Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (17 page)

“I hate that I think you’re right,” I said.

Luz shrugged. “Some things in life are just sad, Mel, and there’s no way around it. That’s why it’s important to eat beignets.”

“Walk me through that logical leap?”

“A key to emotional health is to balance sadness and stress with pleasure. Some people like to exercise. I prefer to eat sugar-coated, deep-fried pastry.”

“Ah, it’s all clear to me now.”

“But speaking of being consumed by sadness . . . If Linda really was murdered, you might look into who stood to gain from her death.”

“That’s always the place to start,” I agreed. “Who had motive. But Linda didn’t own anything except half of the house. I can’t picture Hugh killing his sister just to gain complete control. Besides, he told me Linda had long ago given him power of attorney. What would be the point?”

“Power of attorney can be revoked, you know. And it doesn’t take a lot to kill a desperate addict. Just hand her a bunch of pills that weren’t what you told her they were.”

I blew out a breath.

“Another thing,” continued Luz. “Check out who would gain control of Hugh’s assets if he’s fifty-one fiftied.”

I stared at her.

“It’s code for committing someone against their will. You know, if they’re cray-cray. And yes,” she continued, “before you ask, ‘cray-cray’ is a professional term.”

“You mean who would gain control of Hugh’s assets besides the house? How do you know he has any? I don’t know anything about the man’s finances, but I can’t imagine a poet makes a lot of money.”

“Don’t be so sure, my friend. This guy isn’t your run-of-the-dive-café beat poet. He’s Hugh Freaking Lawrence, poet laureate. People pay him good money to show up and read his poetry. Not to mention he wrote the lyrics for a famous rock song, and there was even an indie movie based on one of his poems. It wasn’t bad, as far as that kind of thing goes.”

“So you’re saying . . . ?”

“Don’t the police look to spouses first? Would Hugh’s wife gain control of his assets if he’s declared incompetent?”

“I suppose. But she seems genuinely concerned about him. She’s urging him to write all about the experience, the grim stuff. Plus, she’s a techie, so she probably makes decent money of her own.”

“Never underestimate the power of greed. Some people will kill for what others would consider ridiculously small sums of money. Or maybe she just wants him to suffer for his art. Hugh’s first book, the grueling, blood-fueled stuff, landed him on the literary map. His next published volumes were much less tortured, more about love and home and kittens, but that stuff doesn’t sell. Maybe his wife wants him to be mired in the pain so he’ll write more blood-and-guts poetry and keep on raking in the money.”

“That’s a terrible thought.”

Luz had finished off the beignets and was now licking powdered sugar from her fingers. She shrugged.

“I’m just saying it’s worth considering. Maybe his wife would be willing to sacrifice his mental health—and his sister—for the cash.”

I
got back to work for a while, making my usual rounds of the active jobsites, answering slews of telephone queries, and cajoling the clerk at the permit office to help me expedite the papers for a South Beach garage remodel. After going by the Bernini B&B and settling a dispute over the underlayment for radiant heat under the tile in the bathrooms, I met Annette Crawford at the designated parking lot in Berkeley.

Moments later we were zipping down the freeway in Annette’s beautiful blue sports car. It felt freeing, doing this sort of thing on a workday. Annette’s friend, the former homicide inspector, lived on his “ranchette” in Martinez, about twenty miles east of San Francisco, on the Carquinez Strait.

Martinez was one of those places I heard about in radio traffic reports but had never gone to. Though I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, I had only a vague sense of where Martinez was and what might be found there.

So I was impressed to discover that within twenty minutes’ drive of San Francisco—without traffic—you might as well be out in the countryside, where men wore cowboy hats and boots, and horses and cows and sheep populated the pastures. The area around Martinez was typical for California: rolling hills lush with tall grass and dotted with majestic oak trees. Since it was winter, the hills were a bright green, rivaling the famous landscapes in Ireland. For most of the year, however, they were “golden,” which meant the grasses were dry and dead. Still, the hills were gorgeous, a deep golden yellow shimmering in the bright sunshine, interrupted by the occasional lone oak tree. More than one California artist had attempted to capture their essence on canvas.

“So, what’s this friend of yours doing way out here?” I asked.

Annette gunned the engine to show up a white Camaro with a red racing stripe, whose pimply driver glared as we passed. “A lot of homicide inspectors head to the countryside when they retire. Not because the rural life guarantees safety; we all know that. But because when you’ve worked homicide in the city long enough, you start to associate every neighborhood, every block, with its murders or suspicious deaths. You end up viewing the city not as a patchwork of distinct neighborhoods but as a series of zones strewn with corpses. It gets a bit gruesome after a while.”

“A city of the dead, huh?” I never thought of that.

