“I haven’t been able to get hold of your uncle Nico. Is everything okay?”
“Not exactly,” Spike said. “He’s in the hospital.”
Chapter Fourteen
“W
hat happened? Is he all right?”
“Yeah,” Spike said. “He got a little roughed up during a carjacking. It’s nothing serious, but they wanted to keep him for observation on account o’ he has a preexisting heart condition.”
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
“Could I visit him?”
“He’d love it. He’s at the California Pacific Medical Center on Buchanan; visiting hours start at eleven. Bring food.”
“I will.”
“Were you calling him about a job?” Spike asked. “Business is slow these days. I’m sort of running things for him while he’s out of commission.”
I told Spike I needed to schedule a cleanup at the Zaben house, and an interior demo at Matt’s house. I gave him the addresses for each.
“I can get some boys over there on both sites first thing tomorrow, if you want.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“No problem. See you tomorrow.”
I hung up, feeling slightly nauseated. It might have been due to the ill-advised second helping of mashed potatoes I had eaten at dinner, but more likely it was in reaction to hearing that someone had gone after Nico, and then had searched both places where he had taken things from Matt’s house. This was no coincidence.
My father’s voice came to me down the hallway from the kitchen.
“Mel, honey, Graham’s leaving.”
“Good riddance,” I mumbled. Charming over dinner or not, I wasn’t ready to forgive him for trying to push me around. And on top of that, I was annoyed by my strong physical reaction to his nearness earlier.
I blushed when I looked up to see Graham in the doorway.
“Walk me to my truck?”
“You’re scared of the neighborhood?”
“Just walk me to my truck, please. Bring your car keys.”
I blew out a breath and followed him. He asked me to open my car, grabbed the box we had found in the eaves, then took it to his truck. He bent down and shuffled around on the car’s floorboard for a moment.
“Do I need to be here for this?” I asked.
Graham stood quickly and grabbed me by the front of my sweatshirt. My heart leapt into my throat.
Rather than kiss me, though, he shoved a manila envelope under my shirt.
“What are you
doing
?”
“It’s the stuff we found,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s probably safest here with you at this point. You’re predisastered; I can’t imagine they’ll be coming back here tonight, since they know you’re on guard. But just in case anyone is watching right now . . .”
He stood back and made a show of putting the box into his truck.
“Take those things to the historical society first thing in the morning,” Graham continued, almost whispering. “And if anyone comes after them before that, just hand them over. None of it’s worth your getting hurt over.”
I mumbled something noncommittal.
“Be careful, Mel. I’m serious.”
“You might want to take your own advice. After all, you’re the one shooting at people and getting black eyes.”
“Only while in your company, I might point out.”
The envelope crinkled under my shirt as I pressed one arm to my waist.
“You really think this stuff is what Kenneth was hurt over?”
“No.” He sounded very sure. Then he added: “But I’ve been wrong before.”
That night I sat cross-legged in my bedroom on a plush wool Aubusson carpet that a client threw away because it didn’t match his new couch. The muted hues of rose, sage, and ocher made me happy every time I walked into my room. The rest of the house might still be a mess, but my bedroom was not only functional; it was my sanctuary.
I had faux-finished the walls with a subtle parchment treatment, then filled floor-to-ceiling shelves with beloved books and all sorts of strange, mismatched items scavenged from job sites and found in junk stores. Not the froufrou antiques places owned by nice little old ladies who played canasta while their customers perused well-lit aisles decorated with doilies and framed quilts. On the contrary, I sought out gloomy, musty stores run by cranky old folk, the kind who won’t let you buy something if they don’t like you. I adored the challenge. Everything in my room had a story.
Including, no doubt, the journal and papers that I extracted from the manila envelope. I laid them out on the carpet in front of me, letting my mind dwell, just for a moment, on the feeling of Graham’s hands under my shirt. And the almost electric sensations I felt as he held my arm and tended to my cuts. Either he was an amazingly attractive man or I was hard up. Probably both.
Enough of that
. My love life—or lack thereof—was the last thing I should be concentrating on right this moment. I looked back at the items from the box. Could any of them provide a clue to Kenneth’s death?
Simple murder was one thing, but didn’t Kenneth’s injuries imply that his assailant was trying to get him to cough up information? Extremely valuable information? Something so important that Kenneth would rather die than tell?
If only my own personal ghost could recall what the hell had gone on that awful night . . . or morning, more like. Kenneth must have been injured shortly before I arrived. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to come after Matt and me.
I set the Norton notes aside for the moment, focusing instead on the journal. Thumbing through the pages carefully, I didn’t see much more than I had earlier: household accounts, domestic stories, and dates of social events. Toward the end of the first section, the author—who I assumed to be the woman of the house—mentioned an exciting venture upon which her husband was embarking. Something sure to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams. Soon afterward, the handwriting shifted and the information was limited to household accounts, lists of purchases, and expenditures.
The journal’s aged leather cover creaked each time I opened and closed it, making me worry that I might be cracking the spine. Upon examination, I noticed that the marbled lining on the back inside cover had pulled away slightly near the crease. I ran my fingers along it.
I felt something hidden underneath.
A folded piece of vellum. Gingerly, I pulled it out and laid it flat on the rug in front of me.
It was a large certificate handwritten in a beautiful, flowing script, declaring one Walter Buchanan, of Vallejo Street, San Francisco, to be holder of the deed to a gem field claim full of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Was this the venture that was sure to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams?
Below the text was a hand-drawn map, presumably showing the location of the gem field.
As a native Californian, I had been raised on stories of the state’s famous gold rush, but gemstones? In my mind, diamonds came from Africa. On the other hand, I knew we had coal in parts of the United States, and diamonds and coal were related, right? But I had never heard of rubies or emeralds—or coal for that matter—being mined in California.
