“My favorite Pakistani restaurant is right down the street.”
“We’re in the Mission and you want Pakistani food?”
“It’s really good. Besides, I’m Mexican, which makes Mexican food just plain old food. I feel like something exotic.”
“Okay,” I said, checking my phone for the time. “But I have to be out of here in under an hour. I’m down one foreman and I have to take Katenka to pick out her favorite knobs.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that sentence. That dirty joke writes itself.”
“You’re a real pal, Luz.”
Chapter Twenty-four
While we walked the three blocks to the Pakistani restaurant, I called to check on Raul. He had been released from the hospital, and was at home with his broken arm in a sling. When he said he would be back to work tomorrow, I could hear his wife yelling at him in the background.
“Don’t you dare,” I said. “Let your wife dote on you for a few days; get some rest so you heal faster. We pay scads into that workers’ comp account—might as well use it. We’ll get by.”
At the restaurant Luz and I slid into a red vinyl booth. I suggested Luz order for us, and without even consulting the menu she rattled off pappadums, chicken pakora, haleem, chicken tikka kebab, lamb rogan josh, aloo paratha, and two mango lassis.
Once our feast was set before us, I confessed my worries about the ghosts and the murder of Emile Blunt.
She looked skeptical. “What could a murder across the street have to do with ghosts in Cheshire House?”
“I’m not sure. Nothing, maybe. It just seems too coincidental. Who would have a motive for killing the old guy? And it turns out Emile Blunt lived in Cheshire House for a while, and apparently he once saw ghosts in the attic.”
“You think the ghosts crossed the street and went after him? Can they do that?”
“I don’t think that’s what happened,” I said, surprising myself with my confidence. “I think . . . the ghosts influenced someone. The people who’ve lived in Cheshire House mentioned something. . . . Even I’ve felt their influence. It’s as though they get to you.”
“Are you talking about spirit possession?” Luz scooped up some daal with a small piece of aloo paratha.
“Not quite . . . It’s more subtle than that. Okay, here’s something else: It seems Hettie Banks, the woman who used to own the Cheshire Inn—”
“The crazy cat lady?”
“For lack of a better term, yes. Anyway, she inherited the upholstery shop from Emile Blunt. That’s motive, right?”
Luz fixed me with a look and raised one eyebrow. “At what point did you start delving into a murder investigation? I thought you were just trying to get rid of ghosts.”
“I told you—I think it might all be connected. And besides . . . my father’s still under suspicion for Emile’s death. I wouldn’t mind coming up with a few other likely suspects.”
“You don’t think the SFPD might be better qualified for this sort of thing?”
“Of course. In fact I spoke with the investigator on the case earlier today. It won’t surprise you to know that she thinks I’m nuts.”
“You told her about the ghosts trying to shut down your construction project?”
“Afraid so. Anyway, Hettie couldn’t have killed Emile, could she? She’s an old woman who’s overly fond of cats. I can’t imagine her shooting someone in cold blood.”
“Don’t underestimate little old ladies. Ever hear about that woman in Sacramento who ran a boardinghouse and whose boarders mysteriously disappeared? The police found their bodies buried in her backyard.”
“When was this?”
“In the late eighties, I think. Dorothea Puente bumped off at least nine of her tenants and planted them in the garden. Apparently she had quite the green thumb.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you are a fount of really disturbing information?”
Luz laughed and helped herself to chicken pakora. “That’s why I became a university professor. A mind like a steel trap, chock-full of useless trivia. This Hettie Banks must be rolling in it, if she sold that massive place on Union Street.”
“She donated most of the money to the animal shelter.”
“To make up for her hoarding sins?”
“So it seems.”
“How was the neighbor killed?”
“Shot with his own gun, according to the paper.”
“Not poisoned?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Poison’s a woman’s method.”
“Surely women aren’t the only ones who use poison.”
“No. But it’s more typical. Much safer than stabbing someone. All in all though, when it comes to murder it is much more likely for the culprit to be a man. Any scary men lurking around?”
“There’s one fellow, Dave Enrique, who used to live in the house. Something strange went on between him and Hettie’s daughter, Janet. And he knew Emile. But that was years ago; I can’t figure out how it would be related to what’s going on now.”
“Any other obvious suspects?”
“You know who I find suspicious, though I can’t explain why? Jim Daley.”
“Your client? What possible reason would he have to commit murder?”
“Emile Blunt was causing problems with the construction.”
“You told me yourself that he had no cause to actually shut you down, so it sounds like it was just an annoyance factor.” She served herself some lamb and topped it with a dollop of lime pickle. “Hard to imagine that would provoke someone like Daley to homicide. He’s a wealthy professional, a loving father, with a wife he adores. Why would he risk all that over a minor dispute with a neighbor? Especially since the cause for complaint will end in a few months?”
“Good question. Why did Dorothea kill her tenants?”
“For their social security checks. Oh, she claimed she thought they were better off this way, since they were old and sick, but nobody bought it.”
