Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (8 page)

I was just curious. No harm in that, right? And I was proclaiming a moratorium on snooping around the crime scene. So this was just . . . information.

I drove past San Francisco’s City Hall, a domed Beaux Arts building so large and ornate that when I was a little girl, I thought it housed the President of the United States. It was built in 1915 by architect Arthur Brown, Jr., to replace the building toppled by the 1906 earthquake; Brown was so fastidious that he specified which doorknobs to use, as well as the typeface for signage. City Hall’s dome was the fifth largest in the world, bigger than that of the U.S. capitol. Inside the central rotunda, a sweep of marble stairs led to catwalks that overlooked the courtyards. It was beautiful, a crown perfect for a world-class city like San Francisco.

In contrast, the city’s permit office was located in an uninspired building on Mission. I stopped by to look up the Murder House, otherwise known as 2906 Greenbrier Street. A quick look through records in the musty administrative offices revealed this information:

Built in 1911 by Cicorelli Brothers Construction, for the Jeffress family.

It changed hands in 1929, 1942, and 1978, the price increasing steadily but not crazily over the years. Sidney and Jean Lawrence were the buyers in 1978.

In 1983, the house was transferred to a bank-operated trust.

Hubert Lawrence took ownership in 1991.

I did a double take. I supposed it could be a coincidence . . . but though Lawrence was a reasonably common name, Hubert was not. I remembered the fellow under Monty’s sink on Saturday, telling me he had to leave early. “Hubert, but I go by Hugh,” he’d said.

Interesting.

I finished up my other paperwork and left, but before getting back in the car I bought a cup of coffee from a small stand, then wandered through a tiny micro-park, through rows of espaliered trees, pondering and sipping my drink.

Then I called Luz.

“Do you remember someone named Hubert Lawrence at Monty’s house on Saturday?”

“You mean the poet laureate?”

“The what?”

“Hubert Lawrence. He’s the California poet laureate.”

“Um . . . no, I meant the guy who showed up to work at Monty’s on Saturday. He was a little odd, but did a decent job with the dry rot under the kitchen sink.”

“Yeah, that was Hubert Lawrence. He’s the poet laureate. Don’t you read?”

“Of course I read,” I said. And I do. Just not, apparently, Hubert Lawrence. “I’m not what you’d call ‘up’ on our state’s best poets, though, I’ll admit.”

“You really are a Philistine, aren’t you?”

“If I knew what that was, I’d probably be offended.”

Luz laughed. “He was there with his wife, Simone—tall woman, long dark hair? She was very protective of him, and when I recognized his name, she made it clear he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Do poet laureates get mobbed like rock stars?” I asked, as I recalled a tall woman with long, silky dark hair. She was in her forties and had been working on the dry rot with two men.

“Only in their dreams,” continued Luz. “Other than by lit geeks like me, it’s a safe bet the poet laureate is not often recognized. He wrote ‘Hugh’ on his nametag, and I only realized who he was when I saw his full name on the release form. But then I had him sign my arm, which totally rocks.”

“You groupie, you.”

“Does that make me delightfully eccentric or just sad?”

“You’ll always be eccentric to me, Luz.”

“You do realize that, coming from you, that’s a bit unsettling?”

I laughed. “So you’re telling me a famous poet spent his weekend fixing a stranger’s dry rot?”

“‘Famous poet’ is sort of an oxymoron. Sadly, it’s been that way ever since the era of Yeats passed. I suppose you could make an argument for Ginsberg and Kerouac, but people don’t really read poetry anymore, much less make the scribes into celebrities—unless their words are set to a beat, of course. But in general, an interest in poetry has been replaced by a fascination with the antics of half-literate Jersey housewives.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do he and his wife live in the city?”

“He mentioned he was local, but wasn’t more specific.”

“Any chance he owns the house next to Monty’s?”

“The place the kids call Murder House? They told me all about the gruesome tale. What makes you ask that?”

“His last name is Lawrence—the same as the family who owned the house.”

“You know, I remember reading something about his having lost his parents at an early age, a personal tragedy that informed his poems. His early work was obsessed with themes of violence and loss. So I suppose there could be a connection. Then again, Lawrence isn’t exactly an unusual last name.”

