Dead Bolt (19 page)

The men were crowding into the dining room, talking excitedly. I noticed an extension ladder propped against one wall.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Raul fell off the ladder,” Bertie, Raul’s young assistant, said, looking stricken.

The men stood aside to let us through. Raul was lying on the floor. Graham and I knelt on either side of him.

“How did this happen?” I asked Bertie.

“I don’t understand,” he replied, shaking his head. “I was right there, holding the ladder. It didn’t shift or bow, I swear. But he fell off anyway. Landed on his side. We already called nine-one-one.”

“How far did he fall?”

“He was at the top. Almost ten feet.”

Fortunately, Raul had landed on a wood floor covered in cardboard and paper. As bad as that was, I thanked heaven he hadn’t fallen onto stone or concrete.

“Raul? I’m going to check for injuries, okay?” I probed him gently, relieved to find no signs of blood. Raul just grunted in the ugly, strange way of someone who has had the breath knocked out of him. Or whose ribs were broken. And then there was the possibility of internal damage. I said a quick, silent prayer that the EMTs would arrive soon and that a bad bruise would be the worst of it.

Then I saw the unnatural angle of Raul’s elbow.

“Looks like a broken arm,” I said, glad to see that color was returning to his face. “Raul, can you tell us where it hurts?”

Construction is dangerous work. I once fell from a ladder myself, though not from such a height. So I knew that having the wind knocked out of you is frightening, not to mention physically uncomfortable. The lungs seem to freeze up, as if they’ve forgotten how to breathe. It’s a bizarre sensation, but it’s temporary.

Raul started to suck in air, and after a moment he spoke. “I think I’m okay, except for the arm.” His voice was shaky, but he managed a small smile. “I can wiggle my toes, and everything.”

The men uttered a collective sigh of relief.

“Do you feel any chest pain or dizziness?” I asked.

“No. I’ll be all right.”

“Lie still. An ambulance is on its way. Let’s see what the doctors say.”

He glanced at his ashen-faced assistant. “It’s not your fault, Bertie. It was me—an accident.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I was looking at the ceiling, and I . . . I thought I saw something. I yanked back, and fell.” He whispered, and I leaned in to hear him. “This sounds crazy, Mel, but . . . handprints appeared. Right in front of me. Dragging through the paint like it was wet, only it wasn’t.”

I nodded. “I believe you. And I’m so sorry.”

Rage surged through me. If these ghosts wanted war, so be it. I’d find a way to banish the supernatural horrors, come hell or high water.

They had messed with the wrong general contractor.

W
e insisted Raul remain where he was until the paramedics arrived. I could probably have gotten him to the hospital faster if I had driven him there myself, but I had learned enough about spinal injuries in first aid courses to know it was best to let the trained professionals handle it.

While we waited, Raul asked me, “Do you think it was just an accident?”

“Sure I do,” I said. “Just like my toolbox nearly falling on me was an accident.”

Our gazes held.

“Mel, the other day, Katenka Daley asked me about performing a
limpia
.”

“A
limpia,
as in a cleansing of the house?”

He nodded. “Like a psychic cleansing, sort of. To chase off spirits.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I don’t know that much about those sorts of things, but I gave her the name of a botanica in the Mission called El Pajarito. That’s where she got the sage. But to tell you the truth, I think it made it worse.”

“Do you know who she talked to there?”

“I don’t. I’ve never believed in this sort of thing. My wife, a lot of the people I know do, but I never . . .”

Deafening sirens announced the arrival of the paramedics, and we all stood back to give them room to work. They did a quick assessment of Raul’s condition, fitted him with a neck brace, and transferred him onto a stretcher.

As we watched them load him into the ambulance, Graham came to stand beside me.

“I have to go with him, see what the doctors say,” I said. “Would you do me a huge favor and be my foreman? Settle everyone down, have them wrap up early for the day, then lock up.”

“Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

I handed him an extra set of keys to the front door.

“And would you take Dog with you? I don’t know how long I’ll be at the hospital.”

