Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (22 page)

“Yes,”
I said, feeling rather defensive. I love to sing, but I stink at it. I mean,
really
stink at it. I had been banned from my local karaoke bar. “Okay, it’s possible I’m not conveying the tune adequately. But how about the words, recognize those?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m more of an alt-rock, indie sort of guy. A little blues maybe, oldies, Motown—”

“Never mind.” I let out a sigh. This was a bust. Some crack ghost buster I turned out to be.

“Hey, don’t get downhearted,” Zach said, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. “I’m sure if you try hard, you’ll be attacked by ghosts soon enough.”

“I’m not going to be
attacked
,” I mumbled, shrugging off his hand. Except for occasional evenings to keep my dad company, I never watched television, and rarely saw movies. Apparently I was missing out on an entire oeuvre that depicted ghosts as being ferocious. Now that I thought about it . . . perhaps that was best. “I know what. Let’s try the basement.”

“I don’t really like basements.”

“
No
one likes basements. They’re liminal spaces, like attics.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an anthropological term. Liminal places are in between: not a living space, but not wild, either. They’re always a little spooky.” I led the way to the basement door off the main hallway. We both gazed down the steep wooden steps. I couldn’t find a light switch, so I used the tiny flashlight on my key ring and focused the small beam into the dark void. “Plus, basements have the added benefit of being dark and dank. Also, they’re often fear cages, filled with high EMF readings from pipes and wires, that sort of thing.”

“I have no idea what that last bit means.”

“Ghost buster talk,” I said oh-so-casually, trying to talk myself into being jaded about the whole thing as I started down with care, the steps creaking under my weight.

When I reached the bottom, something metal slapped me in the face. A chain. I pulled it and a single bare bulb blazed to life.

Zach remained at the top of the stairs. “See anything interesting?”

When he spoke, his voice reverberated through a vent in the wall. I heard him through the vent more clearly than from the top of the stairs. It was common in old houses to connect rooms to one another through vents, windows, and transoms in order to increase air flow. It also increased the possibilities of eavesdropping.

“Come on down. There will be some great shots for Kim’s haunted house book, I guarantee it.”

I started poking around. Water was seeping in through cracks in the concrete. There was a grime-covered workbench, tools stacked willy-nilly, shelves made of bricks and boards holding a bunch of rusting cans of paint and solvents that needed to be carted down to the hazardous-waste recycling center. A few crumbling cardboard boxes, some plastic bins. On the damp concrete floor were scattered beer cans, some cigarette butts, and even a dead mouse.

The visible plumbing was ancient, mostly lead pipes that were too small in diameter. The electrical was actively frightening; there were wires threaded through old gas pipes, and the knob and tube system common to old homes was frayed in areas, and had been spliced.

A massive utility sink had several taps coming straight out of the wall. One dripped with a slow
tick-splash
,
tick-splash
; a couple inches of brackish water in the bottom of the deep basin indicated a very slow drain.

I reached out and tightened the grip. The water stopped dripping.

An ancient water heater had solid iron doors stamped with a decorative scrollwork design. Back when it was made, manufacturers figured if they were going to make something, whether it be a vase or a water heater, by gosh it was going to be pretty. I opened one heavy door. The pipes ran in a coil around the central heating element. It probably still worked, though inefficiently.

Speaking of ancient appliances, a hulking furnace filled one entire corner of the large basement room, its many arms reaching octopus-like up into holes in the ceiling of the basement. While walking through the house I had noticed there were heating vents in the main living rooms and parlors. But upstairs, only the nursery had heat. As was customary in these old places, most bedrooms had no heat source, as a person was meant to warm up under the covers.

But central heat at all was rare in such an old house.

I did a quick check to make sure the furnace exhaust pipe was intact, but despite its obvious age it still seemed to be in order, and had even been wrapped in insulation. I found a date of installation written on a small plaque: 1911.

There was some evidence it had been worked on recently. I made a mental note to get the name of the Propaks’ heater guy. I worked with a great HVAC crew, but it was always good to have a backup or two when schedules got tight. And a lot of contractors hated working on old devices, much less crawling through aged walls and replacing venting in areas that weren’t up to modern code. I was always on the prowl for folks who actually understood the majesty and beauty of historic homes, and who were willing to be flexible—in more ways than one.

If I was ever able to begin restoration of this place in earnest, I would follow all the ductwork through the walls, probably tearing out the original to replace it with new metal for the sake of safety and cleanliness. Still, modern venting was essentially the same technology as we had used for decades. In construction there were many things that hadn’t changed since they were invented: cement, brick, wood framing. Maybe that was why I liked it so much: The ancient Romans built using many of the same principles, and even materials, as we did today.

