Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (18 page)

T
he next morning I spent in a meeting with some new clients in the Sunset, their architect, their interior designer and landscape designer and someone who had been appointed as “project manager,” whatever that meant. I supposed this was essentially the role Egypt had played with the Flynts. Perhaps this was a new trend among the wealthy: They were already too busy to tend to their own decorating and gardening and childrearing and cleaning, so now even the “coordination” of redoing a house was being handed off to a third party.

It was another example of the group process applied to construction work. After about twenty minutes I was about to chew my arm off to escape, but the meeting went on for an excruciating three hours.

Next, I spent nearly two hours at the bed-and-breakfast in the Castro, which was a job that should have been done until Kim Propak, the owner, decided she wanted to change the layout of the living and sitting rooms.

Ghosts were looking better all the time.

Afterward, I grabbed a late lunch from the falafel cart and then called Luz.

“I need a dose of sanity,” I said. “See you at the Historical Society?”

“Believe it or not, I’m already here. I have to go to a faculty meeting this afternoon so I thought I’d come early.”

Half an hour later I pushed open the heavy door to the archive and was immediately greeted by the unique aroma of the past, a scent I had come to love. I had spent many happy hours here searching for information to help with the renovation of one historical home or another: photographs and floor plans and the occasional ghost story or disturbing legend.

I breathed in deeply and savored the atmosphere. The hushed calm of the archive was oddly rejuvenating.

I didn’t see my friend Trish, head librarian at the archive. But Luz was already at a desk in the back, scrolling through microfiche, so I went to join her.

She was so absorbed in her reading that she barely looked up.

“Look at this,” she said. “A woman
died
in that apartment. Her name was Suzanne White. Apparently she had been dead for a while by the time they found her.”

“Was she killed by her husband?”

She shook her head. “It says here she was a widow. Her husband died a couple of years earlier. How sad.”

“How did she die?”

“No one knows. She was found in the kitchen, no signs of violence, but with a rolling pin beside her. She was only thirty-three. Plus, there was a pie in the oven, burnt to a crisp. The neighbors called her the Pie Lady, said she used to bake all the time.”

“So why is she hanging around the apartment?” I wondered aloud.

“She’s waiting to take the pie out of the oven?”

I shrugged. “It could be just that simple, though
probably not. Often hauntings are the result of a spirit that gets stuck in time and space, usually due to a traumatic event, like a sudden death, murder, or suicide.” Just call me Mel Turner, ghost lecturer. “But occasionally, if they’re strong enough or stubborn enough, spirits will stick around because they’ve got some unfinished business.”

“Trying to put things right, maybe? Can’t shuffle off this mortal coil unless the dishes are done?”

“Being murdered tends to interrupt plans,” I nodded.

“That would explain why she’s so upset, anyway.” Luz said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “So, now that we know a little about her . . . where do we go from here?”

“When’s the last time you slept?” I asked.

“What day is it?”

“That bad?”

“Worse. You know how small my apartment is. I got rid of some throw pillows because they made the place feel too crowded. The students are all lovely people, but having them underfoot is getting on my nerves. If the situation isn’t resolved soon, I may break out a rolling pin and resort to self-help.”

“Tell you what: How about I ask my dad if they can stay at our house for a few days? They’d have to sleep in the living room, but there’s plenty of space to spread out, not to mention three bathrooms.”

“Seriously?” Luz breathed.

“For you,
chica
? Anything.”

“That would be wonderful, but . . . isn’t that a lot to ask of your dad? I mean, I know he likes having Caleb over, but Caleb’s his grandson. He doesn’t even know the students.”

“So we’ll introduce them. You know how my dad is: He loves cooking big meals when we have company, and is happiest when he has something to grouse about. A bunch of hungry college students fits the bill perfectly.
I’m surprised he didn’t suggest it himself the other night at dinner.”

“He was probably distracted by the thought of your finding another body.”

“Could be. Though, not to nitpick or anything, but
I
didn’t find the body, Landon found her.”

“Ah yes, Landon. You’ve mentioned him a few times.”