I jumped as Kenneth appeared suddenly in my peripheral vision, sitting on the side of my bed.
He snickered at my reaction. “That’s kind of fun. Now I see why ghosts get into scaring people.”
“Do
not
make a habit of it,” I warned. I didn’t know what I could possibly threaten a ghost with, but I’d think of something.
“What’s that?” Kenneth asked, looking at the stuff we had found in the box.
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I was hoping maybe you could tell
me
.”
“How would I know?”
“I found it in Matt’s house. Yours, and Matt’s, house. Sort of hidden behind the wall. I thought maybe it had something to do with what happened to you.”
He came closer and I could feel his cold presence as he peered over my shoulder.
“What’s the journal say?”
“I haven’t read the whole thing, but it seems to be a book of household accounts. A few personal comments, but mostly numbers. Written by the wife, I would imagine.”
“And is that money?”
“Not any kind I recognize. But I think I should take it in and have it assessed.”
“By whom?”
“I thought I’d start with the historical society; see what they have to say.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“There’s also a deed, with something that looks like a map.” I spread it out.
Kenneth glowed.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“That seems like something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but I’m having some sort of reaction. I think it might mean something.”
I studied the map. There were no coordinates, no sign of where it was except a reference to the Stanislaus River and an area called Jumping Falls. Otherwise, there was a drawing of a rock outcropping, a reference to a couple of unnamed mountains, a waterfall, and one tiny little dot called Cheeseville.
The Stanislaus River ran through gold rush country, all right. It was only a couple of hours from the little lake where my sisters and I had spread Mom’s ashes not long ago.
I jumped again as someone appeared in the doorway.
Dylan.
“Were you talking to somebody?” he asked, his big blue eyes flickering about the room.
“Just to myself.”
“Um . . . why?”
“I’m just weird sometimes,” I said as I shoved the items I was looking at under the bed. “Come on in.”
He stepped in and looked around, shy but intrigued. “You like old stuff, huh?”
“I do, yes.”
“How come?”
“I guess I like thinking about people who’ve gone before. You know, all those lives that have passed. But they leave traces.”
He nodded. “Cool.”
“Did you want to talk, Dylan?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up?”
“Dad called. He was, sort of, like, released.”
“You mean he’s out of jail? That’s great news!”
“Yeah.” He continued to look at a shelf holding several of my questionable junk shop finds: a wooden shoe mold; a stuffed trout; a paint-by-numbers version of da Vinci’s
The Last Supper
.
I knew from my experience with Caleb that the best tack to take with teenagers is to let them speak in their own time, without pushing them. But lately my patience was limited.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
“I was wondering if, like, I could still stay here for a while. Dad’s . . . he’s, like, dealing with a lot right now? So I was thinking maybe I could stay with Caleb for a little bit. Over break.”
“As long as it’s okay with your dad,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned you’re always welcome here, Dylan. Even if you’re not with Caleb.”
His eyes flew up to meet mine. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Awesome. Thanks. Night.”
He left.
“Way to rid yourself of entanglements,” said the ghost over my shoulder as soon as Dylan closed the door behind himself.
First Graham, now Kenneth. I gritted my teeth.
“Ever hear the expression ‘just say no’?” Kenneth continued.
“As in ‘no, Kenneth, I won’t help you find out what happened’?”
“Hmm, I see what you mean. I take it back. No offense.”
“Go away now. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“What about the map?”
“The map is useless without any other information.” It was probably useless anyway.
Kenneth didn’t say anything further, but he lingered as I brushed my teeth. I could feel waves of forlornness emanating from him.
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep in my current mood anyway.
“All
right
, already, I’ll go look it up.”
I went down to the office and called up the Stanislaus River on Google Maps. It was a very long river, which fed into a huge lake. There was no record, anywhere, of a town called Jumping Falls, no Cheeseville in Calaveras County or adjoining counties, no
anything
that I could relate from the hand-drawn map to any real, present-day map.
I sat at the computer, chin in my hand, for a long moment, just staring at the map and pondering. Graham was from that area; he used to love riding his motorcycle up in those hills. I remembered him going on and on about the special magic of gold rush country: Angels Camp, Copperopolis, Oregon City. If the map from the box was old enough, a lot of the place-names might have changed. Even rivers changed course over the years. Would locals still recognize the old names?
But even if I could find the location the map referred to, then what? It wasn’t as though it was a pirates’ map with the buried treasure marked with an X. Surely any such gem field would have played out long ago. Would have been scoured clean.
Moving on, I looked up the California Historical Society, on Mission in San Francisco. It opened late on Wednesdays. I would go by after I visited Nico at the hospital. Then I looked up Philip Singh. Apparently Singh was a common name; there were scores in the phone book, several Philips and many more “P. Singhs.”
I called Matt, who said he was exhausted, grateful to be home, and just wanted sleep. He asked after Dylan, then invited me to come by to see him tomorrow.
Right after my research at the historical society
, I thought to myself.
Finally, I called Jason Wehr and left a message on his office voice mail, asking if he could meet me as soon as possible at the Addax job site for a preliminary walk-through, with the plans in hand. Now that I had decided to continue with the project—and had made my insistent proclamation to Graham—I was more than eager to get started. I was itching to save that beautiful historic building from the abuse it had suffered.
As I pored over the drawings, I envisioned what the house would look like when we were done. The Greek key detail in the wooden floor of the parlor should be mimicked elsewhere; the low arches, already present throughout much of the house, could be extended into the bathrooms, and into the kitchen, which would need more renovation than the rest of the house. I stayed up until one in the morning, developing the plans. Feeling my way, in my mind’s eye, through the hallways and rooms of the once-graceful house. Losing myself in the work.