If Walls Could Talk (26 page)

The next morning I awoke at my usual five o’clock, but I felt great despite the late night. I hadn’t dreamt about Kenneth, or any other ghosts for that matter. In fact, I seemed to be seeing Kenneth less and less lately, which was really working for me.

I dressed and went downstairs to the office, returning e-mails and attending to paperwork until I smelled coffee.

As I passed the living room I noticed that Dad, Stan, and the boys were getting ready for their camping trip: The floor was filled with little piles of things like personal first-aid kits, canteens, flashlights, duffel bags, and Dad’s ever-present camping checklist. Last night, upon coming home in the dark, I was startled by the sleeping bags hanging on the clothesline to air out. All of it gave me a twinge of sweet nostalgia: We spent a lot of time in the woods as a family when my sisters and I were kids. My dad was happiest in the mountains, and Mom was game, if not ecstatic about trying to keep three girls happy and healthy in the wilderness.

We learned a lot on those trips. Hiking, swimming, basic survival skills. On my eighth birthday I graduated from a BB gun to my first .22 rifle. We used to shoot aluminum cans off of tree stumps; whoever hit the most cans got extra ice cream. That’s one reason I was such a good shot. Probably also explains why I was a chubby kid.

“Hey, babe,” Dad said as I walked into the kitchen. He had already put bread in the toaster and was frying bacon in an iron skillet. “Hungry?”

“No, thanks,” I said through clenched teeth. I couldn’t keep the words from bubbling up. “Dad, have you
ever
known me to eat breakfast?”

“Seems to me you used to like Cream of Wheat like your mama used to make. Or was it oatmeal?”

“It was both, but that was Charlotte,” I said. “And Daphne always liked ham and eggs. I never liked anything. I’m the cranky one, remember?”

“Oh, I think I’ve got that part down pretty well,” he said with a smile.

We both chuckled. I sipped my coffee. One thing Dad and I always agreed on: really good French roast. Our current favorite was locally roasted Blue Bottle Coffee.

“Dad, do you know that Stanislaus River area at all?”

“Well, I’ve done a little exploring around there, but not much. We usually went up to Ralston Lake, which is a little north of there. But you know that.”

I nodded. “If a person had a gold-country map from, say, the 1870s, how likely would it be to find the same place-names, that sort of thing?”

“Most of that stuff was temporary—those mining towns rose and fell within a matter of months sometimes.”

“Have you ever heard of gem fields in California?”

“What kinds of gems?”

“Diamonds? Rubies, emeralds . . .”

“Nah.” He shook his head and extracted strips of crunchy bacon from the grease, laying them carefully on a paper towel-lined plate. “Gold. Copper, silver, minerals of all types. But no diamonds.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Your mom and I used to take you kids around to explore those old ghost towns from time to time.”

“I remember.”

“I used to enjoy the tar out of that. The really good places aren’t usually marked on maps; you have to ask around to find them. And you’re free to explore the old mines and get a feel for the place. They’re too far off the beaten path for the bleeding-heart government bureaucrats to step in and close ’em down to save us from ourselves.”

I just smiled and sipped my coffee. I was getting craftier with age. He wasn’t dragging me into a political debate that easily.

“Hey, Dad, would you be willing to ask around, look a place up while you’re in that area? As far as I can tell, it’s probably not too far from Stan’s cabin.”

“What kind of place?”

“A gem field.”

“
Gem
field?”

“An old one, played out years ago.”

“What do you want me to do if I find it?”

Good question.

“Take some photos, I guess, chat with the locals. In case anyone knows about it being a gem field, knows the story behind it.”

“Sure, I never mind a reason to check out the local bars.”

“I said locate an old gem field claim, not get a beer.”

“Where do you think the old-timers hang out? They’re the ones who know whatever there is to know. I’d place my bets with them over a library any day.” He started buttering thick slices of toasted sourdough. “So, I’m almost afraid to ask, but how’s it going at Matt’s place?”

