Dead Bolt (15 page)

“Yeah, whatever.” She shrugged one hefty shoulder. “The other women are the real cat lovers. I’m just good at catching them, since I grew up with so many of the things.”

“I like cats,” said Cyrus.

“Could I ask you a professional question?” I said to Janet.

“Shoot.”

“Would it be possible for a cat to have remained in the house, surviving in the walls somehow?”

“Sure. I mean, it could sleep there and go out to hunt at night. That sort of thing. They’re clever animals.”

“Could you tell me about growing up in the Cheshire Inn?”

She hesitated for so long I thought she might not answer. But after pulling up to a stop in front of OfficeMax, taking on two new passengers, and pulling back into traffic, she spoke in a low voice. “It wasn’t much of a home, if that’s what you’re asking. Mom rented rooms to ‘bachelors’ mostly, which is code for creepy single guys who didn’t earn enough for a decent apartment.”

“Did they . . . harass you?”

She shrugged. I waited, but it didn’t seem as if she was going to say more on the subject. It was a long time ago and when it came down to it . . . was it any of my business? And what could it have to do with ghosts in the house, or Emile Blunt’s death?

“Do you remember a man who lived at the Cheshire Inn briefly who had an upholstery shop across the street? Emile Blunt?”

She tweaked her head in a move that was neither a nod, nor a shake.

“He was killed the other night.”

Janet slammed on the brakes as we came to a yellow light turning red. The airbrakes made a screeching sound.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“He was found in his upholstery shop, shot to death.”

“Wow.” The light turned green and she stepped on the gas. “I hadn’t heard that. Geesh, I really disliked the guy, but murdered? Wow.”

“Why didn’t you like him?”

“He was kind of weird. He stole something from me when we lived there.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing valuable,” she said with a shrug of her plump shoulder. “But the point is, a grown man stole something from a kid. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Could it have been a misunderstanding?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I was just jealous because of his relationship with my mom.”

“What kind of relationship?”

She paused while she turned onto a street called Shellmound. No shells in sight. We headed toward IKEA and the Bay Street shopping center.

“He was more than just a boarder, if you catch my drift.”

“Really? But he and your mom didn’t seem . . .”

“I know. They had a falling out at some point. But they used to be close. He was the one who gave my mother her first cat. A scrawny little flea-bitten thing he found in the back of the upholstery shop. He didn’t want the fur on the furniture, so he brought it over to Mom.” She gave a humorless chuckle. “Thanks
so
much for that, Emile.”

“Are you and your mother close?”

“My mother is a very disturbed woman,” she said.

“I had a nice talk with her yesterday. She seemed okay.”

“She told you about the ghosts, though, right? That’s not very ‘okay,’ is it?”

“Well, I guess . . .”

“Do you understand how animal hoarding works? It’s a mental condition. She can’t help herself.”

“Any idea who turned her in?”

She shook her head.

“What about the bodies in the yard? Who dug those up?”

“The police, I guess.”

“Why would they?”

“Or maybe she did it herself, to keep them with her or something. Wouldn’t put it past her. Like that creepy Emile, stuffing them. Heck, maybe
he
dug ’em up.”

“I like digging,” said Cyrus. “Janet lets me garden sometimes.”

“That’s right, Cyrus. You’re my assistant gardener.”

“I like gardening, too,” I said. My father would laugh if he heard me say that. I hadn’t spent time in the yard for ages. I liked gardening in
theory
, though.

“When I stopped by the animal shelter,” I said to Janet, “the director said the cats taken from your mother’s home were in good condition. She said they looked well cared for.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Janet said, the sides of her mouth pulling down into a grim line. “She treated those cats like royalty. Better than she treated me, I’ll tell you that. When I came home from school I had to change sheets and do laundry and peel potatoes while the other kids went out to play and have a good time.
Hey, you kids, pipe down!
” She glared in the rearview mirror at the teenagers, whose conversation had grown in volume.

