Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (10 page)

“Why don’t we do a walk-through together?” I heard myself saying. “You could tell me what you’re envisioning, and we could go from there.”

“Excellent,” said Simone, and I could swear there seemed to be avarice in her eyes. “I’ll check in with the police, just to be sure it’s okay with them if we go inside and look around. I don’t suppose there will be a problem; it’s our house, after all, and Linda was found outside in the shed.”

There was a slight whimper in response to her last words. Hugh had brought his fist to his mouth again, as though to stifle tears.

I stood to leave. “I’m so sorry, Hugh, for your loss.”

“The police seem to think she killed herself,” Hugh said. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Of course she did,” Simone answered. “She’s been unstable ever since . . . ever since the incident. It’s only gotten worse with age.”

The Incident . . . Sounded like a title for a terrible movie:
Incident at Murder House.

“Or . . .” Hugh said in his quiet, thoughtful way, looking at dust motes dancing in the light of the window. “Perhaps they finished the job.”

“‘They’ . . . ?” I asked.

“Whatever evil is in that house . . . my father became a monster that night. Maybe . . . maybe he won’t stop until he’s killed us all.”

I
limped home, feeling beat-up. It wasn’t my usual end-of-the-day fatigue. I could handle that. I was used to long days on jobsites and meeting with clients, accustomed to at least ten things going wrong every day that for some reason only I could put aright. What I wasn’t familiar with was the depth of sadness I had felt in Hugh’s presence. There was a level of pathos there that left me feeling . . . I don’t know, maybe compelled to write some poetry of my own?

That impulse departed as quickly as it arrived—luckily for all of us—but it dawned on me that art or literature provided an outlet for feelings that can’t be expressed any other way. The only thing I did that was close to being artistic—besides building, which was arguably an aesthetic labor of love—was putting together the scrapbooks I made for our clients. For each job, I gathered bits and pieces of construction-related ephemera like old wallpaper and purchase orders, took before-and-after pictures as well as progress shots, and included comments and funny stories from the crew. Homeowners loved the scrapbooks, and I kept floor copies to show prospective clients, like a very personal portfolio. It always gave me a nice feeling of satisfaction to see how everything turned out. Maybe I should do some scrapbooking tonight.

I pulled up to the old farmhouse I shared with Dad and Stan—and, most recently, Cookie—in Oakland’s Fruitvale section. The silhouette of Dog’s head popped up in the living room window, and I could hear him barking to welcome me home as I skirted the house to the back door.

Dad was standing in front of the old Wedgewood stove, wooden spoon in hand. A huge soup pot sent billows of steam toward the ceiling, and the air carried the delicious aroma of tomatoes, garlic, and oregano.

“Hi, babe. Spaghetti night,” he announced happily as I walked in.

“Smells great.”

“Stan’s still in the office. About half an hour to dinner. You want regular spaghetti or one of your fancy kinds?”

Dad was a fan of spaghetti, though he occasionally ventured into linguine territory. He considered my interest in other shapes of pasta to be exotic, even erudite.

“Chef’s choice. Thanks, Dad.”

As I started down the hall to the office, I noticed the lights were on in the dining room. The dining room rarely saw much use, as we all preferred the homey informality of the pine table in the alcove off the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

My sister was seated at the dining room table, surrounded by the papers and photos I’d been collecting to make a scrapbook for the Bernini B&B. Scattered across the table were colored pencils and pens; several glitter glues; a pile of cutesy labels; a pair of scissors that made a scrolly design instead of a straight edge; ink pads and stamps; a stack of patterned paper; and something that looked a lot like cotton candy. Somebody had had a very good time in the local arts and crafts superstore.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Guess!”

“I’m not very good at guessing, so why don’t you just tell me?”

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport! Guess!”

I felt like snapping at her. Cookie’s cheerfulness inevitably had this effect on my grumpy self. I swallowed my irritation and guessed.

“Is it . . . somebody’s birthday?”

“Nope! Try again!”

“Um . . . One of the kids’ school projects?”

