Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (23 page)

“Who are the golf balls for?” Caleb asked as we walked back to the car.

“Elrich must like golf, right? I mean, don’t all rich people like golf?”

“My
dad
doesn’t like golf.”

“He’s wealthy, but he’s not stinking rich like Ellis Elrich is rich, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Don’t mention that to Valerie,” Caleb grumbled. “She’d freak out. She’s already talking about a debutante ball for the baby.”

“What if it’s a boy?”

“I know, right? So why are you buying presents for Ellis Elrich, anyway?”

“I’m not, really. I just wanted to buy something from Amy. She was so nice to do all that research for me, and I felt bad. I get the sense she doesn’t make a lot of sales.”

He nodded. “So your ghost was killed trying to protect some lady?”

“How did you know there was a ghost on my site?”

He gave me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re right. There’s a ghost.”

“He’s a real knight?”

“I guess so. Or a guardian, anyway. He carries a huge broadsword; that much is true.”

“Is he . . . friendly?”

“I wouldn’t say
friendly
, exactly,” I said as we climbed into my Scion. “It’s more like he doesn’t see me as a threat, ’cause I’m a girl.”

Caleb started laughing, and as I pointed the car toward the freeway entrance, I joined him.

*   *   *

I dropped Caleb off at the Golden Gate Park police station, forcing myself not to walk him in as though he were a toddler.

After leaving the kitchen last night, I’d overheard Dad’s stern voice giving Caleb a
talking-to.
And this morning Dad informed me at breakfast that he would pick Caleb up this afternoon, and Caleb was going to spend the next few days with him and Stan at the house. He would make sure he got to community service until things were put right in Golden Gate Park. Caleb had called his dad and worked it out.

I felt guilty for handing off the responsibility to my father, but Dad would be much more effective than I in this situation. Besides, he was retired and had the time and attention to spend on a boy who needed help. Whereas my current to-do list was a little long.

Before heading to Olivier’s shop, I wanted to follow up on those stones behind the Japanese Tea Garden. True, it had been many, many years since I had last seen them, but ever since I’d spied that pile of stones at Wakefield, the memory of them had been niggling at the back of my mind. And since I was already in Golden Gate Park, it would be a quick detour. As if the fates were
smiling on me, I found a free parking spot on the street not far from the de Young Museum.

I located the clearing behind the fence, but the area was now cleared out. No surprise there; it had been a few years. But the ground seemed freshly trampled, with no saplings and just a few young weeds. Small stones and gravel in the same golden gray hue as the stones littered the ground.

An impossibly old man was raking the sand in the Tea Garden.

“Excuse me, sir?” I said, speaking to him through the cyclone fence. “Do you remember a pile of stones that used to be here?”

He nodded.

“Really? Do you know what happened to them?”

“They cleared them out a year or so ago.”

“Who did? Do you know?”

He shrugged.

“Do you happen to know where they came from originally?”

He shook his head and continued with his meticulous task. The tines of the rake left parallel lines in the smooth sand, the lines drawn in careful swirls and shapes that suggested the flow of water. Or so it seemed to me—I supposed it was open to interpretation. The man was methodical, meticulous, raking over his own footsteps, ensuring that each sweep of the tines overlapped so that the individual strokes were indistinguishable. I wondered how long it took him and how often he did it . . . and whether some rogue squirrel would come by and ruin in two seconds what had taken him all morning to accomplish.

The man’s calm absorption in his task reminded me of Ellis Elrich stacking his smooth round stones. I would
never be able to live my life with a Zen approach—I was more the carefully choreographed chaos type—but I was starting to appreciate how mesmerizing this sort of thing could be.

The man looked up from his raking, mistaking my silence for expectation of more information.

“You could probably ask the Parks Department. I imagine they keep records.”

“Okay, thanks. The, um, raking is really beautiful,” I said, and turned to leave.

“Thank you. And good luck. Those were beautiful stones.”

*   *   *

Two people sat behind the counter at the Parks Department: One looked like the stereotype of a sweet grandma, complete with white bun and mother-of-pearl half-glasses on a gold chain; the other a young man with pearl stud earrings in both ears, a buzz cut on the sides with his hair longer on top, and heavy black spectacles. He wore skintight black jeans and tennis shoes with no socks. He was adorable in an androgynous way, which, I supposed, was the point. His name tag read
CUR.

“Your name’s ‘Cur’?” I asked. Grandma would have been my first choice for information, but she was already helping someone.

