Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (20 page)

He kissed me on the neck. “Could be fun. I’ve never been anyone’s plaything.”

A gentle nibble on my earlobe sent shivers racing through me.

“Um . . . I suppose we could give it a try.”

“Hey, you two!” Cookie opened the door without knocking. “What are you two up to? It’s time for dessert!”

Graham and I shared a smile, and I took his hand.

“Come on, boy toy. Let’s go sublimate with chocolate.”

T
he next morning I gathered my papers, breezed through the kitchen, and waved good-bye, not even stopping for coffee.

There was no way in heck I was taking Cookie with me to prison.

After some thought, I had decided that the ideal person to drag to San Quentin with me was my old buddy Zach. Zach was several years younger than I, but there were times I felt a lifetime older. He was enthusiastic and fun, and usually up for odd things. He also tended to flirt with me, which is something my ego could use right about now. After dessert last night, Graham had asked me if I wanted to come to his place. But with Caleb and my sister at home, it felt awkward to leave. Besides, I had work the next day. Besides . . . I just wasn’t sure. Unfortunately, Graham gave up too easily, leaving me dissatisfied but unable to put my finger on exactly why.

I didn’t want to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, I was calling Zach because I suspected that it would elicit a strong response from Graham if he knew. But he wouldn’t know, right? So surely that wasn’t the reason.

I called.

“Mel! I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are the ghosts?”

“Oh, great, thanks. How’s the life of crime?”

“Very funny. I’ve been on the straight and narrow for some time now, as you know. I’ve been a very, very good boy. So good it’s boring, as a matter of fact.”

“How about going to San Quentin?”

“I just told you, I’m a solid citizen these days.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you check in. I’m going during visiting hours and wondered if you’d go with me.”

“San Quentin, as in the notorious state penitentiary?”

“Yep. So, pick you up noonish?”

“You’re not going to tell me why you want to visit prison?”

“It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you on the way. And you really don’t have to come if you have something more useful to do. Like making money, building your career, that kind of thing. I was just thinking about you, and I thought . . .”

“You needed someone to watch your back, and you’re scared to go alone, and you thought I might be familiar with the penal code. I get it. Do I at least get lunch out of the deal?”

I laughed. “Sure.”

“Just to be clear: No prison food.”

“Agreed. I was thinking Larkspur Landing.” It always seemed odd to me that San Quentin hulked on the shore of the bay, right next to quaint, prosperous Larkspur Landing, which boasted a ferry terminal with commuter boats going to and from San Francisco. It was a strange study in contrasts.

We agreed to meet at eleven. That gave me a few hours to check on my current jobs and to pass by an old distillery in China Beach that some restaurateurs wanted to transform into a brewery/pub. We did a walk-through, and I took measurements and photographs so I could work up a written proposal. It would be a great project if we could land it. I enjoyed doing residential jobs, but it was good for the company’s reputation to renovate public spaces from time to time. They often served as a source of client referrals.

A few hours later, I picked up Zach in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. I hadn’t seen him in a while, and he surprised me, as always, with his good looks. He was tall with golden-brown hair, and must have been working out, because he had filled out since I first met him. Today he was dressed in jeans, boots, a sweater topped with a tweed jacket, and a hand-knitted scarf around his neck. He looked a bit like he was ready to tour Scotland.

“So tell me, Zach, what do you know about the drug trade in San Francisco?” I said as I drove onto the ramp that approached the Golden Gate Bridge.

“What, no ‘Hello, Zach. It’s been so long. How are you’?”

I gave him a look and then parroted in a flat voice: “Hello, Zach. It’s been so long. How are you?”

“Ah, Mel, I do adore your social skills. Never mind. So, why would you think I would know anything about the drug trade?”

“You once told me you knew everyone in town.”

“When did I say that? That’s an asinine thing to say.”

