Dead Bolt

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Zach, as in that kid from the fiasco at Matt’s house last summer? The photographer?”

  “The photographer, yes. But he’s hardly a kid.”

  “The man who kidnapped you?”

  “It wasn’t a kidnapping, exactly. There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “I think we’re getting a little off track here; my point is that Katenka didn’t meet Jim the way she claimed. She was here, in San Francisco, working at a club.”

  “What kind of club?”

  “The sleazy kind.”

  “So maybe they were embarrassed about it, and made up the online story to sound more respectable.”

  “No one remembers meeting him at the club.”

  “All that means is he isn’t that memorable. I could have told you that.”

  “But what if she led him to believe she really was in Russia, teaching Sunday school or something, and he found out the truth, and did something to her?”

  “Look, I find it hard to believe Jim would do such a thing, but assuming you’re right, why aren’t you talking to the police?”

  “I mentioned it, but the inspector didn’t seem to think there was much to it. And Jim’s my client, after all. If I had some sort of proof, anything at all, I wouldn’t hesitate. But how awful would it be to accuse the man if he’s innocent?”

  Graham nodded. “It’s a tough one. But listen, as soon as she’s listed as officially ‘missing,’ the police will be looking at Jim long and hard anyway. As sad as it is, it’s often a loved one who does the unspeakable.”

  “Somehow that fails to make me feel better.”

  “Hey, this is really getting to you, isn’t it?”

  “These women just seem so . . . vulnerable. Remember that Russian in Piedmont a few years ago, who was killed by her engineer husband? Her situation was a lot like Katenka’s.”

  “Mel, you can’t go around impugning every nerdy guy who marries a Russian. Katenka is probably with a friend, cooling down. I don’t think you can jump to conclusions with something like this.”

  “Why wouldn’t Jim file a missing persons report?”

  “It hasn’t been that long. And these days . . .” He shrugged. “With homeland security and everything else, you might not want to get someone with a questionable visa involved in the system.”

  My phone rang. Caleb.

  “I’m in the middle of something, Goose,” I said. “Can I call you back?”

  “Bill asked me to call,” he said, and I heard a woman’s high-pitched voice in the background. “We’ve got company.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The lady from the house you’re working on. The Russian.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Katenka? She’s at the house?”

  “Yeah. And she’s got the kid with her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Seems okay. Kinda upset, though. Can’t get the baby to stop crying. Bill’s not that happy.”

  “Put her on the phone.”

  There was a crashing sound, and the crying grew louder. I heard male and female voices raised. The dog barked and a cat yowled.

  “It might not be, like, the best time?” Caleb said. “How ’bout you just get home as soon as you can?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I hung up to find Graham looking down at me, a self-satisfied smile on his face. I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “All right, all right. You were right. She’s fine. Sounds like she’s already driving my dad crazy, though. I’d better get back.”

  He reached out and tucked a curl behind my ear. “You might want to develop a little more faith in humanity, Mel. In men, in particular.”

  I rolled my eyes, but nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

  I arrived home to find things had settled down considerably. Stan was regaling Katenka with a long story from his childhood back in Bull Hill, Oklahoma, and Katenka listened with that breathless, big-eyed expression she reserved for the male of the species. Caleb had taken the baby up to his room to find a children’s book in his old bookcase we had never emptied out. And Dad had decided to cook a traditional Sunday “lupper,” a lunch/ supper combo to be served early in the day. He was chopping and grousing in his cheerful, gruff way.

  “Katenka, I was so worried about you,” I said.

  “Really?” she seemed surprised, then pleased.

  “Does Jim know you’re here? How did you get Quinn?”

  “I picked baby up from Ivana. She was watching him this afternoon.”

  “Does Jim know where you are?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s go in the other room,” I said, heading toward the living room where we could have a little privacy. “Excuse us, guys. Girl talk.”

  We both took seats, and Katenka resumed her typical flat affect. “Katenka, when you disappeared . . . I really thought something might have happened to you.”

  “I was in hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf. They had a special ; it was cheap. I watch cable, eat crab. Be by myself for a day or two. Get away from ghosts. This is too much to ask?”

  Now she reminded me of me. Luz was right: It did sound whiny.

  “Everyone needs a break sometimes. But you should tell your husband and your friends.” Presuming your husband wasn’t a murderer.

  She shrugged, but looked chastened.

  “I was . . .” I hesitated, wondering how to phrase it. “I was so worried that something had happened to you, that I looked into your past. I learned how you came into this country.”

  “You can’t tell anyone, Mel,” she said, alarmed.

  “Were you paying Emile for his silence?”

  She swallowed hard. “Emile met me at the club, helped me leave, let me stay with him. I was grateful to him for this. Then he told me about his neighbor, Jim; helped me to meet him online. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Just wanted to stay here, have a nice home.”

  “Did Jim find out about this? Did he know about the blackmail?”

  “No.” She sounded very sure.

  “So that night, when Jim went to talk to Emile, it was just about the construction issues?”

  She shrugged and played with her key ring, which was in the shape of Mickey Mouse.

