If Walls Could Talk (7 page)

After the Zabens left, Raul and I went over the final finish schedule.

Then I started in, making and returning calls. As a general contractor, I spent half my life on the phone. I soothed clients, scheduled subcontractors, pleaded with city inspectors, harangued overdue creditors, and assuaged vendors. If I didn’t answer my phone, I was either in a meeting, in the shower, or driving. Probably by the time I made it to Paris I’d be working on a brain tumor from all the gamma rays.

After talking to a few subcontractors and confirming plans with the landscaper, I tried Nico. It kicked over to voice mail. I asked him to call me back as soon as he could.

I also called the two MIA mothers, Caleb’s and Dylan’s. I left my number on Dylan’s mom’s voice mail and told her that Dylan would be staying at my house for a few days. Not knowing whether she was up on Matt’s current arrest drama, I didn’t mention why their son was with me. Frankly, I doubted she would care.

Caleb’s mother, in contrast, cared deeply about her son. Angelica was in Chicago for a weeklong financial seminar and talked with Caleb daily; he had already informed her he was staying with me. Originally from Brazil, Angelica was open and friendly and too smart to have married someone like Daniel. Of course, she said the same thing about me. One night not long after I married Daniel, she and I had bonded over margaritas and our mutual love for Caleb. Though he tried to deny it, I could tell it bothered Daniel that Angelica and I were friends; in his worldview, we should have been natural enemies.

Finally finished with my phone calls, I headed to Vallejo Street in Pacific Heights, pulling up in front of Celia Hutchins’s house at noon on the dot.

Next door, Matt’s run-down construction site was now cordoned off with crime scene tape. Two police cars and several unmarked vehicles crowded the driveway and street. Clearly they were taking yesterday’s incident more seriously than the officer had yesterday. . . .

But what did this mean for Matt? Would a thorough investigation prove his innocence, or implicate him further?

Alongside the cop cars a Cal-OSHA truck sat in the drive, vulturelike. As a builder, my knee-jerk response to Cal-OSHA was one of defensiveness and dread: The agency inspectors were empowered to write citations, impose fines—or, worse still, shut down a job site. Contractors learned to tread carefully.

Still, though my father enjoyed railing at the “bleeding-heart liberals and the goddamned government” who wrote and enforced our intricate workplace safety codes, most of them were in place for good reason. Exploiting the health and safety of workers was not only morally abhorrent, but bad for business on all levels. My mother used to say,
Happy workers build happy houses.

Trite but oh so true.

Cal-OSHA would get involved in the investigation at Matt’s house only if the incident was considered to be a construction-site accident. Which meant that Kenneth must have filed an official building permit with the city. Was he working with another contractor? If so, why hadn’t Matt mentioned it? On the other hand, Matt didn’t seem exactly up on the paperwork side of things. Perhaps the architect would know more.

I hesitated, wondering whether I should stop and offer to talk to the police at Matt’s house. But after all, I had given my statement to the responding officer yesterday. They had all my information and knew how to get in touch if they wanted to interview me again. Plus, it would make me late for my appointment with Celia Hutchins, and I was never late for clients.

Nice rationalizing, Mel
, I thought to myself as I mounted the stone steps to the front landing and rang Celia’s doorbell.

“How lovely to see you!” Celia gushed upon opening the solid oak door. “Do come in. Good heavens, what in the
world
is going on next door? Is it true what they say on the news, that Matt has been arrested?”

“He’s being questioned. I don’t believe any charges have been filed. I’m sure it’s all a mistake. Have the police spoken to you yet?”

“The police? My Lord, no. Why would they?” Celia asked as she led the way into the entry hall.

I felt a sense of déjà vu as I stepped over the threshold. The facade of Celia’s house was distinct from Matt’s, but inside, the building had exactly the same layout, though its mirror opposite. The same octagonal entry with a sweeping circular stair leading upstairs; same carved limestone fireplace in the front parlor, flanked by bookcases; same dining room and short hallway leading to a spacious, recently redone kitchen.

