“I understand.”
“Follow me. I have something else to show you.”
Vincent led the way up the steps and outside into the garden. Though the homes in Pacific Heights were built on a massive scale, their lots are not large; the yards tend to be compact, though highly manicured and designed. Celia’s was a well-tended English-style foursquare garden, flowering copiously despite the season.
Next door, a young, fresh-faced police officer was doing his best to make his way through Matt’s garden, apparently peeking under the brambles for clues; the once-elegant layout was overgrown with weeds and vines, virtually impassable. A small garden pond decorated in bright mosaic held murky brown water. A number of statues, crumbling with age and green with moss, stood at the corners of the yard, giving silent testimony to a more refined era.
Truth was, I sort of loved it; I enjoy decrepit symbols of the past. But I wondered what Celia had thought all these years, having to look upon that eyesore right next to her tidy pastoral splendor.
One other thing marred the beauty of Celia’s garden: An incongruously shabby shack sat on the line dividing the small yards. Painted a faded forest green, it had a narrow little porch and a cedar shingle roof.
“Have you seen one before?” Vincent asked.
“A, um, garden shed?”
“Actually,” he said as he held the door open for me, “it’s one of the cottages the city built for the refugees displaced by the 1906 earthquake.”
I entered, my shoes clomping loudly on the aged fir boards. The structure was a simple single room. Other than two weather-beaten straight chairs and a small wood table, it was devoid of anything but history.
“When thousands of people were displaced by the disaster, the city hired carpenters to build these cottages as temporary housing in the refugee camps,” Vincent explained. “After the camps closed, people hauled the shacks to private lots to live in while they rebuilt. Some people cobbled several together to form larger homes, or simply kept them as garden shacks.”
“I’ve heard of these, but I’ve never actually seen one.”
“Interesting little slice of history, isn’t it?”
“Very.” More than a century later, many of these “temporary” structures still stood: a testament to the care and craftsmanship of the age.
“My mother mentioned you were a history buff.”
“How would she know that?”
“She said you specialized in historical restoration—I assumed the love of history.”
“I used to be an anthropologist. I guess curiosity is part of the package. When Turner Construction takes on a historic remodel, we do a lot of research to figure out how to restore the structure to its original state. We dig up photos, descriptions in old letters, original blueprints, that sort of thing. It’s amazing what a person can turn up with an hour or two at the California Historical Society.”
Or when digging around behind old walls
, I thought to myself. I suddenly remembered what I had seen behind the wall in Matt’s house, right before Kenneth came in, bloodied and dying. What could it have been? I hadn’t seen anything clearly enough to know. . . . Was it a package of some sort? A box? An old lunch pail? Most likely it was not anything of particular interest, nothing related to the terrible crimes against Kenneth Kostow.
Still, I wondered whether the police had come across it in their search. They would have had to be thorough to find it; I had accidentally knocked it down into a well between the joists, so it was no longer visible from inside the room.
“I’ll bet you enjoy your work.” Vincent’s words startled me. He was standing near me, gazing down with blue eyes. The sunlight made them sparkle; he was even better-looking out in the sunshine. What was his story? How in the world was a grown man like him letting his mommy find him women?
“I do, yes. Very much,” I said, avoiding his intense gaze. “How did this cottage come to be here?”
He shrugged. “It was here since before my parents bought this place. The fellow who originally built both of these homes, Walter Buchanan, was a prominent businessman and banker, way back in the day.” Vincent stood with his hands in his pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels. “There was some sort of family tragedy—he died fairly early on. But the family kept both homes for a while, and they survived the 1906 disaster more or less intact. They donated money for some of these refugee cottages to be built. My guess is they wanted a souvenir of their good deeds.”
“Clearly this was before your old neighbor Gerald’s day?”
“Indeed, though Gerald was the original builder’s great-grandson, I believe. The family sold off our house at some point, but his was one of the few homes around here that has remained in one family since it was built. Until Matt bought it, that is.”
“How well did you know the former owner?” I asked.
“Gerald? Not well. He was a real recluse; my whole life, I think I could count the number of interactions with him on one hand. And he never let anyone in his place. I think he lived off family money, frugally—old fortunes don’t last as long as they used to. The only thing I could tell you about him was that he had his groceries delivered, he played the piano very poorly, and he was a tinkerer; you could hear him working on projects at all hours.”
“Yes, I think I noticed one or two of his art projects in the home,” I said, thinking of the mosaic pond in the garden next door and the light fixture Matt hadn’t seen fit to save.
“We returned from vacation last fall to find he had suddenly sold the place and was moving to an assisted-living facility with the proceeds. Apparently he passed on within a few months. He was quite elderly.”
“I’ve got a really strange question for you,” I said as we walked along a mossy brick pathway back to the main house. “Have you ever heard rumors about the house? About it being . . .”
“Haunted?”
I nodded.
Vincent smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard the stories. In fact, I think I did my part to create them. When we were kids . . . well, the place was pretty overgrown, and always in need of paint, with trim and whatnot hanging crookedly off the building. What can I say? I used to watch a lot of horror movies, and I was wildly curious about the old man I never saw, and the house that was sort of a twin of ours, and yet not.” Vincent reached around me to open the back door, and waved me in. “My friends and I used to ratchet each other up, talking about it being a haunted mansion. I once charged my schoolmates a dollar apiece for a ‘tour’ where I snuck them into the backyard to look in the windows.”
“I’ll bet the reclusive Gerald Buchanan just loved that.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure I drove him further into hermit mode. I wasn’t a mean kid, but . . . kids can be thoughtless.”
“And does any of this have to do with your mother’s séances?”
Vincent looked surprised. “To tell you the truth, I never really thought about it. But I don’t think so. She’s probably heard the haunting rumors just like everyone else in the neighborhood, but she never discovered my boyhood antics. I don’t think there’s any connection.”