I had resented having to work with my dad when I was a kid as well, but now looked back on that time fondly. I learned a lot, not just about construction but also about confidence, responsibility, doing the right thing. On the other hand, both of my sisters ran screaming from anything having to do with working with their hands, citing the trauma of their childhood. Different temperaments.

“Nope, housework was good enough for me. But those cats? They didn’t so much as catch a goddamned mouse.” Her eyes brightened, and she smiled. “Hey, when you were at the animal shelter did you see that crazy-eyed gal?” She laughed. “I guess the animals don’t make fun of her, though, right? At least there’s that.”

I tried one more time. “Your mom said the cats helped alert her to anything . . . different. To lingering spirits in the house.”

Janet concentrated on driving, remained silent.

“Do you remember a guy who lived there who moved out after seeing ghosts when you and he went up to the attic?”

“Sure, I remember him. Dave Enrique. Creepy guy.”

“How was he creepy?”

“Inappropriate. I don’t know. Maybe I was imagining things. I felt unsafe in that house, and it’s possible I read too much into things. That’s what my therapist says, anyway.”

“So you don’t remember seeing any ghosts yourself?”

Having finished our loop, we were pulling up to the BART station.

“Regulations state that you have to get off the bus once I’ve made a full rotation,” Janet said in a formal voice, though she smiled when I met her eyes. “I’m just kidding, you’re welcome to stay if you want. Cyrus stays on all day sometimes. Don’t you, Cyrus? But I thought you might be done with your questions, and unless you want to go another full circuit with me, this is your stop.”

“Just one more question.” Actually, the same question one more time. “Your mom said you left the Cheshire Inn as a teen. Before you left, did you ever see anything odd in the house?”

“
Everything
was odd in that house.” A thoughtful look came into her eyes, and she rubbed the scratches on her arm. “I didn’t know what normal was till I went to live with my dad. He was a piece of work himself, but at least he didn’t have any pets, or boarders.”

“No ghosts?”

“I don’t like ghosts,” said Cyrus.

There was a long pause while the group of teenagers bounced off the bus.

“I’m a grown-up,” Janet finally said. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”

“I think I do, yes.”

She nodded and shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. Good luck with . . . whatever it is you’re doing. Why are you looking into this, again?”

Like mother like daughter. Asking the really pertinent question.

“I think it may be a problem that needs to be laid to rest,” I said, surprising myself. “I think something might have gone on in that house that needs to be addressed, and that it might have something to do with Emile Blunt’s death, somehow.”

The BART train had arrived, disgorging its passengers. People began to climb onto the bus: two gray-haired women walking arm in arm, helping each other to board; a woman burdened with several plastic bags and a toddler; and yet another group of boisterous teenagers.

As he passed by Cyrus, one of the teen boys muttered “retard” under his breath.

Janet surged up out of her seat.

“
Hey!
Off this bus,
now
!” She gestured him up to the front of the bus, then practically pushed him down the steps. “Learn some manners, you little
brat
!”

Everyone on the bus, including me, fell silent, chastened. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Well. Anyway,” Janet said as she settled back behind the wheel, “if ghosts decided it was time to take out Emile Blunt, I’d leave them well enough alone.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t have to believe to know this isn’t something to fool with. I’m not stupid.”

Excellent point. “Thank you for talking with me about this, Janet. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Janet said. “Good luck, and all that.”

As I climbed down off the bus, the steam from a hot dog stand drifted my way, mingling with the diesel of the bus. Urban smells that made me miss the fresh-cut wood smell of the job site. Probably what I should be doing was getting back to work I understood: building things.

My mother used to say,
Don’t borrow trouble.
And was I? No, I thought, I didn’t have to borrow it.
It
was bothering
me
, in the form of ghostly hijinks on the job site. Plus, I couldn’t shake the notion that Emile’s death had something to do with the inhabitants—whether real or ephemeral—of Cheshire House. But how does one say such things to the police?

