Dead Bolt (9 page)

“There were beds, and I guess there was breakfast, but with all those cats . . . It doesn’t sound much like what one expects from a San Francisco bed-and-breakfast. But you know how men are—they’ll live anywhere and never notice the toilet needs cleaning.”

I smiled and thought about my dad, who’d become a rather fussy housekeeper.

“And Jim and Katenka bought it from Hettie Banks,” I said, and did the math. “So we’re looking at nearly a century of being used as a boardinghouse. That’s a lot of souls coming and going.”

“But as far as we know, only one body,” said Brittany.

“What are you saying? That Charles Carter is haunting Cheshire House?”

Brittany leaned back in her chair and shrugged. “I don’t know, Mel. I just do research, remember? But it makes for a great story, doesn’t it?”

I wondered if a rum-pickled ghost would look different from any other. I could imagine that. It would explain the bare feet, perhaps. What I couldn’t fathom was how or why it might wander around in the form of black smoke. But were the footprints connected to the black figure? They had seemed like two distinct entities, to the extent I could tell.

As Brittany signaled the waiter for our check, I glanced around the restaurant. Brittany worked in Walnut Creek, on the other side of the dreaded Caldecott Tunnel, so we had split the difference and met in Oakland at the Den at the Fox, a new restaurant in one corner of the old Fox Theater building, an incredible Moroccan-themed single-screen venue that dated to the 1920s, the heyday of historic theaters. The restaurant was done up with holiday decorations Bay Area–style, which meant lots of red and green garlands, a few nods to Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, but nothing explicitly about baby Jesus, as though Christmas were a sparkly winter holiday consisting primarily of lights and tinsel. I wondered if this was why Halloween was taking over as the locals’ favorite: There weren’t many folks who couldn’t get behind a costume- and candy-fueled good time.

“I think what I need is a ghost buster. Do you have a recommendation?”

Brittany gave me a peculiar look. “With your third eye, or ability to see, you’re the kind of expert other people bring in.”

“I might be able to sense ghosts—sometimes—but I don’t have the first idea how to get rid of them.”

“You did a pretty good job at the Vallejo Street house.”

When the ghost of a man killed on the job site at a Beaux Arts mansion started following me around, I wound up tracking down his killer and digging up—literally—evidence of an old murder, as well. By the time all was said and done, I had laid to rest at least a couple of the old mansion’s ghosts.

“That was mostly accidental,” I said. “Once I figured out what had happened, the ghosts left.”

“It works that way sometimes. Oh, I should tell you, your fame is growing.”

“I have fame?”

“Somebody wrote up the story and named names.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It wasn’t me,” she said, holding her hands up in innocence. “You asked me to keep it quiet, and I did. But I kept hearing rumors, and recently I came across this article about you.”

She pulled another photocopy from the folder, and I read it with dismay. The only sort of fame I was interested in was Turner Construction winning the American Institute of Architects’ award for historical renovation. I didn’t like people talking about me, much less seeking me out to answer questions about ghosts.

The article wasn’t long, but gave the basic rundown of what had happened at the Vallejo Street house, a project Turner Construction was still finishing up:

“I can’t believe this,” I muttered. “Who would have had this kind of information? Where is this from?”

“
Haunted House Quarterly
,” Brittany said.

“There’s a publication called
Haunted House Quarterly
?”

Brittany grinned. “Sure, gotta keep up with the latest news in the industry. Haunted houses are big business, as I keep telling you. And before you say something you’ll have to apologize for, you should know that I’m a regular contributor. Anyway, this issue just came out. I wouldn’t be surprised if you start hearing from people.”

“Great.” That explained the phone calls Stan fielded yesterday.

“Maybe the same thing’s happening with this house. Which is good news, right? All you have to do is figure out who the ghost is, find out what he wants or needs, and tell him to leave the house.”

“It’s not that simple, Brittany.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean. With a threatening black shadow figure you might need some bigger guns. I’m sorry to say, though, that I don’t know anyone. The folks I know are
looking
for ghosts, not trying to get rid of them.”

“Why are they looking for them?”

Brittany sighed. “You still don’t get it: A lot of us feel it’s a privilege to meet someone from another dimension. Many attempt to document the phenomenon, using special cameras and recording equipment and the like.”

“But if you did want them to leave, how would you go about it? “

“You might try a botanica, ask for a
limpia
.”

I nodded. That had occurred to me as well. Botanicas are traditional Latino stores full of herbs, candles, teas . . . and all the sorts of items used in cleansing houses of spirits.

“Or you could call the ghost society,” Brittany continued. “Or how about that ghost-tour guy?”

“The French guy? Someone else mentioned him.”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“If only that were true.”

I paid for lunch, thanked Brittany for her time and information, and we parted ways. Leaning against my dusty car, I looked at a faded poster advertising hair extensions in the beauty shop across the street. Like my neighborhood, this was an area “in transition.” I looked up at the intricately tiled Moorish facade of the Fox Theater and thought a place like that must have a ghost or two roaming its bowels. I wondered if I could go to a show there without meeting up with one.

Brittany was right: I didn’t find it particularly exciting to be able to sense ghosts. On the other hand, I was no longer freaked out by it. It was only recently, after my mother’s death, that I learned from my father she had possessed a similar ability, and in a way it linked me to her. After I saw my first ghost I was afraid I’d see dead people everywhere, like the boy from that movie a few years ago. I was enough of a misanthrope to worry about that—my long-term goal was to spend time alone, not to be saddled with the souls of all who had passed. But it hadn’t happened. True, when I entered historic buildings I sensed where things belonged, how they used to be. Given my line of work, that was an asset.

