Dead Bolt (3 page)

Seems I would be going up against some spirits. Again.

But I would
not
do it alone. I had learned that much, at least. This time, I was calling in backup from the start. Since I knew I wasn’t hallucinating, I refused to be shy about asking for help. Awkward, maybe—reluctant, definitely—but not shy.

I stood over Katenka, pondering what my next move should be. Call Jim? Hire a psychic? What I really wanted was to rent a U-Haul and get this young family
out
of here before dusk.

The back of my neck tingled.

In my peripheral vision, I saw a black, amorphous shape. And felt a wave of dread, and rage, wash over me.

As soon as I looked straight at it, it disappeared.

It left me feeling off-kilter, uncentered, as though looking into the distortions of a funhouse mirror. It was hard to know what was real, and what was not. This was nothing like the last ghost I had seen.

I reached down and shook Katenka, calling her name.

“Mm . . . wha . . .” She opened her eyes and, after a long moment, focused on me. Fear returned to her face as she scanned the room. Seeing nothing, she relaxed into the cushions and fixed me with an accusatory glare. “You saw it, no?”

I nodded.

“I think you must stop this project.”

“But . . . we’re nowhere near finished.”

“Is fine. I live in worse in Russia, believe me. I have placed the amulets and magic water in our bedroom and the baby’s; nothing has happened in there. In there we are safe. I will talk to Jim to stop renovation. Then ghosts will be quiet.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense if you and Jim moved out for the interim?”

She held up a delicate palm, closed her eyes, and took a shaky breath. “No, this is not possible. I have told you before, Jim will not even discuss it—he says we must live in our home to create . . . tradition and stability for the baby. Jim says this is our home and we stay here, forever.”

“Forever” seemed like a chilling word to bandy about at the moment. If the ghosts were indeed malevolent and threatening, I sure wouldn’t want to spend the night under the same roof with them. Especially not with a child.

“But if there’s something here, something unsettled, or dangerous—”

“If you stop construction, perhaps the spirits go back to sleep. Or if they do not—perhaps we must sell, find someplace else for our forever home for baby. I will talk to Jim.”

“Sell? Now?”

“Perhaps is best.”

“Katenka, please, we might be able to figure something out—”

I should have saved my breath.

She was already heading downstairs to talk to her husband, the man who couldn’t refuse her anything.

I drooped onto the lumpy settee. A moment ago I had been contemplating running away from the house myself. But apart from the obvious financial ramifications of shutting down the job—Turner Construction employed a crew of seven full-time workers, as well as numerous subcontractors—a Queen Anne like Cheshire House was one of a kind.

I had been itching to return this place to its former glory from the first moment I laid eyes on it. As had Jim Daley. He told me he had searched for a Queen Anne of this magnitude and historic import for more than a year, only to find it right down the street from where he used to live, in a duplex on Union Street.

Unlike many grand homes, Cheshire House survived the 1906 earthquake and fire that devastated San Francisco. Built of solid redwood brought by ship from the lush old-growth forests that used to thrive along California’s rugged north coast, a home of this stature showcased the skill and dedication of turn-of-the-century workers: Italian mold makers, Polish stonecutters, Irish carpenters, Mexican builders, Chinese laborers. It had the beautiful arches and tall ceilings common to Victorians, but its copious gingerbread moldings made it a rare treasure. San Francisco boasts some fabulous Italianate and Stick Victorian homes, but the Queen Annes reign as the city’s true royalty.

Whoever the original owners were, they had spent a fortune building the home. And it had been the recipient of the love and care of scores of talented workers whose energy had seeped into its very walls.

I love old houses. Passionately. I’m driven to preserve them for the future, for the environment, for our children. I understand them.

But Katenka didn’t want to live with ghosts, and I couldn’t blame her. Not to mention the alleged death threats from beyond the grave.

Time for some serious ghost busting.

Since I’d been through this once before, at least I now knew who to call. I rang Realtor Brittany Humm, of Humm’s Haunted Houses, and asked her to meet me tomorrow for lunch and ghost-talk.