“Sure. Call me later and let me know what the doctors say. And Mel—at some point we have to talk about what happened in the attic.”

“I know. Do me another favor? Stay clear of there for a while?”

Graham nodded and I ran out to chase an ambulance.

As I followed the paramedics to the hospital, I admitted to myself that I was out of my league. My first ghost had been annoying but ultimately benign. These ghosts were dangerous.

As I sat in the ER’s waiting room to hear what the doctors would say, I made phone calls until Raul’s wife came to be with him. I told her what had happened, and assured her that all Raul’s needs would be covered by our health insurance, and workers’ comp, if necessary. At the very least, they wouldn’t have to worry about the financial ramifications of a job site accident. Before we were finished talking, Raul’s grown daughter arrived with her husband and children, and then Raul’s brother joined them.

I was leaving him in good hands. My time would be better spent figuring out how to banish these phantoms.

Looked like I was going on a ghost-hunting tour tonight. I wouldn’t have minded having someone strong and capable to accompany me, but if I asked Graham, he might bring Elena. I was not in the frame of mind to deal with a ghost hunter and Elena at the same time. So I called someone not nearly so strong, nor as capable, but a far sight more open-minded: Matt.

“Want to go with me on a ghost tour tonight?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Don’t all the girls ask you to go ghost hunting?”

“Only if it’s a euphemism.”

“Not in this case.”

“Didn’t think so. I’m not really up for a ghost hunt, Mel. Call me crazy.”

“It’s with your buddy Olivier Galopin. You said you knew him from the reality TV business, remember? Please?”

Matt sighed. “On one condition: If I go, you have to tell me about you and Graham.”

“Deal. The whole sorry saga,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. No way would I tell Matt about our latest adventure in the attic. I could barely bring myself to think about what it might mean. The memory of the brief kiss, before we were interrupted, made my heart race. But . . . it had been Graham, but he was acting completely out of character. “Fair warning, though: There’s not much to it.”

“I’ll take my chances. Where and when?”

“Meet me at the Eastlake Hotel a little before seven,” I said. “On the corner of Steiner and Pine. Oh, and don’t bring the cameras,” I hastened to add.

“Not even my digital?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. But lose the camera crew.”

 

When I arrived, Matt was waiting outside the hotel, wearing a big puffy parka and boots, shifting from one foot to the other, as if fending off a blizzard. The temperature was in the low fifties, which would not strike many as particularly frigid, but we Bay Area folks are weather wimps. If the thermometer drops below the midsixties, we freeze; when it rises above the low eighties, we wilt; and when it has the nerve to rain, we bemoan our fate.

“It’s cold out here,” I said. “Why didn’t you wait for me inside?”

“I’m scared to go in alone.”

“It’s a hotel, Matt, full of people. Not an abandoned factory.”

“Ghosts give me the creeps,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “I’m highly suggestible.”

“You
are
aware this is a ghost tour, right?”

“I’m also highly bribable.”

“Some badass rock-n-roller you are,” I said with a smile, pushing the door open and leading the way in.

“Yes, well . . . don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”

I walked around, studying the faded grandeur of the Eastlake Hotel’s antique-filled, red velvet–curtained lobby. As a sumptuously decorated Victorian building, it was a wonderful inspiration for the Cheshire House renovation. Every corner was filled with ornate carved chairs, fringed lampshades, and gilded frames. Enclosed bookshelves were nestled on either side of the fireplace, and brocade settees flanked a grand piano. An impressive staircase led upstairs to guest rooms and, I presumed, more antiques.

Matt picked up a pamphlet on the building’s history from the marble-topped reception desk and read aloud.

“It says here that at one time this place was Miss Mary Lake’s School for Young Ladies. Some guests in the hotel claim to sense the ghost of Miss Mary, saying she covers them up with blankets at night.”

I was surprised that a hotel would embrace its reputation for being haunted, but then Brittany Humm would remind me that there’s a premium on haunted real estate, at least among some people.

“See, Matt, nothing’s going to hurt you,” I said. “Miss Mary just wants you to be warm and comfy.”

