Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (32 page)

This was something I should do alone.

I ascended the stairs slowly, then paused and looked down the hall. There was a light shining out from the bottom of the closed playroom door. I heard the tune of the carousel, the clacking of the marionettes, and
I drive a dump truck.

The door had been jammed from the outside with a metal bar under the handle. It would make it impossible for anyone—or any
thing
—to get out.

Who would have jammed this door? Had one of the guys gotten scared? Using my heavy boot, I started kicking at it. Finally the metal bar fell to the floor, clanking loudly.

I pushed the door in slowly. The carousel stopped, the little horses still rocking slightly. The puppets swayed in their ornate case.

And Raj lay prone, splayed on the wood floor.

“Raj!”

He didn’t respond.

I hurried to kneel by his side. There was no blood, no obvious trauma. He was still breathing. But then I heard something. Not music this time—instead, a far-off beeping.

It was the sound of a carbon monoxide alarm. I could hear it through the heating vent.

“Graham!”
I called.

“Mel?” I heard his muffled voice coming through the vent. He must have run down to the basement when he heard the alarm.

“Shut off all the gas to the house! And I need help up in the playroom!”

I grabbed Raj under his arms and started pulling him toward the window. I thought of trying to take him outside, but he was heavier than he looked and I wasn’t sure I could manage it alone. He needed fresh air, immediately—as did I. I could already feel myself getting light-headed, and an ache was developing in my temples. I set him down for a second while I yanked open the sash window and took several big breaths. Holding my breath, I pulled Raj toward the window, hoisted him up, and hung him over the sill like a sack of potatoes set out to dry in the sun.

I stuck my own head out the window beside him and inhaled deeply.

Carbon monoxide doesn’t smell, or taste, or give any indication of its presence other than the deadly symptoms. If Raj had known he was being gassed, he could have at least opened the window and breathed in fresh air. But he must have thought he was trapped in the playroom, maybe by ghosts. Another aspect of carbon monoxide poisoning was that it jumbled your thoughts and often made you see things. . . . Many alleged hauntings had been blamed on the presence of a small amount of carbon monoxide in the home’s air.

But what was Raj
doing
here? I had been on the verge of accusing him of murdering Mrs. Bernini. He had motive, opportunity, and he seemed to know the house. That night when he delivered the pizza, Mrs. Bernini had told him we were going to renovate the house—had he panicked, thinking that Mrs. Bernini’s promises wouldn’t be upheld by the new owners? And then there was his handwriting, which I had recognized from both the will and the brick. I thought he had been searching the house looking for the other will, the one he feared left the house to Mountain.

Josh appeared in the doorway.

“There’s CO in here! Could you carry him outside?”

Josh was already rushing over to us. He hoisted Raj over one brawny shoulder and ran out of the playroom and toward the stairs. I took a deep breath of fresh air through the open window, then ran out, closing the door behind me. I heard Graham meeting Josh halfway down the stairs and offering to take Raj the rest of the way, out to the garden.

If it wasn’t Raj, who else might have been so invested, who also had access to this house? I thought I knew.

I ran down to the basement to double-check what had happened. Last I saw, the heater wasn’t even hooked up. Or . . . had the heating service been here recently? There it was, a sticker with the heating service number. Kirkbride HVAC.

Dripping water from the taps. And another marble rolling along the floor.

I heard the far-off whine of sirens. Thank goodness there were competent folks here—I had been so enraged that I forgot to call 911, much less to carry my gun with me.

This was stupid. I turned to leave.

But Edgar was standing in my way.

“Why Raj?” I asked. I had assumed Edgar would run. Why would he hang around? Surely he knew the jig was up?

“It really wasn’t my fault. He was going to tell. He left me no choice.”

“It’s not too late, you know. He’s not dead. And I’m sure whatever happened with Mrs. Bernini, it was an accident.”

“I was furious, but it was . . . it was just a little shove. Barely a push, but she went down and hit her head. I panicked when I heard the doors fling open, and you were on your way out. But they won’t believe me. Not now.”