“So it was about the money.”
“It usually is.”
The botanica outing and lunch took longer than I’d anticipated, and I screeched to a stop in front of Cheshire House a few minutes after four o’clock, the time Katenka and I had agreed to go look at knobs and tile.
The homeless guy was asleep across the street, so I put a bag of Pakistani food leftovers in his shopping cart, then went to find my client. But she wasn’t there.
While I waited for Katenka to show up, I checked in with my crew, who were wrapping things up for the weekend. Everything was on schedule to begin the Daleys’ wall prep next week, so I made sure we were number one on the painters’ schedule. In this business there was always a risk: If you fell behind, even by a day, you risked losing your slot with the subcontractors, who had their own schedules to juggle. That would throw a monkey wrench into everything down the line.
I handed the crew their paychecks, and they took off to enjoy their Friday night.
Twenty minutes later, Katenka still hadn’t arrived. I headed down the basement stairs and met Jim coming up. He held a happily gurgling Quinn in the baby sling, nestled against his chest.
“Oh, hi, Jim. I didn’t know you were here. Is Katenka around?”
He shook his head. “That’s why I’m here—I came home early to look after Quinn.”
I held my forefinger out to the baby. He smiled, grabbed hold, and squeezed with remarkable strength. “Katenka and I had plans to pick out a few things at the Design Center. Any idea how to get in touch with her?”
“She took off for a bit. I could go with you, if there’s a real time pressure.”
“That’s all right. I imagine she’ll be here soon. She told me this would be a good time for her.”
Jim hesitated, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closing it again. We were standing in the close quarters of the narrow stairway to the basement level. I moved two steps higher, which gave me the novel experience of being taller than J
im Daley.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“We had a fight.”
“What about?” I sounded nosy to my own ears. But given my conversation with Graham last night, I was ready to jump to conclusions.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Jim said, giving voice to my thoughts, “but we fought over staying here. In this house. She’s completely illogical. One minute she’s planning a party, the next she wants to leave.”
“Jim, I know you’re skeptical, but I think you need to at least consider that Katenka might be right. There’s something odd going on in this house. Don’t you think it would be better for all concerned, especially with a baby, to leave while we finish up?”
“You really think that by finishing the renovation you’ll vanquish the spirits? If they’ve been here for more than a century, I hardly think a few new windows will chase them out.”
“So . . . you mean you believe in them now?”
“I never said that.”
I supposed that was technically true, though I was beginning to have my doubts.
“Jim, you know how I put together a scrapbook of all of Turner Construction’s renovation projects? I wondered whether you might have any papers, something like that, anything at all that you’ve found in the house . . .?”
He shook his head.
“No letters, maybe?”
“Nothing,” he said, but he looked away. Short of calling him a liar, that line of questioning wasn’t going anywhere.
The baby gurgled and cooed, making us both smile.
“You know,” Jim continued, “sometimes Katenka gets angry and disappears for a while. In fact . . . at times I think she might be seeing someone.”
“I understand you two met online?” I said.
He nodded. “While she was in Russia. It seemed too good to be true, and maybe it was. She’s beautiful, and wonderful, but . . . perhaps not the most reliable person in the world.”
Contractors are often in the position of learning more than they want to about their clients’ personal lives. Homes are intimate spaces, and we spend so much time with people that there’s a natural blurring of boundaries. But Jim had never treated me as a confidant. It was Katenka who confided in me, in her guarded way.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About an hour ago. As I said, we had words, and she took off.”
“She’s not answering her cell phone?”
“Didn’t even take it with her. Flung it at my head, in fact.” Quinn began to whimper. “I need to take Quinn out. Poor kid’s been stuck inside all day, and we need groceries.”
“Of course,” I said, retreating up the stairs. “I’ll be taking off, too, then, if Katenka’s not here.”
As we left, I noticed Inspector Crawford at Emile’s upholstery shop. Why was I so bothered by Katenka’s no-show? Maybe she really was angry at Jim and took off. Or maybe last night’s ghost hunt rattled her so much that she couldn’t stand to be here another minute. But would she have left Quinn behind? I knew she found him difficult, but it seemed hard to believe that she would simply turn and walk away.
Ever since the doubts about Jim had entered my mind, I couldn’t shake them. I lingered at my car, returning a phone call and waiting for Jim to leave. I could have sworn I felt his gaze on my back.
Jim strapped the baby into the car seat, then took off. As soon as the car turned the corner, I crossed the street.
“Excuse me, Inspector Crawford?”
The inspector looked tired, frustrated. And not at all pleased to see me.
“Yes, Ms. Turner?”
“I wanted to ask you . . . to mention that . . .”
She gave me an “out with it” look.
“Katenka Daley seems to have gone missing.”
“Missing? Since when?”
“Last night. I saw her earlier in the evening, but she left before we could say good-bye.”
“She’s ‘missing’ for less than a day, then? Isn’t it a little early to be worried? Did she miss an important appointment?”
“Sort of. She was supposed to meet me.”
