Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (23 page)

Architects were a mixed bag in my book. Many were true artists, with inspired ways of imagining both form and function. But they rarely actually took part in building anything and without such hands-on experience, they often made suggestions and drawings that made little sense for history, much less for the sanity of those of us implementing their designs. On the other hand, architects might complain, with some justification, that contractors were focused on maintaining construction schedules to the exclusion of all else.

I didn’t recognize the architect’s name, but that was no surprise. There were probably more architects than contractors in the San Francisco Bay Area.

“Well, we would like to be
creative
with this project,” Kim said.

“When we first talked, Marty said he would like the house to be eligible for the AIA award in renovation. With these kinds of changes . . .” I shook my head, appalled at the idea of stripping out the house’s unique charm. “It would be like a whole new house.”

“Josh liked the idea,” Kim mumbled as she rolled up the blueprints, her lips pursed in anger or disappointment, or both. “He was the one who recommended the architect.”

“Looks great to me,” Zach said as he placed his hand on the back of my neck and steered me out the front door. “Great to see you, Kim, as always. I’ll call you later.”

Out on the sidewalk, Zach said, “You’ve got a real way with people, you know that?”

“It would be a crime to make those kinds of changes to this house. Why don’t they go rip apart a house in a development somewhere, or build something new? They would be free to do any sort of zany project they wanted with a new house. I know an artist up in Calistoga who built an ersatz Roman villa with corrugated metal and cement. It’s incredible.”

“Plus, you made her cry.”

“I
didn’t
!”

“Where’s your car?”

“Over near Castro Street,” with, no doubt, a fifty-five-dollar parking ticket. It dawned on me that I had blithely left it there all day, lured into a false sense of security by the two-hour parking. Rats. They got me again. My parking fines, I was sure, amounted to a significant contribution to the working budgets of the various Bay Area cities.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“I can walk.”

“No, you can’t.” He clicked his key ring and an old Honda Accord lit up. “We have to talk. Get in.”

I got in.

“Did I miss something here?” Zach asked as he drove. “Last time I looked, I didn’t work for you.”

“That’s true.”

“And yet you just promised Kim that I would house-sit for her. What was that about?”

“Your place really is tiny. Think what fun it will be to have a little space.”

“Yes, except now you’ll be sharing some of this space?”

“Be a pal, Zach. I’m not going to hurt anything. Besides, I figure if a person kidnaps another person and traps her in a salvage yard, he owes her. Plus, I got you this job.”

“Hey—I helped you out on your last murder. That made us even.”

“As I recall, your information didn’t actually help me find the woman I was looking for that time, so it didn’t
really
make us even.” I looked at his handsome profile; he was clenching his jaw. “Listen, I’ll call Marty and make sure to get the go-ahead from him, okay? In fact, I’ll offer to house-sit and let you off the hook entirely, if you prefer. Although you should think about what you’re missing: the possibility of ghosts and the certainty of really good pizza. What’s not fun about that?”

* * *

I called my dad to let him know I wasn’t going to make it home for dinner. He told me Stephen and Luz had dropped by to visit with Caleb. Dad was, of course, already starting to cook a huge meal for the whole gang.

I felt a little left out. But I was glad they all got along so well—this way I didn’t feel so guilty about spending the evening in the city and foisting the care and feeding of my stepson on my dad.

Olivier’s store was in an old building in the Jackson Square area off Montgomery Street. Brick was rare in San Francisco because it did a real number on folks when the earth decided to shake, which was a common occurrence here on the Pacific Rim. If you see a real brick building—not those fake facade brick-tiles—you’ve likely found a place that dates back to the city’s Barbary Coast days. This four-story building had a plain, unembellished facade and enough blackening of the bricks to indicate its age. Three steps led to the simple front door, painted black.

Montgomery Street used to be waterfront until landfill created several more city blocks before the piers along what is now the Embarcadero. Every once in a while ruins of old ships would be discovered when crews excavated for a new office building. I was always hoping to find a way to poke my nose into one of those finds, and put my anthropology degree to work. But I never was a great archaeologist, and cultural anthropologists don’t have much legitimacy for sticking their noses into ancient buried finds.

