Home for the Haunting(25)

In contrast, the city’s permit office was located in an uninspired building on Mission. I stopped by to look up the Murder House, otherwise known as 2906 Greenbrier Street. A quick look through records in the musty administrative offices revealed this information:

Built in 1911 by Cicorelli Brothers Construction, for the Jeffress family.

It changed hands in 1929, 1942, and 1978, the price increasing steadily but not crazily over the years. Sidney and Jean Lawrence were the buyers in 1978.

In 1983, the house was transferred to a bank-operated trust.

Hubert Lawrence took ownership in 1991.

I did a double take. I supposed it could be a coincidence . . . but though Lawrence was a reasonably common name, Hubert was not. I remembered the fellow under Monty’s sink on Saturday, telling me he had to leave early. “Hubert, but I go by Hugh,” he’d said.

Interesting.

I finished up my other paperwork and left, but before getting back in the car I bought a cup of coffee from a small stand, then wandered through a tiny micro-park, through rows of espaliered trees, pondering and sipping my drink.

Then I called Luz.

“Do you remember someone named Hubert Lawrence at Monty’s house on Saturday?”

“You mean the poet laureate?”

“The what?”

“Hubert Lawrence. He’s the California poet laureate.”

“Um . . . no, I meant the guy who showed up to work at Monty’s on Saturday. He was a little odd, but did a decent job with the dry rot under the kitchen sink.”

“Yeah, that was Hubert Lawrence. He’s the poet laureate. Don’t you read?”

“Of course I read,” I said. And I do. Just not, apparently, Hubert Lawrence. “I’m not what you’d call ‘up’ on our state’s best poets, though, I’ll admit.”

“You really are a Philistine, aren’t you?”

“If I knew what that was, I’d probably be offended.”

Luz laughed. “He was there with his wife, Simone—tall woman, long dark hair? She was very protective of him, and when I recognized his name, she made it clear he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Do poet laureates get mobbed like rock stars?” I asked, as I recalled a tall woman with long, silky dark hair. She was in her forties and had been working on the dry rot with two men.

“Only in their dreams,” continued Luz. “Other than by lit geeks like me, it’s a safe bet the poet laureate is not often recognized. He wrote ‘Hugh’ on his nametag, and I only realized who he was when I saw his full name on the release form. But then I had him sign my arm, which totally rocks.”

“You groupie, you.”

“Does that make me delightfully eccentric or just sad?”

“You’ll always be eccentric to me, Luz.”

“You do realize that, coming from you, that’s a bit unsettling?”

I laughed. “So you’re telling me a famous poet spent his weekend fixing a stranger’s dry rot?”

“‘Famous poet’ is sort of an oxymoron. Sadly, it’s been that way ever since the era of Yeats passed. I suppose you could make an argument for Ginsberg and Kerouac, but people don’t really read poetry anymore, much less make the scribes into celebrities—unless their words are set to a beat, of course. But in general, an interest in poetry has been replaced by a fascination with the antics of half-literate Jersey housewives.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do he and his wife live in the city?”

“He mentioned he was local, but wasn’t more specific.”

“Any chance he owns the house next to Monty’s?”

“The place the kids call Murder House? They told me all about the gruesome tale. What makes you ask that?”

“His last name is Lawrence—the same as the family who owned the house.”

“You know, I remember reading something about his having lost his parents at an early age, a personal tragedy that informed his poems. His early work was obsessed with themes of violence and loss. So I suppose there could be a connection. Then again, Lawrence isn’t exactly an unusual last name.”

“That’s true. And if he was connected to the murdered family, why would he want to hold on to a house where the tragedy had unfolded?”

“Could be lots of reasons. One horrible event might not outweigh years of happier memories. Plus, the place isn’t inhabited, is it? Houses where murders have occurred are often hard to sell—they’re stigmatized. I think you can understand why.”

I thought about that. How would I feel about my family home, had similar events taken place there? I quickly gave up; I couldn’t even imagine such a thing.