Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (24 page)

So what story might the pictures on these stones have told?

“Could you help me stack these stones together? I think this one goes with that one. See how the line of red in the plaster carries through?”

Tony looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Libole was pretty adamant that we don’t mess around with those stones.”

“I’m not suggesting we mess around with them, just restack them, like this.” I tried to move one near another. It took all my strength, and I managed to move it about six inches.

I left off, panting. “I see now why the men have been using the heavy equipment with these things. Can you operate the crane?”

“Sorry, Mel. Count me out,” Tony said, shaking his head as he backed toward the little office trailer. “Those things are nothing but trouble.”

I considered calling one of my guys over to help me with the crane, but then I realized there was no need. Instead, I used my phone to take a picture of each
separate piece, then ventured into the building to do the same with whichever stones I could access from the demolished section. I had a vague notion that I could transfer the photos to the computer and then mix and match to re-create the original mural picture. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to use any computer graphics programs.

My phone rang: It was Luz. The hospital, assuming she was the wife, had called to let her know the doctors were ready to bring Graham out of the coma. I dashed to the house to grab Dog.

I saw Alicia in the hall and told her the happy news.

“That’s wonderful!” She gave me an awkward hug.

That did it. I was just going to come out and ask her. “Alicia, could I ask you . . . ? Why don’t you have a past?”

“Pardon?”

“Someone pointed out to me that Alicia Withers didn’t exist a few years ago.”

She froze.

“I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business—”

“I had to get out of a situation,” she said suddenly. “Mr. Elrich helped me.”

“I understand.”

“No, I’m not sure you do,” she said, now fixing me with a straightforward look. Serious as ever but filled with a sudden passion. “Ellis Elrich saved my life.”

“What happened?”

“We used to be neighbors when we were kids. There were a bunch of us back then, in a working-class neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio. My father was an alcoholic. Ellis’s dad used to beat him up. Anyway, we had a few things in common.

“Over the years, our lives went in different directions and we lost touch, as people do. But . . . I was damaged, by my childhood. I learned later through therapy that
sometimes people try to ‘solve’ childhood trauma by marrying people who remind them of their abusive parents. As though, as adults, they can relive the whole thing, but change things for the better. I wound up marrying a charming alcholic who was a lot like my dad. He . . . um . . .” Her carefully sculpted affect seemed to crack just a little. “He was violent.”

I thought of the scar near her eye and on her lip. The ones I thought gave her character.

“Like a lot of people in that situation, I was afraid to leave, afraid to find help. I always found an excuse for his behavior, and each time he cried and came back, I convinced myself that he really loved me and it would never happen again. One day I saw a poster for the Elrich Method, and I called Ellis. Do you know that until recently, he answered his own phone?”

“You mean, instead of having a secretary do it?”

“Exactly. If you looked up Elrich Enterprises on the Internet, there was a company directory, and Ellis Elrich’s number was listed right there. When I finally got the courage to call him, of course I expected an assistant to answer. I about fell off the bed when I heard Ellis answer it himself.” At this a tiny half smile lit up her face.

“Did he remember you?”

“Yes. Can you believe it? He said he recognized my voice, even after all those years. I wound up telling him my whole sordid, ugly story. He said: ‘I will give you the means to leave. After that, it is up to you to do so. If you decide to stay where you are, I will mourn for you, but I won’t help you again.’”

Her eyes had an almost fanatical gleam, as if she were a member of a cult. But I could imagine what Ellis’s offer must have meant to a woman in need of a lifeline.

“He offered me a job, a place to stay. He had his
lawyers help me change my name, and we covered my tracks so my ex-husband couldn’t find me. Ellis Elrich gave me my life back. More importantly, he gave me myself back. I would do anything for him.”

Once again I was reminded of how some people drew the short straw in life. I sensed Alicia didn’t want my sympathy, though, so I simply thanked her for telling me and told her I was going to the hospital to visit Graham.

As I was about to walk through the front door, she called out, “Mel?”

I stopped and turned.

“I would do anything for Ellis, but I didn’t kill Larry McCall.”