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Cool. So, I’m wondering about the old stones that used to be behind the Japanese Garden.”

“They weren’t of any use to anyone,” Cur said, glancing over at Grandma.

“I imagine they weren’t. What happened to them?”

“City sold them.”

“Who bought them?”

“We can’t go around giving out that kind of information.”

“You can’t?”

He shook his head, glancing at his coworker once again.

“Do you have any pictures of the stones, by any chance?”

“I don’t think so. It might be in the file.”

“And would you have this file here somewhere . . . ?”

Another glance over at Grandma. Cur shook his head. “No.”

After years of dealing with bureaucrats, I had learned that nine times out of ten “no” didn’t mean “no.” Sometimes it meant I wasn’t asking the right question and needed to rephrase. Sometimes it meant they didn’t know the right answer and couldn’t be bothered to find out. Sometimes it meant what I was asking would take time and effort, and they didn’t feel like doing it. Patience was required to figure out what “no” really meant.

“So, if a person needed this information, how would she go about getting it?”

“Well, if you insisted, you could fill out a request-for- information form.”

“I would love to do that.”

“They’re really long.”

“I don’t mind.”

He let out a long breath of exasperation but opened a huge file cabinet and started rifling through the hanging folders within the drawer.

“No one was using those stones,” he grumbled. “A few were used for landscaping, but then someone got uptight about that ’cause they were historic and everything. But it was well within the rights of the city to sell them.”

“I’m not arguing that,” I said. “I’d just like to know who bought them.”

“Why?” he asked as he finally pulled out a manila folder, put it atop the file cabinet, and extracted a three-page form, which he handed to me.

It really wasn’t any of his business. But I doubted Cur was any sort of threat, and as Inspector Annette Crawford always liked to remind me, sometimes witnesses don’t realize that tiny little details are important. He might not know what he knew.

“I’m researching the history of such things. Do you happen to know where the stones came from originally?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know anything more about them? Anything at all?”

“Nah.”

I took a seat in a beige plastic chair and filled in the form, though much of the information didn’t pertain to what I was asking. But bureaucracies followed their own internal logic; no sense in fighting the Parks Department.

When I brought the form up to the counter, along with a five-dollar check for processing, Cur took them and told me someone would be in touch.

“So, like, why’s everyone so interested in these stones? They’re there, like, for decades and no one cares, and now everyone’s interested all of a sudden.”

“Who else has asked about them?”

He shrugged. “Some old guy in a suit, just last week, maybe the week before.”

“Did he leave his name?”

“I guess it’s on the form. But I remember he tried to get out of paying the processing fee, ’cause he was with the Marin County Building Department.”

A
s I drove across town to Olivier Galopin’s ghost-busting store in Jackson Square, I kept turning things over in my head. If Amy was right about the legend . . . then was Wakefield even Wakefield, or had Libole bought some other monastery he was trying to pass off as Wakefield? Had he then used some of the old stones from Golden Gate Park to fill in missing parts of his pseudo-Wakefield? And if so, why was he keeping it such a secret?

And was Dad right to wonder? Could each source of stones have its own ghost attached? That would explain why they couldn’t understand each other. And . . . if the “vessel” was a woman and not a precious goblet as Kieran assumed, then there was no treasure to be found. And yet people had been attacked over it. Unless they had been assaulted for another reason entirely?

It was a good thing I’d slept well last night, because this was making my brain hurt.

And it made me want to get into that warehouse more than ever. I hoped Alicia was able to locate the address soon.

Olivier Galopin’s Ghost-Busting Shoppe had made a big splash when it opened not long ago, and business was still booming. Olivier supplemented his storefront sales by giving classes on detecting spirits, and interest in the ghost world was strong in a town like San Francisco. No need to import spirits from Scotland—there were plenty of locally sourced specters right here.

After swapping hellos and getting caught up—I told Olivier about Graham—we got down to the nitty-gritty.

“Do you think a spirit could have done that kind of damage?”

“As I believe you know, there is still considerable debate as to how much physical harm ghosts are capable of inflicting. They seem to specialize in terrorizing people, even when they’re not trying to, rather than causing physical harm. Though there have been numerous instances of touching, even a quick shove at the top of the stairs, that sort of thing. But striking someone over the head with a tool of some kind, hard enough to kill or wound . . . ? I’ve never heard of a documented example of that. That happens in the movies, not real life.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“How is Graham?”

