A Ghostly Light Read online

  She remained silent, heading down the shored-up porch steps, past an old NO TRESPASSING sign, and into a cement courtyard that had been built on a slight incline to funnel rainwater into the underground cistern. Back when these buildings were constructed, access to fresh water would have been a priority. Living on a virtually barren rock wasn’t easy, and similar challenges had ultimately closed down Alcatraz, the famous federal penitentiary that still held pride of place on another island in the bay, much closer to San Francisco. When everything had to be brought in by supply boat, priorities shifted.

  There would be no pizza delivery while on this job.

  In fact, any and all construction supplies—lumber and concrete, nails and screws, equipment and tools—would have to be brought to the dock by boat and hoisted up with a winch.

  The prospect was daunting, but exciting. I had been running Turner Construction for a few years now, and while I still enjoyed bringing historic San Francisco homes back from the brink, I had been itching for a new challenge. For something different.

  And this was a lighthouse.

  Still, one aspect of this renovation gave me pause: The lighthouse tower was several stories high, and ever since an altercation on the roof of a mansion high atop Pacific Heights, I had found myself dreading heights. Where once I wouldn’t have given a second thought to scrambling up a tall ladder or hopping out an attic window to repair loose shingles, now the very idea made me quail. I told myself I was being silly, and that these feelings would dissipate as the memory of the attack faded. I would not let fear stop me.

  If only my vertigo were subject to my stern general’s voice.

  Because this was a lighthouse. What was it about lighthouses that evoked such an aura of romance and mystery? Was it simply the idea of the keeper out here all alone, polishing the old lamps by day, keeping the fires burning at night, responsible for the lives of the equally lonely sailors passing by on the dark, vast waters?

  “Alicia, I—”

  My words were cut short when I realized she had frozen, a stricken look on her face.

  A man stood in the greenery just past the edge of the courtyard. Smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  At least it isn’t a ghost, was my first thought. My second: Aw crap. Is this Alicia’s ex? And he tracked her here, to a secluded island?

  A ghost would have been a better bet.

  Chapter Two

  The man was of average height and build, with light brown hair and a vaguely bookish air. He might have been attractive, if not for the threatening aura that enshrouded him like a malevolent fog.

  Wait, was I seeing auras now?

  “Who are you?” he demanded, looking at me.

  “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I said. I tore my eyes away from the stranger to glance at Alicia. She remained stock-still, a deer in the headlights. “This is a closed construction site.”

  “Why don’t you run along,” he said to me, his eyes now locked on Alicia. “And let me talk to my wife in private.”

  So I had been right: this was Alicia’s ex.

  “Thorn,” Alicia said, her voice breathless. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “You have no business here,” I put in. “Get off this property.”

  The three of us stared at each other, no one moving. My mind cast about, assessing the situation and our options. All I had with me besides my cell phone—which was mostly useless since large swaths of the island were in a dead zone for cell service—was a mini-flashlight, a tape measure, a roll of blueprints, and a handy three-in-one screwdriver. It was for situations like these that my father had begun urging me to carry a firearm. I had some strong opinions about gun control, but given the life I led I was beginning to think Dad might have a point. Alicia’s ex-husband wasn’t a large man, but I wouldn’t want to test my upper body strength against his in a fight over control of a screwdriver. Much less the mini-flashlight.

  Still, we weren’t alone on this island. Buzz, one of Ellis’s big burly bodyguards, was somewhere nearby. My dad was also on the island, as well as my lead carpenter Jeremy, his new assistant Waquisha, and Dog. Last I saw they were heading for the foghorn building to assess the basement. If we could keep Thorn talking, one of them was bound to show up eventually.

  “I need to talk to you, Amy,” Thorn said. “Alone.”

  “I’m not Amy anymore, I’m Alicia.” Alicia’s voice shook, but her chin lifted in determination. “And I’m not your wife. I have nothing to say to you.”

  He laughed, a harsh sound. “The promises we made before our families, before God, mean nothing to you?”

