Graham paused. The corners of his mouth tightened. “Matt.”

“In a British bad boy sort of way.”

He snorted. “‘Bad’ I’ll grant you. But that ‘boy’ is fifty if he’s a day.”

“Late forties, maybe. And you know what they say: Age is only a number.”

“He’s far too old to party like he does.”

“Why are we talking about Matt again?”

“You brought him up.”

“Okay, let’s get back to the subject. You don’t find it strange that Jim went to Russia for a wife?”

“It’s not like she was a mail-order bride, Mel. They met online and decided to get together. Like thousands of people do these days. She just happened to live in another country.”

“I would think that in the Bay Area, an employed, decent-looking, heterosexual man would have found a suitable woman easily enough. Unless something’s wrong with him.”

“Like what?”

“That’s my point. Maybe he’s . . . odd. Odd in ways that aren’t immediately apparent.”

“Odd in ways that would lead him to murder an old man in cold blood for . . . what? For wanting to buy his house? For yelling about the noise of construction?”

“I haven’t figured out that part yet.”

He started rolling up the blueprints. “You won’t figure out that part, because there is no such part. I know you think finding true love is hard for women, but it’s not all that easy for a guy to meet the woman of his dreams, either.” He tapped me on the head, gently, with the roll of blueprints. “Even for those of us who are good-looking and employed.”

“Didn’t take you very long,” I muttered as I rooted around in my satchel for the catalog on reproduction storm windows from Heartwood Lumber.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing,” I said, handing him the catalog. “Emile Blunt spoke Russian. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

“More surprising than strange. Why?”

“Emile never struck me as a linguist.”

“Maybe his mother was Russian. There are a lot of Russians in San Francisco. Have been ever since the gold rush days; and even before then, they traded furs up and down the west coast into Canada. Fort Bragg’s an old Russian outpost. Go out to the Richmond district and you’ll find fresh pierogi in every store. Good stuff.”

“I suppose so. But the last time I spoke to him he acted as though he didn’t know the difference between Ukrainian and Russian, which would be really odd for a Russian speaker, wouldn’t it?” I said. “How about this: Why would someone dig up the yard to disinter cats?”

“Excuse me?”

“The backyard of Cheshire House was dug up to remove the bodies of the cats that had been buried there over the years. But why? Hettie Banks wasn’t charged with killing cats, and the folks at the animal shelter admitted her cats were healthy and well cared for. Hettie was released with a slap on the wrist, once the media flurry died down.”

“You are just a bundle of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

“I find myself in a very weird situation.”

“I don’t think it’s good for your mental health.”

“Thanks so much. Anyway, I have a mental health professional on call.”

He grinned. “Great to see Luz the other night. But I have a few questions of my own. Are we going to keep avoiding talking about what happened up in the attic between you and me?”

“We already talked about it. I think the ghosts were influencing us.”

“You think that was all?”

“That’s not enough? Olivier says they sometimes pick up on latent emotions and exploit them.”

“Olivier Galopin.”

I nodded.

“What sorts of ‘latent’ emotions do you and this French guy have?”

“He didn’t try to kiss me when we were in the attic, if that’s what you mean.”

Graham looked at me for a long time, then came to stand near me. Too near. “In the interest of science and ghost busting, maybe we should try it without ghosts around. See what happens.”

My heartbeat sped up, and I tried to remain casual.

“I doubt Elena would approve.”

Graham chuckled. “Probably not. All right, then. If I can’t have a kiss, may I at least take home a copy of the blueprints?”

“Help yourself,” I said.

As he left, I couldn’t help but think: He gave up awfully easily.

I was about to head out to meet Luz across town at the botanica when I looked up to see a large Heartwood Lumber delivery truck pulling into the driveway.

At the wheel was Dave Enrique.

“This is a surprise,” I said as he swung down from the cab.

“I asked to make the delivery. I . . . I wanted to talk to you again.”

“About what?”

He rubbed his arm, then took out a cigarette and lit it.

“You caught me off guard the other day, asking me about this place. I just wanted to say . . . Mrs. Banks would never hurt anyone. She may be eccentric, but she’s good people.”

“You came all the way over here just to tell me that?”

He hesitated, opening and then closing his mouth.