“Healing, we hope. I still haven’t been able to talk to him about what he might have discovered that would have prompted someone to hurt him.”

“Perhaps it was enough that he was asking questions. Never discount the danger posed by being curious.”

“Maybe. Anyway, here’s what I wanted to ask you: Suppose the Wakefield stones were mixed with elements from other buildings. Would it be possible for ghosts to
cling to the stones from separate sources and then become confused . . . ?”

“Very much so. The reason ghosts are so often associated with buildings is that their energy has seeped into the very walls of the structure. If those walls are dismantled and moved . . . well, often a ghost will dissipate. Particularly strong visions may follow the bits and pieces, but they will feel . . . disjointed. Scattered. Sort of like ghostly multitasking.”

“And if stones from different buildings were mixed together in a new construct, will the ghosts with different origins be aware of each other?”

“Perhaps. Nothing I have read suggests that could not happen.”

“And could they interact?”

“That’s another matter entirely. . . . To tell you the truth, this doesn’t come up much. I’m really not sure. You know, it would be fascinating to try to record these ghosts of yours and listen to see whether they communicate. If you bring the recording to the lab, we can use the computer to alter the frequency and edit out the ambient noise. Often it is only
after
a ghost hunt that we see evidence of spirits—though I know this has not been your experience!”

“Actually, I think we might already have a recording of one of the ghosts.”

Olivier did a double take. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Do you speak Spanish, by any chance?”

“I speak French and English.”

“I realize that. But I thought all you European types spoke, like, five languages.”

“With French, why learn another language?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . in case of vacation, or invasion during a world war, or . . . ?”

“How many languages do
you
speak?”

“I know how to say ‘circular saw’ in Spanish.”

He smiled. “But seriously, Mel, if you have recorded evidence of a ghost, that would be amazing. I would love to analyze it.”

“A friend of mine is listening to it right now—she’s going to try to translate it. But you can take a crack at it next.”

*   *   *

One more quick stop before heading back to Marin was to see my faux finisher, Yuri Andropov. Yuri ran popular decorative-painting classes on the weekends for rich people, which allowed him to remain in his studio in the China Basin area of San Francisco. Most of his artist neighbors had been pushed out over the past few years by high rents. San Francisco’s loss was Oakland’s gain; our East Bay nightlife, café and restaurant scene were flourishing with the influx of creative types.

Yuri was a generally cranky, but quite talented, fiftyish man who as a child had immigrated to Madison, Wisconsin, with his family from the Ukraine; as soon as he’d turned eighteen, he had come to San Francisco and had never looked back.

“What do you know about traditional fresco methods?” I asked, watching as he painted foliage on a massive canvas that was destined for a hotel in Singapore. The decidedly Renaissance-inspired scene featured frolicking water nymphs and leering satyrs.

He frowned as he dredged his brush through a bit more sap green paint. “I know everything. You know that.”

“Right. I forgot,” I said. “So, give me a crash course.”

“The
faux
fresco method we use today is simply watered-down paint, to which we add chalk to mimic the
patina of true fresco. But genuine fresco isn’t a layer of paint on top of the wall; instead, dry paint pigments are placed in wet plaster so that the colors become
part
of the wall. This was sometimes supplemented with paint on top, called secco painting. But over time the secco
painting flakes off, whereas the fresco will never be destroyed unless the plaster itself falls off the wall.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“Often the plaster was used to strengthen the wall, so it wasn’t just decorative but structural.”

“Huh. I’m assuming this was long before Portland cement was developed; what was plaster made of, back in the day?”

“Bits of straw and clay and sand were in the main part, but the fine plaster on top was made of ash. Pigments were made from ground stone—which is why there’s a preponderance of so-called earth colors, such as terra-cotta and ocher—as well as from flowers and saps and vegetables. In addition, all sorts of things used to be burned: vegetation, even bones, then ground into a powder used in patinas.”

“How can you tell what a plaster was made of?”

“These days it’s easy. Micro X-ray diffraction, infrared spectroscopy, gas chromatography coupled with mass spectrometry and carbon-14 dating.”

“That’s
easy
?”

Yuri smiled. The knit cap he wore because his studio had no heat was covered in paint stains, like everything else on his body. He was unshaven and probably hadn’t done laundry in a while. Because he was often mistaken for a homeless man, people tended to underestimate him. He was a fine artist.

“I thought you told me you used to be an anthropologist. These are common archaeological techniques.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t that kind of anthropologist.”

“What kind were you?”