“I guess you were trying to convince me of how cool you are. Or maybe you were trying to throw me off the track of the fact that you were involved in a murder cover-up and attempted jewelry heist.”

“Hey! I was in no way involved in that murder, and you know it.” He paused. “Okay, you’re probably right. That’s probably why I said that.”

“And you knew the Mafia-run girlie place, remember that?”

“Okay . . . Would it be too much to ask why you’re interested in the local drug trade?”

I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened, who we were visiting in San Quentin, and why.

“Hey, how come you didn’t ask
me
to help on your volunteer project?”

“Would you have?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have skills?”

He gave me a crooked grin. “Oh, baby, you have no idea.”

“Cute. Tell you what—we’re going to finish up the project this weekend. Care to join us?”

“Oh . . .
this
weekend? I’m not sure I can make it this weekend.”

“I see how it is. All good intentions until I actually call you on it. How about this afternoon, then? I’m going to pick up Caleb after school and go over there to finish up a wheelchair ramp.”

“Sure, why not? It’s been ages since I’ve built a wheelchair ramp. Could I wear your coveralls?”

San Quentin sits at the base of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, right on the bay, with views of the bay and the Bay Bridge. Tens of thousands of commuters, I was sure, must daily share the thought that this was a prison set on some prime real estate. In fact, I kept expecting the place to be moved out to the central valley somewhere and the old Art Deco buildings to be converted to condos.

Decidedly eerie but expensive condos.

I was willing to bet there was a ghost or two—or hundreds—within those walls.

The tiny town of San Quentin had a little post office, an ice cream shop, and a few dozen cute little homes, right on the bay. If it weren’t for some of the most violent offenders in the state living through the massive gates right down the street, one might convince oneself they were transported to a bayside version of
Mayberry R.F.D.

Etta Lee had contacted Dave for me and helped me put my name on the visitor’s list. So when I pulled up to the gates, I explained we were here for visiting hours and gave them Zach’s name to add to the list. We were told where to park, then went through metal detectors and a quick check of our driver’s licenses. We then joined dozens of people, mostly women and children, in a cavernous beige room, until our names were called and we were escorted into a room with glass separating us from the prisoners. We spoke by telephone.

I told Dave who I was, but apparently he and Etta had shared a lengthy discussion—he knew all about me.

“Yeah, of course I remember that girl. She was a kid, really, but then so was I. Older than her, but still a kid.”

Dave was good-looking in a rugged way. His face was acne-scarred, his blue eyes intense in a dusky face. I studied him, trying to figure out what to say, how to ask the questions I needed answered.

“Did you . . . sell drugs to her?”

“Nah.” His headshake was immediate, and he didn’t break eye contact. “Like I said, she was just a kid, and to tell you the truth, I sort of had, like, admiration for her family. I would never have screwed around with those kids.”

“What do you mean by
admiration
?”

I was surprised to see what looked like flags of red bloom high on his cheeks. Was this convict blushing?

“It was just that they were like . . . I mean the Lawrences were, like, practically
Leave It to Beaver
; you know what I mean? I mean, I never even seen that show, but I swear those Lawrences were like that, wholesome and loving and all that. I tell you what—it blew my mind when I heard what happened. I never would have believed it . . . I mean, I guess it just goes to show you never know what’s going on behind closed doors, right?”

“So you never thought maybe they had something to do with the fire at your house?”

He waved me off, jerking back with a disgusted look on his face. “Oh, please. You’re listening to neighborhood gossip? What was it, thirty years ago now? That house burned down because my dad fell asleep on the couch with a butt in his hand. Classic example of why you shouldn’t smoke if you’re a dumbass.”

“Sounds like a great slogan for a new public health campaign.”

He smiled. “That fire was probably the best thing could have happened to me—got me out of the neighborhood before I screwed it up for everyone. In fact, that kid, Linda? She’s the one who saw the smoke that night. She probably saved our lives. She was always a special kid, real brave, sensitive.”