Unless, of course, there was an otherworldly presence that only a professional ghost buster could deal with.
That
was another good reason for getting a better handle on what I was doing.

The store sported a painted shingle that hung like a pub sign from an iron rod. On it was a stylized skull and crossbones reminiscent of what one might see in old cemeteries; I remembered going out into graveyards with my mother and rubbing a crayon over paper atop similar gravestone motifs.

The sign read:

Galopin’s Ghostly Goods

(A Spirit-Hunting Supply Shoppe)

Oh, brother. Another Shoppe, and this one to serve all my ghost-busting needs.

“Ah, Mel!” Olivier greeted me as I walked through the front door. Several customers turned around to check out the new arrival. “My dear ghost-talking friend, do come in.”

“This place looks great, Olivier. I’m really . . . impressed.”

“Please, do look around and I’ll be with you momentarily. Serve yourself wine, and take some hors d’oeuvres.” He turned back to a pair of rapt-looking women.

I followed orders, poured myself a glass of Bordeaux, and munched on some puff pastries as I poked around the shop.

Scary boy-choir music played softly in the background as I perused bookshelves along exposed brick walls that held books and DVDs. I noticed old broad-planked floors that, unless I missed my guess, were likely made from lumber salvaged from old ships, back in the day. Glass display cabinets held enough high-tech gadgetry to put me in mind of RadioShack, which made an interesting contrast to the plethora of Celtic imagery, crystals, incense, crucifixes, candles, and talismans from various cultural traditions. I noticed plenty of Saint Christophers along with Buddhas, and the Virgin of Guadalupe held pride of place right next to Quan Am, an Asian bodhisattva.

Another table held crystal balls, pyramids, tarot cards, and bags of marbles.

“Help you?” asked a tiny old man wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. His gray hair stuck out in random tufts from his head.

“What do people do with the marbles?”

“It’s a method of divination. Like tarot, or runes. Same-type deal.”

I had assumed the marbles at the Bernini house were Ezekiel’s toys. Could there be something more to them?

I veered off and checked out some fun stuff that looked like it had been salvaged from post-October sales at the Halloween Superstore: tombstones and witches and ghosts and the grim reaper. A corner hutch housed a whole slew of baseball caps and T-shirts with the shop’s logo, name, and address.

“Mel!”
Olivier joined me. “What can I help you with? You are dealing with homicidal ghosts, you say? Or dare I hope this is a social visit?”

“I did want to check out your shop . . . but you’re right, I also need to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

“Of course. Dingo, would you watch the register for a moment, please?”

“’Course,” said the older man.

“His name’s Dingo?” I asked in a low voice as I followed Olivier through a doorway and up a steep set of dark stairs.

“Yes. Dingo. This is his name. Why?”

“That’s a, uh, wild dog in Australia.”

“Oh?”

I was guessing he’d never seen that movie about the baby and the dingo. Not worth going into.

The stairs opened onto a large room lined with the high multipaned windows common to buildings of this era, which valued natural sunlight. There were two conference tables, lots of folding chairs, and a screen set up in front.

“This is our classroom,” said Olivier. “Ghost Busting 101.”

“Seriously?”

“It has had a very good response so far. People are interested in how to go about such investigations in a sane and rational manner.” He gave me a significant look. “We’re starting a new course next Thursday night.”

“Oh . . . um, yeah. I’ll think about it.” One of my problems with accepting myself as a ghost talker, or whatever you wanted to call it, was that I had a hard time with a lot of the believers around me. I wasn’t sure how to handle that aspect of my talents yet. I found out only after my mother’s death that she had some ability to see the beyond. I wished I could have understood earlier and spoken to her about it—specifically, about how she dealt with it around other people.

We both took seats at the big table, and I gave Olivier an abbreviated version of what had happened in the Bernini house.

“What I don’t understand is why Anabelle won’t just speak to me, tell me what happened.”

