If Walls Could Talk (25 page)

“Could I get his address from you? I’d love to ask him a few questions about the house.”

“Just don’t mention the haunting,” Meredith said as she stood and crossed over to an antique rolltop desk. She flipped through a small address book and jotted the information down on a piece of paper. “He doesn’t really like visitors, but I think it’s good for him to have company.”

“Thank you,” I said as she handed me the address and returned to sit at the table. “Meredith, did you post about the haunting on the Internet?”

“Of
course
not. I don’t do that.”

“Someone did, and they used your name.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” She waved her hand, dismissing the notion. I noticed she wore two large diamond rings on her left hand. I had gems on the brain lately.

“Back to the bones in Celia’s basement—are you sure they belonged to an animal? Could they have been . . . human?”

“Of course not.”

“Did Celia dig them up, report them to anyone?”

“Oh, no. She said they were at rest and left them where they were. They were mostly on Gerald’s side, anyway.”

“Did you have any other guests come to these séances?”

“Oh, we have a few like minds—no one you’d know. Except for Vincent, of course. Oh, and Jason.”

“Jason?”

“Jason Wehr, the architect.”

“Jason Wehr joined you in the séances?”

“Only once or twice. Celia was trying to ask about the original layout of Gerald’s house. She planned to reunite the two homes, bring them back to their twin status.”

I rubbed my temples. I was developing a headache.

“So, Gerald Buchanan didn’t think the ghost in the house was Walter, his great-grandfather who committed suicide? He thought it was someone else?”

“Oh, yes. I told him it wasn’t the suicide at all. It was the murder that was the problem.”

“What murder?”

“If I knew that, we could put the matter to rest, couldn’t we?” Meredith said, as though I’d asked her to predict the upcoming lottery numbers. “Something happened years ago, something that haunted Walter Buchanan and every one of his descendants in that house. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but the spirits won’t talk to me.”

Maybe that was where I came in.

“R
otten piece of undead
scum
,”I said.

Kenneth flickered for a moment before coming back to stride alongside me with a rolling, almost perfectly smooth gait as I hurried toward my car.

“What did
I
do?” he whined.

“Were you trying to sell the house out from under Matt? And the investors?”

“I swear I don’t remember,” he said, hands—one hand, actually—up in front of him as though to ward off attack.

I let out an exasperated snort.

“
That’s
probably what got you killed,” I mumbled. “It probably had nothing at all to do with an ancient treasure map.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Kenneth said, keeping up with me easily. “I hate to admit it, but that sounds like something I would have done. I seem to have been rather materialistic, if I do say so myself.”

“You think?”

“I’m . . . I’m feeling really crappy about the way things went. I think I wasted my life. And now it’s too late.”

There was genuine regret in his voice. I let out a weary sigh. It was hard to stay angry with a remorseful ghost.

“I don’t suppose you could make up for any of that wasted life by finding some way to help with the current situation?” I asked as I climbed into the car.

Kenneth appeared in the passenger seat, looking askance at my broken window.

“If I were you, I’d go talk to that photographer,” he said.

It was the logical next step: Take a look at the photos from the party. But I felt wary. I wasn’t sure about this photographer guy, and Graham’s warning rang in my ears.

Someone had gone after the crate at the storage yard, and then the piano at my house, and then must have followed me and searched my car. How did I know Zach wasn’t involved? He didn’t
seem
involved, but could I trust my assessment of men’s character these days?

“You think I can trust this guy?” I asked the ghost.

“Oh, I’m sure of it. Tell you what, I’ll be there, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“You know, if you need me.”

“I thought you couldn’t do anything . . . material.”

“I’m learning. I scared you yesterday, didn’t I? I think I could step in. Besides, really, I don’t think it’s a problem.”

I checked my watch. It was after four and I was supposed to meet Luz and our friend Stephen for dinner. And before that, I needed to drop by the St. Francis Wood job site and check on the progress with the landscapers and the faux finishers.

I rummaged in the bottom of my satchel, but couldn’t find the card Zach had given me yesterday. But I write a semiannual feature for the
San Francisco Chronicle
about my favorite local remodel, so I know a few folks at the Home and Leisure section, including one very indiscreet woman in personnel: Nancy Jorgenson.

Armed with only the name “Zachary something,” it took me all of two minutes to find the photographer’s phone number and to get a quick character reference from Nancy, who told me Zach was “a real doll, I’ve known him since he was a boy.” That was no hedge against subsequent criminality, I guessed, but I was going to take it for what it was worth.

I called. Zach told me he would love to get together, but that he was on a shoot at the moment. We agreed to meet tomorrow at one at his place.

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” I said to Kenneth as I put away the phone.

Disappointment rolled off him in waves.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“What?”

“That . . . sadness thing. It’s creepy.”

“What sadness thing?”

“Whatever it is you do to make me feel your misery.”

“I’m thinking you’re projecting here,” Kenneth said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And just like that, he disappeared.

Was this the secret? All I had to do was insult the man—the
ghost
—and he’d leave me alone?

Well
, I thought,
that should be easy enough.

But somehow I knew it wasn’t going to be quite that simple.

 

Absinthe is a trendy, fabulous restaurant in the Hayes Valley neighborhood of San Francisco, with a French art nouveau style and a totally rocking chef, a woman with a butch blond haircut and tattoos on her arms who had recently enhanced her celebrity status by taking part in a televised chef contest. Or so my friends who watched TV told me.

Luz, Stephen, and I sat in our favorite horseshoeshaped booth, near the bar, right up front in the thick of things.

“That darling waiter is totally flirting with you,” Luz leaned over to Stephen and whispered.

He whirled around, looking back at us in disappointment when he realized Luz was talking about a man.

“Why does everyone think I’m gay?” Stephen asked with a theatrical sigh.

