Dead Bolt (11 page)

As I looked around, I sighed in pleasure. The building had reclaimed its original character, in the graceful bones and elegant lines. No wonder Matt wanted to stay here.

I was just wrapping up with Dallas when Graham Donovan walked in.

“Graham.” I nodded, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.

“Mel. Nice to see you.”

“You, too.

As usual our gazes held a little too long.

Matt noted the interaction with interest. Ever since we’d become good friends, Matt had been trying to set me up on dates. I hoped to keep my history with Graham under wraps, but among the workers were a few who had known me and my dad for fifteen years or more. And construction workers were gossips of the highest order.

I pulled Graham outside, where the narrow passageway between the houses gave us a little privacy.

Unfortunately, this meant we stood close to each other. I hadn’t been much good at chemistry in high school, but I sure seemed to be experiencing a lot now. Whenever I was within ten feet of Graham my hormones shifted into overdrive. He looked good, and smelled better. But he was cautious in the romance department. Welcome to the club.

This annoyed me. Or maybe I was just feeling generally jumpy, what with ghosts on my job site and all. Whatever the cause, rather than ask the man out as I’d coached myself while washing dishes last night, I snapped at him instead.

“Hey, what’s with jumping into the Cheshire House job without consulting me?” I said.

“Remind me?”

“You have so many jobs you can’t tell them apart? It’s a fabulous Queen Anne on Union Street. Jim and Katenka Daley are the owners. Surely you remember which of my jobs you’re poaching?”

“I’m not poaching your jobs.”

“I’m the general contractor. You go through me.”

“Whoa, back up, Mel. Jim Daley called me in for a consult. It was only after I arrived that I realized it was your job site.” He smiled down at me. “I planned on speaking with you, as I would with any general, but I assumed I’d see you today. And here you are. Hey, maybe
I’m
psychic now.”

“Think so? Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re cute when you’re mad?”

“No, because I’m always mad. And I’m rarely cute.”

“Okay, you’re not cute. You’re very scary. Intimidating. I’m quaking in my work boots.”

I tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile. “So what’s Jim looking to do? Can you give me the abridged version?”

“Basic stuff mostly, things you’re no doubt already planning to incorporate: insulation and double-paned windows. That sort of thing . . .”

I nodded. “And?”

“And what?”

“Graham . . . beans. Spill.”

“He wants solar. He’d prefer wind if we could get the permits, but I don’t imagine his neighbors would go for a windmill in the backyard.”

I blew out a frustrated breath.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say.
You’re
not the one who has to deal with the decorative shingle patterns on the roof.”

Some of the most effective green technologies, like solar and wind power, are wonderful ideas in the abstract, but play heck with trying to accomplish historical restoration while maintaining a modicum of aesthetic sensibility. Like many fine Victorians, Cheshire House was roofed in shingles arranged in a decorative pattern. Covering them up with massive shiny solar panels hurt my sensitive feelings—no doubt about that. Other green techniques, such as using sustainable and reclaimed woods and other building materials and incorporating water-saving devices were no problem at all.

“Sorry,” I said after a moment when I realized Graham was waiting for me to say something further. “I was hoping—”

“I wanted to talk to you about—”

We began talking at the same time and then paused, each waiting for the other to finish.

“Everything okay out here?” Matt interrupted, the cameras tailing him loyally.

Relationship, Interrupted
. Story of my life.

 

“So I
have
to know,” Matt said under his breath a few minutes later. “What’s going on with you and Graham?”

“You don’t
have
to know anything, and nothing’s going on. Do you want semigloss or high gloss paint on the bathroom woodwork?”

Matt and I were flipping through paint chips, and I was forcing him to decide, once and for all, on the paint schedule. The schedule was a flowchart of what paint type, gloss, and color goes where, which was very useful when painting an entire house. Trim, walls, doors; things like mantelpieces and special transoms—everything needs to be thought out. In Matt’s house I was excited about a wall of silver gilt in the master bedroom that was to be hung with beautifully framed original drawings from an art deco dress-design book. Last month Matt had acquired the antique book from, and paid a nice commission to, my friend and personal costume designer, Stephen.

