Skeleton in the Closet Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of Looking for Yesterday

  Newsletters

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  We all have skeletons in our closets. Dark memories of even darker deeds that stab at our psyches like bony, accusing fingers. I myself have my fair share of these demons, and I know they must be closeted away where the world cannot learn of them. I also know, despite their frequent sleep-disturbing appearances, that they are not real. Not any more, at least, over the passage of time.

  I’ve come to terms with my nightmare skeletons. What I’d never expected is that one day I would come face-to-face with a real one.

  Finding new office space in San Francisco is a complicated proposition, especially for a firm like mine. McCone Investigations currently has five full-time operatives, three part-time operatives who come in on a case-by-case basis, a secretary, a bookkeeper, and an office manager. We require a big conference room for group and client meetings. Sophisticated phone and computer connections. A small kitchen for when we’re working overtime—which is usually. And then there’s me, the proprietor. I need a lot of personal space to pace, lie on the floor and think, occasionally exercise, and sometimes scream in frustration.

  Sounds like it should be a snap, but at the time we went looking we were the wrong size for what was available: neither small nor large enough, and used to paying a decent rent. We could afford the overinflated prices of this economy, but paying them left one with a distinctly unpleasant feeling of being taken. Besides, we liked the ambience of old Pier 24½, from which the city was about to evict us so they could raze it and replace it with some civic disaster.

  My office manager, Ted Smalley, had been hunting for weeks, operating against a December 31 deadline. He’d seen some spacious, beautiful suites that made his mouth water, but none were within the budget I’d set. He’d seen some dismal wrecks—one crawling with rats—that made him shudder. But two days after Christmas, he popped into my office, eyes gleaming with excitement. The perfect place, he said, was on a small lane on Telegraph Hill above the Embarcadero, the waterfront boulevard where we were currently located. Four stories with an old fashioned elevator and—incredibly—underground parking. If we hurried, it could be ours.

  We hurried.

  Bobbi Connors, the Realtor Ted had been working with, drove her big boat of a Cadillac into the underground garage of the building on Sly Lane. She had pale blond hair and wore mascara that looked as if her eyelids were a nesting ground for spiders, stylish flowing clothing, rings on each finger, and multiple bracelets that jangled when she moved her hands in accompaniment to speaking. Which she did constantly.

  Ted, who had been putting up with her for two weeks, looked as if he were going to sleep. I, on the other hand, was fascinated.

  “Underground parking for eight cars. Four stories. Expansive Bay views. There’re fire stairs, of course, in addition to the elevator—which is charming, if a little clunky. One of the first Otises, installed when the building was erected in 1858. And it’s been kept in perfect working order.”

  I said, “The inspector’s certificate—”

  Ms. Connors tried not to look annoyed at the interruption. “Is located in the elevator’s cab; it’s current.” She pushed the button summoning the car; the doors opened immediately. We stepped on: “clunky” was the right word; it lurched and grumbled all the way up. Finally it jerked to a halt, its doors opened, and Ms. Connors tugged with effort at the old-fashioned grille.

  “The building’s color—” I began as we exited the car.

  “It was painted two years ago.”

  “Would it be possible to repaint?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Why would you? Wedgewood blue is perfect.”

  Ted nodded agreement.

  Personally I thought that much Wedgewood blue was a garish detraction.

  “Eighteen fifty-eight,” I said. “Is the building seismically sound?”

  “Yes, there’s a certificate for that, too. And it survived both the quake of ’06 and Loma Prieta.” I thought I detected a tiny, exasperated sigh.

  “Shar,” Ted said, “I’ve checked all that out.”

  “Right.”

  Finally the elevator jerked to a halt.

  “The fourth floor,” Connors said. “I’ve brought you here first because it’s so special. It would make a wonderful office for you, Ms. McCone.”

  It was beautiful: slanting ceiling with skylights, plenty of space, thickly piled beige carpeting, and of course the magnificent view through the A-shaped window.

  “Do you have a lot of furniture, Ms. McCone?”

  “No. But I do have a lot of books.”

  “Well, there you go.” She gestured at the side walls with the built-in bookcases.

  “Restrooms?”

  “One on each floor next to the elevator.”

  “Let’s see the rest of it.”

  Beside me, Ted was twitching with eagerness.

  “Who is the building’s owner?” We were standing on the first floor, beside a spacious reception desk.

  “An Oregon company, Acme Properties. I can give you contact information, if you like.”

  I looked around, saw Ted’s beaming face. “No, that won’t be necessary. But can you tell me who the previous tenants were?”

  “A dot com company. They failed, but now that that sector of the economy is recovering, they are, too. In fact, I had an inquiry about the building’s availability just yesterday from them.”

  Typical real-estate agent’s ploy. I didn’t believe it, and I wasn’t too sure about this building. True, it had everything we required, but some intangible disturbed me. Then I looked at Ted; his eyes were pleading.

  “Okay,” I said, giving in, “let’s go back to your office and sign a lease.”