Okay, new plan. While I was in the East Bay, I could make a stop to follow up with Dave Enrique. According to Hettie, the former boarder worked at Heartwood Lumber in San Leandro, which was down the freeway a few exits past Oakland. While I was there I could order some sheetrock we needed for the job site, and then see if Luz would let me bounce some ideas off her in exchange for lunch.

Suddenly I was so hungry that the BART hot dogs were starting to smell good. Clearly things were at a desperate pass.

W
hen entering an unfamiliar supply yard like Heartwood Lumber, I sometimes felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger at a quilting bee: My very presence set things abuzz.

My attire probably didn’t help. Today had dawned chilly and overcast, so I wore black fingerless gloves, black leggings and matching sweater, a rather short gray skirt, a long, thin red scarf my sister had knitted, all topped by a full-length black leather jacket I bought in Spain a million years ago.

Only my steel-toed work boots marked me as an insider.

Heartwood Lumber was open to the public but was set up for contractors, not do-it-yourself homeowners. There were no friendly vest-clad employees eager to answer questions about which pneumatic drill bit worked best on concrete, or if a synthetic paintbrush could be used with oil as well as latex paint. Instead, behind the cluttered counter were several guys sitting at computer terminals, inputting orders of thousands of pounds of rebar or truckloads of lumber to be delivered to building sites.

As was typical in these sorts of places, I was the only female.

Construction is one occupation that has, by and large, ignored the women’s movement. There simply aren’t that many of us double-X chromosome carriers with the interest and the inclination—or the training and support—to compete successfully in the trades. Younger women often have to leave if they want to have families, because health and safety standards don’t allow for pregnancy on many job sites. And then there was the incessant sexual harassment. But a lot of it was simple tradition: Many construction workers went into this line of work because their fathers were in the trades. Dad was a carpenter, so they were raised to see that as an option, and probably spent many a weekend building things and learning to use tools. Dad was a journeyman plumber, so he helped his son get into the apprentice-training program. No doubt it would change in time, but progress was slow.

In the meantime, I tried to hire and work with women whenever I could, but by and large I spent my days in a man’s world. On the upside, I was easily recognized at all of the lumberyards, cement and gravel companies, and hardware outlets I frequented in the Bay Area, not to mention the numerous specialty stores that carried architectural salvage goods and reproductions. Most of the men accepted me when they realized I didn’t dink around or play the “girl card” to avoid less savory aspects of the work.

The hefty man behind the counter wore a name tag that read HARLAN LOFGREN, HEARTWOOD ASSISTANT MANAGER. Harlan’s watery blue eyes checked me out not in the way of a man appreciating a woman, but as though he was assessing my sanity. But within the first two minutes of our discussion I had thrown in enough information about my current renovation projects that he knew my boots weren’t just for show.

I ordered a truckload of half-inch wallboard to be delivered to Cheshire House. Then I requested a catalog of reproduction windows, and a list of current lumber prices. Finally, I asked if I could speak with an employee named David Enrique.

“Sure, go on back. He’s on a forklift in lumber. Mustache.”

Out in the yard tall piles of different-sized gravel were on one side, stacks and stacks of lumber in metal frames in the covered building to the back. Cinderblocks and pressure-treated wood, rebar, and metal framing supplies were all in orderly sections. The yard smelled of freshly sawn wood, pine dust, and axle grease.

There were several men working forklifts, but only one with a mustache.

I flagged him down.

“Dave Enrique?”

“Ye-e-ah . . .” he said, as though unsure whether he should give away such vital information.

He looked to be anywhere from midthirties to -forties, white T-shirt gone gray, jeans, stocky physique, with the kind of ropey muscles more common to building sites than twenty-four-hour fitness centers. His hair was salt-and-pepper, his heavy mustache more toward the pepper than the salt. It was midday and yet he had a five-o’clock shadow.