“Whatever you say. Semi is fine.” Matt dropped his voice again. “So this thing with you and Graham. Is this a past tense situation?”

“No tenses, past, present, or future.”

He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, signaling that he didn’t believe me.

“Could I ask you something, Matt?”

“Anything, pet.”

“If I did have something I didn’t want to talk about, what would possibly make you think I’d say it in front of the cameras?”

“Hmm, I see your point. Boys, why don’t you take a break?” He ordered the cameras away. “Now tell me. What’s going on between you and Graham?”

“Nothing,” I repeated with a smile.

He gave a dramatic sigh. “You’re as bad as Graham. He won’t tell me a bloody thing. The pair of you should be working for the secret service. Mark my words: I’m going to get one or both of you drunk one evening and worm the truth out of you.”

I smiled some more as I filled in details on the paint schedule. Matt and I had met some time ago—his son, Dylan, is a good friend of Caleb’s. But since working together on his house, not to mention our adventure with murder and ghosts, we’d grown closer. He was impulsive, overly dramatic, and a tad self-obsessed—like most celebrities I’d met—but was also profoundly sweet and kind.

His determination to fix me up, however, might strain that relationship.

“Anyway, it’s just as well. I have someone I want to introduce you to. He’s a brilliant fellow—I really think you’ll like him.”

“Why would I like him? I don’t like anybody.”

“You like Graham,” he said with a wicked smile.

“Matt, seriously, keep out of it.”

“And you like
me
.”

“Your word against mine.”

“I know you like to think of yourself as a loner, but it’s not so.”

I refrained from grunting. Barely.

“Just meet him for a drink tonight.”

“No
.
”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re giving a party for my dad’s friend Stan tonight. And besides that, I don’t go on blind dates. Plus, I dealt with a murder this morning. It’s been a long day.”

“You dealt with a
what
?”

“It was the neighbor across the street from a job I’m working on.”

Matt looked at me, his blue eyes worried. Unfortunately, he was no stranger to violent death. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks. It had nothing to do with me,” I hastened to add.

“And there’s been no . . . aftermath?” Matt asked. I had told him an abridged version of the ghosts I had seen in this house, months ago.

“I haven’t seen the victim, if that’s what you’re asking. But . . . I’m afraid there may be
something
in the Daleys’ house, though it’s not the location where the murder occurred. So I doubt the ghosts had anything to do with that, right?”

“I have no idea. But if you’re thinking there are malevolent spirits, shouldn’t you walk away?”

“I can’t. There’s a young family living in the house. And besides, I guess I’m supposed to communicate with these things. Maybe that’s why they’re appearing, because they know I can see them.”

“You really think so?”

“Truthfully, I have no idea. I’m making this up as I go along.”

“Hey, have you heard of the ghost-whisperer guy who leads tours out of the Eastlake Hotel?”

“His name’s come up a few times recently. Do you know him?”

“A little, only through TV connections. He’s been working on getting a series himself, so he came over once to check out what it’s like to live with cameras. Seemed like a good guy. He might even be on the up-and-up. Oh, hey,” Matt added with a light in his blue eyes, “he’s sort of cute, darling accent . . . and I think he’s single.”

“See you later,” I said, gathering my notes and giving Matt a hug and a reluctant smile. “You matchmaker, you.”

I
sat behind the wheel of my car and pondered.

It was only four fifteen, but I wasn’t kidding when I told Matt it had been a long day. Hearing Emile Blunt was murdered. Finding that my father had discovered the body. Being interviewed by the police. Still not knowing what was happening with my clients. And plagued by a strange sense that Blunt’s death had something to do with the ghosts on my construction site. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way—but then I couldn’t explain why I saw ghosts, either.

