If Walls Could Talk (20 page)

 

First thing the next morning, I went back to the port storage facility and dragged the hapless young man from the office into my unit with me to see the damage. I took digital pictures, then filled out damage claim forms. After that I borrowed a broom and dustpan and cleaned up the shards, taking inventory of what I’d lost. More specifically, what Matt had lost. The light fixtures broke my heart; there were only a handful of survivors. I did find a box full of doorknobs and various pieces of hardware, though. I took one of each to serve as samples—I would need to find or manufacture matching items, enough for the whole house. As the design of each room was decided upon, I would keep a running tally of doors and cabinets.

On the way to Matt’s house I stopped at Happy Donuts and bought two dozen assorted pastries. After I pulled into the driveway and grabbed the pink bakery box from the backseat, I saw that Celia and Vincent were standing on their porch, looking over at the dump truck and signs of construction. It wasn’t unusual for neighbors to be irked when construction began next door—no doubt about it, it was a noisy, messy proposition.

Celia looked perturbed, but when I lifted a hand in greeting she smiled broadly and waved back. I considered mothers, and their power. It still surprised me that a grown man would be living with his mom, though Celia clearly had plenty of room. Back in Walter Buchanan’s day, it wasn’t unusual to have several generations living together in these huge old houses. And after all, I lived with
my
father. You just never knew the whole story when looking at the surface.

Spike and several of his cousins were already waiting for me on the front steps, drinking coffee out of paper cups. They smiled at the sight of the doughnut box and set upon it with gusto.

Nico seemed to have an endless supply of nephews, and try as I might I could never keep them straight. I wasn’t even sure they were all cousins—I imagined many were friends, and relations of friends—but they were all strong and hardworking, so it didn’t make much difference to me.

I gave them a quick tour of the place, then went over my standard demolition speech—respect for the past, for the present, and for their own health and safety.

“If you see anything in the walls that seems out of the ordinary, anything at all, let me know immediately,” I continued. “This was a crime scene, and it’s always possible the police missed something. And as always, we’re salvaging just about everything, from nails to bricks to woodwork.”

“You sure you want to save
all
this woodwork?” Spike asked.

“Definitely.”

“It takes more time to restore it—it would be a lot faster to replace it.”

“Faster doesn’t mean better,” I said. “That woodwork is original to the structure, and that means something. In some sense, it means everything.”

I hated the perfectly smooth, plastic-y look of a brand-new, top-notch paint job. We would fill and sand the worst nicks and dents, but the soft lines of old wood molding were impossible to replicate with new wood, no matter how carefully one mimicked them. Besides, the more we kept and reused, the “greener” the job site would be.

Of course, the more labor-intensive, the more expensive, which is why so much good historic preservation is restricted to the homes of the wealthy. If I could pull off Matt’s job, and the new one still in the design process in Piedmont, and I was at least nominated for the AIA award, I hoped to garner enough rich clients to support more pro bono work amongst people without the funds to restore their historic gems.

That was my plan, anyway. And as I knew too well, the best-laid plans . . .

“Okay. I’m just saying, is all,” continued Spike. “You could get this stuff new and not worry about stripping the old paint, any of that.”

I nodded. “Thanks. I’d like to save it and reuse it. Think of it as my builder’s fetish.”

I had them start work on the third floor, which had originally been the maids’ quarters, instructing them to avoid the “den” for now, just in case the police did need to come back in and check things out. Within moments of their being let loose, music blared, loud voices swapped stories, and tools banged away at walls. Demolition—even supercareful demo—was noisy.
Really
noisy.

I donned my coveralls over today’s outfit, which was another low-cut shift designed by my friend Stephen, this one sporting fringe instead of spangles. At least the skirt was short enough to accommodate the coveralls. Before I even had a chance to orient the rest of my crew, Jason Wehr called my cell phone and offered to meet me at Matt’s house right away.