“That’s true. And if he was connected to the murdered family, why would he want to hold on to a house where the tragedy had unfolded?”

“Could be lots of reasons. One horrible event might not outweigh years of happier memories. Plus, the place isn’t inhabited, is it? Houses where murders have occurred are often hard to sell—they’re stigmatized. I think you can understand why.”

I thought about that. How would I feel about my family home, had similar events taken place there? I quickly gave up; I couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

“So, have you washed your arm yet?”

“No way. Permanent marker, too. I’m gonna take some pics, tweet about it. All the poetry nerds will swoon. What’s the story on Monty’s place? Will we be able to finish up this weekend?”

“I think so. I’ll let you know for sure as soon as I hear.”

“Anything on the woman in the shed?”

“Nothing definite. It might well have been an overdose. It’s possible it was Linda Lawrence; I guess she’s Hubert’s sister?”

“And his savior. In one of his most famous poems, he talks about the older sister who helped him escape out a window. He writes about her, describes her as lost.”

“Lost? As in missing?”

“I think it was more lost, as in to drugs and alcohol. I can’t remember exactly.”

“They escaped that night, and now she’s found dead in a shed on the property . . . ? This is rapidly developing into one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard.”

“Perfect fodder for poetry. Or, you know, suicide.”

We both mulled that one over for a moment. It never ceased to amaze me how some people seemed to have more than their fair share of tragedy, while others of us were, by and large, so lucky. My life held a lot of annoyances and some sadness, but no tragedy on this level. Another reminder to count my blessings.

“Oh, hey,” I said in a bid to change the subject. “Guess who’s back in town? Cookie.”

“You mean back for a visit, or
back
back?” Over the years, Luz had heard a great deal about my sister and our relationship.

“I’m not sure. We haven’t exactly talked.”

“How long did you last this time?”

“Ten minutes, easy. So I’m improving.”

“What was the trigger?”

“She started giving me advice.”

“
I’ll
give you some free advice: Keep her away from Graham. When does he get back?”

“Day after tomorrow. But what do you mean, keep him away from Cookie?”

“If she’s left Kyle again, she’ll be looking to compensate. You think your handsome hunk of man will be off-limits?”

“Cookie wouldn’t go for Graham.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure Graham wouldn’t go for my sister.”

“Oh, of course not. Men don’t go for flirtatious, stacked, leggy blondes who tell them what they want to hear. I forgot. They would never fall for such an oh-so-obvious act.”

Okay, so after an especially unpleasant breakup, Luz had become a little bitter on the subject of men. I wasn’t in any position to throw stones, since I’d been a card-carrying member of the Bitter Club since things went south between me and my former husband. But . . . Graham would never go for someone like Cookie, would he? I mean . . . he had free will and self-control, didn’t he? And if a man liked
me
, surely Cookie wouldn’t exactly be his type. Would she?

On the other hand, there was that whole “flirtatious, stacked, leggy blonde” thing. Over the years, I had witnessed man after man—otherwise intelligent, caring men—whose jaws would go slack and eyes go soft as Cookie turned on the charm.

I was toast.

I blew out an exasperated breath as a wave of self-consciousness came over me. I was wearing my typical odd ensemble, my hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I didn’t have on a hint of makeup. Not even my usual lazy effort at a little eyeliner and mascara. I had intended to go upstairs to primp a bit before leaving the house, but instead ran out into the still, dark morning.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Graham and I had been dating, and it had been great . . . until I started freaking out. I liked kissing him a
lot
. But he wanted to be with me, as in
be
with me. I had lots to do, and I wasn’t in the habit of checking in with anybody. I already had my dad to deal with, and Caleb was around all the time, and the business, and Dog . . . I decided I had no room in my life for a steady boyfriend.

“Maybe he and Cookie would be good for each other,” I heard myself saying. “He likes kids, and she comes with a ready-made family.”

“Are you still trying to set him up with all the women you know?” she asked. “You know, far be it from me to tell you how to interact with men, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be foisting your boyfriend off on other women.”

“I’m not foisting. I rarely foist.”

