Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (29 page)

“Do you know anything about Bowles’s maternity hospital? Campbell wouldn’t have cut off water to the clinic, would he?”

“Seems like it got pretty nasty. From what I’ve read, Campbell thought Franklin Bowles was unreasonable, and suggested he was mistreating his patients. And at one point he wrote that the little girl who lived there was a real ‘witch.’ Tallulah had a difficult pregnancy, but according to Campbell, Bowles wouldn’t help her.” He shrugged. “Bowles was doctor to the city’s finest citizens. Maybe that didn’t include a nonwhite woman from the islands.”

“I heard someone refer to him as ‘Evil Campbell.’ They suggested he was responsible for the deaths of the Bowles family.”

“Yeah, I know people say that. But frankly, I think Campbell got a bad rap. From what he wrote in his diary, he seemed like an ambitious man, though he became distraught over the death of his wife. But to suggest he’d turn around a few months later and kill an entire family, with kids? From what I can tell, there was never any evidence. So it was all just conjecture.”

“And . . .” I tried to think how to phrase this. “Did he write anything about using magic of some sort? Voodoo?”

Mountain stared at me for a long moment, then shook his big head. “I see you really
have
been listening to neighborhood gossip. Campbell never mentions anything having to do with any of that.”

“Do you think I could take a look at the journal?”

“No. It’s very fragile.”

“I would be caref—”

“No.”

I took a step back.

“Sorry.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I . . . was thinking I might take it to get preserved.”

“I know a librarian down at the California Historical Society. She would know how to preserve it.”

“I’ll think about it. I’m sorry, but I really want to get back to my gardening. I still have a day job, so the daylight hours I’m home are precious.”

“Just one more thing: about the painting you mentioned? The one of Tallulah? I think I saw it in Portia’s antiques shop, right?”

He nodded. “They refuse to sell it to me. Or any of the other things Portia’s been milking from the Bernini place. Portia has this thing about only selling stuff to a proper home, or some nonsense like that. All I know is, for months now, that truck pulls up and hauls things off—I doubt they ever paid her what anything was worth. They’re like vultures.”

“Tallulah’s portrait used to be in the house?”

“I guess Mrs. Bernini found it when she was cleaning out the attic. I didn’t see it until Portia had already taken it, unfortunately.”

“If the Bowleses despised her for her heritage, why would they have kept a portrait of her?”

“Beats me. I’ve always wondered that, myself.”

Chapter Twenty-four

W
hen I walked into Kirkbride’s Antiques, Portia was speaking to a young couple about an Empire-style dining room table. Though she noticed me, she didn’t pause in her discussion, so I meandered around the shop, paying special attention to those pieces Edgar had told me had come from Mrs. Bernini’s house.

The polished walnut sideboard had a price tag that declared it was “on sale” for almost twenty thousand dollars.

Was that enough to kill over? Maybe not one single piece, but once several such antiques were tallied up?

I started sliding open the drawers. Mrs. Bernini wasn’t the most organized person in the world—what if she stashed an updated will in a drawer somewhere, and then Portia brought the piece of furniture here and discovered it? Of course, if Portia had found it, she would have told the police—or if she was, indeed, after the house, she would have hidden or destroyed it already. In any case, the drawers contained nothing but the slight scent of wood and shellac, common to old furniture. Then I spied the leather-bound chest that looked like the one I had seen in the playroom. It sported a tag that said
NOT FOR SALE
.

“Could I help you with something? Are you looking for a sideboard? That one’s quite expensive.”

“I was just looking at the trunk—didn’t I see one just like this in the playroom at Mrs. Bernini’s house?”

She nodded. “It’s not for sale, though. Our assistant took the wrong chest—he was supposed to get the one from the master, but he retrieved that one instead. It’s still full of toys.”

“Wasn’t that radio part of the Bernini estate, as well? Is it for sale?”

“It’s
very
expensive.”

Usually I’m not insulted that hoity-toity shop owners don’t think I can afford their boutique prices. The fact is, whether I could swing the money or not, they were right to doubt me. But Portia was ticking me off.

“May I ask how much?”

