Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (26 page)

“And the rest of the family?”

“Things got out of hand. Ray expected Sidney to be alone that night, remember? Maybe he was planning on taking him out, assuming it would be blamed on the neighborhood violence. But he abandoned the idea when he realized the family was home. Then Bridget was snooping in his jacket for cigarettes and pulled out the loaded gun. He lashed out to keep her quiet but wound up hurting her. He didn’t know his own strength.”

Again, I remembered Ray’s words:
He didn’t know his own strength. None of us do, until we’re tested.

“Then the mom ran in, and he shot her to keep her quiet. She was crying out for Sidney, who was out in the shed.”

“The shed where we found Linda.”

“The very one. And when Sidney ran in, Ray shot him, too. Realizing Linda thought it was her father who’d done the deed, he made it look like Sidney had shot himself. But then, last week, Linda sees Hugh at the base of the stairs and thinks it’s her father’s ghost. Maybe it clicked then, and she realized it had been Ray.”

“So Ray killed Linda to keep her quiet, and figured he’d stash the body in the basement floor of Monty’s house, since he thought Monty couldn’t go down there in his wheelchair.”

“Right. And he made a point to sponsor Monty’s house, I guess, in a kind of secret apology. But when Ray realized Monty could walk, and Linda’s body was found down in the shed, he figured Monty moved it—but also thought maybe Monty had seen him earlier with Linda’s body. Ray must have been a nervous wreck, wondering if and when Monty would say anything.”

“All right, we don’t have enough evidence to hold him, but I’ll bring him in for questioning.”

We hung up. On the plus side, it looked like I really did now have a friend in the SFPD. Unfortunately, it was for all the wrong reasons.

I remained in the car for a moment, petting Dog and gazing at Murder House.

It was overwhelming. Could a trusted family friend really carry out such atrocities, then go on with his life, just like that? And never kill again?

Actually . . . he
had
killed again. Linda. She realized it had been Ray she saw at the base of the stairs, rather than her father. Foolishly, she thought to blackmail him rather than running to tell the world what he’d done. She was no foe for a man already saddled with such sins.

Do you believe in demons?
Ray had once asked me.

I was beginning to.

T
he blue knocker lay still and foreboding against the front door.

These knockers used to remind me of Paris, but I feared from now on they would carry a different association for me.

I reached out, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal of the hand. Lifted it up, banged it down.
Bam
. Twice more:
Bam
.
Bam.
And then a pause, one more
bam
.

I had no idea what I was doing, but perhaps the ghosts would recognize their own knocking pattern. I wanted some time alone with these ghosts. Perhaps, if I was right about Ray, I could let these ghosts know that he had been discovered and finally lay them to rest. That justice would be done, at long last.

Dog stood behind me, growling from some deep place in his furry chest.

The door swung in slowly. Dog immediately raced past me, running up the stairs, barking.

I crossed the tiled entry and stood on the spot where Jean Lawrence had died, calling out for her husband. Feeling nothing, I walked over toward the fireplace, where poor Bridget had fallen.

Nothing. No cold spots, no sounds, no eerie, blue-gray scenes unreeling like an old home movie.

“I want to talk to you,” I said, my hand reaching for my grandmother’s wedding ring hanging on a chain around my neck. I wasn’t afraid of these ghosts, not anymore. I was afraid of how they died, of the rage and cold ambition that could push a seemingly normal person to do the unthinkable. I didn’t want to know something like that was possible.

But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was. Ray was “part of the family,” but he always knocked. Jean recognized the pattern as his. Bam bam bam . . .
bam
. He had knocked that night. Was that why the sounds rang out, over and over?

“Dog?” I whistled. “Come here, sweetie.”

More barking from upstairs was my only response.

It was possible Dog was chasing spirits. It was also possible he was chasing dust motes. Like most animals, he was more tuned in to spirits than were humans. But like a lot of dogs, his attention wavered. And Dog wasn’t all that bright.

But then I heard a yelp and a panicked canine cry.

“Dog?”
I ran up the stairs and down the hall. “Dog, come here, boy!”

The door of the second bedroom was ajar. I stopped short in the doorway.

Ray had Dog by the collar. He held a gun to my pet’s head.

I swallowed hard and tried to steady my hammering heart with a deep breath, which I let out slowly. We all, even Dog, seemed to freeze: a strange tableau.

“I thought you were meeting Monty at the youth center,” I said inanely.

“Change of plans,” said Ray.