But there the similarities ended. Celia’s home had undergone a remodel or two over the years. Though the woodwork—baseboards and doorways and crown moldings—was of similar design to that in Matt’s house, it had clearly been remilled. It had none of the dings and dents intrinsic to any historic structure, the traces of everyday life through the years. A coat closet had been improvised in one corner of the entryway, and the basement stairs leading off the hall were accessible through an open arch rather than closed off by a door as in Matt’s place.

In addition, the classic Beaux-Arts architecture—featuring broad, elegant arches and massive scale—had been modified with the addition of details in the Spanish, Moorish, and Craftsman styles. The overall effect was lovely, with lots of intricate tilework, white stucco, concrete tracery, and tall arches reminiscent of the Zaben home. I even recognized the artisan tiles on the stair risers from the ones I had used in the Zaben kitchen.

“The man who was taken away in an ambulance yesterday passed away,” I said, by way of explanation.

“Oh, good heavens! What a terrible thing. I’m . . . stunned. Though I have to say, that house has always been a bit . . . jinxed.”

“Jinxed?”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some, thanks.” I wondered why she thought the house was jinxed, but I didn’t want to push. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. We love it. Did you know this house was built at the same time as Gerald’s? Well, I mean Matt’s house, now. They’re twins.”

“I can see that, yes,” I said.

“I think they must have been nearly identical once, though the details are different, and of course there have been a number of additions and alterations over the years. Come out to the atrium.”

She led the way through a pair of French doors to a glass-ceilinged garden room, furnished with vintage wicker chairs and love seats. A fountain tinkled; caged canaries chirped. It was charming.

“I’m going to be working on a conservatory addition for a home in Piedmont in a couple of months,” I said. “This room is inspirational.”

“Thank you again. I’m so very lucky, in so many ways. Please, do have a seat while I go for the tea,” Celia said with a wave of her manicured hand.

I sat on a down-pillow-bedecked love seat. Celia’s sandals clacked loudly as she hurried down the tiled hall.

Several minutes passed. Celia was taking her time. As though I were a two-bit actress in a bad movie, all I could hear besides the birds and the fountain was the ticking of a grandfather clock down the hall.

Feeling awkward, I got up and started to peruse the bookshelves. They were filled with generic curios and antique leather-bound books that no one actually read—the kind interior designers bought by the linear foot to use as decoration. This phenomenon of unread books was depressingly common in the homes of the wealthy. I couldn’t fathom not needing every inch of bookshelf space; the to-be-read stack near my bed was so high that I used it as a perch for drinks, as though it were a precarious bedside table.

Only one shelf here was filled with newer-issue volumes. I leaned in to read their titles:
Ghosts and Other Uninviteds
;
Voices from Beyond: Hoax or Hope?
;
Our Journey after Death
;
Practical Tarot
;
Fun and Facts with the Ouija—

“Ever get the feeling you’re being set up?”

I
jumped, startled at the sound.

A man lounged in the doorway: tall, broad-shouldered, light brown hair falling artfully over a tanned brow. Somewhere between thirty-five and forty, I guessed. He wore fine gray slacks and what looked like a cashmere sweater. Good-looking.
Rich
-looking.

“I’m Celia’s son, Vincent. Vincent Hutchins.”

“Nice to meet you.” I put out my hand. “I’m Mel Turner.”

His hand was warm and strong as he shook mine.

“A pleasure.”

“ ‘Set up’ for what, exactly?” I asked.

“My mother is matchmaking. It’s only fair that you be warned.”

I looked him up and down.

“You mean . . . you and
me
?” I asked. “I’m not that much of a prize.”

He grinned and took a seat in a wicker chair, stretching his long legs out on the ottoman and folding his hands over his stomach. “She’s nearly given up hope for me and now thinks I’ll only be happy with a woman who presents a challenge. I imagine she thought you fit that bill.”

“Why would she think that?” I asked as I slipped into the seat opposite him.

“I hear you run a nontraditional business.”

“I’m hardly the first woman to work in the trades.”

“True enough, but she also liked the dress you were wearing yesterday. She described it in some detail.”

