Dead Bolt (25 page)

“You came all the way over here just to tell me that?”

He hesitated, opening and then closing his mouth.

“I have a question for you,” I said. “Any idea why someone would dig up the backyard?”

He looked alarmed. “You mean where the cats were buried? Someone dug it up?”

I nodded.

He cleared his throat and took a drag on his cigarette. “I think someone might have been looking for something they thought was buried with the cats. Something that should have stayed buried.”

“Like what?”

Dave glanced up at the tiny attic window under the eaves and paled. He took a step toward the truck, then tossed his half-smoked cigarette onto the driveway and crushed it with his boot.

“I better offload this stuff and get back,” he mumbled.

I looked at the attic window and saw a flash of movement, almost as if the darkness had become darker.

That did it. I didn’t care what Olivier said; if I had to go up against ghosts, I wanted some kind of backup. If the botanica had gear for this sort of thing, I would get myself some.

I met Luz on the corner of Nineteenth and Guerrero, in the heart of the neighborhood called the Mission. The area is home to a lot of Latino newcomers, not only from Mexico but also Central America, Ecuador, and Puerto Rico. Some time ago outsiders discovered the vibrant nightlife here, so now the area was jammed with posh restaurants and music clubs right alongside humble ta-querias and low-rent bars, and on weekend nights the streets were jammed with revelers from across the city. The Mission also had two BART stations, making it easy to get around without a car.

The botanica called El Pajarito had a colorful storefront painted with birds and ivy. Inside, the shelves were jammed with herbs, candles, and figurines. Luz was distracted by a display of aerosol-can air fresheners whose labels promised everything from luck in the lottery to establishing domestic bliss.

No cans of Ghost-B-Gone, unfortunately.

“Here,” Luz said, handing me a can with a bright yellow label. “You need some of this.”

According to the fine print, Black Cat Spray would rid me of romantic rivals.

“Thanks, Luz. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

“I think
you
need
this
.” I handed her a pyramid made of clear resin, in which was captured a little Buddha, a key, and gold sparkles. “Get in touch with your inner Zen Buddhist.”

“Hey, if Zen Buddhism includes gold sparkles, I might just sign up.”

Behind the register was a thin girl with long dark hair who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. Why was someone her age running a shop, I wondered, and why wasn’t she in school?

Luz seemed unfazed. She lifted her chin slightly at the girl, and said,
“¿Está tu mama?”

Without speaking, the girl disappeared through a bead curtain featuring the Virgin of Guadalupe.

“Shouldn’t she be in school?” I whispered.

Luz nodded. “Seems like.”

After a moment a woman ducked through the curtain, still chewing, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds in the other. She looked to be in her late fifties, short and plump, her hair dyed a dark brown with a burgundy tinge and piled, lopsided, upon her head. She had a pleasant, round face.

She nodded to us.

“Gracias por hablar con nosotros.”
I thanked her for speaking with us in my less-than-fluent Spanish. “I’m sorry if we interrupted your lunch.”

She waved off my concern. “I am Señora Moreno. Can I help you?”

“A friend of mine came in here a few days ago, asking for help with . . . spirits in her house. She’s small, pretty, speaks with a Russian accent. She may have asked for a
limpia
?”

“Lots of people come in here,” she said, sipping her coffee and looking down at a notepad on the counter. I wondered if botanica owners were like priests and therapists—did they have to maintain clients’ confidentiality?

Luz leaned on the counter with one arm and raised her eyebrows in silent challenge.

“Well, whoever helped this lady screwed up,” Luz said, her head waggling as she spoke. Her parents may have come from Mexico, but Luz was born and raised in East LA and had the urban head waggle down to an art. “’Cause these ghosts hurt somebody the other day. So either this person makes it right, or we start spreading the word that folks should go elsewhere for supplies and advice,
me entiendes
?”

