Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (21 page)

Not like me, I realized as I looked down at my nearly monochromatic outfit. Except for the slogan, today’s T-shirt from Stephen was black, as were my skirt and tights. I was so funereal today, in fact, that I had thrown on my sister’s bright iridescent blue green dragonfly scarf, just to spice things up.

They climbed into their vehicle and took off down the street, as though in a hurry.

Inspector Crawford’s words kept ringing in my ears:
Why is it the ghosts can’t tell you what happened?

I really wanted to get into that house and look around, see whether I could talk to Anabelle and/or Mrs. Bernini and figure out exactly what happened. Inspector Crawford had mentioned it was an easy house to break into. . . . Would that be over-the-top?
Yes.
I was pretty sure.

And anyway . . . if she knew what was happening, why didn’t Anabelle tell me at the time? Were ghosts sworn to secrecy or something? The first time I saw a ghost, he couldn’t remember what had happened, and the last time they didn’t just come out and tell me what was going on, either. I wish I knew what the afterlife rules were. Luz had been kidding, but she was right: I needed a handbook.

Since I’d started seeing ghosts, I had done a fair amount of reading on the subject. The trouble was, there was a whole lot of hooey thrown in with some semiscientific data. It was sort of like looking on the Internet to figure out whom to vote for—you had millions of hits to sort through, and at least some of them appeared to be posted by nutcases living in Unabomber-style shacks, but with an Internet connection.

The ghost-busting guy I trusted most so far was Olivier Galopin. Sort of. At least I didn’t think he was out to spout a whole lot of nonsense for his own gain. He ran ghost tours out of the Eastlake Hotel, and did the occasional gig investigating and documenting hauntings. Still, he maintained a healthy skepticism.

Not long ago he’d invited me to the opening of his new ghost-busting shop, but I hadn’t made it over there yet. I was one pathetic excuse for a ghost hunter.

Among other things, I needed to fess up to him about what happened to the equipment he’d lent me. And to ask a question or twenty.

I called him. As soon as he picked up, I asked, “Can ghosts kill people?”

Chapter Eighteen

“A
nd hello to you,
too, my house-building friend,” he said in a soft French accent. “Is someone trying to kill you? Again?”

“No. Well . . . maybe.” Surely not. That brick was just meant to scare us. Probably it was thrown by a neighborhood hooligan, as Inspector Crawford suggested. Who else could have been in the house?

Casting my mind back, I remembered the Propaks had workers in the house that day. Kim said the taps were dripping and they were trying to get the old furnace working. But it was a Sunday. Not even a full day after a murder. I’m accustomed to seeing workers and their vehicles, so I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

Olivier chuckled. “You are such a curious one. Me, if someone wants to kill me, I think I would know this for sure.”

“You’d think it would be that easy. I’ll admit, I’ve got a lot on my mind. First things first: the deadliness of ghosts. Can they actually hurt you, even kill a person?”

“This is a very complicated question. And you have not even come yet to my shop. It is the grand opening!”

“Didn’t you open a week ago?”

“Yes, but the grand opening will last all month. We are staying open late and offering a little food and drink so people can discover us. You come, have some wine, and we can discuss these new ghosts of yours.”

I glanced up the street. Just a couple of blocks away there was a profusion of greenery. Could that be the tropical garden of Owen Campbell? The famous one that Mountain now tended?

“How late are you open?”

“Until nine. But if I know you are coming, I will wait for you.”

“I’ll come on the early side. Thanks, Olivier.”

“À bientôt.”

* * *

I circled the block to view the Bernini house from the rear, walking past Victorian row houses, a couple walking arm in arm, and a woman pushing a stroller. Everything seemed quiet; the neighborhood appeared to be a peaceful urban oasis.

There were spans of fencing between the two outbuildings at the back of the Bernini property, with a gate in each stretch. I climbed up on some wooden crates piled by one fence to peek over the top. Both gates were padlocked from the inside, but with the proper athleticism or motivation a person could jump the fence.

Which someone apparently had—there were several flowers strewn upon the stone wall of the well. Or perhaps the Propaks had made the gesture.