Matt gripped my arm. Eyes wide, he nodded toward a shadowy nook where a woman sat on a fringed bench. Her hair was short and bobbed, and she was dressed in a cloche hat and coat from the 1920s.

“It’s a ghost,” Matt breathed, ducking his head as though afraid the spirit would read his lips. “I can’t believe it; it’s sitting right here. Am I the only one who can see it? I’m looking at . . . a
ghost
!”

As I watched, a young man walked up to the woman and handed her a steaming teacup. They exchanged pleasantries.

“Seems your ghost is on a date. No wonder it’s hard to find an eligible bachelor in this town.” But I breathed a quick sigh of relief. For a moment there, Matt had me going. “She’s just wearing an old-fashioned hat, is all.”

“Oh. Well, she could have been a ghost.”

“I need a drink,” I said.

“Me, too. Too bad I don’t drink anymore.”

“It’s a moot point anyway, since there’s no bar. And I forgot to slip my flask into my garter before leaving home.”

“You wear garters?”

“No. But then, I’m not a ghost.” I poured two cups of tea from the urn by the fireplace.

“With your outfits I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Matt, helping himself to an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie from a delft platter. He pointed toward an old-fashioned doll propped in the corner. She wore a bonnet and crinolines, and stood about three feet tall, her green glass eyes staring into space. “Now
that’s
scary.”

“Gotta agree with you there,” I said.

The woman behind the reception desk announced that everyone waiting for the ghost tour should congregate in the dining room. We funneled in and sat at round tables in the otherwise empty room. Most in attendance appeared to be out-of-town tourists. There was a group of giggling college-age women, two middle-aged couples, a father with his teenaged son, and a young couple from Australia, with the cool affects and clothes of world travelers, talking about the spirits they had seen in Thailand and Quebec.

The lights went out, plunging us into darkness. When they returned a few seconds later, our host stood in front of us dressed in a vintage green velvet coat over a vest and breeches. Black boots and an old-fashioned lantern completed the costume. He was more interesting-looking than handsome, with blue-green eyes and dark hair buzzed close to the skull.

“Welcome to the world-famous San Francisco Ghost Walk!”

Olivier had a great voice, deep and resonant, and he spoke with a lovely French accent. Perfect for storytelling. But the community-theater aspect of the evening was already embarrassing me. I’m not what you’d call big on public scenes.

After spinning a few tales of ghostly goings-on in the neighborhood, our tour guide went over a few logistical issues, then recapped the story of Miss Mary Lake’s supposed haunting of Eastlake Hotel. Olivier did his best to get us in the mood, warning us that some people do see spirits when they’re on the tour, though “most likely they won’t appear, since they prefer to come to people who are alone.”

“Very convenient,” I whispered to Matt.

“Be nice,” Matt whispered in return. “For all you know he’ll be the next Mr. Mel Turner.”

Before beginning our outdoor ghost walk, Olivier led the way up the three flights of stairs to the room of the former headmistress, Miss Mary Lake. Matt and I caught up with him by the second story.

“Olivier, remember me? Matt Addax, from the TV filming?”

“Of course! I am so happy to see you here!” said Olivier. “But I thought you were afraid of ghosts?”

“I brought a very brave friend along. She swears she’ll protect me. Mel Turner, this is Olivier Galopin.”

“So nice to meet you—Mel? Unusual name.”

“It’s a nickname,” I said before Matt could tell him my full name was Melanie. I’ve never felt like a Melanie.

“It is a pleasure. And now we have arrived at Miss Mary Lake’s bedroom.” Olivier turned and addressed the group. “Please remember that Miss Mary is a friendly ghost. Let us all gather within and remain very still, and if you are sensitive, perhaps you will feel vibrations from beyond, or a cold spot.”

We all shuffled into the small but gracious room, beautifully furnished in antiques of the era.

“I definitely feel something,” said the Australian woman.

“Do you consider yourself sensitive?” Olivier asked.

“Oh yes.” She nodded enthusiastically.

“Are we allowed to take photos?” asked the man with her. “I reckon they’d show orbs.”