Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (24 page)

“Graham, seriously. Why would you want to go out to dinner with someone like me? Look at me.”

He released a deep breath, put his finger under my chin, and lifted my face to his. “I’m just as dirty as you are.”

“It’s not just that. Dad says I’m like Typhoid Mary. Trouble follows me wherever I go.”

He smiled. “And I’d be better suited with, say, someone like Cookie?”

I punched him lightly in the ribs. “Oh, by the way: Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Don’t get too excited . . . I was going to invite you to a séance. At the Murder House.”

He let out a bark of laughter that reverberated in the cavernous parking structure. He shook his head. “I cannot
wait
to see your sister at a séance.”

“Cookie is
not
coming along.”

“Sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

“W
hy
can’t
I go?” Cookie whined. “You always think you’re the only one that can do anything.”

“It’s not a game, Cookie. This is serious.”

“Come on, Mel. Really, you’re saying you
talk
to ghosts? Like they were
people
?”

“It’s not that simple. But . . . don’t you remember Mom sort of . . . knowing things she couldn’t have known?”

“Well, sure. But that’s called being a mother.” She didn’t even try to keep the smugness from her voice. “You would know if you had children.”

“I do have a child. He was here for dinner last night, remember?”

“Caleb’s a doll, but he’s your stepson. It’s not the same.”

“Wanna bet?” As someone who had adopted—more or less—her stepson, I realized that few people could understand the level of my love and connection to the boy. My feelings toward Caleb were so deep that it was shocking when others assumed my bond with him was less than a parent’s. But that wasn’t the point of the argument here.

I tried again. “All I was trying to say was that Mom knew things; she saw things in the houses we were flipping. Just ask Dad. Mom was able to intuit and communicate with spirits or ghosts, whatever you want to call them. Apparently I am, too.”

“You always did think you were Mom’s favorite. Just because you took off and had your fancy life all over the world while the rest of us settled down and raised families, you think she admired you the most.”

“I . . . What are you
talking
about?” As was so often the case when speaking with my sister, I was shocked to learn how thoroughly we misunderstood each other. What “fancy life” was she
talking
about? Hadn’t she noticed that I’d been mired in divorce and post-divorce pain and petulance for the past several years?

I didn’t know how to respond. She was so off the mark that I couldn’t think what to say in rebuttal. Not to mention that it had nothing to do with what I was trying to explain to her.

“I would love to go to Paris and Rome and London and wherever else it was you and Daniel were always jetting off to all those years while you were married. But I had responsibilities at home. I had children and a husband who works so much I scarcely see him. Do you know I don’t even have a passport? I’ve never needed one because I never go
anywhere
!”

I was stunned at her interpretation of the “glamorous” life I had led with my now ex-husband, Daniel. Most of what I remembered about those trips was exploring on my own because Daniel was busy giving papers at conferences and meeting with publishers and giving lectures at foreign universities. Cookie and I had rarely talked during those years, so she had no way of knowing that all was not what it seemed. “So get a passport. Take a trip with Kyle. Nothing’s stopping you.”

“He won’t want to.”

“Have you asked him?”

“My marriage is none of your business, Mel.”

“Fine. My work is none of
your
business, Cookie.”

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Dad demanded as he walked in, and Cookie immediately turned to him for support.

“Why does
Mel
get to go to séances? How come
she’s
the only one able to talk to ghosts? Maybe
I’m
a ghost talker, too. I tell you one thing: I’m way cuter than that ghost whisperer on TV. I’ll bet I could have a reality series!”

“There already is one,” I grumbled.

“I’m way cuter. Seriously, Mel. I saw that show when we were at Olivier’s shop.”

“Why’d you take your sister to the wacko’s whaddayacallit? The ghost store? You gave her ideas.”

“
You
said I had to, remember?”

“All I want is to go to one lousy séance with my sister,” said Cookie. “I really don’t think that’s asking too much.”

“Take your sister with you, Mel. She won’t hurt anything.”