“Lovely!” she gushed. “I was hoping you’d be contacted again! I’m so excited!”

“Yeah. . . . Me, too,” I lied.

 

Rather than intrude on Jim and Katenka’s private discussion, I decided to let it go until morning. Jim loved this house so much I doubted he’d be willing to sell, even for the wife he adored. So the real question was whether or not I could get them to vacate while I rid the place of ghosts . . . presuming I figured out how to do that. Which was a rather large presumption.

After gathering my paperwork and tucking it into my satchel, I turned off the lights and locked the front door behind me.

As I descended the stone steps to the street, I spotted an apparition only slightly less frightening than ghostly footprints and black shadowy figures: Emile Blunt.

Super
. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

Emile owned the upholstery shop across the street and though he wasn’t quite as old as the building that housed his business, he was at least as broken down and crotchety. Like a tough old rooster, he led with his chest when he was bothered, and he was bothered a lot. The Daleys’ construction project had irritated him from the start, and he wanted everyone to understand the extent of his frustration.

I used to nod and try to be pleasant, but lately I just avoided him. I moved quickly toward my car, hoping to outrun yet another of his tirades.

I almost made it—I was reaching for the door handle when I heard Emile’s gruff voice behind me.

Giving in to the inevitable, I turned around and forced a polite smile.

“Mr. Blunt, how are you today?”

“Not well. Not well at all. How long am I going to have to put up with this?”

“I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but—”

“I’m filing a complaint with the city.”

I gritted my teeth. “You can if you wish, of course, but it won’t do you any good. We have all the necessary work permits, and we’re following the time guidelines, doing more than we’re required to by law, even. I’m sorry you’re unhappy, but construction projects always involve some noise and mess. We’re doing everything we can to hurry things along and cause a minimum of—”

“Screw your minimum.”

“Okaaaay,” I said, wondering where to take it from there. If my practiced “please be patient and reasonable” speech wasn’t cutting it, I didn’t have a lot of other tricks up my sleeve.

Neighborhood relations are an ongoing concern for those of us doing residential renovation, but sooner or later just about every homeowner in San Francisco will undertake some sort of home improvement—a new roof, backyard landscaping, plumbing repairs, foundation work—and will need to call upon the patience of their neighbors. Most folks seem to realize this and suffer in silence, knowing their turn will come.

Emile Blunt was not one of these. One look at his front room was all it took to realize he hadn’t so much as changed his curtains in the decades he had owned his shop.

He seemed to regroup, relaxing his aggressive stance and even attempting a gap-toothed smile. “If you would come inside for a minute, we could talk. Please.”

I hesitated. I was tired and grumpy and preoccupied with ghosts. But Emile was old and grumpy and worried about lord-knows-what. Plus, he was a neighbor, and my elder, and he’d said please. I’m a sucker for “please.”

Besides, it was almost Christmas, so I was trying extra hard to be nice. With a sigh, I followed him into his upholstery shop.

A rusty bell let out a lonely little tinkle as we passed through the door.

I always introduce myself to the neighbors at the start of any project, so I had been inside the upholstery shop once before. It was even worse than I remembered. Glancing around, I tried to avoid breathing.

The room stank of must, mildew, and something far worse. Thick bolts of dusty fabric stood in every corner; hundreds of sample books and loose fabric swatches littered the tables and hung from nails along the back wall. The main source of light was the tepid incandescence of a bare bulb hanging from a carved and gilded ceiling medallion that had once featured a grand chandelier. Thick cobwebs claimed every corner, the patterned wallpaper was water-stained and peeling away from the dirty plaster walls, and scarred wainscoting ringed the room, occasional panels cracked or missing altogether. Every horizontal surface was covered in fuzz, feathers, and filth.

“Nice place,” I said.

Emile snorted.

