Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (13 page)

I proceeded down the corridor, toward the door that stood ajar. I hesitated a moment, then pushed it, slowly, all the way open.

The carousel stopped abruptly, its little horses still swaying. The nursery had been trashed, with dolls, trucks, and assorted playthings tossed everywhere. The rocking horse was on its side, the marionettes tangled on the small theater stage.

“Anabelle?” I called.

No response.

Graham picked his way carefully through the toys strewn on the floor, not touching anything as he walked the perimeter of the room. He noted the words scrawled on the wall in red crayon and looked at me, his eyebrows raised in question. I shrugged.

Dog, I noticed, hadn’t set a paw inside the playroom. He whimpered and growled but stayed out in the hall.

“Anabelle, I need to talk to you,” I said. “I want to ask you about the other night—can you help me find out what happened?”

Nothing. The silence began to fold in on me. I started to feel strange, not myself.

The ghost-hunting equipment I had borrowed from Olivier was scattered on the floor. I knelt to gather it.

The temperature of the room dropped precipitously.

A marble rolled across the wood floor toward me. The sound of its rolling rang out in the quiet. It tapped lightly against my knee.

I could hear the jingle of Dog’s tags as he took off down the hall.

Clank, scrape, shuffle.
I heard the noise first, then caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bernini shuffling by the open doorway as she made her laborious way down the hall.

“Wait!”

I ran out of the room, but stopped short when I saw Anabelle standing in the middle of the hallway, arms folded over her little chest. She looked angry.

I put my hand up to my pounding heart. “You scared me!”

“Mrs. Bernini can’t hear you.”

“Why not?”

Anabelle cocked her head and gave me a quizzical look that seemed much older than her years, reminding me of when I first met her at the door and asked whether Mrs. Bernini was her grandmother. “It takes a while to learn how.”

“How to what?”

“Speak. Or at least speak so people can hear you. Most can’t. Why are you so odd?”

“Born that way, I guess. Can you tell me what happened to Mrs. Bernini?”

Tears pooled in her big eyes and her bottom lip started to tremble. But she just shook her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t
know
,” she cried. “It’s like before. . . . I just can’t remember. I want to find out what happened. . . .”

“You don’t know how you . . . died?”

She shook her head. “For a long time, I didn’t even realize . . . things were different, but the same. It’s hard to explain. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll try to find out. But . . . are you angry we’re here? Did you write that note on the wall of the nursery?”

“Of course not,” she said with a soft hiccup. She sniffed loudly. “
I
don’t write on walls. That was Ezekiel.”

“Did he toss everything around in there?”

“
No.
He’s not
that
bad.”

“Is Ezekiel here with you now?”

She shook her head. “He’s looking for our puppy. Besides, he doesn’t like you.”

“Why not?”

“He says you’ve brought death to this house. We think you should
GO AWAY
!” She shrieked that last part, rushing at me, then disappearing right in front of me.

I collapsed against the wall.

“Mel, are you all right?” Graham rushed over and helped steady me. He was looking around, searching both directions of the hall.

“Did you see her?”

“I didn’t see anything. I could hear your side of a conversation, but no one else was here. It was—”

“What’s going on? Who are you talking to?” asked Marty, who had materialized at the top of the stairs. He looked at me with concern, then addressed Graham. “Has she been seeing ghosts? The little girl?”

“Yes,” I answered for myself. “And Mrs. Bernini.”

“Is she . . . you’re saying Mrs. Bernini’s ghost is here? She’s inhabiting this house now?”

“I think so.”

Marty seemed startled. “Can she tell you anything about what happened last night?”

“She doesn’t seem to hear me, or even acknowledge my presence. But maybe if I spent a little more time . . .” At the moment I wasn’t feeling particularly upbeat about spirits, or my abilities to communicate with them. Much less the idea that these particular ghosties were supposed to charm a bunch of bed-and-breakfast guests. I wondered quite how to phrase this to Kim and Marty.

