Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (19 page)

“Good
heavens
, J.D.,” said George as he placed a plate with two massive pizza slices in front of me. “What a morbid imagination you have. Oh,
my
. Let’s not talk of such things any further. We’ll just remember her as she was, a fine lady.”

“Is Raj around, by any chance?” I wanted to ask him about that night, if there was anything at all he had seen, anything out of the ordinary. I was sure the police had interviewed him already, but it couldn’t hurt to hear about it firsthand.

“No, his mother’s sick.”

“Mrs. Bernini mentioned that. I’m sorry.”

“He works a second job to pay for her treatment. I do
love
my country, but the health care . . . ? It’s out of control.”

Murmurs of commiseration echoed through the restaurant. I nodded in agreement, while taking a huge bite of cheesy, delectable pizza. Health care was one of my biggest expenses as an employer. But in construction good health coverage was critical.

“Do you all know a man who goes by the name of Mountain?”

“Oh, sure.”

A few glances were exchanged around the room. “He’s had a hard time of it, the last couple of years.”

“Did anyone happen to hear . . . that he might inherit the Bernini house?”

More significant glances.

“We heard him say something to that effect, but I guess no one really believed him,” said J.D. “George? George, what do you think about Mountain inheriting the Bernini house?”

“Oh, probably not,” said George. “I think he probably misunderstood.”

“You have to understand how Mrs. Bernini was,” J.D. said. “She had a way of telling people they might inherit from her—heck, she once said she liked our pizza enough to leave the place to
us
. And probably to Raj every time he delivered. No one took her seriously. I mean, that place has got to be worth a fortune, despite its checkered past. And Portia from across the way, she was working with Mrs. Bernini, helping her catalog the antiques. I thought she said something about Mrs. Bernini leaving the house to
her
. And frankly, she’s a little more credible.”

“Across the way?”

He pointed through the window to Kirkbride’s Antiques.

“Right across the street. She was unloading more stuff from the Bernini house just yesterday. She uses her husband’s truck, and it blocks half the street when she pulls up.”

“Thanks,” I said as I polished off one of my pizza slices. “I think I’ll need to take this second slice with me.”

“You just give that right on over and I’ll wrap it for you. It’ll be your teatime snack.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, you should know your money’s no good here! At least, not today,” J.D. said with a wink. “In the future, when you come back to see us, I’ll let you pay.”

“Thanks for everything. For the pizza, and the . . . chat.”

“Oh, and hey, you find out anything about a memorial service, you be sure to let us know.”

“I’ll do that.”

Talking about Mountain reminded me to check in with Claire. Out on the sidewalk, I dialed her number.

“Thanks for worrying about me, Mel, but everything was just fine. We walked through his garden and talked shop. It’s amazing—there are historical specimens from all over. I guess Owen Campbell brought them with him and they’re still alive today, or have been propagated. You have no idea how rare a collection like that is.”

“He didn’t happen to say anything about Campbell’s ghost hanging around, maybe?”

She laughed. “Um, no. But I didn’t think to ask. Mountain
did
say something interesting about Campbell’s wife dying at the Bernini house, back when it was a maternity hospital.”

“Really. His wife?”

“I guess Mountain found one of Campbell’s old diaries, which was great since it listed all the plant species he brought over. And he wrote about his dispute with his neighbor who used to live in the Bernini house—over water rights;
told
you they were important—and then about his wife’s death. Mountain’s a talker, couldn’t get him to stop once he started. Oh, one more thing: He’s trying to expand Campbell’s garden, and was hoping to use some of the Bernini land.”

“Some of the land?”

“As a community garden, or a park. She had a big lot. I guess they had talked about it—he said she was on board with the idea.”

“So you didn’t feel anything weird, not threatened at all?”

“Not at all. He’s a little, well, odd, but you could say that for a lot of us. Yours truly, for sure.”

“You’re no odder than any of my other friends.”

“Like that’s a ringing endorsement. Catch ya later.”

I hung up wondering, did I now have an answer to Anabelle’s question, about how her family had died? Had they been magically killed by Evil Campbell?

Seemed like a bit much. Ghosts I could handle. I would leave the magic to others.