  Alicia’s lips parted and she exhaled a quick puff of breath, as though he had punched her in the gut.

  “Look, wait, wait. I’m sorry,” said Thorn. He ran a hand through his hair, and his voice gentled. “I’m really sorry, Amy. Please let me start again. Could I talk to you in private?”

  “No,” I said.

  “And who might you be?” he asked again. A muscle worked in his jaw, as though he was straining hard to rein in his temper.

  “A cop.”

  “Sure you are,” he said with a snort.

  “I mean . . . actually, I’m married to a cop. Head of homicide, as a matter of fact. Inspector Crawford of the SFPD.” I was lying through my teeth. Inspector Annette Crawford was a friend, but we weren’t all that close. Still, it was worth a try. “If you have something to say to Alicia, say it now and stop wasting our time.”

  He glared at me. “You’re being very controlling.”

  “I’m a general contractor,” I said. “It’s in the blood.”

  He scoffed and mumbled, “A lady general contractor? Sure ya are.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, Thorn.” Alicia seemed to have gotten over the shock and drew herself up to her full height, her shoulders squared. “Anything you want to say, you can say in front of Mel—er, Mrs. Inspector Crawford here.”

  Thorn blew out a long breath. “All right, let me start again. Amy—”

  “Alicia,” she said.

  “Okay, sorry, yes, Alicia. That will take a little getting used to.” He smiled a chagrined little aw shucks smile and ducked his head slightly. It was charming. Had I not known his story, I might have fallen for it. “Alicia, I’ve changed.”

  Alicia and I snorted in concert.

  “I know it’s hard to believe—”

  “Just a tad,” I muttered.

  “But I’ve been working on improving myself, on being the man you need me to be. The husband you need me to be. I completed the court-mandated anger management program, and I’ve been sober for almost a year now. But more importantly, I attended the Palm Project. Have you heard of it? Up the coast, past Green Gulch Farm? It changed my life. It changed me. I understand things now, I have re-experienced my childhood, explored some root causes, and now own who I am, why I’ve done what I’ve done.

  “That’s where I found out where you were, Amy. When I was at the Palm Project center. You always used to say you’d never move to California, but then I saw your picture in the local paper. It was like fate. Like a sign.”

  A chilly, brine-scented wind wafted up from the water; overhead, the sky was a gray shroud. Alicia and I had our arms crossed, hugging ourselves, not so much due to the cold as the situation. I kept expecting Buzz to appear, or for Dad or Dog or someone to come around.

  “I just . . . I don’t expect you to believe me right away, I know that. I’ve broken your trust and I’ll have to work to earn it back. But one thing we learn in the Palm Project is to bend like a palm tree, so as not to break. No matter how bad the storm, a palm tree bends, and every time it does, its roots grow stronger. It’s a compelling image, if you think about it. I have weathered the storm, and grown stronger.”

  Again, Alicia and I seemed to have been
struck by the mute stick. It was hard to know how to respond to these pseudo-therapeutic “bend like a palm” slogans coming from someone who used to beat his wife.

  “You still haven’t told us what you’re doing here on Lighthouse Island,” I said finally. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Thorn’s always been a gifted sailor,” said Alicia quietly.

  He smiled again, projecting warmth and charm. Aimed directly at her.

  Suddenly, Alicia smiled, and my stomach clenched. Was she falling under his spell? I wasn’t particularly schooled on the ins and outs of intimate partner violence, but this much I knew: It was extremely complicated, and abusers often relied on their charm and personality—as well as the threat of violence—to keep their victims in line.

  But then, the smile never leaving her face, Alicia said, “Thorn, I’d like to introduce you to Buzz Simoni.”

  I had been so focused on Thorn I hadn’t noticed the bodyguard had come up behind us. Back in the old days—before I started stumbling across bodies, for instance—I had thought it would be a drag to be followed around by a security detail, like a rock star or a head of state. I didn’t think so anymore. Buzz, impeccably dressed as always in his double-breasted suit, shiny wing tips, and completely unnecessary sunglasses, was a welcome sight. All six feet, six inches of rippling muscle.