“My friend Stephen designed it. He’s quite good.” Stephen had recently been turned down for a position as a costumer with the San Francisco Opera, so I tried to encourage him by wearing his creations about town. “Still, somehow I find it hard to believe you need help getting girls.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug and smiled again. I studied him for another moment. Rich, handsome, well-spoken . . . and
single
?

In San Francisco, that was code for gay.

“I hope you’re not dying for tea.” Vincent sat up and peered through the doorway and down the hall. “At this rate it will be a while. You might not see my mother again until we have the wedding invitations printed up.”

I laughed.

“Has she talked to you about what work she wants done?” he asked.

“Not really. She just mentioned a club room. . . .”

“Again, I feel I should warn you, but it’s hard to know where to begin. Maybe it’s best if I show you.”

He rose and led the way out of the garden room, down the narrow hallway, and to the basement stairwell. As we descended, Vincent asked, “What’s your stance on alternative lifestyles?”

“As long as everyone’s a consenting adult, I’m good. Why do you ask? Does your mother have a hard time accepting that you’re gay?”

He stopped short and looked back at me.

“Do I seem gay to you?”

“In my experience it’s often hard to tell. It’s not like any of us walk around with signs on our foreheads.”

“I meant ‘alternative’ as in seeing the world a little . . . differently.”

Just then he flipped on the lights to the basement.

“Wow,” I said.

It was like my childhood conception of a haunted house: pure faded Victoriana. Thick Persian rugs covered the floor and heavy velvet drapes lined the groin-vaulted, curved brick walls. Hanging pendant lamps were trimmed with beads and colored glass, and several gold-framed mirrors graced every wall. Though it was tidy and the air carried the perfumed aroma of scented candles, a slight musty, mildew smell let you know you were still in a basement.

But what really caught my eye was the round table in the center of the room, ringed with six chairs covered in deep red fringed brocade. A huge crystal ball was set out next to a Ouija board and a dog-eared set of tarot cards.

It was the setting for a séance.

“Are you dismayed?” Vincent asked.

“Frankly, I’m relieved,” I said as walked around, perusing the space. “In this town, you never know what you might find in someone’s basement. Especially when referring to ‘alternative lifestyles.’ ”

There aren’t a lot of basements in San Francisco, at least not usable ones. In many older homes, ground-level, open pass-throughs from the street to the backyard were dug into the ground and once served as open areas to keep livestock. Most of these had been closed up over time and converted to garages and storage spaces.

But this was a genuine windowless, claustrophobic, musty basement.

“The bricks worry me, though,” I said.

“The bricks?”

“If your house is sitting on a brick foundation, you’ll be in trouble during the next big quake,” I explained.

“I believe my parents addressed the foundation some years ago when they bought the house. The brick faces were replaced over the reinforced concrete, just for show.”

I was impressed. That was the sort of thing Turner Construction did, an unnecessary—but aesthetically pleasing—attentiveness to period detail. Rare.

“Any idea what was down here originally?” I asked.

“Not really. I do know it only had a dirt floor until my folks poured the new foundation. The two houses, this one and our neighbor, now Matt’s house, used to be connected through here.” He gestured toward one curtained wall. “A single family owned both homes. The access was bricked off years ago.”

I picked up a poured-resin pyramid, with a seated Buddha and rose petals trapped inside. On a cherry demilune side table was another stack of books about the occult and more tarot cards. Bundles of herbs hung from a series of decorative hooks under one shelf, and white candles were placed on just about every doily-covered surface.

“I have to admit, when your mother mentioned this was her ‘club room,’ I was imagining something more like needlepoint. Or bird-watching.”

Vincent laughed, a deep-throated rumble.

“Some of those bird-watchers are pretty edgy, you know.” He paused and ran long, graceful fingers along the tasseled edge of a tapestry panel. “I know it’s sort of strange, but she’s convinced that if she tries hard enough, she can make contact with . . . the beyond. I try not to judge. Since my father’s death a few years back, she’s been . . . ‘searching,’ I guess is the best word for it.”