* * *

One glance through the squeaky-clean plate-glass window and I knew: I didn’t have the money to shop at Kirkbride’s Antique Shoppe. In fact, any store that called itself a “shoppe” wasn’t usually my kind of place.

Despite my passion for all things old—or perhaps because of it—I stayed away from the sort of establishment where the owners knew exactly what they had, and were happy to gouge their customers. I preferred back-roads junk stores where you dug under musty piles of worthless magazines and auto parts with the hope that you might uncover a treasure . . . which you then scored for a couple of bucks.

A bell tinkled as I opened the door with “Antiques” written in gold gilt on the window. Inside, the air was scented with the pleasant fragrance of lemon furniture polish and potpourri. I heard the lilting sounds of 1920s music emanating from an old-fashioned radio on the counter. Tiffany-style lamps and brass and ceramic tchotchkes were displayed upon cherry vanities, walnut highboys, and redwood burl desks that gleamed under stained-glass sconces. The furniture styles ranged from the 1890s on and featured fluid nouveau carvings, deco details, and Greek Revival columns. The walls were lined with oil paintings and sepia-toned photographs in gilt frames.

“Good morning,” said Portia Kirkbride from her desk at the rear of the store. A huge calico cat snoozed by the register, noting my entry with a lazy lift of her head. “Feel free to look around at your leisure. Would you like a cup of tea?”

As I’d suspected, Portia was the woman who had come forward the night Mrs. Bernini was killed, saying she was supposed to inherit the house. As she had that night, she wore a cream polo shirt and khaki capris that fit perfectly, her sleek dark hair pulled back and secured with a clip at the base of her skull. She gave no indication of recognizing me.

“No, thank you,” I said as I made my way to the back of the shop. “I don’t know if you remember me? I was at Mrs. Bernini’s the other night. . . .”

Portia’s already frozen face seemed to stiffen even more. But she said nothing.

“I’m Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. We do historical renovations. . . .” I held out my card. When she didn’t reach for it, I placed it on the counter.

“Oh, yes. Mel Turner . . . you were supposed to be staying the night with Mrs. Bernini when she . . . was . . .” She let out a sigh. “I recognize the name now.”

“You’ve heard about me?”

“They say you’re a ghost hunter. It’s all over the neighborhood. I’m . . . about the other night, I’m so embarrassed. I was just so . . . shocked by the whole thing.”

The cat meowed at me, having roused herself to come demand some attention. I petted her soft coat and scratched under her chin, partly because I like animals and partly in an effort to ingratiate myself with Portia. From the look on her face, my ploy didn’t seem to be working.

“Watch out,” said a man’s voice. “She’s our guard cat.”

“Very fierce, I can see that.”

I looked up to the man who had been with Portia that night, the fellow who’d placed a coat over her shoulders and shielded her from the cops. He was dressed in worn jeans, boots, and a sweatshirt—an outfit that stood in marked contrast to Portia’s refined, old-money air.

“Everything okay, darling?” he said as he moved behind the desk and gave Portia a kiss on the forehead.

“Oh . . . yes. I’m sorry. This is Mel Turner. She was just telling me that she was there the night . . . the night of . . . when Mrs. Bernini . . . passed away.” There was a little hitch in her throat.

“Oh, baby,” the man said, and hugged her to his chest. He glanced over at me. “I’m sorry, Mel, is it? It was a great shock to all of us. I’m Edgar.”

Such a formal name didn’t really suit him. I was willing to bet that down at the corner bar he was known as Ed or Eddie.

“Nice to meet you. And I’m sorry, yes. I know it must have been a great shock. You knew Mrs. Bernini well, then?”

Portia finally spoke, her voice muffled somewhat as she pushed away from Edgar’s chest. “Yes, very well. I was cataloging her antiques for her.”

“What was the idea behind cataloging them?”

“You’ve been in her home; I’m sure you noticed what a jumble it is in there. There’s so much junk that I was concerned if . . . when . . . Mrs. Bernini passed away, someone might come in and toss everything just for the sake of expediency. This way there’s a record of everything that’s valuable. . . .”

