Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (31 page)

I turned around just in time to see a little dark-haired boy in short pants and a sweater running out the nursery door.

“Ezekiel? Come back—”

I stepped out into the hall, but there was nothing to see.

“What was it?” asked Graham from the opposite doorway.

“I thought I saw Ezekiel. The little boy. But . . . he’s gone now. You didn’t see anything?”

He shook his head.

“I think I’m making progress, at least. This was the first time he showed himself to me. Maybe Anabelle will show up soon; I have a few things to tell her.” I said the last loudly, hoping she might be listening in. I still wasn’t quite sure how it worked: whether Anabelle tracked my every move and word in the house, or she overheard only when she was near. “For now, let’s go put up that carbon monoxide monitor down in the basement.”

“That ancient furnace isn’t working, is it?”

“No. But just in case . . . in a place like this, there could be gas sources that aren’t obvious.”

While we were in the basement, I startled when I heard disembodied voices. . . . But it turned out to be Caleb and Stan talking upstairs. We could hear them clearly through the vents.

And then I heard knocking—again, nothing eerie, just a pounding on the front door.

Surely one of my sizable posse was around to answer it.

More knocking.

“I guess I should get that. You okay here?” I asked Graham, who was screwing the detection device into the low, bare wood ceiling.

“Sure, go ahead.”

I hurried up the stairs, down the hall, and into the foyer, where I spotted Dad, Caleb, and Stan in the doorway between the sitting room and the dining room.

“Are you guys suddenly deaf? Someone’s knocking at the door.”

They all stopped what they were doing to listen, but the knocking had stopped. Then I realized that not only had they been blatantly ignoring the person at the front door, but my dad had a tool in his hand and was prying off a piece of molding.

“What are you guys
doing
?” I asked.

“Pocket doors,” said Stan.

“Pocket doors . . . ?” I parroted back.

“You believe this?” said Dad. “They had pocket doors here, of course, just like all these old homes, so you could keep the rooms closed to one another, or open them up to make them one—you should know that, Mel. Some idiot put up molding to hide them, so they couldn’t be used.”

He grunted as he shoved the crowbar farther into a small gap. The molding popped off with a splintering
crack
.

“You see ’em in there?” asked Stan.

“Certainly do,” Dad replied, triumphant, peering into the opening in the wall.

“Um, guys? Hate to point this out,” I said, “but this house isn’t under contract. It isn’t . . . it’s still in legal limbo somewhere. We have no authority to start work on it yet. You have to stop.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I
told
you, I’m house-sitting, and checking things out with the . . . you know. Spirits. Just in case they can tell me anything about what happened to Mrs. Bernini.”

“Besides,” Stan told Dad, “these folks wanted Mel to speak to the ghosts about opening a haunted bed-and-breakfast.”

My father gave me the same look of confused disbelief I got when I told him I was going to study anthropology rather than, say, accounting or physical therapy “
or some damned degree with a shot at getting a job
.”

“They
want
the place to be haunted?” He looked at Stan, who shrugged and nodded.

“Well, I’ll be damned. So . . . they’re paying you for this?”

“Well, not exactly. Not so far. Right now I’m just house-sitting.”

“So let me get this straight,” Dad said. “You don’t have the renovation contract on this place. You don’t have a ghost-hunting contract, either? If you’re gonna get into the business, don’t you think you ought to take it seriously?”

“I’m not ‘in the business,’” I protested. “And I do take it seriously.”

Sort of. Actually, maybe he was right. Rather than backing into one ghost project after another, maybe I should think them through the way I would any construction job: doing thorough research, talking to the experts in the field, and formulating a plan
before
encountering whatever spirits might be present at a house. And all that made me wonder—did ghost busters bid for jobs like contractors did? Did they have set fees, or charge by the hour? Or by the ghost? This was probably covered in Ghost Busting 101.

I heard the clopping of horse hooves, a whinny, the clanking of harnesses.

And the foyer lights flickered out.

And then . . . someone was trying the knob. My hand was on my gun as I approached the door. Standing to the side, I reached over and unlocked it.

The door swung open.

“Zach.”

