Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (6 page)

“What is
that
?” Stephen asked in a loud whisper.

Mrs. Bernini said, “Pizza’s here.”

“Well, that’s something different,” I said as I headed for the door. “But doesn’t horse and carriage seem a bit much in the city?”

“This
is
the Castro,” Claire said.

We opened the front door to find a young man in a Giants baseball jacket and an Oakland A’s cap covering his long, dark hair. “Oh, hey . . . ,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Bernini? She all right?”

I peered beyond him to find a beat-up yellow Volkswagen Rabbit with an illuminated Sylven’s Pizza sign on the roof. It seemed awfully pedestrian when one expected a horse and carriage.

“Hello, Raj, sweetheart,” Mrs. Bernini called out, as she slowly made her way across the foyer. “How’s your mother?”

He shrugged. “Not so good. How you doin’, Mrs. B.?”

“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my young friends. They’re here to redo the house.”

“You’re redoing the house?”

“Oh, that’s right; we’re supposed to be keeping it quiet. Don’t mention anything, will you? Those boys at the shop—I adore them, but they’re
such
gossips. Now, you keep the change on that twenty.”

He nodded and mumbled, “Thanks,” as he turned back into the chilly night.

I followed Raj out onto the porch and tried to tip him a couple more dollars. It was raining, after all.

“Naw, that’s okay,” he said. “Mrs. B.’s special. ’Preciate it, though. Oh, hey, with all this rain you should check for water in the basement. There’s, like, a stream running through there.”

“Thanks. I’ll check.”

After calling in vain for Josh one more time, we set ourselves up on the big old linoleum table in the dining room and grabbed a roll of paper towels and plates, family-style. There were two pizzas, one with a white sauce and one with a red. Either this was one cheap pizza joint, or they cut Mrs. Bernini a special deal.

“So, I have to ask, do you hear the sounds of horses every time someone comes to the door?”

“Occasionally. And only at night. Some say the sound dates back to when this place operated as a maternity hospital, and patients used to be brought here by carriage at all hours of the night. I’ve gotten rather used to such sounds, so I don’t give them much thought anymore.”

Stephen set down his slice of pizza—pea pods and shrimp on a white garlic sauce—as though he had lost his appetite.

“I’ve been trying to convince my friends that while ghosts can be frightening, they can’t hurt you.”

“That’s right,” she said with a thoughtful nod. “Although . . . I’d just . . . perhaps stay out of the nursery.”

“The nursery?” I asked.

“It’s across from the master bedroom. It . . . well, we used to let the children play there, but it made them feel odd. And Homer swore he saw ghosts there. And then there are those darned marbles.”

“I admit, I’m curious. Do you have the key to that room?”

“You don’t need one.”

“The door was locked.”

“It will open tonight.”

We all stared at her.

“What did you all think when you came to spend the night in a haunted house? The place has its own way of doing things. I just stay out of the way.”

I wondered whether I would ever become so sanguine about living full-time with such oddities. On the other hand, if you came to expect such things, and they never harmed you, I suppose one might become inured. I couldn’t help but notice that at the moment there were no ghostly figures walking by, no scraping sounds, nothing out of the ordinary beyond the horses’ hooves. The home felt warm and welcoming, just as a bed-and-breakfast should.

“I wanted to mention that I have a friend who hauls things,” I said. “He’s very good at helping to clean out homes. I’ve noticed that some of the rooms are full of odds and ends.”

Mrs. Bernini nodded. “It’s too easy to close the doors and forget what you have. But now I’ve got Portia helping me to figure out what’s here that’s worth something. Every time she visits, she hauls some of this stuff out of here.”

“That’s a good approach,” I said around a garlicky bite of pizza. “Go slowly so it doesn’t seem overwhelming. And it’s easier with another person, to help you make some decisions about what to keep or sell or give away.” I thought about how to bring up the next subject tactfully. “You do understand that when we start converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast, there will be some major changes.”

Her eyes dimmed and she played with her pizza, carefully peeling off a piece of pepperoni. She nodded vaguely but didn’t say anything.

“Anybody want tea?” Claire suggested, standing up. “Come on, Stephen, let’s go figure out the electric kettle.”

They left to give us some privacy.

