Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (12 page)

More, my nervousness and—dare I say it?—
bitterness
about male-female relationships didn’t help. I was gun-shy, to say the least.

But as for the ghosts, at least Graham didn’t think I was a lunatic. He’d witnessed enough to realize there are dimensions we don’t fully understand. But he was protective of me, and if I admitted the truth, that tendency made me warm somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. Still, I wasn’t about to curtail my activities to please anyone, no matter how well he kissed.

“Let me rephrase,” said Graham. “
Please
tell me you’re not going back there.”

I didn’t say anything.

After another long moment, he grumbled: “Give me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

Chapter Eleven

T
here were a cou
ple of workers outside as I pulled up, a plumber’s van and a furnace/air-conditioning truck blocking the drive, so I parked out in the street behind Graham’s pickup.

“Do I have to tell you I think this is a bad idea?” Graham asked, leaning down to greet Dog.

In his faded jeans, worn leather work boots, black T-shirt topped with a plaid work shirt jacket, Graham cut a fine figure of a man. He’d been something of a rebel as a youth, roaring around on a motorcycle, but he worked his way through school by working on my dad’s construction crew, and grew up fast. And in the last decade or so . . . he’d mellowed. In a really good, alluring way.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Only thing worse than letting you go is letting you go alone. Your father would kill me. And I’ve seen the man’s arsenal.” He gave me a smile and pushed an unruly lock of hair out of my eyes.

After a long moment, I realized I was staring. This happened far too often when I was around Graham. It was embarrassing. Almost as mortifying as the fact that I had made a quick stop at a drugstore to buy eyeliner, mascara, bobby pins, and a comb, then done the best mini-makeover I could manage in the rearview mirror.

It’s the character that counts, I know. I stand by that principle. But sometimes bad hair makes character hard to spot.

Just as a reality check I reminded myself that Graham was the reason I had to cope with the hassle of installing rooftop solar panels on the historic Victorian I was finishing up across town. Graham was a certified “green” consultant; he was smart about construction, and had great, innovative ideas. But like most environmentalists—and I include myself in that number—he could be a real pain in the butt. Certain energy-saving features were difficult, if not impossible, to gracefully mesh with historic restoration.

Only now did I remember that I meant to keep him far away from the Bernini estate lest he screw up any chance I might have to qualify for the AIA award.

But I was getting ahead of myself: Who knew where the B&B project stood, at this juncture?

I had harbored a vague hope that Anabelle might answer the door again. I had a few questions prepared for the specter. But I didn’t even get a chance to knock—Kim Propak was out on the porch, finishing up with the workers who were getting back in their trucks and pulling out of the drive.

“Everything okay?” I asked Kim.

“Oh, the taps drip, incessantly. Also, we’re trying to get that old heater working. We’re freezing,” she said, wrapping her arms around her torso and hiking her shoulders in illustration. She looked pale, with circles under her eyes. “Who knew
plumbers
could install new gas lines, but the heating man deals with the furnace hookup? Oh,
Mel
,” she breathed. “Can you believe it?”

“Kim, this is my friend Graham Donovan,” I said. “Graham, Kim Propak.”

“Oh my, another friend. And a
dog
.”

“I just let him out for a second. I’ll put him back in the car.”

“Oh no, no. He can come in and look around. He’s a sweetie.” She rubbed his silky brown hair and he leaned into her leg, gazing up at her with impossibly big eyes. She started speaking in a baby voice: “Aren’t you a sweetie widdle baby? You want a widdle snack? Scooby snack? Cookie?”

At the sound of a word he knew, Dog’s ears perked up and he wagged and wiggled, slapping Kim’s legs with his extravagant plume of a tail.

She laughed. “Come on in, let me see what I can find in the fridge. Suppose he’d like some leftover pizza?”

“I’m sure he would, but I’d appreciate something a little plainer. A cracker or a piece of bread would be fine; he’s not picky. At all. Only thing he doesn’t like is tofu.” Which gave me pause, too, frankly.

We followed her into the front room. I peered down each hallway off the main foyer, hoping for a glimpse of Anabelle or Mrs. Bernini. No luck.

