There was someone else who might be able to tell me more about the entities in Cheshire House. I rooted through my satchel, pulled out a slip of paper, and called the cat lady’s daughter.

“I don’t have a lot of time. I’m at work,” Janet said. “But I drive the Emery Go-Round; you could sit on the bus and talk if you want.”

“The Emery Go-Round?” I asked.

“It’s free and everything.”

I looked it up on my BlackBerry. The Emery Go-Round was a shuttle bus that ran from the MacArthur BART station to the shopping meccas of Emeryville, a small city at the very base of the Bay Bridge that was bordered by Berkeley and Oakland. Emeryville had never met a corporation it didn’t like. It was the land of sprawling shopping malls, massive pharmaceutical research companies, and miles of parking lots.

It wasn’t my first choice of places to spend time, but I did want to ask Janet some questions. So I drove to the BART station and tried the first shuttle that pulled up, which was driven by a middle-aged African-American woman. I was willing to bet this wasn’t Janet Banks.

“Janet’s on the next one,” she told me when I asked. “Shellmound loop.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering what a shellmound loop was. In anthropology, shellmounds are signs of ancient waterside villages, basically ancient dumping grounds for seafood eaters. But whatever Ohlone village might once have flourished here on the banks of the San Francisco Bay had long since been covered over by big box stores and miles of asphalt.

I boarded the next bus that pulled up, introducing myself as I took a seat right behind the driver. I had to lean forward to speak around the plastic partition.

“Just be sure to stay behind the yellow line,” Janet said. “Rules and regulations.”

Janet wore her dishwater blond hair in heavy braids that hung on either side of her head. She was the St. Pauli Girl’s plainer, zaftig cousin, the one who tended the cows. She wore no makeup, a plaid shirt over a white T, cargo pants, and once-white athletic shoes.

“And that guy next to you is Cyrus,” Janet said. “He’s my most loyal passenger. Aren’t you, Cyrus?”

Cyrus nodded. He was as big and strong-looking as Janet. He stared out the window and spoke slowly. “Can’t smoke on the bus.”

“That’s right: can’t smoke on the bus,” said Janet. She met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Cyrus here is my bouncer.”

I smiled at him. “Nice to meet you, Cyrus.”

“Do you smoke?”

I shook my head.

“Neither do I, at least not here on the bus,” Cyrus said.

A group of young teens in huge down coats and sagging jeans boarded and staked their claims to the seats in the very back of the bus. They started goofing around, shoving each other and laughing, getting loud.

“Hold it down back there!” Janet barked, and they did. She glanced at me and winked, then said in a low voice, “They’re good kids, just a little rowdy. You talk a tough game, they don’t mess with you.”

She pulled out from the station, narrowly missing a dented gold Impala. Turning right onto MacArthur, the lumbering vehicle groaned as we accelerated.

I looked at her broad hands grasping the steering wheel. Thin scars covered the backs of her hands, wrists, and lower arms. Some were red and angry-looking, others faded and white.

“Cat claws,” Janet said.

“I’m sorry?”

“When you catch cats. They claw you. Even with gloves on, it happens. Their claws are nasty, full of all sorts of bacteria and whatnot.” She looked at me in the rearview mirror. “It’s not like they’re cut marks, or like I tried to commit suicide or anything.”

“I . . . uh . . .” I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking anything like that.” Okay, it had crossed my mind.

“I belong to a group that captures feral cats. We fix and spay them, give them their shots, then return them to their territory. We don’t hurt them. If anything, they hurt us.”

“I hear it’s a really successful program. Good for you.”

Janet focused her attention on her driving, and I noticed her ring full of keys swinging from the ignition. They reminded me of the old key ring weighing down my satchel. Could the keys hold the secret to what was going on in the old house? Had they dropped on me not by accident, but to show me something? I decided I should go through the house methodically, trying each old lock and each key.

“Yeah, whatever.” She shrugged one hefty shoulder. “The other women are the real cat lovers. I’m just good at catching them, since I grew up with so many of the things.”