Cookie looked shocked. “Don’t be silly! You
know
I’m not one of those parents who does their kids’ projects for them! Really, Mel. Give me some credit.”

“I give up.”

Cookie pouted. “You didn’t really try.”

“I really did.”

Cookie sighed. “Well, Dad keeps saying how hard you work, so I thought I’d help out. You know I’ve always had a knack for crafty things.”

I nodded. Cookie and Daphne had inherited from our clever mother a full complement of crafty genes. Daphne knitted and sewed and crocheted. Cookie had a huge loom that took up the entire garage, forcing Kyle to rent space in a nearby parking structure for their matching Lexus SUVs.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have a flair for crafts of any kind, other than building houses. I was good at that.

Still, even though I wasn’t particularly inventive or clever with the scrapbooks I created for Turner Construction’s clients, I had modeled them on the ones my mother used to make. They weren’t as good as hers but were reasonably well put-together. I had been rather proud of them, given that I was usually so lame at such things.

But now, Cookie was taking scrapbooking to a whole new level: layering different textures and patterns in a way that somehow worked.

“Doesn’t this look great?”

I had to admit it did. The glitter glue and use of lots of pink and lavender shades wouldn’t have been my choice, yet the proprietor of the Bernini B&B was a Doris Day lookalike who wore a strand of pearls even when cleaning the bathrooms. She was going to
love
the glitter.

“It really does,” I said, thumbing through the pages. No globs of glue, no ragged edges. She was right—she was better at this than I was. I imagined it sitting on a credenza in the front hall of the B and B, the guests turning the pages, imagining the history of the place as well as visualizing its transformation into the graceful inn it had become. “Um, thanks for doing that. I’m sure they’ll really like it.”

“No prob! Do you have another one you want me to do?”

“I thought I’d put together something for last weekend’s client, Monty. But I don’t have nearly as much stuff—the Bernini B&B was a huge renovation, and we’ve been working there a long time.”

“Well, hand it over and let’s see what we can do!”

Speaking of Monty’s house, I meant to check in with Luz about getting copies of the photos she took on Saturday. And that reminded me to call the Neighbors Together office again. I’d tried twice but had received no callback. I could only imagine that once the big push for the Work Weekend was behind them, the staff took a few well-deserved days off. Still, I needed to speak with the director and let her know what had happened and that I was continuing the project this coming weekend. I hoped. I couldn’t imagine why we couldn’t, but as Inspector Crawford often reminded me, I don’t think like a cop.

I left the scrapbooking to Cookie and met with Stan in our home office. I returned a few phone calls, tried the Neighbors Together number and got the machine again, and then Stan and I went over some paperwork issues that had come up during the day.

“Mel, not to change the subject, but have you noticed anything . . . odd about Monty?” Stan asked.

“Odd like what?”

He stuck out his chin and inclined his head. Stan hailed from Oklahoma and had a calm, folksy way about him that charmed everyone around him. He was a quiet sort who rarely had a bad word to say about anyone.

“I just wondered . . . you say he’s a T-three paraplegic?”

“I think that’s what he said. I don’t remember the details of his injury, though. He’s been in the chair for a few years.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“What is it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Does he have a motorized chair, do you know?”

“I’ve only seen him in the manual one. Why?”

“It’s unusual for someone with that level of injury not to have a motorized chair. It’s also unusual for someone who uses only a manual chair not to have developed more muscle in his chest and arms—that’s why I’m so well built.” He added the last with a smile.

“Huh. I guess I never thought about it.”

“Probably his motorized chair is in the shop. Those things cost an arm and a leg—no pun intended—so probably he’s using his manual one in the interim.”

“Probably. Now tell me the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Come on, Stan, I know when you’re holding back.”

He shrugged again. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just . . . you know how when you get together with builders, y’all talk shop? It’s natural. Well, when I’m with others in chairs, sooner or later we start comparing our chairs, or sharing notes on new products or methods, or recounting our physical ailments. There was none of that with Monty. He didn’t even seem to want to talk about the ramp very much—and let me tell you, when you’re in a chair, a ramp is a very big deal.”