“I’ve got Nico’s guys started on demo, salvaging as much as possible. They’re keeping an eye out in case they find anything pertinent to Matt’s case.”

“And what’s happening with that?”

I shrugged. “I can’t seem to get a call back from Matt’s high-powered lawyer. Probably doesn’t know why I’m asking questions. But at least Matt’s out on bail. From what I hear, I guess the cops, or the prosecutors, are still working up their case against him.”

“Yup, he told me that last night when he dropped the boys off. Nice enough guy for a hippie.”

I smiled. “Matt Addax hardly qualifies as a hippie.”

“Needs a haircut in the worst way.”

“So do I.”

“You’re a girl. Girls are supposed to have long hair.”

I suddenly caught a whiff of something besides coffee. Dread washed over me.

“Do you smell that?” I asked. “Is that . . . cigar smoke?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dad said. “Friend of Stan’s came by last night, brought him a cigar from the Dominican Republic. We opened the windows, but . . . you can still smell it, huh?”

“Oh, good.” I relaxed back against the counter.

“Good? I thought you’d be all over his case. Thought you hated smoking.”

“I do; it’s just that . . . Well, it’s the weirdest thing. Every time I’m in Matt’s Vallejo Street house I could swear I smell fresh pipe smoke. Nobody else seems to notice. It’s getting to the point where I feel like those people who smell eggs or oranges right before they have a stroke.”

Dad looked up at me. “You . . . hear anything odd?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“
Son of a bitch
,” muttered Dad. “Is this the first time? You haven’t mentioned anything like this before.”

“Anything like what?”

“You feel something cold, see little lights floating around, anything like that?”

“Dad? What are we talking about here?”

He resumed buttering toast, remaining silent for so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“Your mother had it,” he said finally.

“Had what?”

“That . . . whatever you call it.” He gestured with the butter knife. “Third eye, whatever.”

“You’re saying Mom was
psychic
?”

“Sort of. Not reading people’s minds or anything like that. Just when it came to . . . ghosts. Spirits. Whatever you want to call it.”

“How come I’ve never heard this before?”

“It isn’t the sort of thing normal people want to broadcast.”

“I’m not talking about broadcasting, I’m talking about informing your family.” I paused for a moment, sipping my coffee and trying to absorb this news. “How often did she see these supposed ghosts?”

“She wasn’t scared of it, anything like that. It was just a sense she had, visions sometimes. For instance, she was the one who always chose the houses we bought and flipped—she’d check them out for good vibes before she’d let me buy anything.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“I was always afraid you got it from her. Remember that place in the Sunset?”

I nodded. We lived there when I was in third grade. I loved that house and had cried when we finished the remodel project, sold it for a neat profit, and had to move out.

“You had an imaginary friend.”

“Anthony.” I nodded. I remembered thinking I was far too old, at age eight, to have a made-up playmate. I tried to keep it a secret, but Mom found me talking to him more than once.

“He wasn’t so imaginary.”

I stared at him.

“Your mom saw him. Poor little kid died way back when the house was being built, some kind of carriage accident.”

Which would explain his old-fashioned clothes: button-up shoes, brown knickers that came just under his little knees, white shirt with a lacy frill at the collar. I remembered him vividly: the tinkling sound of his voice, the cold weight of his funny little lead soldiers.

“So what does all this mean? I have to go through life talking to ghosts now?”

He shrugged. “After that boy, you never mentioned anything else. I thought maybe you were okay.”

“But you say Mom had this?”

“Sort of. Tell the truth, I didn’t really want to hear about it. But she had something—I tell you that much.”

I was born and raised in California’s Bay Area, a region spectacularly open-minded about just about everything—with the possible exception of social conservatism. So I didn’t feel like a freak, exactly; and frankly it was a relief to know, deep down, that I wasn’t insane.

But for the last several years I’d wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Yet here I was living with two men, two boys, a dog, a ghost, and now how many other undead who would be free to visit and chat whenever they darned well felt like it?