“Mrs. Bernini, are you comfortable with all the work the Propaks plan to do here?”

“Of course. I signed the agreement.”

“I know that. But I’m sure if you’ve changed your mind . . . no one wants to force you to do something you’re not ready for.”

She shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t be right. I just . . . I might have made some promises to people, and I hope they won’t be upset. . . .” She waved a blue-veined hand across her face. “Oh, I don’t even know what I’m saying, for heaven’s sake. Don’t mind the ramblings of an old woman. I’m ready to go any day now. So whatever happens here doesn’t bother me. Really.”

I wasn’t convinced, but figured I’d butted into her business as much as I decently could for one evening. Stephen and Claire returned from the kitchen with four chipped mugs and a steaming teapot, but Mrs. Bernini stood to leave.

“It’s past my bedtime,” she said. “I’m going to take my evening constitutional in the garden, then head to bed. Good night, all. Sleep well.”

“Could I give you a hand?” Stephen offered. “Or get you an umbrella, maybe?”

“No, I’m not helpless. You sit right down and enjoy your tea.”

She clanked her slow, steady way through the foyer and out the French doors to the garden, heedless of the wind and rain.

Chapter Five

“Y
ou think she’s okay?” S
tephen whispered.

I nodded. “I think growing old takes courage.”

“She reminds me of my gam-gam.”

Claire cracked up. “Your
‘gam-gam’
? That sounds so . . . preverbal.”

Stephen lobbed a pizza crust at her. “Hey! I
love
my gam-gam. What do you call
your
grandmother?”

“The Nasty Old Broad.”

Stephen and I gaped at her and she laughed some more. “Kidding! We called her Nana, of course. Like normal people.”

“Nana? Seriously? Sounds like that dog from
Mary Poppins
—”

“It was
Peter Pan
,” Claire said. “Get your stories straight.”

“As fascinating as this discussion is, I suggest we explore the house before it gets too late,” I interrupted. I was worried about Mrs. Bernini, and their bickering was beginning to get on my nerves.

“At your service, ma’am,” Claire said. “You suppose Josh has been looking around, all this time?”

“Good question.” I hoped he wasn’t getting the jump on me. We would have to make up for lost time now. I had brought my backpack down earlier, so I extracted a heavy-duty flashlight for each of my ersatz ghost-hunting assistants, as well as extra batteries.

“Well, aren’t you the proper Girl Scout? Very prepared,” Stephen said.

“What’s with all the batteries?” Claire asked. “Are you expecting to find underground caverns beneath this house?”

“We might take a gander at the basement, at most. But they say ghosts sometimes siphon off the energy from electrical things like flashlights, necessitating new batteries.”

They stared at me.

“Look, I don’t really know how it works, but Olivier—”

“That French ghost-busting guy?” Claire asked.

“Right. Olivier, the French ghost-busting guy, says to always carry extra batteries. So I’m carrying extra batteries.” I could feel my face flame. Though I was “out” with my abilities to see—and sometimes communicate with—ghosts, the nitty-gritty of hunting for spirits still made me feel foolish. “So there you have it.”

“We’re not really expecting to see
actual
ghosts, though, right?” said Stephen.

Claire turned to him, incredulous. “What part of ‘spend the night in a haunted house’ did you not understand?”

Stephen shrugged. “I didn’t really focus on that. I wanted to hang out with Mel. I never get to see her anymore since she’s so busy working. Plus, I was promised pizza.”

“It
was
pretty good pizza,” Claire conceded, sticking her flashlight in her belt like a gun. “Come on, let’s go stir up some ghosts.”

* * *

“This place is such an eclectic mix of styles. It’s so much fun,” I said as we wandered down halls, peeking in through half-closed doors to parlors, antechambers, and bathrooms. “There are columns reminiscent of the Greek, but the verticality is sheer Italianate—also the bracketed cornices, of course.”

“Oh, really?” said Stephen, in a tone that indicated polite attention rather than real caring. Not everyone shared my fascination with architecture.

“Shame about the floors,” said Claire, noting the patches of warped and discolored wood.

“The strange thing is that you usually see that kind of damage in front of doors or windows, where water blows in. But here, it looks like damage from a leaky roof, coming all the way down through the ceilings.” I opened the door and inspected the edging. “In fact, all the windows, and now this door, have weather stripping. And it looks ancient. It’s really rare for an old building to have been sealed up this tight. Graham will be impressed.”