Graham and I sat on the beige brocade couch, and Dog lay at my feet.

“I just can’t believe it,” Kim said again, perching on the edge of an upholstered chair. “Poor Mrs. Bernini! They say she was . . . incognizant . . . before she was tossed in the well, so that’s good, at least. They found the spot she was . . . killed . . . in the garden, near the fountain. They think the killer was interrupted and panicked, put her body down the well to hide it. I just can’t bear to think of her . . . to think of . . .”

“I think it’s best not to think about it too much,” I said. Though, as usual, it was easier to give advice than to follow it oneself. I couldn’t get the visual out of my mind, either.

“Mel, I’m sorry to say that since Josh outlasted you here at the house, strictly speaking he won the contract.”

“Oh, that’s . . . fine,” I said, stunned that we were talking about renovating Mrs. Bernini’s home so soon, and so coldly. Besides . . . I thought
I
had outlasted Josh, strictly speaking. But I wasn’t about to quibble over the construction contract at this point. “Speaking of Josh, do you happen to know where he went last night? We didn’t see him after we found Mrs. Bernini, and then we went to call the police. . . .”

“That’s right, I heard your cell phones didn’t work? That happens to us here, as well. Do you think we’re in a dead zone?” She frowned. “I wonder if it would help to switch carriers?”

“It’s not that our phones didn’t pick up a signal. Their batteries were drained. Have you experienced that here?”

She shook her head, her pageboy still unmoving. “Sometimes they don’t pick up reception. Maybe your phones were searching for service, so they used up their batteries.”

“Maybe so. Anyway . . . Josh?”

“I really don’t know. The police tracked us down at the Lincoln Inn this morning, so we came straight over. I’m so sleepy I can’t stand it. Why, we’ve been up since before dawn.”

If Kim was planning on running a bed-and-breakfast worth its salt, I thought, she’d better get used to rising at five every morning to put fresh muffins and coffee on the table. I was beginning to wonder whether she had any inkling of the day-to-day reality of running one’s own hospitality business. From what I’d heard, it was a never-ending, difficult job—fun, but more about endurance than glamour.

“So you don’t know if the police spoke with Josh?”

“Not really. I’m sure he’ll be in touch, though. He was very determined to win this bid.”

“Do you know . . .” I searched for the right words. “Is this place a crime scene now? And are you able to continue living here in the interim, and continue with the renovation plans?”

“Oh, I don’t see why not,” she said, as though the thought had never occurred to her.

“Is the house in dispute at all? The ownership?”

“Well, the Berninis didn’t have any legal children, just foster children. I don’t think any of them normally inherit, do they?”

“I really don’t know. Is there a will?”

“Let’s not worry about any of that at this juncture,” said Marty from the doorway.

Dog’s head lolled over toward the newcomer; then he thumped his tail a couple of times before going back to sleep.

“Hello . . . ,” I said, standing up to greet him but not sure what else to say. It didn’t seem like condolences were appropriate, but then, what was? “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“Thank you. Me too. Very traumatic.”

“This is my friend Graham,” I said. “He’s in construction, as well.”

“Hello,” said Graham, holding out his hand to shake.

“Good to meet you,” said Marty. “A competitor?”

“Not at all,” answered Graham. “I work with Mel all the time. I’m a green building consultant.”

“Is that right? A green builder? I’d love to pick your brain for ideas. Do you have a card?”

Darn it.
I
knew
I shouldn’t have let Graham know about this place.

“I was just informing Mel that while we appreciate her continued interest in the project,” Kim said, “Josh technically stayed in the house longer than she, so he wins the contract.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Marty beat me to it.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Marty said. “There were extenuating circumstances. Maybe we should get all this behind us, let the dust settle, and then try again.”

From the way they were talking, it didn’t sound like Marty and Kim were letting the little hiccup of Mrs. Bernini’s death slow down their renovation plans. I’ve been accused of being hypersensitive, so maybe I was overreacting . . . but it dawned on me that the gruesome tale of an old lady down the well might not be the worst thing for a haunted bed-and-breakfast.

“There was a woman here last night who said that she was supposed to inherit the house.”