A red fox sitting atop a worktable scowled at me, and I jumped before realizing it was stuffed and mounted. Upholstery was Emile’s bread and butter, but he was also an amateur taxidermist. A stuffed tortoiseshell cat sat upon the mantel of a long-unused fireplace, next to several ceramic feline figurines. It was one of a variety of small animals that stared down from their perches with glassy, unseeing eyes. Around the cat’s neck was a glittery rhinestone collar sporting a large metal charm. The decorative detail made its stuffed presence even sadder.

I couldn’t understand how Emile managed to find customers who didn’t mind having their antique Stickley sofas reupholstered alongside a stuffed California turkey vulture, but Emile was surprisingly slick. Plus his rates were really, really cheap for Union Street, a neighborhood known more for chic restaurants and wine bars than old-school shops like this. Emile must own the building, I thought; otherwise he would never be able to afford to stay in business.

“I see you like cats.”

“What’s wrong with that? Can’t have a live one, on account o’ all the hair.” He gestured at the stuffed tortoiseshell feline, his gaze lingering, lovingly, for a moment. “Did a great job on that one, though, didn’t I? Real lifelike.”

I’m a strong believer in pursuing one’s passions, but taxidermy . . . ? Outside of the Museum of Natural History, it just seemed creepy.

“I understand the former owner of the Cheshire Inn liked cats,” I said.

“That crazy cat woman?”

“I take it you didn’t get along?”

“You know she buried a bunch of her cats in the yard? I offered to take care of ’em for her, but she wouldn’t have it. Anyway, I didn’t ask you here to talk about her. I want you to help me. I wanna make an offer on the house.”

“What house?”

“The Cheshire Inn,” he said, giving me a “what an idiot” look.

My cell phone rang. As much as I wanted to extricate myself from this conversation, I let it go to voice mail. Better to finish with the eccentric Mr. Blunt before taking calls.

“It’s not my house,” I said.

“I
realize
that,” he said, his voice betraying what he thought of my intelligence quotient. “I want you to facilitate things for me with the husband. He’s being difficult.”

“I’m sorry, Emile. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. You’ve hated this project since it began, and now you want me to help you buy a house that’s not for sale. If you wanted it, why didn’t you bid on it when it was on the market a couple of months ago?”

“I wasn’t in the position to buy it then. But I understand the current owners might be unhappy. That little Ukrainian gal talks to me sometimes. She wants me to upholster an old settee.”

“She’s Russian, not Ukrainian.” I stopped myself before adding that she was a grown woman, not a little girl. Weariness washed over me. It had been a long day, and I had just seen a ghost . . . or something. Why was I bothering with Emile Blunt?

“Listen, if you’re seriously interested in the house, you should speak directly to the Daleys,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I really do need to get going. I’m already into rush hour traffic.”

Without waiting for an answer I fled the shop, relief wafting over me as I stepped out into the fresh evening air.

Unfortunately, Emile Blunt was hard on my heels.

“We’re not finished!”

“I believe we are,” I said, hurrying to my car. “If you want to buy the house, you’ll have to speak with the owners, who happen to be home at the moment. I have to go.”

“Listen to me, lady: If you refuse to help me, you’ll be sorry.”

I opened the car door but paused to look at him.

“Are you . . .
threatening
me?” I wasn’t sure I could believe my ears. When he didn’t answer, I climbed into my boxy Scion, locked all the doors, and started the engine.

Blunt planted himself, sumo wrestler–like, in front of my car.

I glanced behind me. A brown delivery truck was parked there, preventing me from backing up.

I seethed. What in the world had gotten into this guy?

On the sidewalk a bearded homeless man watched the action, a broad smile on his face. He gave me the thumbs-up. At least the Roman crowds were with me.

My phone rang again.

“What?”
I answered, adrenaline pumping through me.

“Um, sor-ry. Maybe I’ll talk to you later,” came the voice of my sixteen-year-old stepson, Caleb.

“No,
I’m
the one who’s sorry, kiddo. A grumpy old man is standing in front of my car because I told him I wouldn’t sell him a house I don’t own. Go figure. Plus my clients might be firing me.” I skipped the part about seeing ghosts. “And how’s
your
day been?”