Apparently, they didn’t even need to sleep.
Super
.

T
he revelation about Mom was . . . not shocking exactly, because in a way, deep down, I think I already knew. But it was akin to realizing your parents have a sex life: It’s one thing to recognize it somewhere in the dusty recesses of your mind, quite another to confront it late one night with the lights on.

And as for what this “power,” or “third eye,” might mean for me . . . I was particularly unclear on that part.

Speaking of haunted houses, before going into the city today, I wanted to stop by and see a man about a ghost. Or two.

The assisted-living facility, Felicity Gardens, was nothing like the nursing homes I remembered visiting as a kid. There were no funky smells, no endless linoleum corridors with people sitting alone in wheelchairs. In fact, this place reminded me of a European-style inn: a restaurant to one side, a living room with a fireplace on the other, and a sweeping circular stair leading to the second floor.

When I asked after Gerald Buchanan, the fiftyish, well-coiffed woman at the front desk mimicked Meredith’s words: “It’s good for him to have visitors.”

“Doesn’t anyone come to see him?”

“Not many,” she said as she led the way to his room on the second floor and gestured toward his door. She dropped her voice and leaned in as though in confidence. “Only one, actually. And he was a
police
officer.”

She left me at Gerald Buchanan’s door.

My second knock was answered by a tiny man, seemingly shrunken with age. Bent over a walker, with only a tuft of white hair atop his pink, age-spotted head, he looked ancient. And angry.

“I don’t want to go to the
goddamned
symphony. I don’t want to go to pottery class, or exercise class, or go see a goddamned movie. I don’t give a good goddamn about the current Frida Kahlo exhibit at the MOMA. I want you to cook my food, and then
leave . . . me . . . alone
. How hard is that for you people?”

“Mr. Buchanan, I don’t work here. My name’s Mel Turner, and I wanted to ask you about your house. Your former house.”

Gerald tried to slam the door. It bounced off one leg of his walker. He started to swear again.

“Just a couple of questions.” I put my hand out to hold the door open and moved toward him, compelling him to back up. “I promise I’ll make it quick.”

Grumbling, he turned around and made his laborious way back into his one-bedroom accommodations. The sitting room was nicely furnished, with a huge television, a comfy-looking La-Z-Boy, and a little kitchenette with a minifridge and a microwave.

He collapsed into the recliner. I closed the door and brought a chair over from the small café table.

“I don’t mean to bother you, sir, but I don’t know whether you heard that something terrible happened a few days ago in your old house.”

Rheumy eyes looked over toward me. “What?”

“The police officer didn’t tell you?”

“That cop? I told that goddamned cop to leave me alone.”

“What was he asking you about? The murder?”

“Murder? Nah.” His chuckle turned into a cough. “He thought there was money in that house. A whole fortune, just sitting in that place somewhere. Idiot.”

“What kind of fortune?”

“The man came in here and sat down just as neat as you please, goes on to tell me his whole sob story. Like I care. How he started drinking, and wound up screwing up his marriage, and how his wife left him and took the kids. How he went into rehab and now he needs money to get his family back. Then he asked me about the gems.”

He laughed and coughed again.

“What gems?”

“From the goddamned gem field, years ago. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ’em. That’s why you’re here, too, right? You been snooping around at the—whaddayacallit?—the historic society downtown. There’s those papers that say my family had a gem field back in the day. But I got news for you: There
are
no gems. It was all a scam.”

“What kind of scam?”

“Those gems, they weren’t worth a thing. They were rejects, worthless.”

“But I read that your great-grandfather had them assessed by respected jewelers. Even Charles Tiffany.”

“Everybody had get-rich-quick on their brain back then. Maybe they wanted to be in on the next gem rush. I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is those rocks were worthless. The two prospectors salted the mine field with cheap gems, stones they bought as seconds. It was all a scam, and when the prospectors got bought off, they went and disappeared with their ill-gotten gains.”