“All right, all
right
,” I conceded. “If you want to come so badly, fine. Just don’t come crying to me if you get scared.” With luck, maybe Cookie would get the you-know-what scared out of her. Maybe she’d be a little less snide about communicating with ghosts. “But I’m not kidding, Cookie—you have to go into the situation with an open mind and follow instructions.”

“Oh, yay, let’s do it!” cried Cookie. She wrapped one arm around me and posed for my father. “Look, Daddy, we could be the next prime time ghost-hunting sister act!”

Dad and I snorted in unison.

I was really beginning to worry about myself.

•   •   •

Friday was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the incident at Murder House. I awoke with that knowledge firmly lodged in my head, and the idea didn’t leave me at any point during the day. Not while I was working on a sewer-pipe issue at the Bernini B&B, not while I was trying to explain to the Neighbors Together staff that any and all resources allocated to Monty’s house for this coming weekend should be steered over to the youth center instead, not when I was canceling the Port o’ Potty and the Dumpster that Ray had financed, not while I was pondering Monty’s health and level of criminal scumminess, and not even while I was consulting with Olivier as to what to expect at a séance.

“The crimes took place a little after nine in the evening,” said Olivier. “So we should arrive no later than eight fifteen so we can arrange ourselves and be prepared.”

“Okeydokey,” I said.

“Do not be nervous, my friend. Meredith has agreed to work with us. I assure you she is an excellent medium.”

I met Meredith a long time ago, when I was working on Matt’s house—which was also where I encountered my first ghost. Or, rather, where I was first
aware
of seeing a ghost. It was dawning on me that I might have been seeing ghosts for a long time but not registering them as such.

It sort of weirded me out, thinking like that, and I had to force myself not to go over memories and scenes of life in my head, trying to ferret out who might have been spectral. But it was a bit like one’s tongue worrying a sore tooth; it was virtually impossible to leave it alone. The little boy who was my “imaginary friend.” The young woman in sixties garb I saw one time in the high school locker room and no one else seemed to see. A watermelon vendor in the Mission with an old-fashioned stand that I thought was so cute and retro until Luz pointed out that no one else could see him.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, but I was learning to deal. Whether they were hanging around because of trauma, or stubbornness, or habit, or unfinished business . . . sometimes I could help put them to rest.

Meredith was not what I had expected from a medium, but my expectations were fueled by Hollywood—and the people I’d met at Olivier’s shop—so I always expected scarves and gypsy earrings.

But Olivier swore she was good. As did Brittany, the Haunted Home Realtor to the Stars.

“Well, super,” I said in a high-pitched voice. I noticed that the more nervous I got when dealing with ghost business, the more I spoke like a perky cheerleader. Like, well, Cookie, in fact.

Okay, now I was
really
beginning to worry about myself.

•   •   •

We arrived at eight that night and headed for the dining room where, according to the police reports, no one had died. We ringed the table with seven chairs for me, Meredith, Graham, Olivier, Hugh, Simone, and Cookie. Annette would witness the séance in the event something useful was revealed, but would not be part of the circle. Monty’s deposition had helped Annette get Linda’s death ruled a homicide, but the killer remained a mystery.

“This is excellent,” said Meredith as she walked slowly through the first floor, sensing the vibrations by holding her hands out to her side the ways mediums always did on TV.

“You almost never see this: the original furniture, the original fixtures,” said Olivier.

“Does that help?” asked Hugh. He and Simone were following Meredith and Olivier around, watching for signs of . . . what, I wasn’t sure.

“Oh, yes,” said Meredith. “Most definitely.”

“I don’t know about this Olivier fellow,” Graham said to me in a low voice. “He seems more like a used-car salesman than a ghost specialist.”

“Yes, he’s very different from you,” I said. “He’s charming.”

“Cute.”

“You just don’t like his fashion sense. Whereas I can appreciate a coat like that.”

Graham smiled. “How about if I let you dress me from now on? That way we’ll look like the cast of a post-modern production of
Les Misérables
.”