“I have a question for you,” I said. “Any idea why someone would dig up the backyard?”

He looked alarmed. “You mean where the cats were buried? Someone dug it up?”

I nodded.

He cleared his throat and took a drag on his cigarette. “I think someone might have been looking for something they thought was buried with the cats. Something that should have stayed buried.”

“Like what?”

Dave glanced up at the tiny attic window under the eaves and paled. He took a step toward the truck, then tossed his half-smoked cigarette onto the driveway and crushed it with his boot.

“I better offload this stuff and get back,” he mumbled.

I looked at the attic window and saw a flash of movement, almost as if the darkness had become darker.

That did it. I didn’t care what Olivier said; if I had to go up against ghosts, I wanted some kind of backup. If the botanica had gear for this sort of thing, I would get myself some.

I met Luz on the corner of Nineteenth and Guerrero, in the heart of the neighborhood called the Mission. The area is home to a lot of Latino newcomers, not only from Mexico but also Central America, Ecuador, and Puerto Rico. Some time ago outsiders discovered the vibrant nightlife here, so now the area was jammed with posh restaurants and music clubs right alongside humble ta-querias and low-rent bars, and on weekend nights the streets were jammed with revelers from across the city. The Mission also had two BART stations, making it easy to get around without a car.

The botanica called El Pajarito had a colorful storefront painted with birds and ivy. Inside, the shelves were jammed with herbs, candles, and figurines. Luz was distracted by a display of aerosol-can air fresheners whose labels promised everything from luck in the lottery to establishing domestic bliss.

No cans of Ghost-B-Gone, unfortunately.

“Here,” Luz said, handing me a can with a bright yellow label. “You need some of this.”

According to the fine print, Black Cat Spray would rid me of romantic rivals.

“Thanks, Luz. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

“I think you need this.” I handed her a pyramid made of clear resin, in which was captured a little Buddha, a key, and gold sparkles. “Get in touch with your inner Zen Buddhist.”

“Hey, if Zen Buddhism includes gold sparkles, I might just sign up.”

Behind the register was a thin girl with long dark hair who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. Why was someone her age running a shop, I wondered, and why wasn’t she in school?

Luz seemed unfazed. She lifted her chin slightly at the girl, and said, “¿Está tu mama?”

Without speaking, the girl disappeared through a bead curtain featuring the Virgin of Guadalupe.

“Shouldn’t she be in school?” I whispered.

Luz nodded. “Seems like.”

After a moment a woman ducked through the curtain, still chewing, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds in the other. She looked to be in her late fifties, short and plump, her hair dyed a dark brown with a burgundy tinge and piled, lopsided, upon her head. She had a pleasant, round face.

She nodded to us.

“Gracias por hablar con nosotros.” I thanked her for speaking with us in my less-than-fluent Spanish. “I’m sorry if we interrupted your lunch.”

She waved off my concern. “I am Señora Moreno. Can I help you?”

“A friend of mine came in here a few days ago, asking for help with . . . spirits in her house. She’s small, pretty, speaks with a Russian accent. She may have asked for a limpia?”

“Lots of people come in here,” she said, sipping her coffee and looking down at a notepad on the counter. I wondered if botanica owners were like priests and therapists—did they have to maintain clients’ confidentiality?

Luz leaned on the counter with one arm and raised her eyebrows in silent challenge.

“Well, whoever helped this lady screwed up,” Luz said, her head waggling as she spoke. Her parents may have come from Mexico, but Luz was born and raised in East LA and had the urban head waggle down to an art. “’Cause these ghosts hurt somebody the other day. So either this person makes it right, or we start spreading the word that folks should go elsewhere for supplies and advice, me entiendes?”

Señora Moreno took another sip of coffee and picked at her teeth with her tongue, as though unimpressed. She popped a couple of pumpkin seeds in her mouth and crunched. But after a moment, she nodded.

“I remember her. She was very scared. I offered her my services, but I was headed up to Reno on vacation and she did not want to wait. She wanted to try it herself. I sold her the necessary supplies, plus some holy water and talismans.” She shrugged. “But then she didn’t come back.”

“The haunting seems to have gotten worse. Someone told me she might have chased off the ‘good’ ghosts but not the more serious ones.”