Fortunately he had no gun, but neither did I. Edgar was solid, and probably had at least fifty pounds on me.

“Go on, now, through the door there.”

He gestured toward the door of the subbasement.

Feigning obedience, I turned toward the door, remembering the box of odds and ends I had seen when I was here with Zach. As soon as I passed through the low doorway into the pitch black of the subbasement, I crouched down and grabbed for the first substantial thing my hand fell on.

Still crouching low, I whirled and smacked Edgar as hard as I could in the kneecap with a heavy bronze hinge.

He went down, crying out in pain, clutching his knee. I tried to run past him, but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me down, hitting me on the back of the head so hard I saw stars. He yanked me up and then shoved me facedown into the brackish water at the bottom of the sink. It was only a few inches, but it was enough. I struggled and tried to kick backward with my boots, but he held me easily with his strength. The air I had managed to take in before he shoved my face in the water was running out, blackness forming at the edges of my sight.

Suddenly the pressure on my neck relented as Edgar backed off. With my last remaining strength I surged up and lurched backward, out of his reach.

Edgar was cringing. He looked horrified and shied away, stumbling into the furnace behind him.

Gulping in air, it took me a moment to understand what was going on. I heard a clacking sound, then realized that Anabelle was holding up two marionettes—one in each hand—and making them jump and sway. I couldn’t tell whether Edgar could see the ghostly girl puppeteer, or simply saw dolls floating in air, their limbs clattering as they danced.

I took advantage of his distraction and slugged him in the head with the hinge. He went down with a loud thud and I ran again, this time making it up the stairs, slamming the door, and locking it.

And then I collapsed.

Chapter Twenty-six

T
he entire neighborhood, it seemed, turned out for Mrs. Bernini’s memorial service. The house was decked out with colorful bouquets in mason jars, almost all the flowers donated from neighbors’ yards, rather than florist arrangements. Homer had suggested it, and their blowsy, homey look was just right to remember Mrs. Bernini.

No, she wasn’t perfect. It seems Mrs. Bernini really had promised too much to too many people, and she hadn’t been above doing what she had to in order to get what she wanted. But she was a tough old bird, had managed well by her foster children, and was generally beloved by her neighbors.

Raj was still in the hospital, but he had been cooperating with the police and eventually filled in the story: He knew how to break into the house, and Edgar had convinced him to search for an amended will so they could destroy it, lest it leave the house and grounds to anyone other than Portia and, since California is a community property state, Edgar. Raj had been methodically tossing the rooms, assuming we would blame it on the ghosts.

What Edgar hadn’t realized was that Portia had already filed for divorce. He had been just a tad behind on his paperwork, and hadn’t opened the envelope containing the papers yet.

The really sad thing is that there
was
no other will, at least none that any of us could find. One letter left on a crowded desk in the study, however, indicated that Mrs. Bernini wanted to include a provision in her will taking care of Raj’s mother’s medical bills, and had intended to honor the purchase agreement she’d made with the Propaks. Mountain never found anything in writing, but when he heard the terms of the holographic will in Portia’s hands, he was content.

“So she took care of Mountain?” asked Claire.

“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be in charge of the gardens for as long as he wants the job, so he can develop them with the legacy of Campbell’s tropical garden. Portia and he are working together now to open some of the gardens to the public as a small park. They’re planning on razing one of the outbuildings to make room. Meanwhile, the Propaks will buy the house and the remaining land, and operate it as a bed-and-breakfast.”

“That’s great.”

Behind her, I caught a glimpse of Anabelle. She didn’t seem like a ghost, standing among all these people; if it hadn’t been for her old-fashioned attire, she would have fit right in. But she looked sad as she gazed at the flowers and the photos of Mrs. Bernini through the years: as a smiling young woman in cat’s-eye glasses with short curly brown hair—at her wedding, standing proud and stiff by Angelo’s side, pretty white bouquet in hand.

I crossed the room to join the little ghost girl.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m sad. I’ve known Mrs. Bernini for so long. . . . I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“She’s . . . she’s not with you now?”

