regret it, hear me?”

  Graham nodded, calm and composed, as though pondering a mathematics problem. “Of course I do, Jim. How about we go outside for a minute, talk in private?”

  After a tense moment, Jim relaxed, ran a hand through his hair, and blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, I . . . I must have overreacted. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

  “I hear a baby’ll do that to you,” Graham said.

  Jim gave a rather mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. Hey, no hard feelings? I’m really sorry . . . I apologize.”

  “No problem,” said Graham, shaking his hand. “Mel, shall I stop by tonight after work to go over the solar design plans?”

  I checked my BlackBerry. “Make it a little on the later side, okay? Seven?”

  “See you then,” he said, and he and Elena left.

  Jim muttered something about changing the baby and went downstairs.

  “I don’t know what gets into him,” Katenka said, watching her husband retreat. “He get like that sometimes, jealous.”

  “Was he always like that?”

  “A little. He seems very easygoing, so it’s surprising. But you should see the men in the town I come from—they are crazy jealous.” She smiled, just a wee bit pleased.

  “Katenka, has Jim been spending any time up in the attic?”

  She nodded. “He was looking around up there last week—he found some letters. He showed them to me.”

  “What letters?”

  “Love letters, very old.” Her nose wrinkled. “Dusty. Maybe from people who live here before. They are hard to read, but Jim is trying.”

  “Could I see them?”

  “Jim has them somewhere.”

  “Will you try to convince him to let me take a look at them?”

  “Okay. Anyway, I think party will help,” Katenka said. “With the . . . entities.”

  “Nice word.”

  “I learn it in class yesterday.” Katenka was taking English as a Second Language at City College. “Is good word. Useful.”

  Is it ever. “Katenka, did Emile speak Russian?”

  “Oh, a little. Terrible accent.” She shook her head. It seemed a bit cheeky of her, considering her own strong accent in English. Katenka’s language skills had improved considerably in the short time I’d known her, but she still sounded as though she were swallowing all the vowels at the back of her throat, and her “th” sound was a decided “ze.”

  “And he spoke to you about selling the house to him?”

  “He was to redo this settee.” She gestured to the horsehair. “So, you think maybe the party will frighten the ghosts away?”

  “I wish I could say. It’s possible the activity will stir them up more.” I would just have to be darned sure no one ventured into the attic. These ghosts were not exactly standard party entertainment. I was pretty sure even Elena would agree with me on that one.

  “Last night I met someone who knows a lot more about ghosts than I do,” I said. “He agreed to come check out the house, for a fee, if you agree.”

  “I cannot let Jim find out,” Katenka said. “But I would like this person to come, yes. I do not care about the cost. Sooner, the better.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “If he come tonight, it would be perfect,” said Katenka.

  “Have you been seeing something?”

  “Not since you were here. But . . . Jim is out tonight.”

  She seemed to be holding back. “What is it, Katenka?”

  She bit her lip and played with the medallion around her neck. “The more he reads those letters, it is like he can’t stop thinking about this place. Like he is . . . how you say? Owned?”

  “Do you mean possessed?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. Possessed.”

  With Raul off the job, it fell to me to touch base with all the subcontractors to be sure everyone was still on schedule. First I caught up with the carpenters building bookshelves in the library, and the painters finishing up stripping and sanding. Then I signed off on the workers’ time cards and checked on the plumber’s final work.

  But however busy I was, I couldn’t shake the idea that I should inform the police of the details I noticed this morning while I was in Emile’s shop.

  After some deliberation, I found Inspector Annette Crawford’s business card and gave her a call.

  “This is Mel Turner, the general contractor across the street from Emile Blunt’s upholstery shop.”

  “Yes, Ms. Turner. Do you have some information for me?”

  “Possibly . . . could I ask, is it true Blunt left his building to Hettie Banks?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Hettie.”

  “You sound surprised,” Inspector Crawford said.

  “I am.”

  She waited.

  “It just seems strange. The last time I talked to Emile he referred to Hettie as ‘that crazy cat lady.’ And she spoke of Emile with about the same degree of fondness.”

  “It happens,” the inspector said, and I could almost see her shrug. “According to Banks, she and Blunt were close at one time. Maybe he never got around to changing his will. Is this why you’re calling me?”

  “No. I was wondering, did you notice white hair on the sofa in Emile’s shop? Cat hair, maybe?”

  “What about it?”

  “It wasn’t there earlier in the day, when I was in his shop.”

  “Are you sure? Would you remember a detail like that?”

  “I think so, yes. Emile told me he couldn’t have a cat because he had to keep hair off the reupholstered furniture.”

  “Maybe a customer who came in later transferred the hair to the sofa. We see that all the time.”

  “Maybe. But I also noticed that a rhinestone collar from the stuf
fed cat is missing.”

  “It sounds like maybe you were wandering around my crime scene. Ms. Turner, I sincerely hope you haven’t been wandering around my crime scene.”

  “I . . . uh . . . ran into Hettie Banks, and she asked me to go in with her,” I fudged. “She said the police tape was down and she was inheriting the place, so it was okay.”

  “Uh-huh. Trust me, it’s not okay.”

  “I’m sorry. But I thought you should know about the hair, and the collar. It seemed important.”

  “As a matter of fact, forensics took a sample of the hair on the sofa as part of the investigation. But it’s good to know it wasn’t there earlier. And I’ll make a note of the missing rhinestone cat collar.”

  “One more thing?” I said. “Who dug up the yard, and why?”

  “Someone dug up Emile Blunt’s yard? Did he even have a yard?”

  “No, sorry. I’m talking about Hettie Bank’s old house across the street. The house I’m working on.”

  “Is this related to my crime scene?”

  “Not in so many words . . .”

  “Then how do you expect me to know, and why would I care?”

  “Someone dug up Hettie’s old yard to disinter cat corpses.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “I have a feeling Emile’s murder is connected with the strange events at Cheshire House. With the . . . ghosts.”

  “Ghosts.”

  “Yes.” I waited. “Inspector?”

  “I know this is wacky San Francisco and all, but I don’t do ghosts, Ms. Turner. I solve crimes the old-fashioned way. I appreciate your interest in the case; if you learn anything relevant, give me a call back. But please, don’t hassle me about ghosts or UFOs or anything else of that ilk. Get me?”

  I was glad we weren’t talking face-to-face, so the inspector couldn’t see how my cheeks were burning.

  “Yes, Inspector. Thank you for your time—Oh! One last thing? Is my dad still under suspicion?”

  “He’s a person of interest. No one’s ruled out until we make our case. That goes for you as well, Ms. Turner.”

  Next I called Olivier Galopin, who agreed to come over at six. Then I checked in with Dad, who was helping Caleb with homework and planning on grilling steaks for dinner.