Graham Donovan was a green construction consultant. A really sexy green consultant. I had a hard time keeping him off my mind.

“I thought you said you wanted to keep Graham away from this place,” Stephen said, “so he wouldn’t ‘
muck things up by installing every freaking green technology he can think of
.’”

I glared at him.

“Something like that,” Stephen backpedaled with a shrug. “I might have gotten the wording wrong.”

“No,” I conceded. “I think that’s just about what I said. He can be a real pain in the—”

“Hey,”
Claire interrupted. She was kneeling on a built-in window seat, looking out the bay window to the courtyard garden. “The rain stopped. And it’s a full moon. Look—Mrs. Bernini looks almost like a ghost herself.”

Stephen and I joined her at the window. Mrs. Bernini did, in fact, look like a spirit shuffling down the garden path, illuminated in a soft, silvery light.

Overhead, there was a loud scraping sound and the rumble of something heavy.

It stopped. But then it was replaced by the sound of someone singing.

We all froze and looked at one another.

“Maybe Josh?” Stephen suggested.

“The scraping sound, maybe,” Claire said. “But the singing? It sounds like a child.”

“With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”

“It’s Anabelle.”

I headed for the staircase and was halfway up when I realized I had lost my entourage. Stephen and Claire remained at the base of the stairs, eyes wide and mouths agape.

“Don’t be scared,” I assured them. “She really was very sweet.”

Neither moved. I stifled a smile and reminded myself what I was asking of them.

“Tell you what: Why don’t you two wait for me down here. Just try not to freak out if you see anything, okay?”

They looked at each other; then Claire started up the stairs. “Don’t know about you, Stephen, but I’m gonna stick with the ghost professional.”

Stephen was hot on her heels. “No way I’m staying down here by myself. The guy who stays behind is always the first to be eaten.”

“No one’s going to
eat
you,” I said as I resumed climbing the stairs. “I’ve never heard of a single case of a carnivorous ghost.”

“Maybe that’s because no one ever survived to tell the tale,” Stephen said, his voice low.

We reached the hall at the top of the stairs, and I stopped to listen, a finger to my lips. Claire and Stephen, who were compulsively looking over their shoulders, bumped into me. There was some flailing and swearing.

I said a quick, fervent prayer that we weren’t all being secretly taped, that this really
wasn’t
an episode of
Punk the Contractor
. I wasn’t easily cowed by public ridicule, but our trio’s antics would be pretty tough to overcome. With my luck the footage would go viral on the Web. Even if not, funny stories were passed around—and elaborated upon—endlessly on jobsites. There was nothing construction workers savored more than the opportunity to make fun of others in the business.

The scraping sound was coming from down the hall. And though Anabelle’s singing had stopped, there was tinkling carousel music emanating from the nursery.

The previously locked door now stood ajar, spilling light into the hall.

I paused.

“Let me do the macho guy thing and go first,” said Stephen, moving to stand between me and the nursery door.

“In principle I am offended,” Claire said, standing right behind me. “In reality, I am grateful. Knock yourself out, you manly man, you.”

We huddled together, one big ghost-busting sandwich.

The floorboards creaked underfoot as we progressed, en masse, down the hall.

Stephen took a deep breath, reached out very slowly, and pushed open the nursery door.

Chapter Six

T
he carousel music stopped. As did the
scraping noise. Silence wrapped around us, leaving only the harsh sounds of our nervous breathing.

As I looked around, I saw that a rocking horse was moving, as though someone had just alighted. And the toy carousel’s brightly painted horses were still swaying. Marionettes in a puppet theater stirred slightly.

Plus, it was so cold in the room we could see our own breath.

Deep shelves held dusty old dolls with corkscrew curls, flouncy dresses, and wide, staring glass eyes. There was a mechanical monkey with cymbals in its paws, scads of lead soldiers, and several antique teddy bears. Not all the toys were old-fashioned: I recognized several Fisher-Price trucks and a garage I remembered Caleb playing with, along with some
Star Wars
and
Power Rangers
dolls. A big leather-bound toy chest doubled as a bench under the large sash windows overlooking the garden.