“Maybe it’s because all your best friends are women,” I said.

“And you’re a clothing designer,” Luz added.

“And your name’s Stephen,” I said.

“A lot of straight men are named Stephen,” he protested.

“That’s true, but then they go by Steve,” Luz said.

He laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

Stephen was tall and thin, pale, with dark, dramatic features. He could easily have played the part of some eighteenth-century romantic poet dying of consumption. Like Luz, Stephen was an old friend from my academic days. He had been a student of political science until he realized that his doctoral dissertation bored not only his family, friends, and academic mentors but even himself. In an act of bravery that some people called foolish, he chucked the scholarships and grants he had cobbled together and set off to pursue his real love: designing clothes and costumes. He had recently been rejected for an internship with the San Francisco Opera and was trying to figure out his next move, career-wise. For the moment he was working as a barista at Starbucks.

Luz and I were taking him out to dinner to cheer him up. Luz probably had some sort of ulterior motive that involved getting me out of my own head, as well. It didn’t much matter to me at the moment—I was on my second hot and dirty martini and felt quite content.

“Mel’s had quite the active love life of late,” Luz announced.

Stephen turned to me in anticipation.

“That’s a bit of a stretch. I said that I’d been asked out lately.”

“By whom?”

“Vincent Hutchins. He lives next door to Matt Addax’s house on Vallejo.”

“Must be loaded, in that neighborhood. Is he a hot-tie?” asked Stephen, helping himself to a plate of multicolored olives.

“He is, actually,” I said. “You two would make a cute couple.”

“Very funny.”

I laughed. “But there’s something a little odd about him.”

“You mean the part where he still lives with his mommy?” asked Luz.

“Yes, though I live with my daddy, so I can’t really throw stones,” I said. “But he’s lied to me a couple of times, and I can’t figure out why. And something’s been nagging at me: Why would Celia Hutchins want someone like me to go out with her son?”

“Because you’re a catch,” Stephen jumped in with the unquestioning loyalty of a true friend.

“You’re smart, and wicked funny, and gorgeous,” added Luz without missing a beat.

“And pretty darned interesting,” said Stephen.

“Thanks, guys, I appreciate the ego boost. Seriously, though—no false modesty here, but if Celia wanted grandchildren, wouldn’t she go after a younger woman, or a more conciliatory woman?”

“You
are
awfully stubborn,” Luz said, motioning to the waiter to bring her another lemon drop.

“Look who’s talking,” I said with a smile. “Do you think Celia might want Vincent to spend time with me for other reasons? Something to do with getting her hands on Matt’s house? Or something hidden
in
the house, maybe?”

“Like what?” Stephen asked. I realized I hadn’t told my friends about my dubious discovery in the walls. Best not to involve them.

“Never mind,” I said, sipping my martini. “She was probably just bowled over by my kick-ass wardrobe.”

Stephen beamed.

“The police officer worries me,” said Luz. “You said there was something weird about him, too, right? A rogue cop could be seriously bad news.”

“I never said he was a bad cop. He just seems a bit . . . uninterested in the crime. I don’t suppose your sister knows anything . . . ?” Luz’s sister Carmen was a beat cop. I doubted they ran in the same circles as homicide inspectors.

“I actually mentioned it to her already, but she doesn’t really know him,” Luz said. “She said she heard he was a drinker, but that could apply to half the police force.”

“As it is, Lehner hasn’t done anything to me. He doesn’t seem to have done anything to anybody, other than bring Matt up on charges. But even then . . . frankly, he hasn’t been talking to the obvious witnesses, anything like that. And Graham said that the cops seemed to want him to declare it an accident. Now that I think about it, maybe in his own strange way, Lehner’s trying to help Matt. I just don’t know.”

“What are you even
talking
about?” Stephen said with a puzzled smile. “You’re sounding a little crazy, Mel, I gotta tell ya. Luz, you were right to call me. She definitely needs to be spending more time with sane people like us.”

“Yeah, I know.” I smiled. “You guys might need to step in soon and lock me away.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Luz said. “Mel, I was thinking, maybe we all should flip a house together. You, me, and Stephen.”

“Because you’re suddenly independently wealthy?” I asked.

“You know I’ve been doing research for my new place. And I’ve been watching a lot of those shows—it doesn’t look that hard, especially with your talents.”

My friends and family are quick to point out that I harbor Luddite tendencies. One of them is that I refuse to watch cable. As a result, I am unfamiliar with the plethora of home improvement shows, but I am all too aware of them. Rarely does a day go by that a client doesn’t seek to enlighten me by sharing something they saw on a TV show, or trying to lower my price by doing it themselves. Like most things, though, it’s always a whole lot harder than it looks.

“Don’t even
think
about it, Luz. I’m serious.” I shook my head. It was going to take plenty more martinis before I got into the house-flipping business. I was barely keeping my head above water as it was. “Not in this market.”

“Okay, what I want to hear about—what I really
came here
for,” said Stephen, changing the subject, “was to hear about the gorgeous man from your past.”

“Graham?”

“Come on, girlfriend, you can tell me. After all, I’m your gay best friend, remember?”

I laughed.

“Luz tells me he’s pretty hot.”

“Last night he tried to tell me not to work on Matt’s site.”

“How’d that go over?”

“About as well as you’d expect. I started on the job this morning.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Stephen said.

“How about the young guy?” Luz asked. “The photographer? He had a little thing for you, I’m pretty sure.”

“I’m going to see him tomorrow to look through pictures from the party. But I told you, I think he was only looking at me that way because I was holding a gun on him.”

“Now you’re telling me I missed
gunplay
while I was busy foaming lattes?” Stephen took a big gulp of his Chardonnay and gaped at us, one after the other. “Next time I am
so
going to lunch with you guys.”