Annette nodded. “Not everybody feels that way, of course. But I guess getting out with the animals and the country smells . . .” She shrugged. “At least a person doesn’t think about bodies all the time.”

Now that I tripped over bodies with remarkable frequency, I was beginning to think more about the impact of the aftermath of violence on first responders. Whether paramedics or cops, we were all human and it was a lot to take in.

“Shel’s always been an animal lover. Even back in the day, when he lived in a small apartment in the city, he had two dogs and a cat. Now he’s on the board of the county’s SPCA and works with a program that brings shelter dogs into prisons to be trained and socialized by inmates. Caring for the dogs requires the prisoners to take responsibility for someone besides themselves, which increases their capacity for empathy. It also gives them something worthwhile to do so they’re not tempted to get into trouble. Meanwhile, the dogs are taught basic commands and good habits and are socialized so they’ll be good family pets. It’s a win-win situation.”

“What happens to the dogs?”

“When their training is complete they ‘graduate’ and are placed in new homes with families on the outside. The prisoners start over with another homeless pet. The program’s been a huge success.”

That would be a good thing for my dad to get involved in,
I thought, then caught myself. First I had volunteered Dad for Neighbors Together; now I was thinking he should volunteer for a prison dog–training program. Apparently, without realizing it, I no longer expected my dad to resume control of Turner Construction so that I could carry on with my oft-threatened plan to run away to Paris. And the odd thing was, I seemed to be okay with it. Turner Construction, which I had for so long seen as an obligation and a weight around my neck, had somehow become mine, and I was feeling decidedly proprietary about it.

“Wow,” I said as we sped down a winding road, emerald hills on one side, an ancient walnut orchard on the other. “So, this is Martinez. Who knew?”

“John Muir, the pioneering conservationist, was from Martinez,” said Annette as we drove. “So was Joe DiMaggio. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“I surely didn’t.” It was embarrassing how little I knew about local history, which just went to prove that I was a true native. Only tourists and recent arrivals knew factoids such as this. “How is it you know so much?”

“Years ago, when I first moved to the area, I did a lot of exploring on my days off. I doubt I missed a single historical marker. I should make time to do more of that—I got a real kick out of it. It’s a fascinating area.”

There was a wistful tone in her voice. I had a number of friends turning fifty and had noticed that for many it was a time of reflection and introspection. I wondered whether Annette considered giving up all this grisly homicide stuff in order to—I don’t know—maybe take up tending a herd of goats or weaving lumpy linen cloth on a large wooden loom.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Alabama, originally, then I moved to San Jose.”

“Seriously? You don’t have an accent.”

“You have any idea how hard I’ve worked to shed it? Born and raised on a small farm outside of Selma, believe it or not.”

“Wow.”

“I know. I’m like the embodiment of the civil rights movement, right? I’d like to say that my family marched with Reverend King, but that would be a lie. They kept their heads down and worked their fingers to the bone to provide for us kids and to give us the education and opportunities they didn’t have. But the legacy was there, and as soon as I was old enough, I followed. I remember the sensation, hearing about what was going on at school: I felt, quite literally, my chest puff up. As though I were taking a deep breath for the very first time. After that, there was no keeping this girl down on the farm.”

Scratch the goatherding and handweaving.

Annette slowed, turned off the main highway, and passed through an open aluminum gate. We drove slowly another quarter mile down a dirt road, kicking up a plume of yellow brown dust behind us. We passed a fenced pasture where three swaybacked, scruffy-looking horses were contentedly munching on cropped grass. Beyond that was a mobile home surrounded by animal pens and cages holding a coyote and a variety of birds. A border collie and two dogs of dubious parentage raced toward the vehicle, barking.

A tall, slender man emerged from the mobile home and waved.

Retired San Francisco Homicide Inspector Sheldon Evans had embraced the rural life with enthusiasm. He wore a big tan cowboy hat, boots that had seen real labor, and an enormous belt buckle. A handlebar mustache dominated his face, as if tacked on during an out-of-control game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I gazed at him, fascinated that one person could embody so many western stereotypes.

Then I reminded myself of my own far-fetched outfits and told myself to stop being “judgy,” as Monty would say.

Annette introduced us, and we shook hands.

“Do you do wildlife rescue as well?” I asked.

“Not really. There’s a wildlife rescue station in Lafayette that takes them in and fixes their broken wings and the like, but a lot of them can never be released back into the wild. So they live here. Get room and board; all they have to do is look pretty and not eat each other. It’s a pretty good deal, all things considered.”

