Dead Bolt (23 page)

“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.

Finally, I lost myself in my work for the rest of the afternoon, crawling under the eaves to assess some duct-work, and then measuring the new firebacks for the fireplaces, which I hadn’t managed to do yesterday. I was elated to find that they would fit without altering the brickwork. I brought the heavy iron pieces up to the second-floor bedroom we were using as a staging area for painting doors and faux-finishing specialty pieces, and discussed their refinishing with the painters.

I lost track of time, and was surprised when Olivier walked into Cheshire House, an athletic bag in each hand.

He smiled. “Working late?”

“How can you tell?” I wore my stained coveralls over today’s skirt, leggings, and sweater. My hair had escaped from its ponytail and was full of dust and cobwebs from my excursions under the eaves. “Excuse me a second.”

I called down to Katenka and asked her to join us. Then I stripped off the coveralls and washed up in the kitchen sink, trying not to feel self-conscious as Olivier trailed me through the house.

“What did you have for dinner tonight?”

“What? I . . . um.” I wasn’t used to being grilled on my food choices, except by my father, and even he had learned to tread carefully. I had eaten half a sandwich and a half a bag of chips leftover from lunch. “Had a little something. And you?”

“I haven’t eaten yet.” He looked at his wristwatch. “French hours. Difficult in a city like San Francisco, where so many places stop serving dinner at nine. Perhaps after, presuming we are still alive, I will take you to eat?”

“Let’s play that one by ear, okay?”

He just smiled.

Katenka appeared at the top of the basement stairs, Quinn balanced on one hip. I introduced her to Olivier.

“You are Russian?” Olivier said. “Such a beautiful people. And look at you.”

Katenka preened and smiled.

He’s French,
I thought.
He can’t help it
. One lingering question answered: Olivier wasn’t interested in me; he was like this with all women.

Besides, I wasn’t interested in Olivier. He spoke American English too well. I needed a man with whom communication would be difficult. That way, I could remain blissfully ignorant of his thoughts, and he of mine. I pictured myself in my Left Bank garret, tapping away on an old typewriter—my hands kept warm in fingerless gloves, a tiny cup of espresso by my side—as I wrote a self-help guide for the romantically impaired:
What’s That You Say? Miscommunication as the Key to Romance.

“—don’t you think, Mel?”

I came back to the unpleasant present. “Sorry. What’s that you say?”

“I say I don’t know where Jim has hidden the letters—I looked everywhere. Probably he has in his briefcase to read at work. I tell you, he is obsessed.”

“Katenka, I am here,” a woman’s voice called from the doorway.

“Oh good. This my friend Ivana.” Katenka gestured to the woman standing at the entrance. Ivana had honey-blond hair, and was taller and stronger-looking than Katenka, but the two had the same severe, serious look about them. “Ivana sit with Quinn for the evening, just in case. Ivana, this is Mel Turner.”

Ivana took the baby, swung his diaper bag over her shoulder, and left the house without another word.

“Let’s start downstairs,” Olivier replied. “After you, ladies.”

Olivier, Katenka, and I descended to the basement apartment. Olivier set his bags on the kitchen counter and extracted several items.

“This is an electromagnetic field, or EMF, reader.”

“And what does that do?”

“It measures energy. Ghosts, spirits of all kinds, emit energy, or draw energy from their surroundings. That’s why there’s often a cold spot where an entity appears.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes.

“It’s all theoretical, of course. But think about it: Are you aware of all the radio waves transmitting at all times around you, the signals to satellites and broadcasting shows? They’re there, and they’re real, though there would be no way of knowing or detecting them without special equipment.”

All good points.

The EMF reader in one hand, Olivier began walking slowly through the rooms of the apartment: the two bedrooms, the main living area, and the kitchen. In the bathroom I held my breath, half expecting the shower to turn on. Hot water had taken on sinister overtones in my mind.

At long last we returned to the kitchen counter.

“This whole apartment is a bit of a fear cage.”

“Excuse me?”

He showed me the meter on the device. The needle was registering at seventeen and a half.

“Anything between seven and nineteen hertz has an effect on humans.”

“Are you saying you’re measuring ghost energy right now?”

Olivier smiled. “I believe what the device is registering here has an entirely natural cause. Pipes of a certain length and girth, combined with electrical wiring, emit vibrations that can affect us subconsciously.” He turned to Katenka. “Have you had symptoms of nausea, dread, fatigue, paranoia?”

Katenka looked at me. “He doesn’t believe me.”

“On the contrary. I believe you are feeling these things, and with good reason.”

“Is
ghost
, not fear cage.”

“I do believe you,” he said, his tone gentle. “You’ve both seen something. That’s a big deal. Let’s go check out the other floors.”

“Just because I don’t see ghosts, only hear them, don’t mean they don’t exist,” said Katenka.

“But you did see them,” I said. “The other day, when you fainted.”

“I saw the door open.”

“You didn’t see any entities?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“I did, yes.” At least Dog sensed them.

“What you see?” she whispered.

“It’s hard to explain,” I hedged. “Let’s continue; we’ll talk about it later.”

We climbed the narrow stairs from the basement to the main floor. The needle on Olivier’s machine immediately dropped. When we walked into the dining room, it jumped to seventeen.

“Let’s keep going,” Olivier said.