She looked worried. “It’s a very special radio.”

If Mountain was correct when he said Portia’s credo was to sell only to “proper homes,” I was betting I didn’t meet the criteria.

“Can I ask . . . does it play of its own accord?”

“What?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “No, of course not. It’s an old crystal radio, handmade. It’s very valuable. It’s simply not for sale.”

“I was just thinking that if the Propaks restore the Bernini house, it would be wonderful to bring back some of the original items.” Portia gazed at me, unblinking. Right about now I would trade some of my ghost-talking skills for a little interpersonal psychic sensitivity: I wished I could get a handle on this woman. “How did it work, you selling off Mrs. Bernini’s pieces? Did you pay her a percentage for each piece?”

“I brought them here on consignment, sold them, and we split the proceeds. Just like I do the property of any estate.”

“But now that Mrs. Bernini has passed, where does the money go?”

“The estate.”

“And the estate is . . . who, actually?”

Portia’s stiff face managed to look very displeased. She tucked a sleek lock of hair behind her ear and pressed her lips together.

“Mrs. Bernini left her home and all its belongings to me, with the specific wish that I use a portion of the proceeds for a few of her favorite causes: the foster program that she used to work with, and to provide Mountain with a living in exchange for his continued work with the gardens. Unless he can produce an actual will, I don’t think there is any further question about it.”

“The Propaks still insist they have a legitimate purchase agreement.”

Portia shrugged and produced a bottle of Old English scratch cover and started rubbing the already gleaming doors of a tall armoire. Her strokes were vigorous and steady. This would be the perfect occupation, I thought, for someone who felt the need to clean whenever anxious or angry. Me, I just stormed around and used power tools. Or stuck my nose into other people’s business.

“I guess . . . I don’t know. If they had a legitimate purchase agreement with Mrs. Bernini, letting them turn the place into a B&B might be the best solution. It would be good for the neighborhood. . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t
believe
she did this to us. Why would she have made so many commitments she had no intention of keeping?”

It was an excellent question, for which I had no answer. I kept thinking about the players involved as self-interested, even grasping, but it would be devastating to find that someone who had promised you so much had been lying or, at best, unclear with her intentions.

“I heard from Mrs. Bernini’s foster son the other day—Homer? And now even Raj seems to think he’s entitled to something,” she muttered as she finished with the doors and knelt to polish the base trim of the furniture.

“Raj? He thinks he’s inheriting the house?”

“Not the whole place, but he said Mrs. Bernini promised to help him with his mother’s medical bills. He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s sort of obsessed with that house. About a year ago he was arrested for breaking in there, but Mrs. Bernini refused to press charges and got him that job at the pizzeria instead. She was the queen of lost causes.”

I remembered something: When Raj delivered our pizza on Saturday night, he mentioned we should check the basement for water, as though he was familiar with the place.

“I understand Raj works for you, as well?”

“He does some odd jobs for us.”

She didn’t elaborate, and I thought it best not to push the subject. Especially since I had one more request to make of her.

“I know this might seem out of line, but could I see your copy of the will?”

She slammed down the bottle of polish and the stained rag.

“
Why?
Why do you keep coming around here, asking all these questions?”

This was an entirely legitimate query for which I had no good answer.

“Mrs. Bernini asked me to communicate with the ghosts in the house. I was there the night she was killed. I guess I just feel sort of . . . responsible. I’d like to help sort things out, if possible.”

Portia gazed at me for a long moment, then took in a deep breath and blew it out, as though willing her body to relax. Finally, she used a small key to unlock a filing cabinet, reached into the top drawer, and brought out a manila folder. From this she extracted a photocopy of a handwritten note detailing Mrs. Bernini’s last wishes, exactly as Portia had recounted them. And at the bottom of the paper were the names and signatures of two witnesses: J. D. Casey and Raj Deepak Singh.

Raj’s signature was beautiful and flowing. His script reminded me of a scroll. I had seen such handwriting before.

* * *

Upon exiting Portia’s store I saw the friendly red, white, and green storefront of Sylven’s pizzeria. After my frustrating interaction with her, I could use a more approachable source of neighborhood information.