  After we’d signed the lease, Bobbi Connors treated us to lunch at the Waterfront and then we went back to have a second look at the building. Now I could admire the details that made it special: small, formerly coal-burning fireplaces on each floor; oaken mantelpieces decorated with carved wildflowers; the way the new carpet blended with the vintage wallpaper; the old-fashioned light fixtures fitted with up-to-date power. To my delight, behind an archway on the ground floor, I found an alcove with a mirror, coat hooks, and a bench.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A place for guests to hang their coats and store their wet boots in the rainy season,” Bobbi Connors said.

  “And for the ladies to check their hair and faces.” I stared into the mirror, marred by patches where its silver backing had fallen away. My face appeared in pieces. Then I tugged at the hinged top of the bench, discovered it was padlocked.

  “Do you have a key for this?” I asked.

  “No. That’s a very old padlock.”

  “I’d like to see what’s inside.” From my bag I took the set of lockpicks that one of my informants, an often-incarcerated small-time thief, had presented me with years ago. A few tries, and the padlock came loose.

  “And what treasure does it contain?” Ted asked dramatically.

  I freed the lock, flipped open the hasp, and raised the lid.

  A musty odor wafted up from the interior—stale and dry, but not unpleasant. At first I couldn’t tell
what I was looking at because the contents were crumbling and jumbled. Then I realized it was a skeleton, fully clothed in the manner of the women of the nineteenth century. The clothing was desiccated, and when I touched one of the frills on the dress, it crumbled to dust.

  “What’s in there?” Ted asked and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, my God…”

  “You’d better call the police,” I said.

  Bobbi Connors pushed forward, took one look, made a gagging sound, and rushed from the room.

  The cause of death, the coroner’s man who came to the scene said, had evidently been stabbing. A knife the size of the shattered gap in the woman’s rib cage lay beside the body.

  The SFPD didn’t think much of my grisly find. After all, the woman’s body probably had been in that bench since well before any of them were born, and investigating such a cold case would take more time, effort, and manpower than they possessed. I didn’t blame them; they had live murderers to hunt—too damn many of them.

  That was the end of it… I thought.

  Late that afternoon I was in my office at the end of Pier 24½, going over the logistics of our move with Ted. It looked to be simple: everybody on staff would be asked to box up their possessions on Friday and leave them for the movers, Ted would supervise transporting plants—such as my ficus tree that sat beside the big arched window behind me—on Saturday, the movers would come next Monday, and on Tuesday we’d be in.

  After he left, I swiveled and looked out over the Bay. I hated leaving the pier, in spite of one of the worst moments in my life happening there, when I’d been shot and disabled by an intruder. Some of the best moments had occurred, too: gala Christmas parties together with the other tenants, birthday celebrations with champagne and cake, all-night brainstorming sessions when cases frequently came together, watching the Fourth of July fireworks from the roof. I didn’t leave places all that easily, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready for this move.

  A call came in on the office phone line. Ted buzzed me. I considered letting him take a message, then reluctantly picked up.

  Ted said, “There’s a Kirby Travis calling for you. He said he and his wife are owners of our new building.”

  “Put him through, please.”

  Kirby Travis sounded deep-voiced and hearty as he explained about his ownership of the blue house on Tel Hill. “I’m a property manager up here in Medford, Oregon. Two years ago I inherited that office building, and now I hear you’ve found a skeleton in it.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Travis.”

  “Well, hell. Are you still willing to rent the place?”

  “We have to be out of our current space by Tuesday, so we have no choice. As to how long we’ll stay—”

  “You have a lease.”

  “A skeleton tucked away under the stairs is kind of a deal breaker.”

  Long sigh. “And it’ll be a deal breaker forever. Already, that building’s been nothing but a pain in the butt. Dot commers defaulted on their last two months’ rent. That twit real-estate woman didn’t collect enough deposit money. Now you find a skeleton, and the news is all over the stupid media. Who’s gonna rent it if you break the lease?”

  I saw an opportunity and I seized it. “Tell you what, Mr. Travis. In exchange for three months’ free rent, I’ll find out who the skeleton belonged to and why it was there. I don’t much mind a haunted house—as long as I know why it’s haunted.”

  “Hmmm.” Long pause. Then: “Okay, Ms. McCone, you’ve got a deal.”

  Kirby Travis had inherited the blue house from his aunt, Ella Whitcomb, a native San Franciscan and an avid spiritualist. It turned out that she’d held many a séance on the ground floor where I’d found the skeleton and had reaped plenty of profits. When she died, the house had been left to Travis, but her substantial cash estate of over two million dollars had gone to an organization called Fourth Dimension, Inc. I called Travis back and asked about the group; he’d heard of them, considered them kooks, and sounded aggrieved about missing out on the money.

  A search for Fourth Dimension revealed that they were on Facebook. They were an “intra-reality organization” devoted to “bringing together all of our worlds—past, present, and future.” There was an open invitation to attend an orientation meeting at seven o’clock tonight, at Otherworld House on Broadway.