I felt Luz’s eyes on me, assessing, cynical. But Señora Moreno nodded.

“This is possible. This is why it’s best for me to do it. The most important part of cleansing a house es tener confianza, no? To remain confident. This can be very hard for amateurs. They are frightened, and the spirits know this. I told your friend this, but she wanted to do it herself so I told her the standard procedure to rid spirits from a house.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“It is all outlined in this pamphlet, available for only ten dollars. Have some pepitos.”

She held out the bag of pumpkin seeds. I declined, but Luz took a handful.

I flipped through the illustrated pamphlet. Hardly seemed worth ten dollars. But it didn’t seem right to ask this woman to give her expertise away for free. Everybody’s got to make a living.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll buy my supplies here and I’ll even buy the pamphlet. But give me a condensed version.”

“The key to a limpia is to reclaim the space. I told her to send the little one away for the evening and to have her husband help her. Holding a lighted candle, start at the back of the house on each floor and move toward the front. Ring the bell, light the incense and a candle, sprinkle the holy water, and sweep, while declaring that the space no longer belongs to the ghosts, it belongs to her and her husband. Declaring ownership is very important. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“After sweeping thoroughly, from the back to the front, you must take the broom outside and burn it.” She sighed. “A lot of people don’t burn the broom. I never understand this. Who wants such a broom?”

“I’ll burn it,” I said, though I felt more than a little foolish.

Luz nodded a shade too solemnly, and I nudged her with my elbow.

I ended up buying the pamphlet, some candles, a brass bell, a package of incense, and whole bunch of stocking stuffers for Christmas. For Caleb I bought the sparkly resin pyramid with a Buddha, as well as cans of Good Luck and Homework Help room spray. For Dad I chose a bag of antiaging peppermint tea, and for Stan a box of lucky charms in the shapes of animals.

“Would you be available to come to the house and do a limpia, if my client agrees?” I asked as I handed over cash.

Señora Moreno cast a disapproving look at Luz, who was roaming the aisles, snorting and laughing at the things she found. She picked up a small box and read the instructions aloud, chuckling. Moreno turned her attention back to me, reaching out and grabbing my wrist. Her hand was warm, strong.

“I’m worried about your Russian friend,” she said in a low voice. “She had the sense of someone doomed. But you . . . you have the sight, no?”

I yanked my wrist away. “Why would you say that?”

She chuckled. “Why do you think I run a botanica and perform limpias, mi muñeca? I have had the sight since I was a child. I am not a . . . What’s the word you use here?”

“A fake? A con artist? A charlatan?” suggested Luz, who had joined us at the counter.

Moreno nodded. “It is true that I sell many items that are not, in themselves, good luck or magic. And it is true that I sometimes encourage superstitious beliefs. But when people believe they will get well because they drink a certain tea, sometimes they do. And if they have faith that their bad luck will go away if they light a candle and recite the right words every night, then sometimes it does. I don’t always help people, but I never hurt them.”

Luz, rarely at a loss for words, looked chastened.

“So, mi muñeca, I will sell these items to you. If you have the sight, you won’t need me there. I have two limpias scheduled in the next week, and I am no longer a young woman. Just remember to remain confident. This is the essential thing, much more important than saying the right words.”

By the time we left the shop I was fifty bucks poorer, clutching a brown paper bag containing all the items I might need to rid a house of ferocious ghosts. I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. I feared the resolution that Señora Moreno—and Olivier—emphasized might be lacking.

“Why did she call me muñeca? What’s that mean?”

“Doll. It’s a term of endearment. She liked you. Or at least she liked your fifty dollars. Anyway, I’m starving. You promised me lunch, remember?” Luz said. “Unless you don’t have any money left after your occult supply run?”

“Tacos?”

“My favorite Pakistani restaurant is right down the street.”

“We’re in the Mission and you want Pakistani food?”

“It’s really good. Besides, I’m Mexican, which makes Mexican food just plain old food. I feel like something exotic.”

“Okay,” I said, checking my phone for the time. “But I have to be out of here in under an hour. I’m down one foreman and I have to take Katenka to pick out her favorite knobs.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that sentence. That dirty joke writes itself.”

“You’re a real pal, Luz.”