“For something important?”
“We were going to pick out knobs at the Design Center.”
The inspector lifted one eyebrow.
“When I say it like that, it doesn’t sound all that important. But it surprises me that she would take off without her son, and without mentioning it to me.”
“And her husband isn’t worried?”
“If he had something to do with her disappearance, he wouldn’t be worried, would he?”
“Do you have any reason to suspect her husband of foul play?”
“No, not really. Just a hunch.”
The inspector looked at me for a long moment. Assessing.
“Chances are she’s gone off for perfectly legitimate reasons. What do you know about her? Any local relatives, friends, anything like that?”
“There is one friend,” I said. “Ivana . . . something. Russian, as well.”
“Check with Ivana-something; maybe she’s seen her. I’m a homicide cop, Ms. Turner. Even if Ms. Daley were missing for forty-eight hours and a search was begun, I’m not the one to talk to. That’s a whole different department.”
I nodded.
As she was about to enter the upholstery shop, she paused. “On the other hand, you happen upon any bloody knives, that sort of thing, you be sure to let me know.”
Will do, Inspector.
Chapter Twenty-five
I let myself back into Cheshire House. Though the natural light was fading on this winter’s afternoon, I didn’t turn on any lights.
I checked the corkboard in the kitchen, but Ivana’s information and the picture were gone. Katenka had mentioned Ivana lived two blocks away in a house with gold lions in front. How many gold lions could there be in this neighborhood? I slipped out the front door and headed down the street.
Sure enough, two blocks down I spotted a nice marina-style home with a pair of gold gilt lions guarding the front steps. The home wasn’t ostentatious, but as anyone who’s been house hunting in San Francisco could tell you, you can’t touch anything in the lower Pacific Heights for under a million bucks.
The postage-stamp town garden had been pruned and trimmed with care but no imagination—the kind of gardening that expressed the desire to fit in with the neighbors rather than love for flowers and plants. The money was in the details: The home’s paint was fresh and pressure-washed, the moss on the stone steps had been removed with surgical precision, and there wasn’t a single cobweb or leaf in evidence.
Ivana answered the door, her eyes widening when she saw me.
“Hi, Ivana, remember me? From Katenka’s house?”
“You are the builder—Mal?”
“Mel. Is Katenka here?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know where she might be?”
“She is not home?”
“No. She was supposed to meet me today but she didn’t show up.”
Ivana stood back and invited me in.
The formal, round foyer was floored in marble and ringed with doorways. One led to a dining room with a gleaming mahogany table and twelve chairs; another to a living room with formal furniture in muted tones; and a third, closed door I imagined led to the kitchen. A grand stairwell with a beautiful marble balustrade led to the second story.
Ivana waved me into the living room, where I took a seat on an oyster-colored linen sofa that was so stylish and so uncomfortable I imagined it must have been chosen by an interior designer more focused on appearances than livability. There was a touch of gold gilt on the feet of the couch, and the coffee table legs were carved to look like heads of lions.
“You would like something?” Ivana offered. “Tea or coffee? Vodka, maybe? Or my husband keeps scotch, if you prefer.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“But you are worried for Katenka,” Ivana said as she san
k into a leather club chair. “You are here because you are worried.”
“We had an appointment to look at some items at the San Francisco Design Center. It’s not like her to miss a meeting.”
Ivana nodded.
“How did she seem last night?” I asked. “Did she say anything about being upset?”
“I did not see her, not after I pick up baby. When I saw you.”
“Didn’t she come for Quinn last night?”
“Jim came for him.”
“What time was that?”
“About eight o’clock.”
“Jim still has the baby with him. Would Katenka have gone off without him?”
“Quinn is with Jim?” She looked alarmed, and shook her head. “Jim was very jealous. Getting more so.”
“How do you and Katenka know each other?”
“We danced together.”
“I didn’t know that. Was this in Russia?”
“Oh no, here. In San Francisco.” Ivana inspected her manicure. “They called us dancers, anyway. I was never much talented. But then I met Larry and he gave me good home. All is good now.”
She had certainly landed in the lap of luxury, I thought. But based on the silver-framed wedding photo atop the credenza, I doubted the jowly, balding man twice her size had been her romantic ideal. Then again, what did I know?
“Did Katenka meet Jim in one of these clubs?”
“Not exactly . . .” She was quiet for so long I didn’t know whether she would finish the thought. “She met Jim after.”
“I thought they met online while she was in Russia.”
“I have said too much. I . . . She and Jim met first, maybe. Before I knew her.” She consulted a thin gold watch on her left wrist, and stood. “I must go. I have Pi-lates.”
“At this hour on a Friday night? Sounds ambitious.”
Ivana led the way to the front door.
“Could you tell me the name of the club you and Katenka danced in?”
Her pretty lipsticked mouth was pressed into an ugly line. “I have said too much. I am sorry. Please ignore me. I don’t speak English very well.”
“I think you do.”
“I get confused.”
Dead Bolt Page 20