Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (16 page)

T
here is something decidedly undignified about a grown woman begging for a Port o’ Potty.

“I’m sorry, Mel,” said Jennifer, the largely ineffectual director of the program. “But our budget just doesn’t extend to—”

“I understand, Jennifer; I got that part the first couple of times.” I knew she was vastly underpaid and even more well meaning—and
I
sure as heck didn’t want her job—so I was trying to rein in my impatience. “But as you know, we didn’t use up the entire weekend, so surely there was some leftover time? How can I finish up the project without a Dumpster and a Port o’ Potty?”

“I can pay for it,” said Ray Buckley from the doorway.

“I hate to ask for you to pony up more money, Ray,” I said as I turned to him. His suit was wrinkled, as though he’d slept in it—but then I studied his face, which looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, besuited or otherwise. “You’ve already done so much.”

“The point is to fix up Monty’s house, right? He is obviously in need, and I can give more. In fact, that’s why I stopped by, to drop off a check for further projects.”

“That’s very generous of you,” said Jennifer, “but we really can’t take your money for Monty’s house. The way our program is structured, all the money coming in now goes toward next year’s budget—”

“Never mind; I can arrange for them on my own,” I said, conceding defeat.

“And I’ll pay for them,” said Ray. “Seriously, a lot of us would like to do more good in this world. Projects like Neighbors Together have given me an outlet for just that. I don’t have a lot of time, but I have money that I’d like put to good use.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be wonderful. I’ll just ask you to foot the bill for the rentals. It won’t amount to too much.”

For that matter, I thought, I could have paid for the rentals through Turner Construction and written it off as a charitable expense, but I had thought Neighbors Together might be able to arrange for a special deal. Still, since Ray seemed so determined to complete his good deed for the year, I decided to let him do so. Ultimately, he was right: If you’re wealthy, it’s easier to give money than time.

Ray handed Jennifer an envelope with the check he’d already written to the program, and she invited him to come back in the fall, look through the files of eligible projects, and decide where he’d like his money to go.

“That makes it more personal,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll just put it in the general fund.”

“That’s fine,” said Ray. “Thank you, again, for all you do.”

“You should come in early, too, Mel, and pick out your client for next year!” said Ashley, the recruiter who’d gotten me into this whole mess months ago.

“Um, yeah, maybe,” I mumbled. It seemed to me a faux pas not to let volunteers forget their trauma before suggesting they come again next year. I had decided volunteering for a project like this one was like childbirth. You might need a few months to forget the pain and decide to do it again.

Ray and I walked out into a sunny but cool afternoon, where the breeze was carrying a slight stench from a stack of shiny black garbage bags spilling their dubious contents onto the street. Like a lot of nonprofits, Neighbors Together had its offices in a “transitional”—by which they really meant gritty—part of town, in the neighborhood dubbed “Dogpatch.” There were a lot of artists’ lofts and industrial arts groups that had found refuge here from the city’s astronomical rents, and following them came cafés and restaurants. So it was a neighborhood in transition, but it was nevertheless notable for its urban grime.

“Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Ray?” As thank-yous went it was a meager offer, but it was a little too early in the day for a stiff drink, which is what he looked like he needed. He was gazing off down the street, a vague look on his face that reminded me of Hugh.

After what felt like a token protest, Ray agreed. I let Dog out of the car, put him on a leash, and we all walked to one of my favorite nearby restaurants, called It’s For You. I tied Dog to the lamppost, where he had his choice of sun or shade and where I could keep an eye on him from the window.

“I’m telling you, I’m not a big one for breakfast foods of any type,” I said, “but they’ve got New Orleans–style beignets and strong, chicory-laced coffee here. A person could go far on food like that.”

Ray smiled halfheartedly, taking his seat at a table next to the window overlooking Twenty-third Street.

We both ordered coffee, and I asked for an order of beignets over Ray’s protests that his waistline would suffer.

“Seriously,” I said. “These things are made fresh and then doused in powdered sugar. You really shouldn’t live in San Francisco without having these once a year or so.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about . . . everything,” Ray said, bringing an abrupt halt to my chatter about sugar-laden fried foods. He shook his head as he added cream and sugar to his coffee, stirring with one hand and with the other rubbing his knee absentmindedly.

“I’m so sorry about Linda,” I began. “And I feel terrible that you had to learn about it like you did.”

He shook his head. “It was upsetting, but hardly surprising. I know how harsh that sounds, but . . . Linda never managed to find a way to cope with what had happened. I felt so helpless through the years, never knowing what to say, how to help her move on.”

“She was lucky to have people who cared about her,” I said. “Hugh, and you. You can’t . . .” What was I supposed to say? How would I feel if Caleb had suffered a similar trauma, and I couldn’t help him get over it? Helpless. Heartbroken. Guilty. “You can only do so much,” I finally finished lamely.

The beignets arrived, drowned in snowy powdered sugar, the sweet aroma wrapping around us like a fragrant shawl. I realized with a start that I hadn’t thought of escaping to Paris when ordering the French delicacies. Was this an indication of personal growth, or had I simply been too distracted by the resounding notes of sadness and resigned defeat in Ray’s voice?

Neither of us moved to serve ourselves.

“‘You never get used to what grief feels like,’” said Ray at long last. “That’s what one of the therapists told me. You might make accommodations for it, adapt to it in order to survive, but you never get used to it. I guess Linda never was able to adapt; she seemed to live mired in it, day after day.”

“You took in both Linda and Hugh after . . . after what happened?”

“Just Hugh. Linda wanted to leave town, so she chose to live with her aunt in Palo Alto. I thought it was a good idea for the kids to remain in the neighborhood, to face their fears . . . I don’t know whether it was the right decision or not, in the long run. I’m not sure how happy Hugh is, ultimately.”