  “Katenka?”

  “I was upset. I told Jim Emile said mean things to me in our language. I shouldn’t have told him that. Jim became very angry, went to defend my honor. I could not stop him.”

  “But Jim didn’t know about the blackmail, or your relationship to Emile?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Do you think Emile told him that night?”

  She looked frightened. “No. I am sure of this.”

  I didn’t see how she could possibly be sure of that. “Were you there?”

  “No, I stay with baby in the house.”

  “Katenka, I don’t think you should keep this a secret from Jim,” I said. “He’s your husband. He has a right to know.”

  “I did nothing wrong. I did what was necessary.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “No, Mel. You do not understand. You have happy family, good life. Look at all of this.” She gestured around the room.

  At first all I could see was broken windowpanes, unfinished trim, cracked and unpainted plaster. But in the window stood a Christmas tree covered in funky decorations from my own happy childhood, and newer ones from Caleb’s. On the mantel were framed pictures of my mother, my sisters with their young families, a Turner family camping trip. At the bottom of the stairs were several pairs of athletic shoes and boots, belonging to a small group of loyal, loving guys who cared for me. And at my feet lay a big, brown dog that had once saved my life.

  “You are so lucky,” she continued. “How do you possibly understand what I must do?”

  I didn’t know what to say, because of course she was right. We both remained silent for a long time.

  Pudding, the white
cat, strode along the coffee table, stepping daintily over Katenka’s crowded key ring. I found myself checking for an odd old key of some sort, one that would fit the hidden room in the attic. Hettie said Pudding had been wearing the rhinestone collar from Emile’s place, but she hadn’t mentioned a charm hanging from it . . . The homeless guy said Dave Enrique and Emile Blunt were arguing about a key . . . Could that charm I first noticed on the stuffed cat in Emile Blunt’s upholstery shop have been some sort of key? Was it possible?

  When Katenka finally spoke, her voice faltered with emotion. “I love him now, you know. Jim is a very good man. At first I wanted green card, security—this is true. But he is always there for me, always good. How will he believe I love him if he knows about this?”

  “Don’t you think that if Jim loves you, if he’s a truly good man, he would understand?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged and brought out a stack of yellowed papers. “I bring you the letters from the attic. I took them from Jim’s briefcase. They are not good for him. You keep them, please. You keep all the old things you find in that house. I don’t want any of them.”

  “Thank you, Katenka. I think these letters will be useful.”

  “You must help me to go home,” Katenka said. “Tomorrow is party.”

  “Speaking of the party . . . have you checked in with Elena? Last time I talked to her she was hyperventilating.”

  “What is hyper—what you said? I don’t know this word.”

  “Sorry. Elena is very concerned. I told her to keep on with the party planning, but she would love to hear from you.”

  “Dinner’s on!” yelled my Dad from the kitchen.

  “Right now, you need to call Jim and let him know where you and Quinn are. I’m sure he’s very worried.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Let the poor thing eat first,” said Dad, standing in the doorway to the living room.

  “Oh yes, thank you,” said Katenka, springing off the couch. “I call after. Smells good, Bill.”

  “Babe, grab the silverware, would you?” Dad told me as Katenka took a seat at the dining room table.

  “Oh, let me get you a napkin,” Stan said, rolling into the kitchen.

  Caleb arrived with a happy Quinn on his hip, and started pouring water with his free hand.

  Fluttery and helpless, Katenka knew how to work her crowd. Dad and Stan were falling all over themselves to make sure she was happy. Even Caleb was being helpful and gallant in a rather clumsy, teenage way.

  “Call him now, or I will,” I said, handing Katenka the portable phone. Now that I was sure Jim hadn’t killed his wife, and I was very nearly certain he hadn’t killed Emile, I was very much on his side.

  She made a face, but then made the call.

  We sat around the dining room table since the farm table in the kitchen couldn’t accommodate us all. Dad had dug up an old high chair from the basement and set it up for Quinn. Dog and the cats joined us, hoping for tidbits.

  Within half an hour Jim Daley arrived on our doorstep, tears in his eyes. After a private meeting, he and Katenka joined us again at the dinner table.

  Dad presided over the table, which he had set with a poinsettia-and-lace tablecloth, pouring cheap wine from a gallon jug and passing the dishes from left to right. I thought how, if my mother were here, she would have turned this gathering into an impromptu party, full of warmth and laughter, as she always had. Thanksgiving without her had been hard, and I expected Christmas to be even tougher.

  But we were doing all right. Crazy menagerie that we were, we made the lupper a celebration of homecoming.

  Jim wound up drinking too much wine, so Katenka and I made up the extra room for their little family.

  Dad fell asleep in front of the television, Stan finished up some work on the computer, Caleb cleared the table and excused himself to go text his friends, and I washed the dishes and then retired to my room.

  I read very old letters until my tired eyes could no longer decipher the faded, old-fashioned writing in the wee hours of the morning.

  When I finally fell asleep, they haunted my dreams.