“Can I ask you something? Do you know Portia well?” I asked J.D. after he welcomed me, once again, with open arms.

He
tsk
ed
and shook his head. “Something that thin doesn’t eat pizza, girlfriend, I can tell you that much. Edgar has to sneak over when he wants a slice, because she tells him to watch his cholesterol.”

“But you signed as a witness on her will?”

“Oh sure. That was back when Mrs. Bernini used to come by on her walks, and they asked me to sign. Why?”

“I was just wondering about Portia’s connection to Mrs. Bernini.”

“Just that she was helping her to ‘catalog’ her antiques, which seemed a lot more like Portia moving stuff out of the house if you ask me. Every few days you see Edgar’s big old HVAC truck out there, unloading stuff into the shop.”

“Edgar’s truck? He’s an HVAC technician?”

“Yup. He’s a nice fellow—Raj used to work with him, as his assistant. Edgar was training Raj, taking him around to his accounts. Now Raj keeps our clunky old pizza ovens running smoothly, doesn’t he, George?”

“Real smoothly,” said George gamely, methodically working a big ball of pizza dough.

“That first night when I came in to use the phone, the night that Mrs. Bernini died, you mentioned there had been a fight here in the store. ‘Fisticuffs,’ you called it.”

J.D. smiled and ducked his head slightly. “Ooh, George teases me about using that word. I just hated to call it a ‘fight,’ because that sounds so serious, and it was more . . . a scuffle, really.”

“Who was involved?”

“It was Edgar, as a matter of fact.”

“Edgar, and who else?”

“Mountain. Who, even though he’s got size on his side, doesn’t know much about fighting, does he, George?”

George said, “Not really, no.”

“Neither do I, though,” J.D. said with a little laugh. “I just flapped around ineffectually—it was Raj who stepped in to break it up. I don’t know what we would do without that boy.”

“Portia mentioned that Mrs. Bernini got him this job? That he broke into her house?”

J.D. gave a reluctant little nod. “I believe in second chances. He was a screwed-up kid, but he became a good worker. Mrs. Bernini did like to take on young people. They were her projects.”

“Where is Raj now, do you know? I’d like to speak with him.”

“You know, it’s the strangest thing. He’s usually quite reliable, but lately you can never pin him down.” He glanced at the big clock on the wall, in the shape of Italy. “He was due in for work nearly an hour ago, and he didn’t even call to say he’d be late.”

* * *

I called Inspector Crawford and was surprised when she answered on the first ring. It was cowardly of me, but I had rather hoped to be bumped to voice mail.

“You’re suggesting Raj was the one who wrote the threatening note?” Crawford demanded after I told her what I had seen in Portia’s shop.

“Um . . .”
For the love of all that is holy, Mel, get a grip
. It was clear Crawford considered me a rather dubious informant, and something about her attitude of utter certainty made me wonder if she might be right. Who was I to cast aspersions on Raj? After all, I was no expert in the field of handwri—

“Are you trained in handwriting analysis?” asked Crawford, finishing my thought.

I took a deep breath and pushed my case. “Portia also mentioned that Raj knows the Bernini House and once broke into the place. Far be it from me to suggest how you do your job,” I added quickly, “but I thought you might want to know. That’s all.”

“Yep, okay, we’ll bring him in for a chat. Thanks. Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s about it.” I briefly considered mentioning the “fisticuffs” in the pizza shop, but Crawford already knew about the tension between the Kirkbrides and Mountain over who was inheriting what. Besides, I was already wrung out by my brief exchange with the inspector. I wondered whether Ghost Busting 101 included any helpful information on how
not
to act like a suspicious nervous wreck around hard-nosed police officers.

After hanging up, I headed over to the Bernini house and pulled into the drive. A tall, pale man stood on the front stoop, knocking on the door.

Homer.

“I’m really glad to see you,” he said after I parked and joined him at the door. “In fact, after the other day I realized I didn’t have any way of getting in touch with you, and I just wanted to let you know, to let the whole neighborhood know, that we wanted to schedule a memorial service for Mrs. Bernini on Saturday.”