Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (17 page)

“It’s not that big a job,” said Josh. “There are only a few—”

“I’d like to talk to whoever’s in charge on-site.”

There was a bit of a staring contest before he gave me a brief nod. “Of course. I’ll make some inquiries, and then let you know.”

He didn’t even
know
? I knew every one of my foremen, and almost all the workers, on every site under my control.

“Could you check now?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said, glancing down at a gleaming gold watch on his tan wrist and standing. “I’m afraid I’m already late for a meeting.”

There wasn’t much else to say on the subject.

“About the Bernini house,” Josh said as Luz and I stood to leave. “It sounds as though given what happened when we stayed the night, the Propaks will be making a decision based upon a more traditional proposal.”

I nodded, not sure what he wanted me to say. But by the quizzical look he fixed on me, I was guessing I was supposed to respond.

“So it seems,” was the best I could come up with.

“I don’t know quite how to say this . . . but I hope you’re not going to include a bunch of ghost hooey in your proposal.”

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

“Mel makes it a practice not to mix ghost hooey and business,” she said.

I nodded sagely as Luz and I walked out of the inner office. As we passed through the antechamber, Braden jumped up from behind his desk and wished us a
fabulous
day.

Luz and I shared the elevator down with a well-coiffed woman in what looked like a mink coat—a highly unusual choice for San Francisco. For one thing, it wasn’t cold enough and for another, wearing furs was not popular in an area where almost half the population was some form of vegetarian and the others insisted their soon-to-be dinner be free-range and treated with dignity. The woman held a tiny dog under her arm, and by the time we escaped the confines of the elevator, Luz and I were gasping for breath, overcome by her strong perfume.

We crossed the lobby, exited the building, and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, breathing deeply of the fresh air.

“Is it just me, or was that sort of weird?” I asked.

“Definitely. Who wears White Shoulders perfume under the age of eighty? And a mink coat, in this town? Really?”

“What? No, I didn’t mean the woman in the elevator. . . . I was talking about Avery.”

“Good tea,” she replied. “But otherwise, yeah. I’d say that man has something to hide. Cute, though.”

“In a sort of Aryan-supremacy way.”

She grinned at me and slung an arm around my neck, leading me down the sidewalk toward our car.

“What
is
it with you and the Nordic peoples? They just happened to be tall and blond and gorgeous. They can’t help it, any more than you can keep from seeing ghosts.”

Chapter Fifteen

A
s I drove across town, Luz peered at t
he car radio in the dash.

“What’s with the funky music?” she asked. “Is this a station, or a CD?”

I hadn’t noticed at first, but Luz was right: The radio was playing old-timey songs that were scratchy, fading in and out. I didn’t remember turning it on.

Luz played with the knobs, but the music continued unabated. Then I heard an unmistakable tune:
“With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . . la la la la la . . .”

Luz sat back suddenly and stared at me. “It’s not on.”

“What?”

“The radio would seem to be playing,” she said as she crossed her slim arms over her chest and her gaze turned into a glare, “but it is
not
turned on.”

I fiddled with the knobs, then hit the dashboard. It wouldn’t stop.

“I suppose maybe . . . there’s a loose wire?”

“Or . . .”

“Or maybe someone could be sending a message?”

“Mel, is this like exposure therapy? Did you turn this vehicle into some kind of ghost car to try to get me over my perfectly
sane
aversion to ghosts?”

“Of course not. Stop looking at me like that. I have no explanation.”

“
I
have an explanation,” said Luz. “You’re fooling around with some scary stuff.”

“The little girl I saw at the Bernini house? She likes music. I mean . . . some of this sounds like old recordings, but every once in a while I can hear her singing that tune:
With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”
I gave it my best shot, crooning the phrase. “Do you know that song?”

She stared at me. “As your best friend I feel obligated to tell you that you have a truly wretched singing voice. I’m sure this doesn’t come as a surprise to you.”

“Do you recognize the song or not?”