The knowledge that I was right about the man before me was small comfort when I realized that I was here with no backup save the four-footed variety now in the clutches of the very evil I had been contemplating. My dad would be pulling up at Etta’s soon. My mind cast around for some way to make enough noise to get his attention.

“What are you doing here?” My hand went toward my pocket, hoping I might be able to surreptitiously hit the panic button on my car keys and set off the alarm. It would annoy the neighbors and attract attention.

“Uh-uh—keep your hands up.”

Ray shook his head, looked at me with tears in his already red-rimmed eyes. His skin had a gray cast, haggard. He looked like a man on his last legs.

“You already figured it out, right? I mean, it’s not like I gave myself away right this second, what with the gun and everything?”

I shook my head. I don’t know why it would comfort him to know the gig was already up, but I played into it.

“We all figured it out,” I said, hoping that now that all was said and done, he would let me go. “It’s over, Ray. Time to get it off your chest, move on.”

Unfortunately, my two-bit psychology wasn’t enough to get this madman to put down his gun. Dog squirmed and wriggled, looking at me with imploring eyes, certain I had everything under control. Such trust felt like a burden under the circumstances.

“I can’t . . . I can’t go on like this.”

“Of course not. Ray, you never intended for this to happen; I know that. I can see what happened that night.”

“I wondered if you could. Why didn’t you turn me in then?”

“I couldn’t see you clearly . . . but the events of that night played out like one of Sidney’s home movies.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “He loved that damned vintage movie player. I bought it for him, you know.”

“You two were good friends, weren’t you?”

“Best friends. People thought we were brothers.”

“You really were Uncle Ray. You never intended to hurt anyone, did you?”

“Oh, I meant to kill Sidney.”

So much for assuming good intentions. “Why?”

“I had to. He was just about to figure out what was going on, that I was skimming funds from the company. There was an independent review scheduled. But . . . I really don’t know if I could have done it. Really. I’d been drinking that night, and I had it in my mind, but even when I was knocking, I thought,
I can’t do this
. And then the family was home. . . . They weren’t supposed to be home.”

“I know. They surprised you.” I remember Annette telling me how it sickened her, to have to pretend to empathize with killers, be their pal, so she’d gain their confidence and they’d tell her what happened. I understood that now, at a visceral level, as my guts roiled in my belly.

“It was Bridget at first. She found the gun; she was about to make a stink. I didn’t think, just picked up the closest thing to shut her up. But then Jean came running out of the kitchen, screaming at me, calling out for
‘my baby, my baby. . . .’
It was horrible.”

I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice to speak.

Dog tried to move away, but Ray yanked him back, and he let out another yelp, tail wagging frenetically as he stared at me as if to say, “Get me out of here, please?” I tried to relax, hoping that would ease his anxiety.

“And I had to keep her quiet, too, so I shot her. She didn’t die right away, though. She fell at the foot of the stairs, whapped her head so hard on the tile I thought she’d be out, but she kept trying to get up. Kept calling for Sidney. He was out in the shed, of course, tinkering like he always did. He must have heard the gunshot, because he came running in. He was in the kitchen, yelling for Jean, when I looked up and saw little Linda at the top of the stairs. In a flannel nightie. White with pink roses. I . . . I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot her. I shot Jean again because she wouldn’t stop screaming; it was too horrible. . . . Then I was going to shoot myself. I swear I was. But then Sidney was there, running toward me . . . and I shot him as well.” He shook his head. “I didn’t . . . I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Ray, you didn’t mean for any of it to happen like that; I can see that. Let’s just get you to someone who will understand—you don’t have to keep this up. Now let me have my dog.”

“He tried to bite me. I was about to shoot him, but then you showed up. Do you have any idea how easy it is to shoot someone? Or some . . . dog? Too easy.”

I shook my head again. Ray looked down at the wriggling dog with cold, distant eyes.

“You’re okay, though, right?” I asked. “I mean, now Linda’s gone, no one can tell on you. No one needs to know the truth.”

“
You
know.”

I tried to laugh. It didn’t sound natural, but I was hoping it would fool Ray. “Hey, who’s going to believe
me
? I’m just a nosy general contractor. Really, you should see my track record—I’m always wrong. You let me leave with my dog, and it’s my word against yours, right? What am I doing to say, that I saw you commit a murder during a séance? No prosecutor in his right mind would put me on the witness stand—if he even believed me. There’s no proof you were even here that night. There’s no evidence of anything, Ray: nothing from the long-ago crime, and Linda’s body was moved, so there wasn’t any forensic evidence from that, either.”

“That was a stroke of luck, right? I guess I was born under a lucky star.”