“She may not have witnessed the recent murder. And as to her own demise—it’s common for ghosts not to know what happened. I think of it like head trauma; when someone is hit on the head hard enough to lose consciousness, their memory right before the event can be erased.” He shrugged one shoulder and pushed out his chin in the nonchalant way that only a French person could pull off. “And when you ask her about it, she might grow frustrated or upset because she does not know, and does not want to think about it. In fact, she might be appearing precisely because she’s trying to figure it out, or now hoping you will help.”

“What about her parents? From what I can tell, they died at the same time, the whole family together. I’ve seen evidence of the boy, but nothing from the parents.”

“Anyone’s guess. They might not be powerful enough, or sensitive enough. The same reason that Anabelle appeared to you in full body apparition, while her brother, apparently, only sends signs: the marbles and the writing on the wall, the playfulness in the nursery.”

I thought about the movements in the nursery, and how they had sent us all fleeing in terror. Playfulness, indeed.

Olivier’s eyes dropped down to my chest.

“I like your teacher.”

“My . . . what?”

“Your teacher. ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ I have heard you say this before. It’s a saying from the building professions?”

“Um, yes. Yes it is. But . . . do you mean T-shirt?”

“That’s what I said. Teacher.”

I smiled. I couldn’t
wait
to get to Paris.

“I think you should try to make contact with the parents, to understand what happened there.”

“How do I contact the parents?”

“You might want to practice a bit, somewhere where you are not emotionally involved. Graveyards, for example. Or even here—you could walk around upstairs in the middle of the night. This was an old brothel. Lots of activity.”

“I’m feeling a little time pressure in this case. Could you come and check out the house with me?”

He blew out a breath and ran one hand over his nearly bald head. “I am sorry to say that I am booked out for more than a month. Dingo has been promoting the shop, and my services. I am exhausted, to tell you the truth. In fact, I could use your talents, if you were to become a bit more polished. You would be well paid to contact spirits.”

“I thought you were gunning for a reality-TV show?”

He waved off the idea. “They are very ‘Hollywood,’ as you say. Nothing but wanting to exploit this sort of thing. I became disenchanted with this idea.”

Part of me was ready to accuse Olivier of exploiting the beliefs and fears of those around him. Interesting to think Hollywood was too much of such a thing for him.

“Anabelle’s always singing a tune. Do you think there could be a clue there?”

“Could be.”

“You’re not as much help as a person might hope for, you know.”

“What is this tune? Sing it for me?”

I gave it a go.

He laughed. And cringed. And shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know this. But do not make the mistake of thinking everything a spirit does is significant. She is first and foremost a child. But Anabelle sounds very good at taking advantage of the energy around her. I wonder whether she might have had some special abilities when she was alive. A psychic talent of some sort. That would explain why she is able to appear to you so easily, while the others aren’t.”

Olivier’s cell phone beeped, and he read a text. “I am sorry—they need me back downstairs.”

“Of course.” We both headed down the stairs. “By the way, the radio on my car is playing music of its own accord. Is that normal? I mean, is it paranormally normal?”

“Very much so. Radios work on different frequencies than the human ear. Sometimes spirits are able to use this.”

Before I left, Olivier and I agreed on fair compensation for the equipment he had lent me, and then he outfitted me like a real ghost buster. On impulse I grabbed a Saint Christopher medal and a little statue of Quan Am. Just in case.

Olivier raised his eyebrows at that, but just smiled as Dingo tallied up the price of my new equipment. In addition to the EMF detector and the EVP monitor with external mic, I bought a red lens flashlight—doesn’t interfere with night photography—a new digital camera, and a thirty-five-millimeter infrared camera with eight-hundred-speed film. Also a compass, because the needle moves erratically in the presence of spirits. The only recommended item I didn’t buy was a first aid kit—I had that part handled.

I even purchased a couple of business-type things: standard release forms and investigative checklists. According to Dingo, there was no actual ghost-hunting license required by the state; however, I was bound to pay taxes like any other independent “consultant.”