“You mean Mountain? He’s not a woman. . . .” Her eyes widened and she looked at her husband. “
Is
he?”

Marty shook his head.

“No,” I said. “It certainly wasn’t Mountain. . . . Are you saying that
Mountain
might think he was inheriting the house?”

“As I understood it,” said Kim, “Mr. Mountain was working on bringing the gardens back from the brink with the understanding that he would inherit the home. He worked for free for Mrs. Bernini.”

“Really. So, what does that do to your purchase agreement?”

“That still holds,” said Marty. “I guess the money just goes to a different source.”

“Does Mountain know that?” I asked. It always amazed me when people talked about houses as money, rather than as objects of love. If Mountain was sentimental about the Castro neighborhood, he might well be counting on the house itself, to love and fix up and take care of. If I had my heart set on a house, no amount of money would sway me.

The two shared a look. I was guessing not. “You didn’t mention it to him?”

“It was Mrs. Bernini’s idea,” said Marty. “She didn’t want him to stop working—the place was looking so fabulous. She told him we were relatives who just wanted to fix the place up. She thought, really quite reasonably, that he would be more than compensated by the money.”

That seemed rather manipulative. Maybe Mrs. Bernini wasn’t quite the sweet old woman I’d thought she was. Presuming these two were telling me the truth.

“And so the woman who claimed she was inheriting—you have no idea who she is?”

“Mmm . . .” Kim trailed off with a quick shake of her head and a little shrug, her blue eyes widening just a tad as she looked at a spot over my shoulder. I wasn’t trained at Quantico, but I was guessing she was lying. “Oh, by the way, I contacted the photographer whose name you gave me, Zach Malinski? What a sweetheart. He’s
darling
.”

Graham let out an exasperated, mirthless chuckle.

“Oh, good,” I said, hoping neither of them noticed Graham’s reaction. “I’m glad that worked out.”

Dog suddenly lifted his head, looking out into the hallway. He glanced up at me, big dark brown eyes questioning. When I petted him, he laid his head back down, but after a few seconds he lifted it again. A low rumble sounded in his chest.

Dog might be a dim bulb, but like a lot of animals he seemed able to sense spirits better than even the most sensitive human.

“You know,” I said, “the other night I left some things in the room where we stayed. Would you mind if I take a quick look upstairs?”

The smile on Kim’s face froze, but she shook her head and said, “I’ll take you up,” as she rose. Graham followed suit.

Darn it.
I was hoping to walk through the house alone.

Dog trotted along beside us, but when we got to the bottom of the stairs, he started barking, then ran the rest of the way up.

Kim gazed at me, wide-eyed.

“He does that,” I said. “It could be nothing.”

That was true. Dog occasionally seemed to remember he was on guard duty, at which point he would run around as though on the track of something real, hackles raised, and barking like a wild thing. Soon enough he would forget what he was doing and get interested in food. It was the way it went.

But right then, I heard humming, and then the song:
“A garden of posies for all little girls. . . .”

I looked all around us as we climbed the stairs but saw nothing. Neither Kim nor Graham gave any indication of hearing anything amiss. At the second-floor landing, though, there was a different kind of music—not Anabelle’s off-key singing, but the tinny notes of the toy carousel.

This, my companions heard. Kim stopped short and stared down the hall, mouth slack.

Dog crouched in the hallway, barking and snarling at the partially opened door of the playroom.

Chapter Twelve

“I
 . . . uh . . .” Kim looked ashen. Again, I couldn’t help but wonder. . . . T
his was the woman who wanted to run a haunted bed-and-breakfast? “Where is that
sound
coming from?”

“I think it’s the toy carousel in the nursery,” I said. “We heard it the other night when we stayed here.”

“I’ve never gone in there. Mrs. Bernini told us . . . she said it was best not to. We let Portia go in there and take a few things out, but I’ve never gone in.”

“How about I go check it out?” I offered.

She bobbed her head, eagerly turning back toward the stairs.

“I’m right behind you,” Graham told me.

“You really don’t have to. In fact, it might be best if I go in alone.”

“Not happening. Am I the only one who remembers there was a murder here last night?”