He jumped back when he saw the gun, his hands reaching for the sky.

“
Mel!
What
is
it with you and guns?”

I was beginning to think I wasn’t a very good influence on Zach. When I first knew him, he had been a relaxed, smiley sort.

His gaze shifted to my father, who was holstering his own weapon, and Stan and Caleb, who were looking guilty, with a few pieces of splintered wood at their feet. Just then, Dog apparently woke up and realized he was supposed to be doing something. He ran in from the kitchen, barking loud enough to wake the dead.

Zach spoke in a low voice so only I could hear. “When you volunteered me for this gig, I thought you might, you know, stop by and look for ghosts, not move in your whole family and start tearing the place apart. It’s like the Clampetts moving into Beverly Hills or something.”

“I spoke directly with Marty Propak, Zach. He was fine with me staying here, especially since Josh is here, as well. In fact, you shouldn’t feel obligated to stick around at all, if you don’t want.”

“No worries there, young fella,” said Josh, thumping Zach’s shoulder in a manly, let’s-be-friends manner. “Kim told me we should feel free to bring our entourages, the more the merrier.”

“And my family is just staying for dinner; then they’ll leave,” I said. “Like Josh says, no worries.”

Zach sighed. “That pizza better be really good, that’s all I have to say.”

* * *

A young blond fellow made the delivery.

“Where’s Raj?” I asked. In fact, I had ordered the pizza at least in part because I wanted to ask Raj a few questions, especially now that I had backup. I had told Graham about my suspicions concerning Raj, and he stood by my side, doing a pretty good job of looking menacing.

“He never showed up for work,” said the new delivery fellow. “Weird thing is, I thought I saw his car on the next block over. Anyway, that’ll be thirty-four fifty.”

So much for the special discount prices from Sylven’s Pizza. I paid the man and peered up and down the street, but saw nothing unusual.

“Let’s batten down the hatches, just in case,” said Graham in a low voice so the others wouldn’t overhear. “I don’t like the idea that he’s out there somewhere.”

“The inspector said they’d bring him in for questioning. He’s probably in custody already.”

“Maybe. I’m not willing to bet on it.”

Graham and I brought the pizza to the table, where my dad and Stan were regaling Josh, Braden, Zach, and Caleb with funny stories from their contracting days.

Once we sat down and poured drinks, we toasted the memory of Mrs. Bernini, and observed a moment of silence. I kept hoping to see her ghost, thinking she might enjoy seeing us with her favorite pizza, that she might even join us at the table. But so far, nothing.

True to his word, after we all ate our fill, Dad announced that he, Caleb, and Stan had a game to watch, and would be leaving.

“Why don’t you leave Dog here?” suggested Graham. “Kim Propak didn’t seem to mind having an animal in the house, and he could come in handy.”

In case anyone was sneaking around the house, I imagined Graham was thinking.

“I should probably be going, too,” said Zach. “Somehow I don’t think I’m needed here, with all these overqualified house sitters.”

“You really don’t have to go, Zach, unless you’d rather not be here,” I said as I walked him to the door. I imagined his decision had something to do with the nasty looks Graham was casting his way all through dinner.

He smiled down at me; then his gaze shifted over my shoulder to where Graham was no doubt glowering at him.

“I think you’ve got an admirer who would like you to himself. But thanks for the offer.” He reached out and pulled on a corkscrew curl in the middle of my forehead. “Another time, I’d love an invitation to an overnight. But maybe without so many people around.”

He winked, then slipped out the front door.

So it was just me and Graham, Josh and Braden. Like a double date. An overnight double date. I started to hyperventilate.

As I turned back to join the three men at the table, I felt a wave of frigid air.

Anabelle walked right past me. I followed her as she crossed the foyer and proceeded down the hall. Graham started to join me, but I waved him off. He watched as I continued into the study where the portrait of her and Ezekiel was hung over the fireplace.

“Anabelle?”

She gave no indication of hearing me.

I thought of what Olivier told me, that sometimes ghosts need to be approached obliquely.

“Hey! I’ve got a question.”

She stopped, slowly turned around, crossed her little arms over her chest, and tapped her foot.