“No. We asked her to stay—Mother and Father both invited her, and Ezekiel practically cried. But she wanted to go on. I guess she wants to find her husband. So it’s just us again.”

“I wanted to ask you something: that note on the wall of the playroom, the one Ezekiel wrote? Was he warning us to stay out for our own health?”

She gave me an odd look that reminded me of the first day when she’d opened the door. “Of course. What did you think he meant?”

“It seemed like some sort of threat, at first.”

“Ha!” she said, and rolled her eyes.

“Is it . . . would it be weird for me to introduce you to the new owners of the house? I think they mean well—they want to make the place into a bed-and-breakfast, and many people will be coming hoping to see . . . people like you, from a different time.”

“You can say it: I’m a ghost. I don’t
feel
like a ghost. And besides, nobody really
wants
to see ghosts,” she said with a cynicism far too old for her age. Then again, Anabelle was more than one hun
dred years old, I reminded myself. “Or . . . do they?”

“I guess a lot of people do.
I’ve
enjoyed getting to know you. Come on, follow me.”

But when I arrived next to Marty and Kim and looked behind me, Anabelle had disappeared. I could hear only a disembodied, far-off lilting voice singing:
With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls, a garden of posies for all little girls . . .

“She was right here. . . . ,” I said.

“That’s all right, dear,” said Kim, patting my arm as though she were my mother, even though she was no more than fifteen years my senior. But I supposed a little maternal attitude would go far in the hospitality industry.

“Kim, you seem to like dogs.”

“Oh, I
do
!”

“How would you feel about getting a cocker spaniel puppy for the B&B? I have the feeling the ghosts would really enjoy that.”

“Oh, you mean like the one in the portrait of the children? What a wonderful idea! Marty, Mel just gave me the most
wonderful
idea!”

I smiled as she hurried over to talk with her husband. With a little urging, the Propaks had agreed to leave the playroom just as it was, with the bed moved there permanently. We wouldn’t alter it at all . . . except that now it wouldn’t be receiving sporadic, low levels of carbon monoxide from the old heater, as it apparently had for years. That was one reason the children felt odd in the playroom—Claire and I had felt it, too. But I hadn’t figured it out until it was almost too late.

The old furnace would be ripped out just as soon as possible. Even when it was new, apparently, it had never worked properly. In the interim, all gas to the house remained shut off, just in case.

And though Portia was distraught over what her soon-to-be-ex-husband had done, she brought the old radio as a gift to the Propaks—and to the house. It now sat up in the playroom, where I heard it cranking out scratchy old 1910s and 1920s tunes from time to time. She had also returned the oil portrait of Tallulah, and the Propaks planned to give it pride of place over the fireplace in the main entry, along with an explanatory plaque. It seemed right that she would be remembered that way.

I searched the room for Anabelle. The front parlor, kitchen, and entry were crowded with neighbors young and old. I recognized several guys from the pizza shop. And Homer and a dozen other adult foster children had returned to pay their respects. But no little ghost girl.

But then I reminded myself: Ghosts weren’t here for our amusement, nor were they regular people anymore. They had their own agenda, their own sense of time and place, of right and wrong. I still had a lot to learn.

Maybe it was time to enroll in Olivier’s Ghost Busting 101 class.

Graham came up behind me, placing his hands at the base of my neck and rubbing. I sighed in contentment.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” I said. After the exposure to the carbon monoxide—both in the playroom and then some down in the basement, as well—I was supposed to spend twenty-four hours in treatment at the hospital. Apparently I had not been the ideal patient. Once my time was up, they asked me to be more careful and not to come back.

“Thought I should warn you,” said Graham. “I was talking with Marty about some energy-saving ideas to incorporate into the renovation of this place.”

“I’ll just bet you were.”

Graham grinned. “It’s a big job. It’ll keep you busy for some time to come.”

“I know. I might need to bring Avery Builders in on this, just for the sake of manpower. He’s got a pretty big crew, and they don’t have much to do at the moment. And we might just have a shot at that AIA award, now that we’ve got a new architect on the job. I think . . . I think Mrs. Bernini would be pleased, in the long run.”