Yeah. I wasn’t going to engage in
that
conversation.

“I thought little Linda would run and tell. Fully expected her to. But she said it was her daddy. I guess she was so traumatized by what she saw, she couldn’t tell fact from fiction anymore. And then I realized: I
should
be her daddy. Those children needed someone to take care of them. I took their parents away; the least I could do was take care of them. And now that Sidney was gone, the embezzlement charges evaporated, and I could take good care of them financially as well.”

“That was good. You did well by them. You’ve done a lot of good things, Ray. Anyone can see that. You’ve given a lot to the community. Let me have Dog, and we can get out of here, okay? This house . . . It isn’t good for anyone.”

There was a long pause. My mind raced, trying to think of what to do next. There was nothing within reach to defend myself with, and he had a gun. Even my cell phone was downstairs, in my purse.

“You’re right—this house is bad.
Evil
.” In one fluid movement, Ray released Dog and brought the gun up to his temple. Dog whipped around and sunk his teeth into Ray’s thigh with a ferocious growl.

Ray cried out, and when he tried to strike Dog the gun flew out of his grasp.

I launched myself at the deadly hardware, landing on my stomach on the floor, my fingers wrapping around the cold steel.

I felt Ray try to grab it from me, but we rolled on the floor, tussling. Dog flung himself into the fray, snarling and spitting, sinking his teeth into Ray’s neck and shoulders. I heard Ray cry out in pain, and as he reared back to push Dog away, I scrambled to my feet and pointed the gun at him.

“Dog! Stop!” I yelled. “C’m’ere, boy!”

Dog released Ray and came over to my side, though he continued to growl and bare his teeth in warning.

“Don’t move, Ray,” I said. “My dad gave me my first gun when I was eight years old, so you better believe I know how to use one. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”

Only a few moments ago, Ray had held the gun to his own head, but if he had been truly motivated, he would have had time to use it. I was betting the drive for self-preservation was strong enough to overcome his rash actions.

Ray saw the gun in my hand and stayed on his knees, blood flowing from the wounds on his thigh, neck, and shoulders. “Is he a police dog?”

“As a matter of fact, he’s a retired member of Oakland’s K-9 Corps, a highly trained canine weapon,” I said, lying my head off. In the entire time I had known him, Dog had never shown the slightest aggression toward anyone except when I was being threatened. Heaven knows we hadn’t trained him to attack; we hadn’t even trained him to sit on command. Dog spent almost all his nonsleep hours (there weren’t many) begging for food or barking at squirrels. This was a whole new side of him: WonderDog.

“Let’s go downstairs. And Ray? No sudden moves. Though it would be fitting if you were to die here, with the others.”

Although I was reasonably confident I would shoot Ray if he tried anything, I really didn’t want to find out.

“Just keep that dog off me,” he whined.

“Do what I say and you won’t have to worry about Dog. Now start walking.”

Ray headed for the stairs. I followed. Dog took up the rear, now trotting jauntily behind me as though we were out for a picnic. He was pretty Bay Area Zen about the whole thing, living in the moment.

When we reached the top of the stairs, Ray halted abruptly.

For a moment I thought I was seeing Sidney’s ghost.

Hugh stood there, pointing a gun at Ray. Seems I wasn’t the only one who had figured things out.

“It was you!” Hugh said, tears streaming down his face. No longer seemingly detached from the world, Hugh’s anguish was piercing. “All this time, all these years . . . And you . . . you were the one who did it!”

“Hugh,” I said. “It’s okay; I’ve got this. Put down the gun; I’ve got one, too. Ray’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m going to . . . I’m going to kill him! Let him die right here, like the rest of my family. My
whole family
. You’ve destroyed us!”

“Hugh,
don’t
!” I was willing to bet Hugh hadn’t spent much time at the gun range, and I didn’t fancy the idea of Hugh accidentally shooting me or Dog. Besides, although Hugh would no doubt find killing the man who had caused him so much pain to be cathartic, I feared the guilt would finish him off for good.

“Listen to me,” I continued. “You’re right; he’s responsible for all of this. But you’re a better man than he is; you know that, don’t you? So much better. If you kill him, it’ll be murder, Hugh, not self-defense. You’ll go to prison. And then he would have truly destroyed the Lawrence family. Express your emotions in your poetry instead. Your words offer beauty and insight to so many.”

“I’m useless,” said Hugh. “He’s made me useless. I can’t even take care of myself. . . . All I can do is write poetry. Simone says I would be of no use in the apocalypse.”