Crime tape still cordoned off the well and a section near the fountain. According to the gossip, Mrs. Bernini had been killed before landing in the well. Could it have been a crime of passion, perhaps some argument that escalated . . . an argument over the woman promising the house to more than one person? Maybe someone had gotten angry enough about the multiple wills to push her, not intending to knock her over, not understanding how fragile she was.

It was full light out, the afternoon chilly but bright, not a cloud marring the pure blue of the January sky. It was hard to imagine ghosts on a day like this, but I recalled the scene that night: the rain, the fog, the shadows that might have been hiding a murderer.

Looking toward the well, I remembered that moment of spying the orangey yarn of Mrs. Bernini’s crocheted shawl. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Someone goosed me.

I screeched and yanked back, quite literally falling into the arms of none other than Zach Malinski.

I hit him. “You
jerk
!” I hit him again.

He put me on my feet, ducking and holding his hands in front of his face. The effectiveness of his defense was compromised by his laughter.

“Whoa!”
He couldn’t stop laughing. “Enough! I’m sorry!”

Zach was tall, good-looking, and barely thirty. Young. Way too young for the likes of me. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a friend. . . . He and I met at my first haunted house, and things had gone downhill from there. But not long ago he’d helped me out, and I had to admit that his blatant flattery and refusal to take no for an answer when asking me out were gratifying. The man was nine years my junior, but he was intriguing and, frankly, fun to be with.

But did I mention he was young?

“Did you forget your key or something? What are you doing snooping around here?”

“Just wanted a new perspective on the place. And you?”

“Wanted photos from all sides.” He gazed at me and smiled. “I understand I have you to thank for this gig. I really appreciate the recommendation. I needed the work, and . . . I’m glad you’re not holding the whole kidnapping thing against me anymore.”

I shrugged. “I saw the Propaks take off a little while ago. Do you have access to the house?”

Zach nodded. “They told me they were going to be out all day, but that I should feel free to poke around and take pictures in the changing light.”

“So they didn’t tell you what happened the other night?”

He shook his head.

“When did you speak with them last?”

“Yesterday.”

Strange they didn’t mention it. “There was a . . . murder.”

He gave me a disbelieving look and scoffed. “Get the heck out of here.”

“I’m serious. Didn’t you notice the bow on the door? Or the shrine? I thought photographers were supposed to be observant.”

“I just got here. Anyway . . . you’re kidding me, right?” he said, searching my face. “That’s
terrible
. Who was it? What happened? Wait—are you involved in this somehow?”

“No, I’m not
involved
in it. I mean”—on second thought—“not
involved
, involved. But I was here the night Mrs. Bernini was killed, and I’m trying to get the ghosts to tell me what happened. And I’ve been looking into the history of the house, and talking to some of the neighbors.” Realization was sometimes slow in dawning, but dawn it did. “Yes, I guess you could say I’m involved.”

“What happened? Did they catch the guy?”

I shook my head. “The victim was Mrs. Bernini, the elderly woman who owned the house. . . .”

“I never met her.”

“She was a sweetheart. It was . . . it’s pretty heartbreaking to think someone hurt her. So, Zach, old buddy, do you have a key to the house?”

“Yeees.” He drew the word out carefully and took a step back.

“Great. I want to get in there and look around.” I started walking toward the front of the house. After a moment I realized Zach was no longer with me. I turned around to see him lingering by the back gate.

“You coming?”

“You just told me there was a homicide here, and ghosts and, you know, a murderer on the loose.”

“So?”

“So . . . I’m thinking maybe I should look into that fast-food job, and leave the murder house—and
you
, sorry to say—well enough alone.”

“The crime didn’t even happen in the house—it was in the garden. And the police have released the scene already.”

“Uh-huh. I’m just saying. You have a way of attracting trouble.”

“
I
have a way of attracting trouble?
You’re
the criminal.”

“Not anymore. And it’s not as though I live here.”