While I waited for him to arrive, I started crawling through the eaves around the second story, just to be sure. I squeezed through all the areas similar to where I had found the old cigar box, inching along beams and through tight passages where something might be hidden. Nothing.

At least Kenneth didn’t show, and I didn’t smell pipe smoke or feel the forlorn sensations of a suicidal ghost. On the contrary, I felt safe in the house with all the men working, surrounded by the familiar and comforting hustle and bustle of the job site.

I climbed through the attic, poked my head into every recess I could find, but saw nothing more than cobwebs and dust, the usual accumulation through time. The basement door, however, was locked. I had seen it when I did the original inspection—it had been empty other than a massive, nonfunctioning heater. I was about to look for the key when Jason Wehr arrived.

We did a thorough walk-through, discussed his drawings, went through my suggested changes, and assessed a few potential alterations of original walls. He also volunteered to get his engineer out to the house as soon as possible to analyze its earthquake tolerance.

Walking down the stairs, passing by the demo crew, Jason shouted to me: “I’ll bet you’ve found some interesting things in walls over the years.”

“Mostly liquor bottles and old newspapers—though I always enjoy looking at the movie listings from the twenties,” I said.

“Have you found anything here yet?”

“Not really.” I shook my head, surprising myself with the ease of my lie. Best not to take any chances.

“I found a bunch of tram tokens in the last building I remodeled,” Jason said. “Did you know this whole area was full of trams at one point? Even the East Bay. It was a terrible day for the environment when they tore those tracks out.”

“I’d heard that. I never did understand why they phased out such great public transportation.”

“Supposedly the gas and tire companies got together and bought the land or pressured local governments, in order to increase people’s dependence on automobiles.”

“Seriously?”

“So they say.”

“That seems depressingly shortsighted,” I said as we reached the bottom of the sweeping circular stairs. “And now they’re trying to reinstall the streetcars. I don’t imagine your tokens will work anymore, though.”

“No, I doubt it,” he said with a smile. “The owner agreed to donate them to the Cable Car Museum on Nob Hill.” His eyes shifted over my shoulder. He nodded and said, “Hello.”

I turned around to see who he was talking to. Vincent Hutchins stood in the foyer, wearing an immaculate charcoal gray suit. I immediately worried about the dust floating all the way down the stairwell from two stories up.

“Hi, Vincent. We were just talking about your house. Do you know Jason Wehr, the architect on this project?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” he said. The two men shook hands.

“Vincent lives next door,” I said to Jason. “He’s Celia’s son. I imagine their twin house could give us some insight, if we need it, for this remodel.”

“You’re welcome to stop by anytime for a tour,” Vincent told Jason.

Jason thanked him, told me he’d work on the changes we had discussed, and left.

“How are you?” I asked Vincent. “I’m afraid I haven’t written up the proposal for your mother yet—”

“I expect you’ve had a few other things on your mind. I just happened to notice your car out front and couldn’t resist a peek. How’s it going?”

“We’re just barely getting started, but so far, so good.”

“Could I ask, do you know what’s happening with Matt?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I equivocated. “He’s been released on bail.”

“Ah. Well, that’s good, at least. My mother’s been worried about him.”

“Vincent, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a man who says he was going to buy this house, would you?”

“
This
house?”

I nodded. “His name’s Philip Singh?”

“I didn’t realize the house was for sale yet.”

“Neither did I.”

“I thought Matt’s plan was to renovate first, and sell later.”

I nodded.

“I tell you what, though. My mother would be furious.”

“Celia? Why?”

“She was put out when Matt snapped up this house—she had plans to buy it and reconnect the twins. If she realized it had been sold to someone else, again, she’d be irate.”

“I’ll mention it to Matt when I see him—there’s no reason he shouldn’t give your mother right of first refusal once he’s ready to sell.”

Vincent nodded. “That’d be great. I don’t suppose you’re free for lunch today?”

“I have plans, actually.” Tracking down useless clues to a killing was a time-consuming affair. “But thank you.”