“But you never supplied her with drugs?”

“I may have passed her a dime bag or two, maybe a joint now and then. Tell the truth, I can’t really remember; it was so long ago. Her father was real uptight about it, not that I can blame him, looking back. But I never felt like he was the type to do something like that; he might call the cops—he
did
call the cops—and try to talk to my dad, that sort of thing. That was more his style. But I thought I was a tough guy back then; I ruled the neighborhood.” He laughed and shook his head. “What a pathetic little nobody.”

“Do you remember your, um . . . your people, knocking on the Lawrences’ door?”

“Excuse me?”

“Etta mentioned that people would bang on that big knocker on the front door, then run away.”

“You’re here to talk about kids playing doorbell—’scuse me, knocker ditch? I don’t know; nobody likes a nark. Why?”

“I just wondered . . .” Time to fess up about the ghosts or change the subject. I was a chicken; I chose the latter. “Etta tells me you’ve really turned your life around . . .” I trailed off, afraid to say “in prison” since it seemed so weirdly damning, even though it was stating the obvious.

“Yeah, well, it’s sort of a last chance, if you know what I mean. In here, you don’t have a whole hell of a lot of choices, and it sure does show a person how fu—’scuse me—
freaking
stupid he was on the outside. I had a lot of help; the pastor in here, he . . . well, he helped me see me how I lost my way. Now I reach out to dumbass kids like I was, help ’em turn their life around. I’m a living example of what they don’t want to happen, if they have any smarts at all.”

“That’s a great thing to offer, though. You could really improve people’s lives.”

He nodded. “Knowing that, doing something for kids, that’s the only thing that gets me through the day. That and the dog training.”

“Dog training?”

“This program brings dogs in here, and we raise ’em and train ’em so they can get adopted by good families. They’re mostly mutts nobody wants, not fit for human company when they first arrive. I don’t have to tell you, there are a few obvious parallels ’tween them and us.”

Again with the killer smile. I couldn’t help think what Etta had said, that as a boy Dave had a good heart. That if only he’d had someone to care for him, perhaps things would have turned out differently. I admired that he hadn’t once denied what he’d done, or tried to blame it on anyone.

“I adopted a stray dog,” I said, “but he’s not very trainable.”

“They’re all trainable, if you give it time and patience. On the outside it’s hard to find those traits. In here, we got nothin’ but time. Speaking of time, you been here fifteen minutes and I get the feeling you still haven’t asked me the question you came here to ask me. You didn’t brave the walls of this place just to ask me about some thirty-year-old house fire.”

Now it was my turn to blush. “No, I . . . I wanted to ask you about what happened with the Lawrences. That night.”

He shrugged. “I just told you—that whole thing blew me away. They always seemed like a perfect family.”

“You were nowhere near the place that night?”

He shook his head. “I was living with a cousin out in the Richmond by then.”

“I, um . . .”

He looked over at Zach, and they exchanged a “what’s her problem?” look over my head. “You might as well come out and ask me,” he said. “I’m in here, behind the glass. What am I gonna do?”

I took a deep breath, then jumped in. “I hear you go by the nickname Duct-Tape Dave?”

His blue eyes, so friendly and open an instant ago, shuttered as though a shade had been drawn. They were flat and hard, and I was very glad he was behind bars. Or glass.

“
Duct-Tape Dave
is the reason I’m in this hellhole for the rest of my life.”

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“Yes. I was Duct-Tape Dave. Big macho nickname, right? I thought I was a big deal; had me some firepower, and I made homemade silencers to make myself look like a big shot. I never killed anybody, though, until that one night—drug deal gone bad. But you want to know something? I got nightmares about it, still. Guy I killed? He was scum, just like me. Still and all, I took his life, and ain’t nobody supposed to take a human life ’cept God.”

“So, just to be clear”—I mentally braced myself for his answer—“you didn’t go over to the Lawrence house that night, for any reason?”