I had to pick up Stan’s cake by five, and leave myself enough time to get in a festive mood. Maybe allot a few minutes to panic over talking to Graham about something other than business . . .

But if I left now, I could make it over to the animal shelter, which was kind of on the way home. If one thought creatively.

I would really love to see whether Hettie was the monster the press made her out to be. She didn’t seem like it, one-on-one. On the other hand, if her current cats were in danger, I would have to turn her in. I hated the thought of it, but somebody had to do it. Animals couldn’t advocate for themselves.

I drove out to the San Francisco animal rescue center.

The shelter was located across from a mediocre Mexican restaurant where I’d eaten once, years ago, when I accompanied Caleb’s third-grade class on a field trip to the animal shelter. Caleb’s teacher confided later, over margaritas, that the trip had resulted in more tears than any other school outing and, she said with a conspiratorial smile, half a dozen pet adoptions. Eight-year-olds and abandoned animals were a potent combo.

When I walked into the animal shelter, I noted a distinctive scent: animal and cleaning products squished together on the bottom of a rubber-soled shoe. I could hear the muffled sounds of dogs howling and cats mewing in the rooms beyond. I was suddenly in touch with my inner eight-year-old, and tried to harden my heart, doing my best to ignore them.

After all, not so long ago I had adopted Dog without ever intending to. Despite my protests that all I wanted to do was to rid myself of baggage, I had acquired a construction company, a teenage boy, and a dog. One of these days I was going to have to take a good, hard look at why my actions didn’t match my words.

For the moment it was easier to wallow in the conviction that the world was out to get me.

A few minutes after I told the receptionist what I wanted to talk about, a stunningly beautiful woman came out to meet me. She wore no makeup and didn’t need to. Her skin was otherworldly, pearlescent; her brown hair long and shiny; her lips a natural rosy red. But when she turned to address me, her left eye wandered off to the side, and then down, giving her an off-kilter look.

“I’m Mel Turner,” I said, trying not to look at the wandering eye.

“Eva Briggs. You had some questions? I’m happy to answer them, but do you mind following me around while I multitask? It’s a busy day.”

“Of course. I know that feeling,” I said, trailing her down a narrow corridor. “I wanted to ask you about a woman named Hettie Banks.”

“The crazy cat lady?”

“Um . . .” For some reason I thought the shelter folks would be more sensitive. I stepped aside to let a plump teenage girl pass; she was leading a limping collie on a leash.

Eva ducked into a cubicle, dropped two folders on a generic metal desk, and took a seat. Her eye skewed off to the left and up toward the ceiling, but when she smiled, the effect was dazzling.

“Have a seat. I’m sorry if I was rude. In this line of work we have a rather dark sense of humor. It comes from dealing with tragedies like that every day. I could tell you stories. . . .”

“Please don’t. I’m about at my limit for the day.”

She smiled. “So yes, we handled the Cheshire Inn cats. The Cheshire cats, as we called them. It was a big deal because the media jumped on it. They love all those stories of mummified bodies and hoarders and whatnot.”

“So I hear.”

“For a few days we could barely get past the cameras to get to work. We try to use those occasions to highlight the need for loving adoptive parents, for people to come to us when they’re looking for pets, rather than to puppy mills or breeders, but it still made it hard to get work done.”

I nodded and waited while Eva reviewed a dog food order with a young employee.

“But here’s the weird thing,” Eva said, turning her attention back to me. “The Cheshire cats were actually well taken care of. They might have had a few issues, but Hettie Banks wasn’t the horror show they were always talking about in the news, some poor person whose neglect was essentially cruelty.”

“Then why did the police get involved? How many cats can a person legally have?”

“The law’s not clear—it’s supposed to be three within the city limits, I believe, but unless someone’s really bothered, no one’s going to complain if you go one, or two, or even five cats over the limit.”