“You’ve never heard me sing, have you? For now, would you mind making a fire? Simone said she had it cleaned so we could use it tonight.”

Cookie looked bored and appeared surprised that we were taking this so seriously. I’m not sure what she expected—perhaps some version of Disney’s Haunted Mansion.

Soon a fire was blazing on the hearth, offering warmth and, along with the candles on the mantel and the table, the only source of light in the room. Hugh set a family portrait, taken the year of the murders, in the middle of the dining room table.

We all started at the sound of the door knocker. Two taps, and the door opened. Inspector Crawford.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Annette. “Are we a go for the séance?”

“Looks like,” I said.

As time passed, Meredith appeared increasingly nervous. Her wide eyes darted around the room, and she rocked back and forth on her small feet. She even began wringing her hands.

“Well then, let’s get started, shall we?” Meredith said, and everyone took a seat at the table except Annette, who leaned against the wall near the fireplace. Cookie sat on my left, and Graham sat on my right. Meredith cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice wavered a bit. Still, she spoke with authority. “We are trying to reach out to the souls who were taken from this world. I will call them, but we don’t know if they will respond to me, or to Mel, or perhaps to another in the group. No matter what happens, try not to respond with panic or fear. We are merely communicating, trying to understand what happened that night.

“Concentrate your thoughts on the beautiful family in the photo before us. Try not to speak, no matter what you hear. Anyone have any questions?”

“Will the ghosts appear to us?” Cookie asked.

“We’re not sure what will happen,” Meredith replied. “They might. If they do, do not break the circle and do not speak to them. And dear God, whatever you do, don’t scream.”

“Oh.” Cookie looked a little deflated, and I wondered if she was starting to regret coming here tonight.

“Everyone ready?” Meredith looked at each of us in turn. One by one, we nodded.

“Now,” she said. “Let us hold hands.”

Cookie’s hand was limp and warm. Graham’s hand was strong and cool. Each was reassuring in its own way. Meredith bowed her head, and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. After several minutes my mind started to wander. Was Cookie actually jealous of
me
, the younger sister who lived with her father because her life had imploded? Was Cookie, to whom the fates had been extraordinarily generous, unhappy with her life? I glanced at my sister, who was staring into the candlelight, and wondered what she was thinking.

Then the door knocker began rapping.

Bam bam bam . . .
bam
.

Meredith kept her head down, and though one or two of us—okay, me and Cookie—sneaked a few peeks, no one responded.

Then the knocking started in earnest.

Bam bam bam . . .
bam
.

Bam bam bam . . .
bam
!

Bam bam bam
 . . .
bam!

Annette got up and opened the door. The knocker was raising and lowering by itself, as though possessed.

Annette jumped back and swore a blue streak.

“There is an angry spirit here,” intoned Meredith.

I imagined little Kobe saying:
No shit, Sherlock.

The screeching of chairs pushing back from the table now rang out as we broke the circle and got to our feet.

“What is
that
about?” Cookie demanded.

“Could it be Morse code?” I said loudly. It was hard to talk over the continuous pounding. “Like an SOS?”

“No, SOS is three dashes and dots,” Cookie said. “We learned that in Girl Scout Camp, remember, Mel?”

“It’s not Morse code,” Graham said. “It’s just a door knocker.”

“Everyone, please. Sit down and re-form the circle,” said Meredith. Though her wide eyes looked scared, she remained calm. I was impressed. “This is a good sign. They are open to contact. Take your seats.”

One by one we sat back down, held hands, and bowed our heads. Cookie’s hand was a bit damp now, and I imagined mine was as well. Meredith began mumbling, but I couldn’t make out the words.

The flames in the fireplace suddenly surged, then receded, and I thought to myself,
What next? Moans and groans and rattling chains?
A candle blew out, and I stifled a nervous laugh. Could the ghostly behavior be any more clichéd? Then I thought,
Maybe ghost stories are based on what people have seen and heard.
So perhaps it wasn’t cheesy so much as accurate.