But then again, no one but me seemed able to see Anabelle, and if we’d stayed out of the nursery—like Mrs. Bernini had warned us—my companions last night wouldn’t have witnessed anything at all. Heard a few noises, at most. Perhaps the spirits came after only a few of us.

Still, the idea of child ghosts running these halls made my blood go cold. Most likely they had died of disease; those were the days when a flu bug could sweep through and decimate the child population of a city. But then, wouldn’t Anabelle remember being sick? She couldn’t remember what had happened to her, much less tell me who killed Mrs. Bernini. Was that what she wanted from me? To help her figure it out?

Marty turned to Graham: “Did you see the ghosts, too?”

Graham held his hands up in front of him, palms out, as though helpless. “I can’t see a thing unless Mel kisses me.”

“What?”

“He’s kidding,” I said to Marty, shooting Graham a quelling look. “Reference to a long-ago event.”

Graham smiled.

Marty, for his part, still looked shaken and uneasy.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Kim’s voice floated up the stairs. “
Sweetheart?
We really need to go if we’re going to make our appointment.”

“Be right down,”
Marty called. He turned his attention back to me. “Look, we’re in something of a limbo right now. I’m not sure, legally, where we stand. Whether we can even maintain our residence here, whether the purchase agreement is still valid . . . or what. Kim doesn’t really grasp all the ins and outs—she’s more the style guru.”

“Unless you’ve been ordered to leave the premises, it would probably be best for everyone if you stayed on, just to look after the place until things are settled. Empty houses have a way of inviting all kinds of problems,” I replied.

“That’s a good point. In fact, Kim and I are scheduled to go back to Fort Wayne for a few days. . . . It’s terrible timing, what with, well, everything. People are snooping, peeking into the garden and all.”

“If you’d like, I could stay here while you’re gone.” I could feel Graham’s eyes boring into me. “I could keep an eye on the place, and it would give me a chance to work up a detailed bid for you.”

“I’m not sure how Josh Avery would feel about that.”

“I’d be happy to share all my measurements and findings with him. It wouldn’t give me any unfair advantage.” All right, now I was lying through my teeth. But this was no longer just about a construction contract; I wanted to have time alone in this house, with these ghosts.

“Let me talk to Kim, and I’ll get back to you on that. And”—Marty gestured to the mess in the playroom—“any idea what happened in here? Was it . . . ghostly antics of some sort from last night?”

“It wasn’t like this last time I saw it,” I said as I picked up the rest of the broken equipment—the baby monitor and voice recorder. “But there was definitely some . . . activity. On the other hand, maybe the police were searching for something?”

“I don’t think so,” Marty said as he escorted us down the hall so Graham and I could retrieve the overnight bags that Stephen, Claire, and I had left in the bedroom. The police had had the chance to look through them last night, if they’d needed to. “They did a walk-through of the house, but they’ve been concentrating on the garden.”

We carried the bags outside, where we met up with an anxious Kim, who had her coat on, her purse in hand, and urged her husband to hurry for their appointment.

“One more question, Marty: Do you know what happened to the family that lived here? I’ve heard references to a family tragedy?”

He shook his head and sighed, looking defeated. “Somehow I thought it happened so long ago that it wouldn’t affect us. After all, Mrs. Bernini lived here for so many years and never seemed to be bothered by it. . . . Or . . . one of the neighbors suggested maybe this place has a curse, and that’s why she died a violent death, too?”

Marty studied my face, as though I should know the answer. I realized he was thinking of me as a knowledgeable paranormal professional. There was more to this ghost-busting stuff than first appeared.

“I . . . I don’t think it’s anything like that.”

He shrugged. “As to how the original family died, I really don’t think that anyone knows for sure. All I heard was that the parents and the two children were found by the servants one morning. The whole family was huddled together in the same bed. Dead.”

* * *

Graham and I watched as Kim and Marty took off in their massive gas-guzzling Escalade. Vaguely, I wondered how long that vehicle would last in this parking-challenged, environmentally conscious city. Before the year was out, I’d wager, they’d be driving a compact hybrid.