“How come you sing that song all the time? The roses song?”

“I like it.”

“It wasn’t written until 1949, but you died in 1912.”

“I have ears, don’t I? I can
hear
things. We used to have our own radio. Father insisted, when they first were invented. He’s good with mechanicals. Gadgets of all types. We had the first gas water heater and furnace in the whole city.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, maybe just the neighborhood. I don’t know. But it was very new and original. Father says science will bring progress to us all. Do you know where the radio is? I’ve been looking for it.”

“I do know where it is. I’ll try to get it back for you.” I would prevail upon Portia one more time, with a specific request from a ghost. If nothing else, perhaps I could scare it out of her. “Anabelle, I don’t suppose I could talk to your father?”

“He doesn’t . . . he and Mother don’t really . . . well, they don’t think it’s appropriate to speak to the newcomers. They say it’s simply not done.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not right to speak when you haven’t been properly introduced. And besides, they’re afraid you’ll make us leave.”

“You want to stay?”

“Of course. This is our home. We’re all together. It’s such a beautiful house. Father had it constructed especially for us.”

“What if the new owners of the place wanted you to stay?”

She searched my face. Once again I was struck by how real—how material—she looked. As though she were a little girl dressed in old-fashioned garb, not a ghost at all.

“Truly? You won’t make us leave?” she asked.

I shook my head.

Gone was the snide look on her face, the slightly curled lip. Her lips parted, her eyes softened. She looked like the little girl she must have been, full of hope and excitement.

“They want to bring in guests, operate the house as an inn. But they’d love for you all to stay, and they want to restore it so it’s a lot like it used to be, when you all lived here.”

“We still live here.”

“Oh, of course. I meant . . . before. We want to make it look a lot like before. Anabelle, can you tell me anything about what happened to your family?”

She shook her head.

“Was it your neighbor, Owen Campbell? Was he involved?”

“No!” Anabelle stamped her little foot. “I know the neighbors thought he was . . . but he was just sad about his wife, Tallulah. She died here; Father tried his best to save her and the poor little baby. It wasn’t Father’s fault. He even had a painting made of her, afterward, to try to make friends with Mr. Campbell. But he refused it, he was so angry. . . .” Her face crumpled and she started to cry. “The night, the night that things changed . . . I looked into the marbles, and I could see that there was great danger. I thought Mr. Campbell would come after us, so I insisted we all sleep together. Mother and Father finally agreed, because I was so upset.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head and answered impatiently, “I keep
telling
you, nothing. It was very cold. I remember the new heater was installed that very day, and we put a bed in the nursery so we would be warm and cozy. We all went to sleep but then . . . things changed. And our puppy ran away. I wish I knew what happened. . . . I wish I could find our puppy.”

I studied Anabelle for a moment, and started to put things together. The family had just had their new furnace installed, and there was a vent directly from the basement to the playroom. The family had all slept together in that room, but then never awoke. Anabelle’s lips were cherry red, as were her cheeks and ears.

I glanced back up at the portrait. In it she and Ezekiel both looked pale, with alabaster skin.

Such high color was a mark of carbon monoxide poisoning. I was willing to bet Anabelle was right, that poor Owen Campbell had nothing to do with their deaths. Instead, it had been a terrible accident.

“Anabelle, I think I’ve figured out what happened. . . .”

But as I looked back, she was gone.

I headed back to the kitchen but found Dog at the foot of the stairs, whining incessantly. He was fretting, anxious and panting, breathing quickly. It wasn’t like him. Barking at nothing and being generally annoying, yes, but not this kind of fretful cringing and crying.

A marble came rolling slowly down the stairs. Roll, drop, roll, drop, as it made its way down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, it turned the corner and came to tap at my boot.

And then, muffled crying from the second floor. Anabelle, as though her heart had broken. She started to wail.

Cautiously, I peered up into the dim light at the top of the stairs. Taking a steadying breath, stroking my grandmother’s wedding ring on the chain around my neck for courage, I started to climb the stairs. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether I should bring backup. All the men were in the dining room. But Anabelle hadn’t appeared to anyone but me.