  I woke up on Quinn’s first birthday pondering my new insights into the world of Cheshire House’s ghosts.

  Assuming Elena hadn’t had a coronary, there would be a party tonight on my haunted job site. Oh boy.

  My dad believes in big breakfasts. I’m more a coffee-on-the-go girl. So he was pleased to have a grateful audience as he served up plates full of omelets, bacon, and hash browns. Katenka and Jim oohed and aahed over the food, and were acting like a honeymooning couple at a bed-and-breakfast.

  As I was leaving, Jim opened the door for me, then followed me out.

  “Katenka told me she gave you the letters I found at the house,” he said. “I’m glad she did. I don’t know why I lied to you about them.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I was pretty caught up in them last night, myself. They’re absorbing.”

  “That’s one way to look at them. I think they were . . . I don’t know. If I weren’t a rational man, I would say, well, they just creeped me out. Let’s leave it at that. Listen, if you still want us to move out while you finish the project, I think I’m ready to talk about it.”

  “That would be wonderful, Jim. It might even help us to speed up construction a little if we don’t have to worry about you and your family.”

  “Thanks for everything, Mel. You folks at Turner Construction really do go above and beyond.”

  “Well, we do like to keep our clients happy,” I said with a smile. “See you later at the house.”

  I went straight to Matt’s to read the riot act to Rodrigo, the tile layer. He should have known to check the tile height long before it had been ordered, and there was nothing worse than subcontractors screwing up and making the general look bad.

  Then I called and asked Luz to meet me so I could think through what I had learned from the letters.

  “Lunch?” she asked.

  “I can’t today—no time. Besides, if you and I keep eating these huge lunches, I’ll be as big as the houses I work on. I was not blessed with your miracle metabolism.”

  We settled on coffee at a diner on Hayes. I had a nonfat latte, and Luz ordered a mocha and an almond croissant, explaining that pastries counted as “part of coffee.”

  I launched into the story I had been putting together with the information from Brittany Humm, my own interactions with the spirits, and the love letters between Andre and Luvitica.

  “So Luvitica and Andre were having an affair. I think Andre must have had a fight with his brother over Luvitica. The violence escalated, and in the heat of the moment, Andre killed his brother. To hide what he’d done, he put Charles’s body in a barrel of rum and arranged for the ship’s captain to take it with him on the trip to Chile.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Luz asked.

  “There were always lots of barrels loaded onto a ship before a trip, and Andre had a connection to the sugar plantation—he may have known the captain personally.”

  “No one noticed Charles was dead?”

  “How would they know? Andre makes all the arrangements, pays for a ticket in Charles’s name and bribes the captain or a steward to swear Charles came on board. All the captain had to do was to send the rum barrel back to San Francisco once they arrived in Chile and say he died en route.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. Given how Charles’s apparition appeared, I don’t think Charles died from the fight with his brother. I think he drowned in the barrel of rum.”

  “Poor guy. What happened to Andre? He went missing, right?”

  “So it seems. I’m assuming that when the barrel was delivered, Dominga insisted on laying out the body before burial. It must have been plain to see Charles had been mortally injured. Andre ran, fearing discovery.”

  “And Luvitica stayed behind with Dominga?”

  I nodded. “The last two letters from Luvi
tica were never sent to Andre—I doubt she knew where to send them. In them, she claimed the baby she was carrying was his, not Charles’s.”

  “Boy, talk about a dysfunctional family,” said Luz as she popped the last of her almond croissant into her mouth. “Listen, I’ve got to run soon—class in an hour. What was it you wanted me to weigh in on?”

  “I just wanted to make sure I’m making sense: If I’m interpreting the letters correctly, one of the ghosts is Charles, trying to reveal the truth about his death. I think telling his story will take care of his spirit, help him move on. But the shadow ghost . . . Oliver told me sometimes ghosts are overwhelmed by shame and anger, quite literally staying in the shadows. I can feel the rage and despair every time this one comes near me. I think Andre must be manifesting as the black shadow. Andre must have been eaten up with shame over sleeping with his brother’s wife, and then killing Charles.”

  Luz and I both sat silent for a moment, subdued by the tale. It was just plain sad. Even an almond croissant couldn’t fend off depressing thoughts over the Cheshire House’s tragic history.

  “But if Andre’s the shadow ghost, then he must have returned to Cheshire House at some point, right?” Luz said. “And probably died there?”

  “How do you suppose he died?”

  “Maybe Andre came back to make amends, but was so haunted by the ghost of his brother that he killed himself out of guilt and remorse. That would fit with the shadow thing, as well, right?”

  I nodded. “So I have to force Andre out of the shadows, and then convince him and Luvitica to leave the house. I just have no idea how, exactly.”

  “And what about the mother, Dominga? Where does she fit into this?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Have you seen her ghost?”

  “Not really, though the voices bicker quite a bit, and I think I heard two different female voices at one point. But . . . I don’t know how to explain it, but her personality doesn’t come across as strongly as the others, and I don’t feel threatened by her. I’m going to assume that she, like Charles, just needs to have the truth told.”