But it seemed as though there were ghosts in Cheshire House, and whether I liked it or not, I was the logical person to respond to them. I wanted to wrest back control of this construction project, so I needed to talk to my ghosts, or find someone who could. And then I had to find someone to help me get rid of them—these homeowners didn’t seem like the type to consider supernatural apparitions as “added value” for the property. Finally, I would have to convince Katenka the ghosts were gone so the renovation project was worth completing.

But before I did any of that, I wanted to talk to the last living owner of the cursed house to learn what, if anything, she had experienced.

I returned several work phone calls, then placed a few more: Raul assured me all was progressing well at Cheshire House; I spoke with the head of the painting crew finishing up the Vallejo Street project; checked on an order of reclaimed barn wood for the floor in a client’s den; and confirmed with Stan that everything was set for this Friday’s payroll.

Finally, I headed back over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco and across town to the neighborhood known as the Western Addition, to the address Brittany had written down for me. Next up was a quick chat with the cat lady.

H
ettie Banks didn’t have many visitors.

She seemed pleased to invite me in and spent a few minutes cleaning off a stool for me to sit at the kitchen counter, tossing a small stack of newspapers and two plastic bags full of who-knew-what into an already junk-filled corner.

But her watery blue eyes flashed with fear when I asked her whether she ever . . . sort of . . . experienced otherworldly weirdness in her former boardinghouse.

“They might kill me, just for talking about them,” she whispered as she poured Diet Coke into two chipped coffee mugs that sported corporate logos—Microsoft for me, Google for her.

“These are ghosts we’re talking about?”

She nodded. Her pink scalp showed through the strands of thinning white hair, cut in a short, masculine’do. She wore an oversized men’s T-shirt advertising the services of a Mission Street auto care service, and scratched tortoiseshell glasses from which hung a bright, beaded chain that draped around her neck.

“I don’t understand,” I continued. “Why would they want to kill you?”

“Just for knowing about them, I guess. I think they want to be left alone. . . .” She waved a hand and got up to open a can of cat food for a fat orange tabby, which she spoke to in a high-pitched baby voice. She spooned the smelly food onto two small china plates decorated with pink and yellow flowers, tapping the spoon against the plates with a series of sharp
tinks.

At the sound, another cat ran into the room and leapt onto the counter. This one had long white hair and deep blue eyes.

I might not have found any information about the history of the house itself, but I had read several articles about Hettie Banks’s arrest and sentencing for animal hoarding, and knew she wasn’t supposed to own any pets, much less cats. It was part of her probation agreement. When she was found to be keeping a multitude of felines in the garbage-strewn Cheshire Inn, Hettie had been taken into police custody and charged with cruelty toward animals.

After nearly four decades running the fifteen-room Cheshire Inn as a boardinghouse, Hettie sold the place to the Daleys and was now living in a two-bedroom condo. She told me she spent her days watching reruns of
M*A*S*H
, building a dollhouse reproduction of the Cheshire Inn, carrying on an Internet romance with a man half her age who lived in what she referred to as “the former Yugoslavia,” and, it seemed, flouting the conditions of her probation and the condo association’s no-pets clause.

I wondered why. The sale of a beautiful, well-located Queen Anne Victorian—even one that was run-down and redolent of too many cats—should have netted Hettie plenty of money to buy a big spread in the country where no nosy neighbors would spot her cat colony. Had she switched from hoarding pets to hoarding money? Sent it to her friend in the former Yugoslavia? Gambled it away in Vegas? Not that it was any of my business.

“I was hoping you could fill me in on the history of the house,” I said. “Usually I can learn a lot at the historical society downtown, but not this time. There’s nothing in their records on the house.”

She grinned. “There wouldn’t be, now would there?” “Why not?”

“I destroyed it all.”

I waited a moment before I spoke. I couldn’t fathom people destroying irreplaceable historic items.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“The gal told me to.”

“What gal?”

“The ghost.”

“A gal ghost?”

“That’s right. I went down to the historical society and when the librarian answered the phone, I took the file and left, just as neat as you please.”

Wait a minute. The historical society required photo IDs before one could view their materials, to avoid just such a thing.

“Why didn’t the historical society come after you?”

She laughed. “I didn’t use my own driver’s license. I had one that belonged to a friend. She passed on a few years ago, bless her heart. I kept her driver’s license for just such an occasion. People always said we looked enough alike to be sisters.”

One mystery solved. Hettie was more than a little odd, and obviously cunning.

“So a ghost actually talked to you? A girl ghost?”

“One of ’em. Maybe two. It’s hard to tell.”

“Did they look like a person, like you and me?”

“You believe me?”

“I do. What else can you tell me about them?”

She sat down in a folding chair, pulled the plump tabby onto her lap, and stroked its ginger coat while she talked.

“At first it was little things . . . There were places in the house that were always freezing—a spot in the second floor walkway and one corner of the entryway.”

I had noted those, as well. I had the heating people out, and checked everywhere for possible sources of downdrafts. Nothing.

“Doors opened and closed on their own, dead bolts locked, and heaven knows I’d lost those keys
years
ago. Lots of knocking and scratching throughout the house. Real annoying.”

“And did you see anything?”

“You mean—whaddayacall ’em—applications?”

“Apparitions?”

“No, not really. A shadow sometimes. Over my shoulder, like.” She looked into her soda. “That one bothered me. It made me feel . . . just awful.”

I knew the feeling. “Did anyone else see any of this?”

“Oh sure. Not all of ’em, but boarders came and went; it’s the nature of the business. I had this one fellow . . . he was in the attic once, with my daughter. He swore he saw something, some sort of fight between ghosts, I guess. He moved out the next day. Janet denied it, though.”