Señora Moreno took another sip of coffee and picked at her teeth with her tongue, as though unimpressed. She popped a couple of pumpkin seeds in her mouth and crunched. But after a moment, she nodded.

“I remember her. She was very scared. I offered her my services, but I was headed up to Reno on vacation and she did not want to wait. She wanted to try it herself. I sold her the necessary supplies, plus some holy water and talismans.” She shrugged. “But then she didn’t come back.”

“The haunting seems to have gotten worse. Someone told me she might have chased off the ‘good’ ghosts but not the more serious ones.”

I felt Luz’s eyes on me, assessing, cynical. But Señora Moreno nodded.

“This is possible. This is why it’s best for me to do it. The most important part of cleansing a house
es tener confianza, no
? To remain confident. This can be very hard for amateurs. They are frightened, and the spirits know this. I told your friend this, but she wanted to do it herself so I told her the standard procedure to rid spirits from a house.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“It is all outlined in this pamphlet, available for only ten dollars. Have some
pepitos
.”

She held out the bag of pumpkin seeds. I declined, but Luz took a handful.

I flipped through the illustrated pamphlet. Hardly seemed worth ten dollars. But it didn’t seem right to ask this woman to give her expertise away for free. Everybody’s got to make a living.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll buy my supplies here and I’ll even buy the pamphlet. But give me a condensed version.”

“The key to a
limpia
is to reclaim the space. I told her to send the little one away for the evening and to have her husband help her. Holding a lighted candle, start at the back of the house on each floor and move toward the front. Ring the bell, light the incense and a candle, sprinkle the holy water, and sweep, while declaring that the space no longer belongs to the ghosts, it belongs to her and her husband. Declaring ownership is very important. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“After sweeping thoroughly, from the back to the front, you must take the broom outside and burn it.” She sighed. “A lot of people don’t burn the broom. I never understand this. Who wants such a broom?”

“I’ll burn it,” I said, though I felt more than a little foolish.

Luz nodded a shade too solemnly, and I nudged her with my elbow.

I ended up buying the pamphlet, some candles, a brass bell, a package of incense, and whole bunch of stocking stuffers for Christmas. For Caleb I bought the sparkly resin pyramid with a Buddha, as well as cans of Good Luck and Homework Help room spray. For Dad I chose a bag of antiaging peppermint tea, and for Stan a box of lucky charms in the shapes of animals.

“Would you be available to come to the house and do a
limpia
, if my client agrees?” I asked as I handed over cash.

Señora Moreno cast a disapproving look at Luz, who was roaming the aisles, snorting and laughing at the things she found. She picked up a small box and read the instructions aloud, chuckling. Moreno turned her attention back to me, reaching out and grabbing my wrist. Her hand was warm, strong.

“I’m worried about your Russian friend,” she said in a low voice. “She had the sense of someone doomed. But you . . . you have the sight, no?”

I yanked my wrist away. “Why would you say that?”

She chuckled. “Why do you think I run a botanica and perform
limpias
,
mi muñeca
? I have had the sight since I was a child. I am not a . . . What’s the word you use here?”

“A fake? A con artist? A charlatan?” suggested Luz, who had joined us at the counter.

Moreno nodded. “It is true that I sell many items that are not, in themselves, good luck or magic. And it is true that I sometimes encourage superstitious beliefs. But when people believe they will get well because they drink a certain tea, sometimes they do. And if they have faith that their bad luck will go away if they light a candle and recite the right words every night, then sometimes it does. I don’t always help people, but I never hurt them.”

Luz, rarely at a loss for words, looked chastened.

“So,
mi muñeca
, I will sell these items to you. If you have the sight, you won’t need me there. I have two
limpias
scheduled in the next week, and I am no longer a young woman. Just remember to remain confident. This is the essential thing, much more important than saying the right words.”

By the time we left the shop I was fifty bucks poorer, clutching a brown paper bag containing all the items I might need to rid a house of ferocious ghosts. I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. I feared the resolution that Señora Moreno—and Olivier—emphasized might be lacking.