A
ccording to the doctors, Graham was out of the danger zone. But he still fought extreme nausea every time he so much as moved his head. There wasn’t much modern medicine could do except wait and allow Graham’s body to heal.

Unfortunately, Graham wasn’t what one might call an accommodating patient.

“I think it’s interesting that people in here are called ‘patients’ when a lot of them aren’t particularly patient. Don’t you?” I asked.

He glared at me.

After a little while had passed, he was able to maintain a conversation. Unfortunately, he had no memory of what had happened in the chapel, or who might have attacked him. Neither could he suggest anything he might have learned from McCall’s widow that had prompted the assault.

I told him that I suspected Libole had purchased the
stones from Golden Gate Park, that the Wakefield monastery was not the original Wakefield but another building entirely, and that Florian Libole was hiding the truth from everyone and had disappeared. And that maybe Larry McCall had found out about the stones and had been killed because of it. I just couldn’t figure out why.

“Big deal, right?” I said. “So Florian mixed and matched some stones. Julia Morgan did the same thing at Hearst Castle and elsewhere, and everyone lauded her as a genius.”

“Not the same thing,” Graham said. “Morgan told Hearst what she was doing. But Libole hasn’t said anything to anybody. Wakefield is supposed to be original, the actual building Ellis knew, a place with special significance to him. If Libole’s changing it, using other stones . . .”

“But Ellis knows some of the original stones were missing. Libole told me himself he had some new stones quarried in Texas.”

“Good point. I don’t know. Maybe the pressure got to him. There’s been a lot going wrong on this project, and as you may have noticed, people hate to disappoint Ellis Elrich.”

“He’s hard to figure out, isn’t he?” I said. “I didn’t want to like him, but I may be falling under his spell.”

“That’s how cult leaders are: charming, apparently caring, and utterly sure their way is the right way. I think it’s the confidence that attracts people. Just look at Hitler.”

“I hardly think it’s fair to compare Ellis Elrich with Hitler.”

Graham shrugged, then winced at the movement.

“Oh, hey, I do have some good news,” I said as Graham closed his eyes. I noticed that he surreptitiously
gave himself another little squeeze of morphine. “I think I’ve got the key to the authentic mortar mix.”

“What would that be?” he asked, though he seemed not at all interested.

“Horse manure.”

“Bull.”

“No, horse. My source was pretty specific.”

“And how do you know this? Or should I even ask?”

“The warrior ghost and I have become pretty good friends. I mean, he still threatens to kill me whenever he sees me, but then he sheaths his sword ’cause, you know, I’m a girl.”

Graham closed his eyes, and I wondered if he had drifted off. But just in case he was still listening, I kept talking.

“Yep. I have been consulting on traditional building practices with a centuries-old ghost who was shipped over the ocean with those mossy stones. Just call me the contractoress with the mostess.”

Graham grunted.

“You don’t believe me?” I asked.

“I think you just want to see if I’ll actually put horse manure in the mortar.”

“And here I thought all good relationships were built on trust.”

“Mel?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Sure thing,” I whispered, and placed the gentlest kiss I could manage on his whiskery cheek, then tiptoed out to let him sleep.

*   *   *

I tried to fight the tears that sprang to my eyes every time I left Graham’s hospital room. There was
something so upsetting, so wrong, about seeing a man like that as helpless as a baby.

I looked up as my father and Caleb walked into the ICU. We hugged.

“Sorry. I think he just fell asleep,” I said. “He’s grumpy and feels terrible, but it looks like he’s officially on the mend. They’re planning on moving him to a regular room today.”

“That’s good news,” said Dad. “Well, Caleb, what do you say we find a hamburger somewhere, and come back after and see if he’s awake? Unless you need something from us, Mel?”

“Caleb, you’ve always been good with puzzles. Do you think you could help me with something?”

I took out my phone and showed Caleb the pictures I’d taken of the stones with the bits of mural on them. “I think these can be arranged to form a larger image, though some pieces may be missing.”

“Sure,” Caleb said. “I’ll use Photoshop, see what I can come up with.”

“I still need my phone, though,” I pointed out.