“He’s Chantelle’s brother.”

“I know who he is.”

“We’ve spent a little time together.”

She raised an eyebrow. Luz and Annette Crawford both had this particular gesture down. It was so effective that I had spent some time in front of my bedroom mirror trying to master the technique, but gave up. No matter what I did both eyebrows always waggled, and I looked like an idiot.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really. He went with me to a few salvage yards, that’s all.”

“That’s all my Aunt Fanny. Continue.”

How did Luz always know when I was holding back? “Okay, there was . . . an incident.”

“Spill.”

“A car hit the fence, and we were almost crushed under lumber and metal.”

“And that happened how?”

“Not sure. It could have been an accident.”

“Or it could have been on purpose?”

“Maybe.”

“And then . . . ?”

“And then yesterday he came to Crosswinds and we found a secret passage, and saw some ghosts, and then we got a drink. It was completely innocent.”

“Was it, now?”

I knew before I said anything that this conversation would turn out this way, and yet I kept talking. Luz was the only person in my life who had this effect on me.

“It was indeed. Completely innocent.”

“And yet you feel the need to keep insisting it was innocent.”

“Don’t pull that psychoanalysis on me, Dr. Cabrera. Do you think I shouldn’t have gotten a drink with Landon?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Luz!”

She laughed, then fixed me with a pointed stare. “Let me ask you this: Did you tell Graham about having drinks with Landon?”

“Not in so many words. Do you think that means anything?”

“I think if having drinks with Landon was as innocent as you keep insisting, then you either would have mentioned it to Graham, or you wouldn’t be wondering if you should have mentioned it to Graham because it wouldn’t be an issue for you. The fact that it
is
an issue for you tells me that something more is going on, and that you probably haven’t even admitted it to yourself yet.”

Damn.
“Graham’s a great guy.”

“He
is
a great guy,” Luz confirmed.

“Handsome, smart, kind.”

“Loyal and true.”

“He’s perfect for me.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. He’s too perfect.”

“What do you mean by that?” I demanded.

Luz shrugged. “Just that you two became awfully comfortable with each other, awfully fast. Sometimes . . . I don’t know, Mel, I’m not a relationship guru—I live alone, remember? But sometimes it’s the guy who isn’t so obviously perfect who sparks the passion.”

“Graham and I have passion,” I mumbled.

“Which is wonderful. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not trying to talk you out of being with Graham,” Luz said. “Graham’s a great guy, and if he’s what you want then go for it, with my blessing.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re not a kid, Mel, you’re a grown woman who has been married, has raised a child—who’s now on the brink of leaving for college—and runs her own business. I think there’s a reason you haven’t settled down and started the family Graham has made it clear he wants. Maybe you don’t just ‘need a little time.’ Maybe you need someone else.”

I gave a little sound between a gasp and a moan.

“On the other hand,” she said, shutting down the microfiche machine and rewinding the film. “What do I know? And who is this Landon person? Maybe
he’s
the psycho killer you’re looking for, and that’s why he’s spending so much time with you. Then you will have much bigger problems on your hands.”

“Landon is
not
a psycho killer,” I said. “He doesn’t have any friends here, and he’s trying to deal with the sudden death of his sister; that’s why he’s been hanging around.”

“I’m just saying. He lost his parents early, had very little familial support, apparently has no current friends, and his sister was killed right after he arrived. Also he’s rich but not married, which I find suspicious. All I’m saying is that with your track record, you might want to be cautious.”

“Luz . . .”

“Anyhow, as fun as it is to scroll through microfiche, I have to get going. Faculty meeting. Sorry I can’t hang out,” she looked around the library, where three patrons were quietly absorbed in reading. “You think you’re safe here?”

“Very funny. Even
I
can’t get in trouble at the California Historical Society.”

She raised one eyebrow again. “Don’t tempt fate,
chica
.”

•   •   •

I went up to the counter and asked for help finding any information on the Summerton family, of Crosswinds. After ten minutes the young man handed me a slim file.

“Doesn’t look like much. Sorry,” he said. “Mostly about the house.”