Dust on my boots, the smell of the grass underfoot, the wind through wet leaves, and manure. Country smells. It was a reminder to me how long it had been since I had taken a break, gotten out of town. I’m a city girl, by and large, but there was no denying that in a place like this, a person could breathe. I inhaled deeply, held it, released it in several beats like my Berkeley Buddhist friends were always telling me to do. It felt surprisingly good.

Since business was slow, perhaps I should propose a weekend getaway to Graham. It would be worth it just to see the shocked expression on his face. I couldn’t help but smile at the image. That decided it. As soon as we nailed this murder down and I finished up the Monty project, I was going to take a weekend off.

I felt audacious and daring.

After a brief tour of the animals and introductions to his numerous dogs, Sheldon invited us into his double-wide mobile home, which was comfortable and surprisingly spacious inside.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the linoleum-topped dining table. “The wife’s at Costco, so until she gets back the pickings are kind of slim around here, but I can offer you coffee or a beer.”

“A beer sounds good,” said Annette.

“Same for me,” I said, to be sociable. I’m not a big beer drinker.

“PBR all around it is,” Sheldon said, and set a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in front of each of us before taking a seat.

We popped the tabs and took a sip, and while I tried to decide why anyone in their right mind would choose to drink beer, Annette and Sheldon got caught up with an exchange of shoptalk and “do you remembers.” After several minutes, Annette asked Sheldon about the Lawrence murders.

“Like I told you on the phone, it seemed pretty clear-cut,” he said with a shake of his head. He stuck his chin out thoughtfully and stroked his mustache. “One of those heartbreakers, what with the teenager, and the other kids witnessing the crime and barely escaping with their lives.”

“Was there any clue as to what led up to that night?”

“The father was having money problems. His company wasn’t doing well, and there were rumors of embezzlement. Apparently he just . . . snapped. Or so it seemed.”

“Was there any doubt that he was the one who did it?” I asked.

“Not at the time. Not officially.”

Annette and I exchanged a glance.

“What about unofficially?” she asked.

Sheldon took a moment before replying. “That case always bothered me. Man had a nice wife, three good kids. Money troubles, but nothing he couldn’t reasonably expect to recover from. The police had no record of incidents at the home. The neighbors said the Lawrences seemed like a nice family, no reports of loud voices or fighting. According to their teachers, the kids were good students, happy and polite, no acting out or signs of neglect or abuse. Usually in these kinds of cases there’s
something
, some indication that all isn’t well at home. But not this time. The in-laws had nothing but wonderful things to say about Sidney. They expressed no lingering doubts, no bitterness, no I-knew-something-was-wrong-why-didn’t-I-say-something—nothing like that. Just stunned disbelief.”

“Any other suspects?” asked Annette.

“All the usual suspects. We reconstructed the twenty-four hours leading up to the murder, then the previous forty-eight hours. We tried to avoid getting tunnel vision, seeing only what was most obvious. We looked into the wife, thinking maybe she’d had an affair. Nothing. We checked up on him; maybe he’d been seeing someone. Again, zip. The way his business was structured, his partner had nothing to gain from his death. The only financial motive was who would inherit and who got the insurance payout.”

“The children?”

He nodded. “It was pretty far-fetched, but kids occasionally do kill their parents. It wasn’t likely, but we had to look into it. We turned up nothing substantial. Linda, the daughter, made some contradictory statements, but ultimately we chalked that up to the shock of what she had seen.”

“Which was?”

“Her father shooting her mother. On that point she was consistent: She heard a noise, came out of her room, saw her father at the foot of the stairs and her mother on the ground, reaching up to him. As Linda watched, her father lowered the gun and shot her mother in the head.”

The nightmarish vision of Jean Lawrence on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, reaching out for mercy, flashed across my mind. I blew out a breath. So many lives destroyed.

“Did she see her father kill himself?”

“No. On that she was also consistent. According to what we were able to piece together, after seeing her father murder her mother, Linda ran to her little brother’s room and blocked the door with a chest of drawers. Clever kid. So while they heard the shot, they were spared the sight of their father turning the gun on himself. Linda and her brother went out the bedroom window onto the roof, then managed to shimmy down the tree at the side of the house.”

“Resourceful kids.”

He tugged at his mustache. “I doubt it was the first time Linda had left the house that way—she was a bit of a handful.”

“I thought you said there were no problems with the kids?” Annette asked.

“Didn’t mean it that way,” he said with a smile. “Hell, I snuck out my bedroom window once or twice when I was a kid; didn’t you? I’m saying Linda wasn’t the kind of kid to sit around and wait for her father to kill her. That’s all.”

We sat in silence for a long moment, nursing the dregs of our warm, flat beers. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Sidney’s actions were still claiming lives. Whatever violence had bubbled up that night had swallowed Linda, too; it had just taken a while.