We walked through the spacious redesigned kitchen. Kitchens are the one area where period authenticity usually cedes to practicality, even in the most careful historical restorations. Original kitchens in fancy homes—like the one in Gerald’s house—were set up to accommodate staffs consisting of several people. Stoves used to be heated with wood, making maintaining a consistent oven temperature a dicey procedure at best. The only refrigeration was provided by a chunk of ice inserted in a little door at the back of the kitchen, in what was quite literally an icebox. Furthermore, since kitchens were considered servants’ areas, they were cut off from the living areas of the house.
Modern design, in contrast, usually incorporated the kitchen as one of the most-used family rooms in the home. Celia’s kitchen, for instance, opened onto a bright room overlooking the garden, lined with comfy-looking couches and featuring a breakfast nook.
“My mother mentioned you were asking about Matt’s party the other night,” Vincent said. “I did drop by, but I left when things started getting rowdy. I’m not much of one for working with my hands; just wanted to help out. Plus, I was curious to finally see inside the house.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Anything suspicious?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“I don’t suppose the police have questioned you about it yet?”
“No . . .” he said. “Do you think they’ll want to?”
“A man was injured sometime after the party; he passed away at the hospital. I thought someone might be canvassing the neighborhood, looking for witnesses. But then, my knowledge of police work is primarily gleaned from mystery novels.”
“Not
CSI
?” Vincent asked with a smile.
“I’m not a big TV watcher,” I said. “I never seem to find enough hours in the day as it is.”
“Mel!” Celia’s smile was as bright as her blue eyes as she joined us in the front hall. “I see you’ve met my handsome son. Vincent, I hope you’ve been keeping Mel entertained. I
do
apologize—I had to take a phone call, long distance, you know. I forgot all about the tea!”
“Please don’t bother,” I said. “I took a quick look at the basement room, but I should tell you that Turner Construction specializes in historic restoration, taking homes back to the style they were in when they were originally built. For your purposes, we might be overkill.”
“Nonsense—I’d love to hear your ideas. It’s rather dreary down there, don’t you think? What I’d like to do is make it feel more integrated with the rest of the house. I find myself spending a lot of time there.”
“Are you working with an architect?”
“Do you think it’s necessary?”
“It’s helpful on a redesign,” I said. “I have several names I could give you if you’d like.”
“Have you ever seen that two-story library in
My Fair Lady
?” Celia asked. “I’ve always fantasized about something like that! Perhaps we could get rid of the floor here, make it a two-story room, lined with bookcases?”
This from the woman who didn’t have enough books to fill her current shelves.
“I do know that movie,” I said, “and I’ve always coveted that library. But something like that would involve major structural issues. You’ll definitely need to include an architect in a project of that scale. I can put some preliminary numbers together for you, but they’ll depend on engineering reports and the final drawings.”
I had the sense that Celia’s true agenda had more to do with her son’s love life than construction, but I still felt obligated to work up a proposal. We descended into the basement, and I took measurements while we talked further about what she envisioned. I jotted down some notes and sketches on my clipboard, took a series of photos with my small digital camera, and promised to send the estimate soon.
Vincent saw me to the front door as I left.
“So, I have to say, I think my mother has good taste. Could I take you out for a proper dinner sometime?”
“I . . . I’m flattered, but . . .”
“You don’t date clients?”
I don’t date
anyone
.
“Actually, I don’t. But I appreciate being asked. Thank you.”
“Consider it an open invitation. And don’t think my mother will give up this easily. She seems sweet, but she has an iron will. You wait—she’ll come up with another scheme soon enough.”
The police were still milling about next door when I emerged from Celia’s house.
I couldn’t justify hopping in my car and leaving without at least offering to talk to them. Besides, I wanted to ask when I might be allowed to start construction. This being my first crime scene, I had no idea how long it would take to process the place for evidence. A day? A month?
I waited outside on the sidewalk while a uniformed cop went into Matt’s house to fetch the detective in charge. I was just as glad that I wasn’t invited in. I wasn’t ready to go back inside what I now thought of as Matt’s House of Horrors.
I hoped my trepidation would die down soon; it would be difficult to give my all to a construction project with that kind of attitude.
The man who came out of the house to talk to me had the puffy, ruddy look of a heavy drinker. He was a large man, the kind who might once have been attractive but had gone soft over the years: a high school football star heading for his fifties and fighting it the whole way. He seemed right at that pivotal point when he was about to start the dramatic slide down.
“I’m Inspector Brice Lehner,” he said without preamble. Chewing gum with a vengeance, he fixed me with pale, intense eyes and demanded: “You the Turner Construction on the permit?”
“On the permit? I’m not—” I began, then hesitated. I didn’t want to get Matt into any more trouble. But how could Turner Construction be named on a permit? Conveniently for me, Inspector Lehner wasn’t waiting on my answer.
“I’m just sayin’,” he interrupted, “seein’ as how your name’s on the work permit, you could be held liable in this situation if it’s ruled a workplace accident. Hope your insurance is paid up.”
My heart raced. A homeowner ignoring safety codes could plead ignorance; a contractor deals with fines at best . . . or at worst loses her license and faces a lawsuit. But this was crazy. I hadn’t filed any permits with the city. For the moment, though, I thought discretion the better part of valor.
“Did you see the statement I gave the responding officer?” I asked. “And get the cartridges I found?”
“Yeah, I got ’em. But Kostow wasn’t shot with a regular gun. Just nails.”
Lehner’s eyes kept moving around, looking at just about everything but me. He chewed his gum double time and had a habit of flicking his chin whiskers with his thumb. He was a twitchy guy.
“Surely this couldn’t have been an accident, though, could it?” I asked.