  “What’s up, Ms. Withers?” Buzz asked, his gaze focused on Thorn. “This a friend of yours?”

  Alicia gave a barely discernible shake of her head.

  “Wait,” Thorn said, taking a step back and holding his hands up, as if in surrender. “I haven’t done anything! I’ve got a boat at the yacht harbor. It’s a public harbor—I’m not trespassing.”

  Buzz didn’t say a word. He grabbed Thorn by one bicep, hitching him up slightly so Thorn was forced to awkwardly shuffle along in order not to fall, and hustled him off in the direction of the yacht harbor. We could hear Thorn arguing—calmly, I had to hand it to him—as they left. Buzz remained mute, as was his wont. In fact, those few words to Alicia were the most I’d ever heard him say.

  “You okay?” I asked Alicia.

  Alicia nodded but seemed to deflate, folding in on herself, holding her arms around her middle and crouching down until she was sitting on a large stone outcropping.

  I perched on the rock beside her and put my arm around her shoulders.

  “It’ll be okay, Alicia,” I said. “Don’t forget: You’re not alone. You have friends to help you through this.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. I wondered what Thorn’s sudden appearance meant for my friend. I had read enough about stalking to know that it could be difficult to keep someone away who hadn’t broken any laws—at least not recently.

  I tried to concentrate on the smell of the water, the tang of the brine, the bracing jolt of the wind, then shifted my gaze to a small copse of trees, their growth stunted by the bay breezes but stubborn enough to have survived on such an inhospitable piece of land. I noticed a few holes in the ground surrounded by low piles of dirt, as though something had been digging, and wondered what kinds of animals lived out here on the island, besides birds. Surely not prairie dogs. Moles?

  And then the temperature plummeted.

  There was a loud clanging, like footsteps running up the circular metal stairs of the lighthouse tower.

  I glanced up to the top of the tower. A woman in a diaphanous white gown stood at the balcony railing, her long hair blown about by the wind.

  I opened my mouth to yell a warning that the balcony wasn’t safe. But before I could get the words out of my mouth, she climbed over the rail, then hurled herself off the lighthouse balcony.

  Toward the rocky shore below.

  Chapter Three

  Correction: A ghost threw herself off, vanishing from sight as she approached the ground.

  Vertigo closed in on me, its swirling depths drawing me down. I broke out in a sweat, squeezed my eyes shut, and ran through the bag of tricks that several experts had told me were supposed to help combat acrophobia: I attempted to regulate my breathing and the pounding of my heart. Tried counting, tried grounding myself.

  Hoooo boy.

  These days it wasn’t the sight of a specter from another dimension that threw me, but the sight—or the thought—of anyone falling from up high.

  Upon reflection, it wasn’t surprising that a historic lighthouse island would host a ghost or two. I had been working in the home renovation business for several years now, and it was rare for historic structures not to house something. Most often what I encountered was not a ghost in the Hollywood style, but rather a suggestion of lives lived, loves won and lost, children grown and gone . . . It was precisely this sense of souls having passed through the doors and down the halls that had drawn me to historic homes long before I started encountering actual ghost ghosts.

  Still, my admittedly short career as a ghost buster had taught me that suicidal ghosts were . . . problematic. The reasons for their agony were varied and complex. Although most guests at the proposed lighthouse inn would never see the specter—being tuned in to the supernatural world was a little like perfect pitch; one either had it or one didn’t—but a few would, and that would not be good for business. And if I wanted to help the woman in the white dress to find eternal peace—or whatever it was she needed to be able to move on—I would have to figure out what had happened to make her forfeit her life.

  And to do that meant that at some point I would probably have to climb that impossibly tall lighthouse tower.

  But for the moment, I had other fish to fry. Abusive husband first; pesky ghosts—and terrifying tower—could wait.