We walked slowly through the rest of the main level: the kitchen and pantry, the parlor, the sunroom, the small library.

“So to clarify,” I said, leading the way up the stairs to the second floor, Katenka trailing behind like a reluctant child, “there’s something called a fear cage?”

“It’s essentially an EMF-saturated area, which is common in basements and attics because there are so many pipes and wires.”

“Why would a particular frequency make us think we’re experiencing something bad?”

“Humans seem to be hardwired that way. The frequencies that affect us are the same as those generated by dangers from our primordial past. Erupting volcanoes, the crash of large ocean waves, the roar of big cats like tigers. No doubt we learned to associate them with danger and fear. Those who heeded their instincts survived, and passed their sensitivity on to their offspring. Those who did not—did not.”

“Evolution in action.”

“Exactly.”

The theory appealed to me. I wasn’t a freak because I saw ghosts—I was simply more evolved.

We explored the five bedrooms and two baths on the second floor, then proceeded to the third floor and toured its six small rooms.

“All right, ladies,” Olivier asked, a slight smile on his face, “ready to brave the attic?”

N
o.
But I knew I had to face my fears. “Sure.” I reached up for the cord and pulled the hatch open, then unfolded the ladder. Olivier went first. Katenka hesitated, then followed. I brought up the rear.

The attic was silent, still, and dark.

“This is the part that worries me,” I said as I showed him the hidden closet.

“ ‘Memento mori,’ ”
Olivier read. “Remember we all die.”

“What?” Katenka asked, sounding annoyed. “What this mean?”

“It’s an old saying. Nothing to worry about.” I hoped.

Olivier showed us the meter reading: eighteen hertz. It had crept higher as we approached the closet.

Katenka halted. “I go. Get baby from Ivana. She cannot keep him long, and I tell her I would not be late.”

“We’ll finish up here,” I said.

She paused at the attic ladder. “Mel, I forget to tell you I hired cat-catcher to find the cat in walls.”

“I haven’t seen any signs of a cat, Katenka. I’ve looked all around, even under the eaves.”

Katenka shrugged and hustled down the attic ladder.

“She’s scared,” I explained.

“Perhaps she is smarter than we,” Olivier replied. He held my eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “It is a little frightening.”

“But I thought you were the big brave ghost hunter.”

His smile broadened into a grin. “Only a foolish man would have no fear of the unknown. I am only a man, Mel. And I hope not to be foolish.”

“Could you at least
pretend
to be the big brave ghost hunter?”

He winked at me. I guessed that would have to be reassurance enough.

Olivier brought out a complicated-looking camera and took pictures of our surroundings from every angle. After scoping the place out with his electronic devices, he asked me, “Are you sensing anything?”

I shook my head. It figured. It was like the mysterious pain that subsides just as you arrive at the doctor’s office, or the strange
ping
the engine stops making when you pull into the mechanic’s garage.

“Do you want to try to call on them?” Olivier asked.

“On purpose?” I swallowed, hard. “Not really.”

“It could be interesting. . . .”

“I don’t even know how to go about it.”

“If they’re appearing to you spontaneously, they must sense a connection to you for some reason, or know that you are a medium between their spirit world and the natural world. Concentrate on being open to their energy, their needs.”

Still I hesitated.

“Isn’t this why you asked me here, Mel?”

I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to concentrate. I felt nothing, and opened my eyes: no weighty gaze, no shadowy figures, no flashes in my peripheral vision. No fierce whispers or sodden, gurgling ghost.

“Nothing,” I said.

He nodded. “Then let’s go.”

We descended the ladder and the two flights of stairs to the main floor. I checked to see if Katenka was home to say good-bye, but all was quiet in the basement apartment.

“Let’s go to my car for a moment and talk,” Olivier suggested. We climbed in and he ran the heater to take the edge off the evening’s chill. “What do you know about the history of this place?”

I told him what I knew about Dominga, her sons Charles and Andre, her daughter-in-law Luvitica, and her grandchild, Junior. And about Charles’s gruesome return in a barrel of rum.

“Do you think Charles is one of the ghosts?”

“I think so. The footsteps I saw were surrounded by drops, like from some kind of liquid. I assumed it was water.”

“Could be ectoplasm.”

“Or rum?”

I couldn’t see Olivier well in the dim light from the streetlamps. Cars drove by, their headlights illuminating our faces briefly. A couple passed by, arm in arm; a mom walked by with two boys dressed in karate uniforms. The homeless fellow had made a bed out of an old sleeping bag and blankets in the foyer to Emile Blunt’s upholstery shop. I made a mental note to bring him a lunch tomorrow.

It was nice out here. Normal neighborhood activity. No ghosts.

“Listen,” Olivier said, “this may be hard to believe, but when it comes to hauntings, I’m rather skeptical myself. It’s rare for spirits to make contact. The likelier explanation is an overactive imagination or human mischief. But in this case . . .”

“What?”

“I believe you. And if what you say is true, I’d stay out of this house.”

“That’s not really an option.”

Another Gallic shrug. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“How about telling me how to get rid of them.”

“I would have to take more time, set up a situation to make contact.”

“You mean a séance?”

“If what you have told me is true, that you were able to speak with a ghost and help him to the other side, then you don’t need a séance. You’re already more powerful than most séance leaders, since you don’t need the psychic boost that comes from a circle of believers.”