“You tried to get him to go to the movies with me the other night, remember?”

“You two share a fondness for the current James Bond that I simply can’t get behind. It’s Sean Connery or nothing, as far as I’m concerned. And anyway, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Right. And you’re moving to Paris any minute now.”

“This is different from the Paris thing. I can’t have a boyfriend. I don’t like men enough.”

“You adore men. You live with them and work with them, and have great respect for them.”

“Okay, let me amend my previous statement: I like men as people. But not as romantic partners.”

Luz snorted.

“Plus,” I continued, ignoring her. “I don’t live a normal life. Every time I turn around I find a body, not to mention I’m plagued by ghosts. I wouldn’t wish that on any man.”

“What’s this about being plagued by ghosts?” Luz had a knack for zeroing in on what was important and ignoring my bluster. “Did you see something at Monty’s place?”

I paused for a fraction of a second before telling her. Knowing Luz, she’d get it out of me sooner or later anyway.

“No, next door. The big house.”

“The Murder House?”

“That’s the one. But really, they have nothing to do with me, I swear. Not this time.”

I heard Luz blow out a long breath.

“Okay,
chica
, one more piece of free advice, and then I’ve got to run to a faculty meeting: Finish up the work at Monty’s, and get the hell out of Dodge before the next-door-neighbor ghosts, I dunno, decide to come a-knocking, wanting to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“I was thinking along those very same lines.”

I
got back to work. Today, that involved going by the jobsite for a bed-and-breakfast in the Castro district. A
haunted
bed-and-breakfast, to be more precise. I had managed to spend the night in the place, and broker a deal with the ghosts, and catch me a murderer—sort of—several months ago, so Turner Construction won the bid on the project.

This was not what one might call an “industry standard” for how to go about winning renovation bids . . . but whatever it took.

Unlike the typical San Francisco Victorian, the Bernini B&B, as it was now called, was a Greek Revival with Italianate flourishes. We were painting the entire exterior in several different shades of cream, in keeping with the traditional monochromatic palette. Inside, it was fabulous: the new owners were committed to restoring the house and converting it into a charming inn without updating it cavalierly so as to strip it of its historic charm. We were modernizing things inside the walls: central vacuum, internet wiring, modern piping, heating, insulation, and electricity. And we were revamping some of the historic methods that still worked well and were, in fact, “green,” such as passive ventilation and the natural insulating effects of series of chambers that could be closed off from one another.

But the real show was in the interior details. We had removed all the ancient plumbing fixtures and hardware, cleaned them up, fixed them, and brought them up to code. For those items that were missing, I scoured junk shops and salvage yards—and occasionally found things on the internet—from the same era. We had removed broken tiles and had them reproduced by an Arts and Crafts Revival tile factory. Warped oak floors were patched and repaired where possible, or replaced where necessary. Original lamps and sconces were removed and taken to an old man who worked out of his garage and could fix anything made before 1950.

I knew if we worked hard enough, we had a shot at the AIA award for historic renovation. But, more important, I could feel the house coming back to life, blossoming under our care and attention.

Long before I was introduced to the concept of ghosts, I had come to believe that historic homes—some much more than others—held whispers from the past, tiny wisps of energy from all the souls who had passed through their doors. I used to think I was just being silly, superstitious. Now that I knew about spirits . . . I still felt superstitious. And I was even more confused. Was it the houses that whispered to me, or the ghosts within?

Not that it really mattered. Once I had accepted that I am, for better or worse, some sort of ghost talker, I was trying my best to roll with it. That was one factor that led to my signing up for my friend Olivier’s ghost-busting class. I felt like a fool, but I was learning a whole heck of a lot about things like electromagnetic waves and, believe it or not, theoretical physics.

“Mel, good to see you. How’d that project go this weekend?” asked Raul, our lead foreman.

Raul had volunteered to work with me on the community service
project, but I wouldn’t let him. He and his wife were already busy with helping to run a food pantry and afterschool tutoring activities through their church. He worked too hard as it was, and I needed him on site. A good foreman could make or break a project, and his presence on a job as complex as the Bernini B&B meant I didn’t have to be here every second myself. He felt so guilty about not helping out, however, that he and his wife had brought over tamales for the volunteers.