“But at least he loses himself in his poetry, and his art contributes to other people’s lives.”

“Whereas Linda just lost herself in booze and drugs. I guess that’s why Hugh was so hell-bent on exposing her to the house, like exposure therapy. He thought if she could face things . . . But I guess it was all too late. She was determined to destroy herself, and she finally managed.”

He played with the spoon, then continued.

“Do you know, it was one of the sweetest moments in my life when Hugh stopped correcting people when they assumed I was his father? I’ve never had children, so when he started calling me Dad . . .” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry; I’m not usually emotional. It’s just . . . that was such a hard time for him, for all of us. But he made it through—he didn’t know his own strength. None of us do until we’re tested. Not to change the subject, but . . . how well do you know Monty?”

“Just through the program. You probably know him better than I, since you’re familiar with the neighborhood.”

“I only saw him by chance when I was at Hugh and Linda’s house once. But . . .” There was a long silence; Ray seemed to be pondering his next words. “I don’t know how to ask, but does he strike you as a drug user?”

“I really don’t know,” I said.

“I thought he might have had pain pills, given his injuries . . .”

Our eyes met and held.

“I apologize,” he said, sitting up and shaking it off. “I don’t mean to insinuate . . . You know what? I’m going to let the police do their work and stay out of it. It’s just that it’s so personal, it’s hard not to look for someone to blame.”

He pushed up the sleeve of his nice wool suit and checked the time.

“I’m afraid I have to run,” he said. “I have an appointment for a therapeutic massage.”

“Everything okay?”

“Take my advice: Never get old. I gave up drinking and smoking decades ago, became a health nut. But there’s no getting around age. Between my sciatica and this damned knee . . . somehow I thought surgery would solve all my problems, but it’s never that easy.”

“That’s what my dad said—he had a knee replacement a few years ago, and I think it was the physical therapy afterward that nearly did him in.”

“Listen to me complain, when we’re talking about Linda. . . .” He shook his head, his sadness palpable. “I’m so much luckier than most.”

I forced a smile and watched him leave.

The beignets grew cold, untouched.

•   •   •

I took the beignets and two coffees to go, and Dog and I headed to San Francisco State University. Luz held office hours now, so I figured she’d be alone and in the mood to offer advice.

“He just seemed so sad,” I said as Luz bit into a beignet. A soft shower of sugar sprinkled down on her black silk shirt.

“Híjole, ’mano,”
she muttered with a shake of her head. My rudimentary construction-site Spanish wasn’t sufficient to translate that expression, but I gathered it had to do with being exasperated or upset. Whether the words were in response to the sugar or to my description of Ray and the situation, I couldn’t be sure.

She and Dog appeared to be completely absorbed by the food. The fact that Luz remained lithe and willowy, while I gained a pound just
looking
at the beignets, was one of the mysteries of the universe. It said a lot about how much I valued Luz’s friendship that I was able to get past it.

As for Dog, he was . . . Dog. He adored his people, and he adored his food. I thought it best for all concerned not to ask him to choose between the two.

“Hey, enough with the beignets already,” I said at last. “I need you to put on your therapist hat. You should have seen Ray. And Hugh . . . That poor guy’s been through so much.”

“Sorry to interrupt your aberrant need to track down every killer in San Francisco, but signs here are pointing to an accidental-on-purpose overdose. Addicts often have a death wish, Mel. They may not consciously choose to kill themselves, but deep down they aren’t too worried about floating away to the big crack house in the sky on a wave of drug-induced pleasure.”

She took another huge bite. The phrase “floating away” reminded me of something Monty had said.

“You would understand better if you hadn’t skipped the drug-experimentation phase of your rebellious adolescent years,” Luz added.

“Hey, I rebelled plenty. Pot gives me a headache. And I don’t like the smell.”

“As drugs go, pot’s more like alcohol or tobacco. I’m talking the heavy stuff.”

“Pills scare me.”

She nodded. “That’s right—I remember you wouldn’t even take the pain pills that time you dislocated your shoulder.”

“I’d had a glass of wine already—seemed like a dangerous combination.”

Luz waggled a finger at me. “Wine, schmine. You don’t like to lose control; that’s the real issue. You were afraid that if you were under the influence, you’d say something you’d regret.”

I scoffed. “Not true. My life’s an open book.”

Luz snorted. “Everybody has secrets. Nothing wrong with it. Nobody needs to know what we’re thinking all the time.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve been very open about a lot of things.”

“Even about Graham?”

I glared at her. “Why are we talking about me and my many faults?”

“Why do you frame it so negatively? You’re a human being. We’re faulty. It’s part of our charm.” Luz picked up another beignet. “Speaking of drugs, I think these beignets must be coated in an addictive substance. Oddly enough, I have no problem with that.”

“It’s just sugar, but I agree with you—it’s addictive.”

“Speaking of Graham, weren’t you picking him up today? How was the big reunion?”

“He’d only been gone for five days.”

“Uh-huh. That well, huh?”

“He was being bossy.”

“About?”

I shrugged. “He’s worried about the ghost thing. And the dead body thing.”

“Gee, that sounds out of line. Why would someone who really cared about you be worried that you’re once again involved in death and mayhem?”

I glared at her. “I thought we were talking about the Lawrence tragedy.”

“Okay. The thing with this fellow Ray is he’s sad about something real. It’s a tragic situation. There’s no way to reframe it or somehow see it in a different light. The original crime was horrific, and like all crimes it affected everyone it touched: certainly the family most, but also the neighbors, the first responders, even little kids who sing songs about it decades later. Some people, rare people, are able to respond to tragedy by opening up their hearts and giving . . . but even then, the hurt never goes away. Sometimes it consumes people.”