Well, that was something. And in fact I did find something useful: a photograph of Peregrine Summerton. Beetled brow, muttonchops, broad, florid face. Looking supremely unhappy. That seemed to be his status quo.

So at least I was sure that it was, indeed, Peregrine Summerton’s ghost haunting Crosswinds. Calling out for his daughter.

I couldn’t find out anything more about the Summerton family, or Crosswinds, beyond some original drawings and blueprints of the home, which I photocopied. The older son went to school back east to become a lawyer, the younger went into the lumber business. Flora seemed to have disappeared entirely.

I approached the readers’ services desk to hand the file back, and let out a sigh of relief. Trish, archivist extraordinaire, looked up from the papers she was working on and smiled. I was saved.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mel Turner,” Trish said. “Of all the archives in all the world, you had to walk into mine. Long time no see.”

“Good to be back. How’s life in the archives?”

“Oh, you know, it’s not all it’s
stacked up
to be. Get it?”

I groaned. “What is it with puns, lately?”

She laughed softly. “What can I help you find this fine, fair day?”

“I need the lowdown on the Summerton family who used to own Crosswinds mansion in Pacific Heights. I don’t suppose you have a Top Secret file with all their dirty laundry, do you?”

She frowned slightly. “Can’t swear we don’t have some dirty laundry hiding around here somewhere, but nothing leaps to mind. Did you do the usual searches?”

“Yes, but no luck finding anything juicy on the Summertons.”

“Murder, suicide, scandal?”

“The usual.”

She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling, and I waited silently while she did a mental search. Trish had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of local history thanks to years spent curating the Historical Society’s collections, though she claimed she was just nosy. “Nothing leaps to mind. . . .” She trailed off, then cocked her head at the file lying on the counter, upside down to her. “What street did they live on, upper Broadway?”

I nodded.

“The Rutherfords, of course!”

“Who, now?”

“The Rutherfords lived on that same block.”

“Okay . . . and they’re significant—why?”

“The Rutherfords were big boosters of the city and all things cultural, gave a lot of money to save and archive documents from San Francisco’s early days. That happened a lot in the late nineteenth century: Families with money sought to celebrate their accomplishments, and ensure their legacy, by building monuments and founding historical societies. Hard to be forgotten when you’ve endowed an organization dedicated to remembering the past.”

“I don’t follow.”

She waved a hand in the air and started to type
something on the keyboard in front of her. “It doesn’t really matter. I only mention it because the Rutherfords not only endowed the Historical Society but donated their extensive collection of family papers.”

“Oh. You mean the Summertons might have done the same thing?”

“No such luck; what you have there in the file is all there is on the Summertons. That’s not that unusual; a lot of people burned their private papers before they died. . . .” She focused on her computer screen, jotted something on a pad of paper, tore off the top sheet, and said, “Let’s go.”

I followed Trish through a door into the archive’s closed stacks. I’d seen this area once before when I’d taken the tour. Tightly packed metal shelving soared three stories high and held tens of thousands of bound volumes: some small, some large. The area was climate controlled to prevent mold and mildew, and the lights were kept low so as not to fade old ink. Trish strode briskly past the books, heading for a door marked M
ANUSCRIPTS
. Inside the Manuscripts room were more shelves filled with archival boxes of various sizes, each meticulously labeled with the name of the collection.

“Let’s see . . .” Trish muttered as she scanned the boxes. “Randolph, Remington, Roscoe . . . Here we are: Rutherford.” Box after box contained what was clearly an extensive collection of the Rutherford Family Papers. She glanced at the paper in her hand, and selected a few boxes and set them down on a large wooden table in the center of the room. “Have a seat,” she said, and I pulled up a chair.

“The Rutherfords were neighbors of the Summertons, not that that mattered. The families that made up San Francisco’s high society in the late nineteenth century were a close-knit and interconnected group. A lot of
them had nothing to do but spend money and gossip, and their favorite topic was one another: who was doing what to whom, who said what about whom. ’Twas ever so, I suppose.”