“Not. But I’m just saying . . . I’m not sure I would recognize anything under these circumstances.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with . . . well . . .”

“Maybe she just likes music. But why would she be following you around, via your radio?”

“I think she wants me to do something about Mrs. Bernini’s death.”

“Something like what? She can’t tell you who did it, right?”

“I don’t think so. I have to get back into that house, preferably alone, so I can speak with her without being interrupted. It’s not . . . it’s not as simple as dropping in on a person and having a normal conversation, you know. She’s . . . a little odd.”

“Uh,
yeah
. Maybe because she’s
dead
.”

“There must be some reason she didn’t just tell me what happened, or who did it, or even straight out that Mrs. Bernini had died. I don’t think she knows.”

“Maybe you need an undead rule book.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But I have no idea where—”

“I was
kidding
,” Luz interrupted as I came to a stop in front of her condo building. She paused with her hand on the door handle before climbing out. “Listen, Mel, I wish you’d stop poking around into this ghostly murder business, but I know you won’t, so I won’t push it. But really? Figure out the radio thing, ’cause that’s just plain creepy. And from now on, when we go anywhere, we’re taking
my
car.”

* * *

After dropping off Luz, I forced my mind back into work mode. I went back to one of my renovation projects to go over the Victoriana additions with my clients, and to meet with the wood-floor refinishers.

The floor people were magicians in my book. Given the right kind of monetary motivation, they were able to match just about any kind of wood, stain, or pattern. Then they sanded it all to the exact same height, protected it with polyurethane, and it looked as though it had been perfect all along.

In this case, we needed to match a complicated Greek-key motif that was found in several of the bedrooms, but which had been ruined in the main hall because of walls moving and water damage. The cheapest way to do it was to sand and tape the design on the floor, then stain it dark to mimic the look of an inlaid pattern. Happily, the owners had deep pockets and wanted historical authenticity, so the wood was going to be actually inlaid, which was, of course, much more complicated and required more skill and time.

After okaying the staining and inlaid samples with the head floor guy and my clients, I headed outside to check on the landscaping progress.

The front yard was tiny, only large enough to host a little fountain and lush greenery. But the backyard . . . this was where a landscaper could let loose and have some fun.

I found Claire chewing a big wad of bubble gum and directing half a dozen women as they filled in the classic garden with old-fashioned flowers: aster, sage, coreopsis, Shasta daisy, delphinium, and foxglove. In addition, they were lining the main walk with rose trees, and training fuchsia bougainvillea and orange trumpet vines along the new gray-stained fence topped with lattice.

One of the many reasons I liked working with Claire was that she employed so many women. Since I always felt vaguely guilty—and distinctly frustrated—over the lack of women in the building trades, I felt that at least this way we invited some estrogen into the place.

In addition to the plantings, workers were building a fire pit encircled by benches, a play structure for the Daleys’ young son, and a small outdoor kitchen near the back door.

“Hey there,” I said as I approached, “this place is looking great. If I’m good, could I drive the Bobcat later?”

“Only if you’re good. It
is
looking great, though, isn’t it?” She blew a huge bubble, popped it, then began chewing again frenetically. “I always love this part.”

As was the case for house renovations, garden landscaping had to suffer through plenty of boring but crucial steps: setting the lighting and irrigation systems, piping gas to the fire pit and the barbecue, amending the dirt, bringing in stone or wood for paths or decking. Only then could the fun part begin: putting in the trees and shrubs and flowers and finally flicking that switch on the fire pit.

“So, how you holding up after the other night?” Claire asked. “Did you hear anything further from the cops?”

“Not much.” I shook my head, deciding to spare her the tidbit regarding the brick and its threatening note. “I doubt they’ll be calling to let us know how the case is coming.”

“You know, one thing about that night seemed odd to me. . . .”

“Only one thing?”

“Okay, several things. But that well? The Berninis raised how many kids in that house? Aren’t kids, like, forever falling down wells?”