“All right, then. Best of luck with the project. Don’t get too dirty, now.”

“Like my father always says—” I smiled, looking down at my stained and dusty coveralls. “If you don’t get dirty, you’re not trying hard enough.”

 

At quarter to eleven, I headed for the California Pacific Medical Center.

I found Nico in his hospital room, surrounded by relatives of all ages. They were a tight-knit group who tended to celebrate—and commiserate—with plenty of food and drink. I added two small baskets of farmers market blueberries and strawberries to the mound of edible items stacked on the windowsill.

Nico had been in the hospital only two nights, but already there were cans of Hellaby’s Corned Beef, tins of Italian cookies, and, most disturbingly, a Samoan delicacy called
se’a
: the innards of a sea slug, traditionally served in a Coke bottle.

“You remember
se’a
, don’t you, Mel?” Nico asked with a huge smile. He had a bulky bandage on his forehead, scrapes on one side of his face, and bruising and swelling along the cheekbone. One arm was in a sling.

“Oh, I remember, all right.” I had tried a little
se’a
once on a dare, after consuming copious amounts of alcohol at one of Nico’s Samoan-style backyard barbecues. It was not a fond memory . . . which was rather predictable, since, after all, we were talking about sea slug intestines.

“So, what happened?” I asked Nico as I helped myself to the fresh Italian cookies.

“I had dropped the boys off and was headed home. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention; I was singing to the radio. Two men boxed me in with their SUVs, hauled me out of my truck, and hit me a few times. Then they took everything I had in the cab of the truck and in my pockets.” He shook his head and the smile faded from his face. “All these years, people say that area is dangerous but never have I had a problem. It makes a person lose his faith, you know? On the other hand, many people ran to help me. Good people.”

“So it wasn’t really a carjacking, then, right? They left you the truck.”

“Yes, it was just a robbery. Good for me they did not take my truck—that’s my livelihood.”

“Did you get a good look at the men who did this?”

“The police asked me that.” He shrugged. “They were big, and white. Wearing coveralls, like the ones you wear on the job. Beyond that, I can’t really say.”

As I rose to leave, a thought occurred to me. “Nico, you said they took everything from your pockets. Do you mean money?”

He nodded. “Money, my wallet, even my notebook.”

The little book where he had jotted down the information on the storage locker near the Port of Oakland.

O
n my way out of the hospital, I noticed a small sign pointing down the hall toward the emergency room. I thought of the nurse who had provided the deathbed testimony, implicating Matt in Kenneth’s death.

Would she talk to me? Were there rules about such things? I was here anyway. . . . It couldn’t hurt to ask. I could insinuate that I was Kenneth’s sister, just wanting to make contact with the last person to talk to him. Was that smart, or morally wrong? I wasn’t sure. All I knew at this point was that I couldn’t understand why he had accused his friend. Could I possibly be wrong about Matt?

At the admittance desk I inquired whether I could speak to the nurse who tended to Kenneth Kostow in his dying moments. I was ready to jump in with my story about being Kenneth’s family, but to my surprise it wasn’t necessary.

A pretty woman standing behind the desk and writing details on cases at a whiteboard turned around and said, in a lilting accent, “That would be me.”

“Could I ask you what Kenneth said to you that implicated his friend?”

“He said ‘Matt’ over and over.”

“How clear was he?”

“Not very. Poor man was out of his head, wasn’t he?”

“Couldn’t he have been calling out for his friend Matt, rather than accusing him?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “He was all, ‘Goddamned Matt ruined everything.’ Excuse my language. Then he said something about how Matt killed him.”

 

As I headed to the California Historical Society I couldn’t stop thinking about what the nurse had said. On the one hand it seemed damning, all right; but on the other, couldn’t it have been misinterpreted? Kenneth didn’t exactly say that Matt had murdered him, did he?

I still couldn’t believe it. Call me stubborn, but there was no way I could imagine Matt doing something like that. Period.