“You are such a computerphobe,” Caleb said as he e-mailed the photos to himself, then handed the phone back to me.

“Yeah, Mel,” my dad chimed in. “Join the ‘now’ generation.”

“The
what
generation?” Caleb asked.

“You’re a groovy dude, Dad,” I said.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Oh, one other thing: Could you guys take Dog for a bit? He’s in the car. I’m going to be running around a lot, and it would be easier if I didn’t have to worry about him.”

“Happy to,” said Dad.

They escorted me to the parking lot, where Dog was overjoyed to see them.

“Thanks for this,” I said as we made the transfer. “If things settle down, I’ll come back and get him soon. He’s good company.”

“Be careful, babe,” said my dad as I climbed into my car and took off. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the parking garage. Stan was right: I hardly recognized myself. I never had been what one might call a particularly “well put-together” person, but now my eyes had a shadowed, harried look.

I imagined Luz would tell me that seeing one’s boyfriend in the hospital, bailing one’s stepson out of police custody, and stumbling across a murder victim all in one week wasn’t good for one’s mental health.

I glanced at my watch. I had a million things to do, but I could sneak away for a little while. It would be nice to be free of everything: my worries about Caleb and Graham and ghosts and Elrich and all his minions. The constant requests and questions on the jobsite. The strange living situation and the sparkling pool that was beginning to feel like a reproach, since I still hadn’t managed to swim in it, much less lounge by it.

I headed toward nearby Highway One, one of the most beautiful roads in the United States. Car commercials love depicting their shiny new cars negotiating its hairpin twists and turns, the road so challenging in spots that you can’t go much faster than fifteen miles per hour. Careening off the highway into the forest would be bad enough; the real danger was flying off one of the sheer cliffs overlooking the ocean.

The Northern California coast is often shrouded in fog, but not today. The sun shone in a crystal clear blue sky; the water churned a deep blue-gray. A few fluffy
clouds hung on the horizon. Waves crashed over jagged rock outcroppings, seagulls perched on massive boulders, and a half dozen big-billed pelicans flew right along the cliff, so close I felt as though I could touch them.

I slowed to negotiate a curve and noted in the rearview mirror a gleaming black SUV not far behind. It seemed to be picking up speed. I wasn’t sure what the driver’s hurry was; I was already going five miles an hour over the speed limit, and there was only one lane in each direction. It is impossible to pass on Highway One, so whoever was driving would just have to slow down anyway when he or she caught up to me.

The first time I drove the coast was on my sixteenth birthday, the day I got my driver’s license. It was a rite of passage where I grew up, a coming-of-age ritual, the sort of thrilling, dangerous challenge teenagers loved. Every so often, someone drove off the cliffs, plunging to their death on the steep rocks below, or drowning in the rough ocean. Ours was a wild, savage coast. It was one reason we Northern California types held ourselves above our southern neighbors; if you swam in these waters, you were lucky if you weren’t dashed to the rocks or eaten by sharks—assuming you didn’t die of hypothermia first. Surfers around here were about as fit and fearless as Navy SEALs, basically.

It struck me as I drove that it felt good to think about nothing for a while, to just concentrate on the road, the ocean, the forest. It was hard to take in these ocean vistas without pondering the beauty of life. Ellis Elrich no doubt would have a quote at the ready to encapsulate these emotions. I smiled to myself, breathed deeply of the air blowing in off the sea, and felt myself start to relax.

Until I glanced in my mirror. The SUV had caught up
with me and was now edging up to my rear bumper. I didn’t recall there being so many tailgaters in my younger days, and wondered whether the Bay Area was growing so crowded that it encouraged road rage, or whether people today simply hadn’t learned to share.

I sounded exactly like my father.
Sheesh
.

My phone rang. Even though it connected to a Bluetooth, I didn’t answer. The tricky highway demanded every bit of my attention. A few seconds later, the phone beeped. We were on a straight stretch of road, so I risked a glance, in case the text was about Graham.

The second my attention was diverted, I felt a jolt. Confused, I looked up, fearing I’d hit something.

Then I saw it: the SUV, looming in the rearview mirror.

It clipped me again.