“I like cats,” said Cyrus.

“Could I ask you a professional question?” I said to Janet.

“Shoot.”

“Would it be possible for a cat to have remained in the house, surviving in the walls somehow?”

“Sure. I mean, it could sleep there and go out to hunt at night. That sort of thing. They’re clever animals.”

“Could you tell me about growing up in the Cheshire Inn?”

She hesitated for so long I thought she might not answer. But after pulling up to a stop in front of OfficeMax, taking on two new passengers, and pulling back into traffic, she spoke in a low voice. “It wasn’t much of a home, if that’s what you’re asking. Mom rented rooms to ‘bachelors’ mostly, which is code for creepy single guys who didn’t earn enough for a decent apartment.”

“Did they . . . harass you?”

She shrugged. I waited, but it didn’t seem as if she was going to say more on the subject. It was a long time ago and when it came down to it . . . was it any of my business? And what could it have to do with ghosts in the house, or Emile Blunt’s death?

“Do you remember a man who lived at the Cheshire Inn briefly who had an upholstery shop across the street? Emile Blunt?”

She tweaked her head in a move that was neither a nod, nor a shake.

“He was killed the other night.”

Janet slammed on the brakes as we came to a yellow light turning red. The airbrakes made a screeching sound.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“He was found in his upholstery shop, shot to death.”

“Wow.” The light turned green and she stepped on the gas. “I hadn’t heard that. Geesh, I really disliked the guy, but murdered? Wow.”

“Why didn’t you like him?”

“He was kind of weird. He stole something from me when we lived there.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing valuable,” she said with a shrug of her plump shoulder. “But the point is, a grown man stole something from a kid. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Could it have been a misunderstanding?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I was just jealous because of his relationship with my mom.”

“What kind of relationship?”

She paused while she turned onto a street called Shellmound. No shells in sight. We headed toward IKEA and the Bay Street shopping center.

“He was more than just a boarder, if you catch my drift.”

“Really? But he and your mom didn’t seem . . .”

“I know. They had a falling out at some point. But they used to be close. He was the one who gave my mother her first cat. A scrawny little flea-bitten thing he found in the back of the upholstery shop. He didn’t want the fur on the furniture, so he brought it over to Mom.” She gave a humorless chuckle. “Thanks so much for that, Emile.”

“Are you and your mother close?”

“My mother is a very disturbed woman,” she said.

“I had a nice talk with her yesterday. She seemed okay.”

“She told you about the ghosts, though, right? That’s not very ‘okay,’ is it?”

“Well, I guess . . .”

“Do you understand how animal hoarding works? It’s a mental condition. She can’t help herself.”

“Any idea who turned her in?”

She shook her head.

“What about the bodies in the yard? Who dug those up?”

“The police, I guess.”

“Why would they?”

“Or maybe she did it herself, to keep them with her or something. Wouldn’t put it past her. Like that creepy Emile, stuffing them. Heck, maybe he dug ’em up.”

“I like digging,” said Cyrus. “Janet lets me garden sometimes.”

“That’s right, Cyrus. You’re my assistant gardener.”

“I like gardening, too,” I said. My father would laugh if he heard me say that. I hadn’t spent time in the yard for ages. I liked gardening in theory, though.

“When I stopped by the animal shelter,” I said to Janet, “the director said the cats taken from your mother’s home were in good condition. She said they looked well cared for.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Janet said, the sides of her mouth pulling down into a grim line. “She treated those cats like royalty. Better than she treated me, I’ll tell you that. When I came home from school I had to change sheets and do laundry and peel potatoes while the other kids went out to play and have a good time. Hey, you kids, pipe down!” She glared in the rearview mirror at the teenagers, whose conversation had grown in volume.

I had resented having to work with my dad when I was a kid as well, but now looked back on that time fondly. I learned a lot, not just about construction but also about confidence, responsibility, doing the right thing. On the other hand, both of my sisters ran screaming from anything having to do with working with their hands, citing the trauma of their childhood. Different temperaments.