“I think that’s mostly wells at ground level, when the opening is hidden by weeds, or the cover has rotted away,” I said. “You’d have to make an effort to fall into the well at Mrs. Bernini’s place.”

“I wonder how far back it dates,” Claire mused. “Did you know that back in the day the Castro had a waterworks that provided much of San Francisco with its drinking water?”

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “That was before the area was incorporated into the city. It was like living out in the boonies. Whenever my mom visits, we do a lot of local history stuff, walking tours and things. It’s pretty cool.”

I love history, myself, so I could understand her enthusiasm. To me, houses are our everyday connection to history. That’s why I worked on old buildings rather than, say, the suburban developments from which so many of my competitors made a fortune.

“Seems to me there was some dispute over water rights,” Claire continued. “Someone built a waterworks and got a contract with the city. Then somebody else built above him on the hill and stole the water. It was a big deal—a feud with folks taking up one side or the other.”

“Over water?”

“Wars will be fought over water, mark my words. Don’t let the San Francisco fog fool you: This area’s prone to droughts. You can live without electricity, and there are a lot of alternative heating sources. But you can’t live without water. Ever tour the old armory, over on Mission?”

“I thought a porn studio was operating out of that place.”

“I think they call it ‘erotica,’” Claire said with a shrug. “But yeah. Anyway, they give tours.”

“Of . . . ?”

“The building,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “Okay, some of the sets for the movie studio, too. Those basements, all that old stone, very evocative.
Anyway
, Mom and I went in order to see the
building
.”

“You took your mother on a tour of a porn studio?”

“No. I took my mother on a tour of an old
armory
. The reason I mention it is that in the basement of the old armory building there’s a huge room with a creek running through it. Turns out they intentionally built the place on a creek so in case they were ever under siege, the armory would have a water supply.”

“Huh. I had no idea.”

“History’s cool. Oh, and speaking of the Bernini place, I’m supposed to go over and meet with Mountain man,” she said with another pop of a bubble.

“You mean Mountain, the gardener?”

She nodded, then directed one of her assistants to move the
Brugmansia
closer to the back door. “The scent of the trumpet flowers will knock ’em out, come spring.”

“How do you know Mountain?” I asked.

“I don’t. Marty Propak called and asked if I would talk to him about the gardens.” She looked at me, perplexed. “I assumed they had mentioned it to you—they want me to come up with some sketches for the garden.”

I had given the Propaks Claire’s name the first time we met, but it seemed rather cheeky to contact her so soon after Mrs. Bernini’s death.

“Do you think there’s anything wrong with it? I’m actually super excited to talk to him, ’cause it turns out he’s the one restoring that crazy tropical garden not far from the Bernini house.”

“What tropical garden?”

“You don’t know it? It’s pretty well-known in the city, at least among us gardening types. There are specimens that go way back, from when the original owner, Owen Campbell, lived there, like, a century ago.”

“When are you meeting him?”

“This afternoon.”

“Maybe bring a friend along with you, just to be sure?”

She looked at me with a question in her eyes. “You don’t think he had anything to do with . . . what happened, do you?”

“No, of course not. I mean . . . I don’t actually know anything other than an old woman was killed, and we were nearby at the time. I just think we should be . . . cautious. Especially around anyone with an interest in the Bernini house.”

“Okay . . . I’ll bring Stephen with me.”

“Don’t you have any . . . I don’t know, any huge cousins?”

She smiled. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you? Tell you what, I’ll make like you and bring a whole entourage. And I’ll watch my back.”

“Good. There’s probably no need, but after what’s happened . . .” I trailed off with a shrug, not wanting to cast aspersions. “Oh, and could you let me know what he says? And now . . . could I drive the Bobcat?”

* * *

That evening I picked up Caleb, called ahead to tell Dad to preheat the oven, and headed over the Bay Bridge toward Oakland. We arrived to find my father making garlic bread from a big boule of sourdough. He put the tray of ravioli in the oven, then set a head of lettuce—iceberg, of course—and a few sad-looking carrots and stalks of celery out on a cutting board.