“The kind without skills or useful knowledge. The kind likely to go off about theories of cultural relativism. Interesting at cocktail parties but generally useless when it comes to anything practical.”

“Ah.”

“So, I don’t suppose you have one of these diffraction dealies lying around?”

He dabbed a few highlights on some leaves that were starting to look three-dimensional under his skilled hands, and then fixed me with a quizzical look.

“You have some old plaster you’re interested in learning more about? I thought you were here to hire me to create new murals that are meant to look old.”

“Right—for Elrich’s
house
, I want you to paint some traditional Spanish Revival murals. You’re going to get a kick out of this place: It’s a Victorian mansion with a Spanish interior. Don’t ask. By the way, I showed the clients the drawings you sent, and they loved them. Especially the market scenes. We’ll want them to look faded, as though they’ve been there forever. How soon can you start?”

“As soon as tomorrow. The project I was set to begin tomorrow has been rescheduled due to construction delays. So I can fit you in.”

“Great. We’re ready for you. Anyway, the plaster I’m interested in investigating pertains to another project. I’d love to figure out more about it.”

“Take the machine if you want. It’s not large.”

“Seriously?”

He set his brushes and palette down on a sheet-draped table and started climbing a rickety-looking ladder to a little storage loft. I hurried over to steady the ladder; it squeaked loudly in protest as he climbed.

“You need a better ladder,” I couldn’t help but point out.

“It’s on my shopping list. Let’s see . . .” He scrounged around for a minute. “
Here
it is,” he said as he held up a device that looked like a large hair dryer. “One micro X-ray diffraction doohickey.”

“Do all artists have these close at hand?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I bought it used off the Internet, believe it or not.” He shrugged. “I put in a bid to restore the Coit Tower murals, so I thought it would come in handy, let me know exactly what I was dealing with.”

“You worked on Coit Tower? The Diego Rivera murals?”

“Nah, lost the bid. That would have been something, though, right?”

“So, what will this thingy show me?”

“It’s going to give you a picture, like this. . . .”

Step by step, Yuri walked me through how to use the device.

“It won’t give you, in itself, a breakdown of what the plaster is composed of, but it will give you a spatial mineral cartography that would then have to be analyzed. You’ll have a starting point for figuring out exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“Okay . . .” This seemed like a little more detail than what I needed. “I guess I was hoping I could hold it up to the wall and get a readout.”

“This isn’t
Star Trek
. It’s chemistry. You should check out that old plaster, though. It could tell you a lot.”

“Thanks. I will.”

*   *   *

Back in Marin, the worksite was humming along. I answered several payroll questions, ordered some more supplies, and inspected the progress in the chapel and
the reinforcement projects. As long as the men stayed away from the round room, there didn’t seem to be further problems with the fierce guardian ghost.

Then I checked out the suspect blocks of stone.

I put the diffraction device up to one of the stones that retained its plaster. Yuri had said that plaster strengthened walls, but I was guessing that it also provided a smooth, even surface to camouflage the rough-hewn stone. Back then, when everything was handmade, people valued the perfection of form. Now that everything is churned out by machines, we value the slight imperfections and flaws of handmade items. The grass is always greener.

“What are you doing?” came Tony’s voice from behind me.

“I’m checking out these stones with this fancy contraption, here. It’s supposed to tell me something about the composition of the plaster.”

“Libole said that stuff didn’t matter, that we were going to go over it with new plaster anyway.”

“We probably will. But I’d like to know what we’re dealing with so we can replicate it properly,” I said. “Do you have any idea where Libole is, by any chance?”

He shook his head.

“Hey, Tony, I’ve been meaning to ask. . . . You said this is the second time that round room has imploded, yet Libole didn’t suggest devising any sort of external support, any sort of reinforcement?”

“No, and . . .” He let off with a shrug.

“What?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be a tower, not a single story. That’s what all these extra stones are for. But we can’t even get it to stand up like it is. It’s strange, like Libole’s trying to shove this thing in there, but it doesn’t fit. He
showed me how it was on the drawings, which are supposedly the original schema, but . . . I don’t know what he’s smoking, or what sort of Scottish history he’s been reading, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree with you. It seems odd.”

I stepped back and looked again at the lines that indicated there had been a painting, or fresco, here on these stones. Traditionally, murals were used to tell stories or recount historical events. Medieval monks were among the few literate people of their day, but nonetheless art was used to reinforce stories of redemption and risk, or heaven and hell, as Florian Libole had pointed out.