“Why did she call me
muñeca
? What’s that mean?”

“Doll. It’s a term of endearment. She liked you. Or at least she liked your fifty dollars. Anyway, I’m starving. You promised me lunch, remember?” Luz said. “Unless you don’t have any money left after your occult supply run?”

“Tacos?”

“My favorite Pakistani restaurant is right down the street.”

“We’re in the Mission and you want Pakistani food?”

“It’s really good. Besides, I’m Mexican, which makes Mexican food just plain old food. I feel like something exotic.”

“Okay,” I said, checking my phone for the time. “But I have to be out of here in under an hour. I’m down one foreman and I have to take Katenka to pick out her favorite knobs.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that sentence. That dirty joke writes itself.”

“You’re a real pal, Luz.”

W
hile we walked the three blocks to the Pakistani restaurant, I called to check on Raul. He had been released from the hospital, and was at home with his broken arm in a sling. When he said he would be back to work tomorrow, I could hear his wife yelling at him in the background.

“Don’t you dare,” I said. “Let your wife dote on you for a few days; get some rest so you heal faster. We pay scads into that workers’ comp account—might as well use it. We’ll get by.”

At the restaurant Luz and I slid into a red vinyl booth. I suggested Luz order for us, and without even consulting the menu she rattled off
pappadums
, chicken
pakora
,
haleem
, chicken tikka kebab, lamb
rogan josh
,
aloo paratha
, and two mango lassis.

Once our feast was set before us, I confessed my worries about the ghosts and the murder of Emile Blunt.

She looked skeptical. “What could a murder across the street have to do with ghosts in Cheshire House?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing, maybe. It just seems too coincidental. Who would have a motive for killing the old guy? And it turns out Emile Blunt lived in Cheshire House for a while, and apparently he once saw ghosts in the attic.”

“You think the ghosts crossed the street and went after him? Can they do that?”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” I said, surprising myself with my confidence. “I think . . . the ghosts influenced someone. The people who’ve lived in Cheshire House mentioned something. . . . Even I’ve felt their influence. It’s as though they get to you.”

“Are you talking about spirit possession?” Luz scooped up some
daal
with a small piece of
aloo paratha
.

“Not quite . . . It’s more subtle than that. Okay, here’s something else: It seems Hettie Banks, the woman who used to own the Cheshire Inn—”

“The crazy cat lady?”

“For lack of a better term, yes. Anyway, she inherited the upholstery shop from Emile Blunt. That’s motive, right?”

Luz fixed me with a look and raised one eyebrow. “At what point did you start delving into a murder investigation? I thought you were just trying to get rid of ghosts.”

“I told you—I think it might all be connected. And besides . . . my father’s still under suspicion for Emile’s death. I wouldn’t mind coming up with a few other likely suspects.”

“You don’t think the SFPD might be better qualified for this sort of thing?”

“Of course. In fact I spoke with the investigator on the case earlier today. It won’t surprise you to know that she thinks I’m nuts.”

“You told her about the ghosts trying to shut down your construction project?”

“Afraid so. Anyway, Hettie couldn’t have killed Emile, could she? She’s an old woman who’s overly fond of cats. I can’t imagine her shooting someone in cold blood.”

“Don’t underestimate little old ladies. Ever hear about that woman in Sacramento who ran a boardinghouse and whose boarders mysteriously disappeared? The police found their bodies buried in her backyard.”

“When was this?”

“In the late eighties, I think. Dorothea Puente bumped off at least nine of her tenants and planted them in the garden. Apparently she had quite the green thumb.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you are a fount of really disturbing information?”

Luz laughed and helped herself to chicken
pakora
. “That’s why I became a university professor. A mind like a steel trap, chock-full of useless trivia. This Hettie Banks must be rolling in it, if she sold that massive place on Union Street.”

“She donated most of the money to the animal shelter.”

“To make up for her hoarding sins?”