“Nope, housework was good enough for me. But those cats? They didn’t so much as catch a goddamned mouse.” Her eyes brightened, and she smiled. “Hey, when you were at the animal shelter did you see that crazy-eyed gal?” She laughed. “I guess the animals don’t make fun of her, though, right? At least there’s that.”

I tried one more time. “Your mom said the cats helped alert her to anything . . . different. To lingering spirits in the house.”

Janet concentrated on driving, remained silent.

“Do you remember a guy who lived there who moved out after seeing ghosts when you and he went up to the attic?”

“Sure, I remember him. Dave Enrique. Creepy guy.”

“How was he creepy?”

“Inappropriate. I don’t know. Maybe I was imagining things. I felt unsafe in that house, and it’s possible I read too much into things. That’s what my therapist says, anyway.”

“So you don’t remember seeing any ghosts yourself?”

Having finished our loop, we were pulling up to the BART station.

“Regulations state that you have to get off the bus once I’ve made a full rotation,” Janet said in a formal voice, though she smiled when I met her eyes. “I’m just kidding, you’re welcome to stay if you want. Cyrus stays on all day sometimes. Don’t you, Cyrus? But I thought you might be done with your questions, and unless you want to go another full circuit with me, this is your stop.”

“Just one more question.” Actually, the same question one more time. “Your mom said you left the Cheshire Inn as a teen. Before you left, did you ever see anything odd in the house?”

“Everything was odd in that house.” A thoughtful look came into her eyes, and she rubbed the scratches on her arm. “I didn’t know what normal was till I went to live with my dad. He was a piece of work himself, but at least he didn’t have any pets, or boarders.”

“No ghosts?”

“I don’t like ghosts,” said Cyrus.

There was a long pause while the group of teenagers bounced off the bus.

“I’m a grown-up,” Janet finally said. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”

“I think I do, yes.”

She nodded and shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. Good luck with . . . whatever it is you’re doing. Why are you looking into this, again?”

Like mother like daughter. Asking the really pertinent question.

“I think it may be a problem that needs to be laid to rest,” I said, surprising myself. “I think something might have gone on in that house that needs to be addressed, and that it might have something to do with Emile Blunt’s death, somehow.”

The BART train had arrived, disgorging its passengers. People began to climb onto the bus: two gray-haired women walking arm in arm, helping each other to board; a woman burdened with several plastic bags and a toddler; and yet another group of boisterous teenagers.

As he passed by Cyrus, one of the teen boys muttered “retard” under his breath.

Janet surged up out of her seat.

“Hey! Off this bus, now!” She gestured him up to the front of the bus, then practically pushed him down the steps. “Learn some manners, you little brat!”

Everyone on the bus, including me, fell silent, chastened. You could have heard a pin drop.

“Well. Anyway,” Janet said as she settled back behind the wheel, “if ghosts decided it was time to take out Emile Blunt, I’d leave them well enough alone.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t have to believe to know this isn’t something to fool with. I’m not stupid.”

Excellent point. “Thank you for talking with me about this, Janet. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Janet said. “Good luck, and all that.”

As I climbed down off the bus, the steam from a hot dog stand drifted my way, mingling with the diesel of the bus. Urban smells that made me miss the fresh-cut wood smell of the job site. Probably what I should be doing was getting back to work I understood: building things.

My mother used to say, Don’t borrow trouble. And was I? No, I thought, I didn’t have to borrow it. It was bothering me, in the form of ghostly hijinks on the job site. Plus, I couldn’t shake the notion that Emile’s death had something to do with the inhabitants—whether real or ephemeral—of Cheshire House. But how does one say such things to the police?

Okay, new plan. While I was in the East Bay, I could make a stop to follow up with Dave Enrique. According to Hettie, the former boarder worked at Heartwood Lumber in San Leandro, which was down the freeway a few exits past Oakland. While I was there I could order some sheetrock we needed for the job site, and then see if Luz would let me bounce some ideas off her in exchange for lunch.

Suddenly I was so hungry that the BART hot dogs were starting to smell good. Clearly things were at a desperate pass.