“Are you saying he’s making this up?”

“Nah. Not really. He’s a bit of a character; maybe we just didn’t mesh for some reason. Personality conflict and all that.”

The phone rang, and Stan answered with his practiced “Turner Construction. Stan speaking.” Before he had finished his conversation, Dad yelled that dinner was served.

“Hey, I got a bone to pick with you,” said Dad as he, Stan, Cookie, and I sat down to spaghetti, salad, garlic bread, and cheap Chianti—everything, with the exception of the wine, liberally dosed with garlic. We would all be reeking tonight. “Etta said something about you volunteering me to be . . . what? A neighborhood big brother?”

“Something like that. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

“Look, volunteerism isn’t something you can do once a year and that’s it,” I said as Dog landed heavily on my feet, taking up his position under the table in case any food fell. We hadn’t had to sweep in the kitchen since he’d arrived in our lives. “You have to commit yourself. And this will be fun—you know you can whip that model train set into shape, and you’re good with kids. Besides, you yourself said you’d like to see some further work done on that house. And Etta’s a sweetheart.”

“She’s a nice little old lady, true.”

“She’s not much older than you are, Dad.”

Cookie snickered and passed on the buttery garlic bread, citing her diet. I took her portion.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I don’t see why we can’t do some work over there, strip that woodwork, and fix up the front entry and living room, while you spend a little time working on the railroad.” I laughed. “Get it? Working on the railroad, all the live long daaay . . .”

Cookie and Dad both grimaced—even Dog barked. Only Stan appreciated my musical stylings, and since he was a devoted fan of some truly wretched backwoods Oklahoma bands, I should probably consider the source.

•   •   •

The next morning, my phone rang way too early. Afraid it was a construction emergency, I answered. Unfortunately, the voice on the other end of the line was one I had been hoping not to hear for a while.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” said Inspector Crawford in a tone that indicated she wasn’t all that sorry when it came right down to it. “I remember you told me you were an early bird. I was hoping you could meet me somewhere before work. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“You want to buy me a cup of coffee?” I croaked.

Annette and I weren’t exactly coffee buddies. We were more along the lines of . . . She thought it was weird that I showed up at crime scenes and talked about ghosts but she wasn’t ready to throw me in the slammer yet and occasionally I was actually able to resolve the situation and even though it seemed suspicious to her she couldn’t pin anything on me. Like that.

“Or tea. Choose your poison.” There was a note of false humor in her voice. What was up with her?

“Um . . . okay,” I said, ignoring the little voice saying
noooo.
I really didn’t want to get up and showered and dressed to be interrogated once again about something that—really, this time—I had nothing to do with.

But one of the reasons I got involved with volunteer projects, had the dog currently curled up on the little rug next to my bed, and was living at my father’s house and running Turner Construction was that I had a very hard time saying no.
That
should have been my New Year’s resolution: Grow a backbone.

I agreed to meet Annette at Stephen’s workplace, Caffe Trieste, off Columbus Avenue. Because if you’re going to be roused from your bed by a homicide inspector, the very least you can ask for is some decent coffee and a friend at your back.

After showering and dressing, I tried to sail through the kitchen, hoping my father was too busy cooking for my sister that he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t going to eat or even bother with coffee. But Cookie wasn’t in the kitchen yet. Sleeping in, no doubt. What with her busy schedule of scrapbooking and all.

“Take your sister with you today,” Dad said, drawing me aside and speaking in a loud whisper.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it, please. She has nothing to do all day but sit around moping.”

“She could answer her husband’s phone calls,” I suggested. “That would be something to do. What’s going on with them, anyway?”

Dad shrugged and started breaking eggs one-handed, skillfully letting only the whites fall into the mixing bowl.

“Nobody tells me anything around here. Maybe you can figure it out.”

I had the sense that he knew more than he was letting on. One thing I can say for my father: He’s the soul of discretion when he feels something isn’t his business.

“All I know is that the kids are at Disneyworld with Kyle’s parents,” said Dad.

“So she hasn’t mentioned how long she’ll be in town?”