  Broadway Street near Columbus used to be a thriving nighttime destination for tourists and locals alike. Shops and coffeehouses were open till all hours; performers such as the infamous Carol Doda wiggled to loud music and bared their boobs in every bar. But the shine—if there ever really was one—has faded from the area. Today it feels shabby and has the aura of a long-ago, better time.

  I walked down sidewalks peopled by derelicts and tourists wondering where all the fun went. Even back then the hucksterism and sleaze had turned many people off. No wonder the fascination with North Beach had waned and interest had turned—I hoped—to the more favorable aspects of our city by the Bay: musical events, art exhibits, the theater, our many parks, cycling, and sailing.

  The Fourth Dimension was up a steep indoor stairway from a long-closed bar, which, I recalled, had once featured topless dancers who climbed ropes and then jumped onto a trampoline amid the patrons. No big deal for North Beach. There were girls on velvet swings, girls on seesaws, girls under the tables. And nearly every one of them underpaid and often badly treated.

  I climbed the staircase, in which, thank God, the urine stench had been treated with almost fragrant chemicals.

  A tall woman with short brown hair and severe black-framed glasses greeted me. “You’re here for the orientation session?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Shirley Devine. Come this way, please.” She led me down a dark corridor and paused before a pair of double doors. “A few ground rules,” she said. “No speaking or noise of any sort. No looking at the others in the audience. Remain attentive and respectful. When the orientation is finished, take the literature in the seat pocket in front of you and leave quietly.”

  Sounded like one hell of a cheery event.

  “Is all of that clear?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then please move ahead.” She opened one of the doors and pointed me to an aisle lit with dim floor-level lights like those in a movie theater. “Any seat will do. The session is about to begin.”

  I made my way through the darkness to an empty row three steps down and sat at its end. As my eyes accustomed to the dark, I saw it was a theater, the screen faintly lit, the outlines of a few heads—five? seven?—protruding from the forward seats. I was barely settled when the lights came up and a tall, cadaverous man in formal dress appeared from stage left. He took up a microphone and began.

  “Welcome to the Fourth Dimension. I’m Hobart Devine, chief facilitator. I know that seems a bit like the introduction to The Outer Limits, but if you’ll bear with me, I’ll demonstrate that our worldview is more than a celluloid fantasy.”

  He turned his back to the audience, and the curtains behind him opened. The stage began to swirl with smoke that billowed out at us. A number of people made sounds of protest and dismay, and two started to leave their seats. Devine’s smooth voice settled them all down.

  “Please don’t be alarmed. The smoke is harmless. Smell its aroma.”

  I sniffed.

  “Can anyone guess?” Devine said.

  “Jasmine!” someone called out.

  “Sandalwood,” claimed another.

  “Neither. It is chi sin genh, sent to us from the Fourth Dimension.”

  The crowd was completely quiet now, and most were attentive. The aromatic scent clogged my nostrils and tickled my sinuses; I felt vaguely sick to my stomach. And Devine’s voice went on and on…

  “It was total bullshit,” I called to Hy as I rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for nasal spray. “I can’t believe people fall for that crap in this day and age.”

  My tall, lanky husband appeared in the doorway, found the s
pray, and handed it to me. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said.

  By the time I arrived in the sitting room he had a fire going and glasses of wine on the coffee table.

  He said, “In answer to your earlier comment, this day and age is perfectly suited to scams like Devine’s. People are disappointed and angry. The world is not giving them what they’ve always been told was their birthright. They’re frightened for their children because they themselves have less than their parents, and they can give their kids even less than they have.”

  I picked up the thread of his reasoning. “They’ve lost their faith—in government, in banks, in social institutions, and in traditional religion. When you think of it that way, a fourth dimension is an attractive proposition.”

  “But like everything in the present corrupt world, you’ve got to pay to get in.”

  “As the late Ella Whitcomb did.”

  “Right. Two mil should’ve been enough to guarantee her passage.”

  “Ripinsky, I’m not sure what this has to do with my case. I’m supposed to be finding out who that skeleton belonged to.”

  He just looked at me.

  “Okay, I know events are all connected if you look deeply enough. Scratch any surface and you’ll find another, leading to another—”

  “Well, then, keep scratching.”

  I asked my nephew Mick Savage, our chief computer researcher, to find out everything he could about Ella Whitcomb and the Fourth Dimension. He and Ted came back to me at close of business with a huge pile of printout—Mick knew I preferred to do detailed reading from paper rather than from the screen.

  “Highlights?” I asked him.

  “Not too much on Ella Whitcomb. She grew up in Pasadena, married young, and was widowed in her midthirties. Husband was Charles Whitcomb, an engineer who died in a mudslide while he was building a bridge in Central America. The blue house had been in his family from the time it was built, but it doesn’t look as if many of them actually lived there after the 1880s.”

  “It was built as a residence?”

  “Originally, yes.”