“What a mess,” I said as we tossed the broken equipment and overnight bags in the back of my Scion. “On top of everything else, I sure hope that roof can hold it together for another season. What with the inheritance questions, I imagine the building will be in limbo for some time.”

“Good,” said Graham. “So there’s no need for you to be dealing with this place, for a while at least.”

“Mmm,” I said while absentmindedly petting Dog.

“I don’t like the sound of that. ‘Mmm . . .’ means that you’re planning something you don’t want to admit to.”

“Not necessarily. It’s just a sound, you know, a kind of nonresponse response.”

“Uh-huh.
Please
tell me you weren’t serious about house-sitting while the Propaks are gone. A murder took place here, Mel, and if word gets around that you can talk to ghosts, and presumably to the recently deceased Mrs. Bernini, you’re practically begging the killer to come back and take you out of commission, as well.”

“The thing is, Graham, I did see a ghost. Or two. In the house.”

“I realize that. I just witnessed you talking to the wall, remember?”

“Hey! We really are making progress in our relationship. There was a time you would have thought I was nuts after witnessing such behavior.”

“When it comes to ghosts, I’ve always believed you,” he said in a quiet voice, watching me carefully. Graham made me nervous when he got serious.

“So.” I cleared my throat. “I’m thinking there must be a way for the spirits to tell me what happened. And then I could tell the police. . . .”

“And the police could go catch themselves a killer.”

“Something like that.” Dog started barking at nothing and whirling around, excited. I hushed him.

“And how would you explain knowing how the murder occurred, and who was responsible?”

“Um . . .” That hadn’t occurred to me.

“If you know enough detail about the crime,
and
you were here that night, wouldn’t that cast you in a suspicious light?”

“But I didn’t do it, so I don’t have to worry, right?”

“Because innocent parties are never accused and convicted of crimes.” Dog kept barking; this time Graham hushed him.

“I know they are sometimes, but . . . okay. Good point. So I’ll be judicious about what to share with the police.”

“Mel.” He seemed to be searching for the right words. “I know you have a passion for justice, and for stepping in when someone needs help—”

I snorted, reminding myself of my father. On my worst days I feared I was going to morph into a female version of him: an old curmudgeon who watched an enormous TV and harangued any poor sod who would listen about the wretched state of the world. Still, he had his lovable side.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I’m a misanthrope.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot that. You’re a misanthrope, except for the fact that you stick your neck out for people all the time, no matter the consequences. Like when your friend Matt was in trouble, or when you were worried about the family on Union Street, or when your dad needed you to step in and take over the business.”

I felt myself blushing, studied the paint job on the car door, and shrugged.

“I’m a patsy. Not the same thing. And besides, when I’m trying to figure something out, well, I’m sort of like . . .”

“A dog with a bone.”

“I was thinking more like determined. Indomitable. Unwavering,” I insisted, not pleased with his analogy.

“Stubborn as sin.”

“I thought you
liked
me.”

“I
do
like you. But, Mel, if you’re really seeing what you think you are, and you can really speak with them . . . don’t you see? You’re putting yourself in danger. If someone thinks you’ll be able to lead the police to them, they could come after you. And remember, we’re talking about someone cold-blooded enough to toss an old woman down a well.”

At that moment there was a loud crashing noise as something was thrown through an upstairs window.

Graham pushed me down behind the Scion, sheltering me with his body. Dog ran after us, tail between his legs.

Shattered glass rained down upon the drive.

We looked up but couldn’t see anyone at the window.

Anyone
alive
, that is. I caught a quick glimpse of Anabelle, and another face beside hers—presumably Ezekiel. Both were rosy-cheeked and so real-looking it was hard to fathom they had been dead for almost a century.

“Stay here,” Graham said. Warily, he hurried into the drive, his eyes on the upstairs windows of the house, silent and foreboding as they reflected the afternoon sun. He picked up something and brought it back to me.

It was a brick, wrapped in a note. I smoothed out the piece of paper. On it, a message was written in pretty, florid handwriting, almost like a scroll.