okay?”
“I’m fine. Thanks. It had nothing to do with me,” I hastened to add.
“And there’s been no . . . aftermath?” Matt asked. I had told him an abridged version of the ghosts I had seen in this house, months ago.
“I haven’t seen the victim, if that’s what you’re asking. But . . . I’m afraid there may be something in the Daleys’ house, though it’s not the location where the murder occurred. So I doubt the ghosts had anything to do with that, right?”
“I have no idea. But if you’re thinking there are malevolent spirits, shouldn’t you walk away?”
“I can’t. There’s a young family living in the house. And besides, I guess I’m supposed to communicate with these things. Maybe that’s why they’re appearing, because they know I can see them.”
“You really think so?”
“Truthfully, I have no idea. I’m making this up as I go along.”
“Hey, have you heard of the ghost-whisperer guy who leads tours out of the Eastlake Hotel?”
“His name’s come up a few times recently. Do you know him?”
“A little, only through TV connections. He’s been working on getting a series himself, so he came over once to check out what it’s like to live with cameras. Seemed like a good guy. He might even be on the up-and-up. Oh, hey,” Matt added with a light in his blue eyes, “he’s sort of cute, darling accent . . . and I think he’s single.”
“See you later,” I said, gathering my notes and giving Matt a hug and a reluctant smile. “You matchmaker, you.”
Chapter Ten
I sat behind the wheel of my car and pondered.
It was only four fifteen, but I wasn’t kidding when I told Matt it had been a long day. Hearing Emile Blunt was murdered. Finding that my father had discovered the body. Being interviewed by the police. Still not knowing what was happening with my clients. And plagued by a strange sense that Blunt’s death had something to do with the ghosts on my construction site. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way—but then I couldn’t explain why I saw ghosts, either.
I had to pick up Stan’s cake by five, and leave myself enough time to get in a festive mood. Maybe allot a few minutes to panic over talking to Graham about something other than business . . .
Get a grip, Mel. You’re not sixteen years old.
But if I left now, I could make it over to the animal shelter, which was kind of on the way home. If one thought creatively.
I would really love to see whether Hettie was the monster the press made her out to be. She didn’t seem like it, one-on-one. On the other hand, if her current cats were in danger, I would have to turn her in. I hated the thought of it, but somebody had to do it. Animals couldn’t advocate for themselves.
I drove out to the San Francisco animal rescue center.
The shelter was located across from a mediocre Mexican restaurant where I’d eaten once, years ago, when I accompanied Caleb’s third-grade class on a field trip to the animal shelter. Caleb’s teacher confided later, over margaritas, that the trip had resulted in more tears than any other school outing and, she said with a conspiratorial smile, half a dozen pet adoptions. Eight-year-olds and abandoned animals were a potent combo.
When I walked into the animal shelter, I noted a distinctive scent: animal and cleaning products squished together on the bottom of a rubber-soled shoe. I could hear the muffled sounds of dogs howling and cats mewing in the rooms beyond. I was suddenly in touch with my inner eight-year-old, and tried to harden my heart, doing my best to ignore them.
After all, not so long ago I had adopted Dog without ever intending to. Despite my protests that all I wanted to do was to rid myself of baggage, I had acquired a construction company, a teenage boy, and a dog. One of these days I was going to have to take a good, hard look at why my actions didn’t match my words.
For the moment it was easier to wallow in the conviction that the
“I’m fine. Thanks. It had nothing to do with me,” I hastened to add.
“And there’s been no . . . aftermath?” Matt asked. I had told him an abridged version of the ghosts I had seen in this house, months ago.
“I haven’t seen the victim, if that’s what you’re asking. But . . . I’m afraid there may be something in the Daleys’ house, though it’s not the location where the murder occurred. So I doubt the ghosts had anything to do with that, right?”
“I have no idea. But if you’re thinking there are malevolent spirits, shouldn’t you walk away?”
“I can’t. There’s a young family living in the house. And besides, I guess I’m supposed to communicate with these things. Maybe that’s why they’re appearing, because they know I can see them.”
“You really think so?”
“Truthfully, I have no idea. I’m making this up as I go along.”
“Hey, have you heard of the ghost-whisperer guy who leads tours out of the Eastlake Hotel?”
“His name’s come up a few times recently. Do you know him?”
“A little, only through TV connections. He’s been working on getting a series himself, so he came over once to check out what it’s like to live with cameras. Seemed like a good guy. He might even be on the up-and-up. Oh, hey,” Matt added with a light in his blue eyes, “he’s sort of cute, darling accent . . . and I think he’s single.”
“See you later,” I said, gathering my notes and giving Matt a hug and a reluctant smile. “You matchmaker, you.”
Chapter Ten
I sat behind the wheel of my car and pondered.
It was only four fifteen, but I wasn’t kidding when I told Matt it had been a long day. Hearing Emile Blunt was murdered. Finding that my father had discovered the body. Being interviewed by the police. Still not knowing what was happening with my clients. And plagued by a strange sense that Blunt’s death had something to do with the ghosts on my construction site. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way—but then I couldn’t explain why I saw ghosts, either.
I had to pick up Stan’s cake by five, and leave myself enough time to get in a festive mood. Maybe allot a few minutes to panic over talking to Graham about something other than business . . .
Get a grip, Mel. You’re not sixteen years old.
But if I left now, I could make it over to the animal shelter, which was kind of on the way home. If one thought creatively.
I would really love to see whether Hettie was the monster the press made her out to be. She didn’t seem like it, one-on-one. On the other hand, if her current cats were in danger, I would have to turn her in. I hated the thought of it, but somebody had to do it. Animals couldn’t advocate for themselves.
I drove out to the San Francisco animal rescue center.
The shelter was located across from a mediocre Mexican restaurant where I’d eaten once, years ago, when I accompanied Caleb’s third-grade class on a field trip to the animal shelter. Caleb’s teacher confided later, over margaritas, that the trip had resulted in more tears than any other school outing and, she said with a conspiratorial smile, half a dozen pet adoptions. Eight-year-olds and abandoned animals were a potent combo.
When I walked into the animal shelter, I noted a distinctive scent: animal and cleaning products squished together on the bottom of a rubber-soled shoe. I could hear the muffled sounds of dogs howling and cats mewing in the rooms beyond. I was suddenly in touch with my inner eight-year-old, and tried to harden my heart, doing my best to ignore them.
After all, not so long ago I had adopted Dog without ever intending to. Despite my protests that all I wanted to do was to rid myself of baggage, I had acquired a construction company, a teenage boy, and a dog. One of these days I was going to have to take a good, hard look at why my actions didn’t match my words.
For the moment it was easier to wallow in the conviction that the
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