“It . . .” I trailed off. One of these days I was going to have to figure out a way to respond to people’s simple queries after I’d been involved in the discovery of yet another dead body. “It’s not quite finished yet.”

His eyes searched my face.

“No?” He knew how I was about finishing what I started. And Raul didn’t let a lot get past him. “You need my help after all? I’m happy to do it.”

“I know you are, Raul. No, there was a . . . We found a . . .” I blew out a breath. “The police shut down the project for a few days. A woman was found on the property—sort of. Actually, it might officially be the neighbor’s property. Anyway, that doesn’t really matter, does it?” I said to myself much more than to Raul. “What I mean to say is that we found a body.”

Raul was a quiet man, the sort who spoke only when he had something relevant to say. He nodded, still holding my eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yes, thank you. She had been deceased for a bit. I really didn’t have anything to do with it. It wasn’t like what happened here.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good.”

Raul and I hadn’t talked openly and explicitly about the whole ghost thing. When he started with this B and B project, I let him know there might be a few unexplained events in the house, and he accepted that in his usual calm manner.

“Hey, before you go, you should check out the friezes in the bedrooms. You were right about those antique borders.”

One of my favorite local architectural supply stores, Victoriana, had somehow unearthed a stash of original, hand-tinted wallpaper borders. They cost a fortune, but it was almost unheard-of to find original paper pieces rather than reproductions.

I peeked into the master bedroom, where the wallpaper hangers were just finishing up. Raul was right—the borders were perfect. They replaced a hand-painted frieze that had been irreparably damaged from a water leak.

The spaces above the moldings were perfect for such a decorative pattern. Looking at the moldings, I was reminded of the lovely interior design of Etta’s small house. Her simple wood moldings boxed off sections of the wall so they could frame separate portions of color or paper. I would check with the hangers to see if there might be enough leftovers to run the perimeter of Etta’s front room. Though her house was nowhere near as fine as the Bernini B&B, the wallpaper would suit it just as well.

After meeting with the clients and taking down a few more items for the punch list, I ran around town checking on our other current projects, including a personal favorite in the turret apartment of an old Victorian. It was tiny, but so lush and detailed it reminded me of a jewel box.

I grabbed a late lunch from a taco truck, and was on my way to the lumberyard to order supplies when my phone rang. The readout said Turner Construction. That was odd.

My phone rang incessantly: Calls about supply problems, worksite issues, permit glitches. Meetings set up and canceled. Disgruntled neighbors. It was one thing after another.

Stan knew this, so he almost never called me during the day. Instead, we would usually reconvene in Turner Construction’s home office at the end of the day, while my father prepared dinner.

“Everything okay?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah, sure. No big thing, but . . . we got an inquiry about a new job.”

“Oh . . . great.” I was surprised, but Stan knew I was a little worried lately about not having enough jobs in the pipeline, so maybe he wanted to cheer me up. “Who is it, and what’s the job?”

“That’s why I called. He was a little elusive on the phone, but he said it was urgent that he speak with you directly rather than give me any details. He says he met you the other day at the Neighbors Together site, and he wants to hire you to renovate his house. He, um . . . he also mentioned that his house is full of ghosts. His name is Hubert Lawrence.”

•   •   •

Call me overly curious, but within half an hour I was zooming up to a modern apartment building not far from North Beach.

“You’re here,” Hubert Lawrence said as I stepped off the elevator. He stood in his wide-open door at the end of the hall.

“I am, yes,” I said. I checked the clock on my phone. “We said two-thirty, right?”

“Yes, I believe we did.” Hugh stared at the taupe hallway carpet as though it would give him some further detail about the situation. “That’s exactly what we said.”

In the hustle and bustle of Monty’s worksite, I had barely noticed Hubert, and now I understood why. He seemed vague, barely there. Ghostlike, in fact. He had sandy hair and eyebrows that were an almost exact match with his fair skin, and his irises were so pale, they seemed to fade into the whites. He stood so still, he seemed almost ethereal.

