Dead Bolt Read online

  “Take your time,” Jim said, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s order Thai tonight. What do you think?”

  She shrugged.

  “Indian?” The baby’s distress spiraled up, his whimpering ceding to crying.

  “Is greasy.”

  “Pizza?” Quinn started to wail.

  “We decide later,” Katenka said.

  “Okay, sure. Let me know when you’re getting hungry, honey. See you tomorrow, Mel.” Jim headed down the servant’s hall to the rear staircase that descended to the basement-level apartment.

  “Crazy,” Katenka said, rolling her eyes. “He drive me crazy.”

  “The baby, or Jim?”

  “Both. Mel, I must ask you some advice.”

  “I’m not much good at advice, Katenka. . . .” At least with regards to one’s personal life. Got a leaky faucet? I’m your gal. Trying to expedite a construction permit down at city hall? I can give you a name. But problems with your marriage? You’d be better off soliciting advice from Larry King.

  “I think we have uninvited guests in this house,” said Katenka.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Spirits. Ghosts. The souls of the dead still with us.”

  “I . . . uh, why would you think that?” Giving marital advice was sounding easier all the time.

  “At night, I hear knocking. And footsteps.”

  “There could be any number of expla—”

  Katenka’s imploring gaze silenced me. She played with the filigreed crucifix that hung from a fine silver chain around her swanlike neck. “Please, Mel. I did research. It is said the spirits of the departed do not like to have their surroundings disturbed. And the renovation work, it disturbs surroundings, no?”

  “Well, sure. That’s sort of the point. . . .”

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t dismiss Katenka’s fears out of hand, given the odd events on this job site. Besides, this wasn’t my first run-in with the unexplainable. Several months ago I’d met up with the confused spirit of a murdered acquaintance, and once I recovered from the initial shock, I’d found the experience both annoying and fascinating. Since then I’d read up on the subject but hadn’t sensed anything more ghostly than the vague sensations of welcome—or the lack thereof—I had always felt in historic homes. I had come to think of that paranormal experience as a onetime deal. Like the measles. Once you had it, you were immune.

  Seems I was getting a booster shot.

  “And when I go . . . when I go into Quinn’s room,” Katenka continued, “sometimes there feels like a black . . . What is the word? A black shadow? Following me.”

  “A black shadow? In the baby’s room?”

  “I feel it over my shoulder. As though it is trying to get in the room with me and the baby.”

  I swallowed, hard. The ghost I’d gotten to know had been irritating, but at least he never lurked over my shoulder in the form of a black shadow.

  “I put up amulets,” said Katenka. Her voice started to shake, and tears welled in her huge eyes. “I sweep and sprinkle the Holy Water. I tell the ghosts to leave. I was very forceful, but it makes things worse. Now they are worse.”

  That explained the smudge bundles I had noticed earlier amidst bits of wood and wallboard. The scent of burnt sage reminded me of walking down Telegraph Avenue in nearby Berkeley, and was said to cleanse places of bad vibrations. It also reminded me of Thanksgiving turkey, but maybe I was a little food-fixated.

  “It’s unsettling to live in a home while construction is going on around you,” I said. Though I believed her, I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. “The knocking could be a twig against a windowpane, or the sound of old pipes. And the creaking in the walls—”

  My attempt to explain away the unexplainable was interrupted by the high-pitched whine of an electric drill that started spinning atop the temporary plywood worktable.

  Katenka and I stared at the out-of-control contraption.

  “Probably an electrical short,” I said as I hurried to hit the OFF switch and unplug it from the wall. “Happens all the time in these old houses.”

  “Is no short,” Katenka said, her tone fatalistic. “Is ghost. Maybe more than one. Even I think there is a cat ghost here. Is in the walls.”

  “A cat ghost?”

  “I think maybe. I hear it, smell it sometimes.”

  “It could be an actual cat. I’ll check the foundation for access—”

  “Have you found history of the house?” Katenka interrupted. “Maybe history could tell us about these ghosts.”

  I shook my head. A crucial element in restoring a historic structure was conducting thorough research into its past. But a trip to the California Historical Society hadn’t turned up anything on the Daleys’ Queen Anne Victorian. Not even the name of the family that had built it. It wasn’t that the history of the place was sketchy; it was nonexistent. And that was odd. San Francisco isn’t that old, or that large. Usually it was easy to find the paper trails left by its well-to-do citizens, whether articles in the newspaper’s society section, or tax records, or architectural blueprints.

  But not this time.

  “You know the lady who used to live here?” Katenka asked. “The cat lady?”

  “I’ve heard of her, but we haven’t met.”

  “I went to see her yesterday. She admit to me she leave this house because of the ghosts. She say they try to kill her.”

  Our eyes met in silence.

  “That’s a bad thing, no?” Katenka demanded.

  Why yes, I thought. In general, death threats were a bad thing. Death threats from the beyond? Worse.

  Katenka’s gaze shifted to a spot behind me, and her eyes widened. Her face went pale, her body rigid. I swung around to see what she was staring at.

  But I saw nothing except the kitchen door. Standing open.

  Wait—hadn’t it been closed?

  And then I saw it: a footprint in the dust on the floor.

  I turned back to Katenka just as she wobbled, then crumpled, overcome with fright. I caught her before she fell to the floor.

  Another footprint appeared. Then another. Coming toward us.

  Chapter Two

  I stifled the urge to abandon my client and hightail it out of there. Self-preservation is a powerful, if at times undignified, instinct.

  My heart beating a crazy tattoo against my ribs, I took a deep breath and gave myself a stern talking-to: Keep calm, Mel. Last time, the ghost didn’t hurt anyone. If anything, he helped. Why would this time be any different? It’s just trying to make contact. Maybe it senses that you feel more, see more, than the average visitor.

  The footprints came together and stopped, as though someone were standing right in front of us.

  “What is it?” Fear made my voice shrill. I tried to steady myself. “What do you want?”

  Silence. I hadn’t really expected an answer, but it was worth a shot.

  Checking compulsively over my shoulder, I dragged Katenka to a horsehair settee that had been left by the former tenants, and eased her onto the dusty cushions as gently as I could. She moaned, stretching her arms over her head, her lips forming a Mona Lisa smile. The gesture and the smile were so sensuous—and so unlike her—that I was doubly shaken.

  I straightened and surveyed the dining room, paying attention to my peripheral vision. The last ghost I had seen disappeared when I looked straight at him, only appearing in my side vision, or in the reflection of a mirror. Ever since odd events had started plaguing this job site, I had been driving myself crazy searching the premises out of the corners of my eyes.

  I saw nothing. Nothing but the tracks in the dust. They weren’t boot prints, but footprints—bare footprints. They were large, as if made by a grown man; here and there were droplets as though the . . . entity . . . had just stepped out of a bath.

  But there weren’t any new ones once they came together.

  Last time this had happened to me, I was the only one who could see the ghost. He hadn’t left
any physical signs, hadn’t even opened doors, just appeared at random. Despite my research, I wasn’t that familiar with different sorts of ethereal apparitions. For all I knew they grew in power over time, like the vampires of lore. And maybe they loved to soak in the tub.

  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.

  “Miss Turner.”

  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.