“She also agreed to sell some nice pieces on consignment, like those two there.” Edgar gestured to a marble-topped walnut sideboard, and a gleaming dining room table with inlaid design. Next to them sat a large chest of tooled leather and wood—it looked like a twin of the toy chest I noticed in the playroom.

“She needed money,” Portia said.

“Don’t we all,” said Edgar with a grunt. His wife gave him an icy look.

“So of course I was donating my services, doing it all for free.”

“For free, except that she promised to leave the property to you in return?” I said.

There were tears in her eyes, and she let out a shaky sigh. “Of course, I thought she meant years from now.”

I couldn’t help but remember that Portia didn’t seem nearly so broken up about Mrs. Bernini’s death on the night she was killed. But, I reminded myself, we all mourn in our own ways. Unfortunately, I’d had some experience lately with the myriad reactions to sudden death.

“But you do have a will that deeds the property to you?”

She nodded. “A holographic will, but I’ve been assured it’s legal.”

“Holographic?” In my mind I pictured a 3-D image of a will.

“That’s what it’s called when a will is handwritten by the testator. It’s just a fancy name for an informal will. But it’s still legal, unless someone else can produce a more recent version.”

“Do you think she might have changed it?”

Portia shrugged, but her expression remained unchanged. The wonders of Botox. “We argued recently. And she could be peevish when she didn’t get what she wanted. Things just aren’t selling that well these days, what with the economic situation. Also, we accidentally took the wrong piece out of one room. She didn’t like anyone going into the playroom, but our assistant Raj didn’t realize.”

“Raj, from the pizza place?”

She nodded. “He does some odd jobs for us.”

“Speaking of pizza, the fellows there mentioned you brought in some more items from Mrs. Bernini’s yesterday?”

“Those items were already agreed to before . . . before Saturday. They were just waiting to be picked up.” Portia stood suddenly. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to . . . I have to run out to the bank.”

And without further ado she left, the bell ringing as she slammed the door behind her.

“I’m sorry,” said Edgar. “She’s really upset about what happened. Portia doesn’t really . . . it’s hard for her to handle her emotions at times. If you’re interested in things from the Bernini estate, let me show you this—it’s my favorite.”

It was a photograph of Anabelle Bowles, dressed as a flower girl, with a basket of petals in her lap and a few strewn on the floor. Her hair hung down in long curls, secured by a ribbon around her head. And on her face was that same straightforward, almost saucy look I had come to know—except the last time I saw her, when she was crying and asking for help.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

“That . . . ? It was some time ago. I believe I picked it up at an auction, in a lot.”

“A lot?”

“At auction you don’t always buy specific pieces, but a whole grouping of stuff called a lot. Sometimes it’s full of garbage. I also bid on storage units, that sort of thing. It’s become a competitive sport around here nowadays. We show out at the Alameda antiques fair, as well. As a matter of fact, tracking down the source of that picture was how I first met Mrs. Bernini.”

He showed me a number of other items, as the shop had a whole section dedicated to items from the surrounding neighborhoods. There was one arresting portrait, a formal oil painting, of a woman with dusky skin, full lips, black eyes, her dark hair bound up in a bright cloth.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” said Edgar.

“Very. Who is she?”

“Her name was Tallulah Campbell. She was from the West Indies, married a man who brought her here, and they moved into a place, actually, not far from the Bernini house.”

“Campbell—as in Owen Campbell?”

Chapter Seventeen

“Y
es.” He looked surprised. “You know the story?”

“Just a lit
tle. There was a feud between the two families, as I understand it?”

He nodded. “The way I heard it was there was a great animosity. And after Tallulah passed away in childbirth, Owen Campbell became a recluse.”

“I heard Campbell was thought to be involved in the death of the other family?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t hear that much, but I’m not much of one for gossip. Portia handles that aspect of things. And in a neighborhood like this, there’s always plenty of tongues wagging.”

“I thought when gossip is about things that happened long ago, it takes on the sheen of ‘history.’”

He chuckled. “I guess that’s true. And Portia is a devoted amateur historian.”

“Have you heard anything about what happened more recently, to Mrs. Bernini? Is anyone whispering anything?” It was a long shot, but as my mom used to say: in for a penny, in for a pound.