It was kind of disturbing, to tell the truth. For a moment, my mind flashed on the possibility that he might be a spirit, but then I realized everyone else on the jobsite saw him, too. But I supposed that the life of the mind might make a person seem like he was living on a different plane.

“It’s nice to meet you again,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time to talk on Saturday. I get so busy on jobsites, and it was a little overwhelming with all those volunteers. I didn’t get the opportunity to speak with everyone one-on-one.”

He nodded in acknowledgment but gazed down at my hand as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. Back when I was an anthropologist, I learned to be careful about approaching people from different cultures. It was easy to offend someone entirely by accident by pressing one’s customs upon them. But Hubert looked at me as though I were presenting him with a fistful of fermented fish heads.

Which actually happened to me once. But even then I wasn’t as rude as he.

After a moment, I let my hand fall. We were still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Could I come in and sit down?” I suggested. “You wanted to talk about redoing your house?”

“Yes, yes, I did.” He turned around and wandered into the apartment. “I couldn’t believe when Simone told me
you
, the house captain for the Neighbors Together project right next door to my house, were named ‘California’s most promising up-and-coming ghost buster.’ She read it in
Haunted Home Quarterly
.”

I closed the door and trailed him down a book-lined hall and around the corner, which opened onto a room that served as an office. The place reminded me of an upscale version of Monty’s front room, everything lined with bookshelves, though these were neatly arranged and only a single book deep. Nice to know there were still booklovers in the world.

In the center of what must have officially been the living room sat a utilitarian beige office desk paired with a standard-issue desk chair. And on the desk sat a pad of heavy stock paper—the expensive kind—and half a dozen new, sharpened number-two pencils. A black mesh wastepaper basket sat by the desk, and a series of framed photographs sat on the table in an arc. What looked like a vintage eight-millimeter camera sat on a tripod in one corner. A huge fresh floral arrangement sat in a crystal vase on a marble-topped display table.

That was it. No computer. No stacks of papers. No Post-it notes, crumpled papers, or pencil holder in which half the pens were dried up, like on my crammed desk in Turner Construction’s home office. And no dust. Anywhere. On the contrary, it smelled of lemon polish and scented candles and lilies.

It was a shrine to poetry.

Hubert took a seat behind the desk, placed his hands palm-down on the laminate wood top, and stared at me.

I haven’t known a lot of poets in my time. Nothing beyond the high school boys who thought their words were deep and mournful, rather than just simplistic rhymes. I still didn’t really
get
poetry. What made one set of sentences great, while others were just silly or self-indulgent?

But this guy was a poet laureate. That counted for something. That counted for a
lot
.

Also, he had lived through the events at the Murder House, so my heart went out to him.

And far too late, I wondered whether Ray had been right—was the woman we found in fact Linda, Hubert’s sister? And if so, had her brother been informed?

“Hubert, I—”

“Please, call me Hugh. Everyone does.”

“Great. Hugh. And call me Mel—I never use my full name, either.”

He continued to stare. So much for bonding over nicknames. It was a weak attempt, I knew, but I wasn’t sure we had much else in common.

“How are you?”

He looked at me for a long time, in what I was coming to know as his patented stare.

“How am I . . . ,” he repeated, not in question form. His affect remained as flat as the hands still on the desk in front of him. He turned his head to look out the window, which displayed a view of the building across the street. “How are any of us?”

I had no response to that. I was beginning to think that, poet laureate or no, this guy was a little bit off his rocker. Or perhaps a certain detachment from reality was what it took to be a great artist. If I were talking to Vincent van Gogh under similar circumstances, I imagined the conversation might be a bit stilted as well.

Suddenly, Hugh looked at me straight on, intensity in his eyes.

“I want to talk to you about renovating the house. You know the house?”

“Um, the place next to Monty’s, right? That’s the one you’re talking about?”

“You know what happened in that house?”

“I’ve heard a little bit,” I said, thinking that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know much more.

“I was lucky enough to have slept through most of it. It was my sis—” His voice choked up for a moment. He held a fist up to his mouth, swallowed loudly, then resumed his story. “My sister Linda was the one who looked down and saw my father at the foot of the stairs. My father, who used to take us fishing. Who taught me to ride a bike, to play ball . . . Did you hear about Linda?”