  “Alicia, I assume you have a restraining order against Thorn?” I asked.

  She nodded. “But I don’t have to tell you that too often those aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Mel, I . . . I’d rather not talk about this right now. Buzz will give him a scare, I’m sure, and I’ll notify the authorities when we get back to shore. With luck that will be the end of it.”

  Yeah. Not so sure. If Thorn had tracked her to this island, he was one determined ex-husband. But at least Alicia had protection and could count on Ellis Elrich’s not insignificant support.

  “Okay, so what’s the deal with the yacht harbor?” I asked, changing the subject. “It’s considered public land, right?”

  She nodded. “That portion of the island is in the public domain. The rest of the island, including all the structures—with the exception of the small boathouse and lavatories—is being held in a public-private partnership that was purchased by Ellis under a special agreement. The lighthouse is too expensive for the Coast Guard to maintain properly, obviously, so a percentage of the profits from the inn and restaurant will be dedicated to maintaining the historic structures as a public trust. As you know, we’re also required to keep the light and foghorn functioning. Even with GPS and modern maritime technology, lighthouses still fulfill an important function.”

  I nodded. “I noticed a few boats in the harbor, but not many. There were a lot of empty slips.”

  “Well, at the moment there’s really nothing much to do or see on the island. Officially, boaters are supposed to remain in the harbor area, away from the buildings and the old lighthouse—”

  “But there’s nothing to actually keep them out.”

  She shook her head. “No, no fence or anything like that. There’s potable water and a lavatory at the harbor, but my sense is that it has been primarily used by boats that needed shelter during storms and couldn’t make it back to proper harbors like Alameda or Jack London Square. Of course . . .” A troubled look came into her hazel eyes. “In calm weather someone could row over from Richmond in an inflatable dinghy and come ashore just about anywhere on Lighthouse Island. It’s not that far; it would be easy enough, if you were determined.”

  “Do you think Th
orn—” My words were cut off by the arrival of a giant cannonball of brown fluff. I petted the excited, squirming dog, and looked up to find my dad approaching.

  “I see how it is,” said Bill Turner, the founder and former head of Turner Construction. I had asked Dad to come today to start working up materials estimates. I’d given Ellis Elrich ballpark figures several months ago when he’d first submitted his bid for the island, but now was the time to start ordering supplies. Accurate numbers were especially important on this job because all materials had to be brought in by boat or barge. This was no small thing, and we didn’t have a lot of room for error. I was good at detailing proposals, but Dad was the best in the business. “I come here out of the goodness of my heart to work up estimates for you, and you two gals sit around, lollygagging in the sunshine, while there’s work to be done.”

  “You caught us,” I said with a smile as Dad and I exchanged significant glances. He had only to look at Alicia’s face to know something had happened, and probably assumed I had seen a ghost. He wasn’t all that comfortable with my supernatural abilities.

  My father was an attractive man in his late sixties, with the physique of a former construction worker gradually yielding to the effects of time and a small potbelly. He was dressed, as usual, in worn jeans and scuffed leather work boots, but over his customary white T-shirt he wore an REI fleece jacket that I had given him for his birthday last December. When he opened the gift, he held the jacket up and said, What the devil am I going to use something this fancy for? Probably cost an arm and a leg.

  He hadn’t taken it off all winter.

  Dad’s loyal companion was Dog, a big brown mutt I had found abandoned at a jobsite and brought home “just for the night.” Quite predictably, we had fallen in love and he had found his forever home. Recently we decided he should have a real name, so Dad proposed calling him “Doug” instead of the generic “Dog.” Doug was happy to go along with the seemingly simple name change—he was happy to go along with just about anything—but his humans kept forgetting: We would start to say Dog, switch to Doug halfway through, and end up saying Daw-ugh. Dog/Doug/Daw-ugh wasn’t the smartest canine of the litter, but he was brave and loyal and appeared to be the only member of the family, besides yours truly, who could sense ghosts.