“Fine time to decide you’re a law-abiding citizen. Didn’t I meet you during a breaking and entering?”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just ask the Propaks and go in while they’re home. Why were you sneaking around?”

“I wasn’t sneaking, exactly . . . ,” I said. “It’s just . . . look, the Propaks don’t actually have any more right to be here than we do, not really. They were Mrs. Bernini’s guests, that’s all. Anyway, they might have had a motive to get rid of her—they wanted to buy the place, and at least two other people claim Mrs. Bernini had promised to leave the house to them. And then there are foster children who might think they have something coming to them. . . . I really don’t know. But a place like this? It’s worth a fortune.”

“I get all that. What I don’t understand is why you’re snooping around. Did you become a cop since last time I saw you?”

“There are ghosts in this house, Zach. And I think I might be able to communicate with them, and maybe learn what happened.”

“I’m not really a ghost kind of guy, just FYI.” He paused. “And if the killer is around here somewhere, and believes you can actually see ghosts, and maybe one of them could tell you who killed Mrs. Bernini . . .”

I nodded. “Then I might be in danger. Which is another reason I need to figure this out, pronto.”

He looked at me for a long moment, assessing. “Or you could butt out of it, and not be in danger at all.”

“Yeah, no. Doesn’t sound like me. Besides, that ghost-talking cat is apparently out of the bag. This is a chatty neighborhood.” I put my hand out, palm up. “Hand over the key, Zach.”

“Mel . . .”

“Zach.”

He sighed, dug in his pocket, and placed the key in my palm. “Just so it’s known this is over my objections. If the Propaks find out and ask about it, I’m going to tell them you used your feminine wiles on me. Seduced me, so I didn’t even know which end was up.”

“And they’ll believe you, because I look like such a seductress.”

He smiled, reached out, and pulled on a corkscrew curl—one of a half-dozen cowlicks—that had gotten away from today’s utilitarian ponytail.

“You ever hear that poem: ‘There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead . . .’?” he recited.

I swatted his hand away. “You finish that rhyme, cameraboy, and you’ll face the wrath of the contractor.”

“That sounds bad.”

“You have no idea.”

* * *

Half an hour later, I was beyond frustrated.

I had been so sure that if I had time in the house, by myself, I would be able to make contact with Anabelle, or Mrs. Bernini, or
somebody
. But the playroom door remained locked, with no sounds emanating from within. The parlors were empty, the hallways silent. No marbles rolled down the stairs, no little-girl ghost hummed in the distance . . . nothing.

Mrs. Bernini’s bedroom was bright at this hour, with the afternoon sun streaming through French doors that opened onto the courtyard. But it was a mess: The bed had been stripped; the sheets were on the floor; the mattress was askew. Drawers were pulled open, and a few had their contents spilled on the floor. Could this be the result of a police search for clues?

Among the items strewn about the room were several beautiful crucifixes made of wood or metal. And there was an ornate carved cross hanging over her bed. Perhaps Mrs. Bernini hadn’t been quite as sanguine about living with ghosts as she had appeared.

I snuck down hallways, opened door after door, and even went up into the empty attic. To no avail. The ghosts weren’t talking.

Finally, I gave up. I found Zach in the solarium, where he was so intent on his photography he didn’t even notice me approach. He did not, however, jump like a fool when I walked in. He was a much cooler customer than I.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything . . . untoward?” I asked him.

“Untoward?”

“Ghostly?”

He smiled. “Nope. You?”

I shook my head and kicked lightly at the baseboard with the steel toe of my boot. There was a disturbingly hollow sound that indicated either that it hadn’t been built correctly in the first place, or that there was water and/or insect damage to the wood below. I was betting on the latter. I made a mental note.

“I thought ghosts roam around mostly at night,” said Zach.

“I’d like to try that, if I could figure out a way to get the Propaks out of here. But I saw the first ghost during full daylight. I think she just doesn’t want to talk. Hey, do you know this song?” I started to sing,
“With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”
I couldn’t remember the rest of the words, so I “la-laed” the rest.

An odd expression passed over Zach’s face. He looked confused. Pained, even. “That’s a song?”