Energy efficiency, on the other hand, had made great strides in recent years: alternative sources of power, insulation, weather stripping, double-paned windows. And safety devices—I noticed there was no carbon monoxide alarm anywhere in the basement—nor did I see an outlet to plug one in. I had also noticed a lack of smoke detectors throughout the house. That was a simple fix—I should bring some over and mount them just for the sake of being a good person. This was the kind of task that might seem daunting to someone unfamiliar with working with their hands, but if you owned a drill and didn’t mind standing on a ladder, they took about seven minutes, each, to install.

Peeking behind the heater, I saw a door that looked as though it hadn’t been opened for some time.

My heart raced. This was the exciting part of historic homes: the treasure hunt aspect . . . or the horror movie aspect. What could be behind such a door?

I grabbed a crowbar from amid a bunch of rusted tools and forced the portal open.

It creaked, loudly. A puff of cold, musty air blew by me. The flashlight beam revealed an intricate, ancient system of wells, tubs, and lots and lots of pipes. The old waterworks, I presumed.

Also stored in this underground grotto were half a dozen antique hospital beds.

“Okay, now,
that’s
not creepy at all,” Zach whispered as he trailed behind me, clicking photos the whole way.

“The original owner ran a maternity hospital here. It’s not that strange.”

“Uh-huh. Because you’d keep the beds?”

“Some of us have a hard time letting go. . . . Oh, cool!” I was distracted by several old glass-paned cabinet doors, propped up off the damp floor, leaning against one wall. Beside them was an old wooden box full of what looked to be original doorknobs, light fixtures, and hardware such as drawer pulls and hinges. “Check it out!”

At Zach’s questioning look, I explained.

“This is the best thing about basements and attics: You never know what you’ll find. When people tear out original fixtures, or doors and windows, that sort of thing, they often store them rather than throw them out,” I said, starting to poke around the stacked boxes and containers more seriously. “It’s perfect when you’re renovating—you just clean it up and reinstall. And usually if they’re installed in their original location, they don’t even have to be brought up to code—though when it’s a safety issue, of course we do it anyway.”

Zach stared at me for a moment. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mel. You truly are focused on your work.”

The drip started again, sounding louder than before, its noise seeming to echo in the room we were in. I stepped on something, and I looked down to find a small glass ball.

Again with the marbles.

I thought I heard a child’s giggle.

“Do you hear that?”

“The dripping?”

“No . . . laughter?”

He shook his head.

But then . . . footsteps coming down the creaking stairs.

“I hear
that
,” he whispered.

Chapter Nineteen

“H
ello?
Helloooo?
”

It was Kim Propak.
Darn it.
Just when the ghosts were making contact. Zach and I hurried out to the main basement room, emerging from behind the furnace.

“Hello, Zach! And . . .
Mel
? What are you doing down here?”

“Oh, well, you know . . .” I could feel Zach glaring at me. “Remember I was going to drop by sometime and take measurements for the proposal? I just happened upon Zach here, and thought I’d come in and get started. . . .”

“But I thought Marty said . . .” She trailed off, frowning a bit as she looked around the room. “Good gracious, it’s a bit
icky
, isn’t it? I’ve never been down here. What’s that?” she asked as her eyes alighted on the open door behind us, yawning into nothingness.

“That would be your subbasement,” I said. “I was checking things out, looking for sagging or damaged floor joists.”

“Subbasement? What’s a subbasement?”

“You see them occasionally in old structures like this—they wanted to keep a decent basement for canned goods, even wine, and the heaters, but they kept some utilities and stored things like root vegetables or fermenting spirits out of sight.”

“Oh,” said Kim.

“Could I just say . . . if you’re really going to buy this place, you and Marty should really hire an inspector and look through every nook and cranny. It’s a huge responsibility. This furnace alone, what with its removal and installation of a new, efficient unit that can heat the whole place, will run you a pretty penny.”

“I leave that sort of thing to Marty. I’m sure he’s seen it. But . . . it’s so icky down here.”

There was no denying the creepy factor. But if you’re going to buy an old house . . . ? There’s some inherent creepiness. Not to mention the fact that Kim Propak was knowingly walking into the idea of establishing a
haunted
B&B.

“A lot of that is the dampness. It’s a common problem around these parts, and the only solution is multifaceted: good gutters, proper drainage that slopes away from the house, and a French foundation drain along the perimeter. A dehumidifier would be great down here, as well. And, of course, there’s caulk.”

Zach and Kim both looked at me in silence.

“I really can’t overstate the importance of caulk.”

“Did you get pictures?” Kim asked Zach.

“Of the subbasement?”

“Sure, it’s perfect! If that doesn’t scream ‘haunted house,’ I don’t know what does. Listen, Zach, I wanted to let you know Marty and I are going back to Indiana for a few days to take care of some paperwork.”

“Didn’t the police ask you to stick around?” I asked.

“We’re not running off to the Cayman Islands or anything,” she tittered. “Just going home for a few days. We’ll be back by Monday.” She fixed Zach with a look. “Here’s my problem: This news story . . . well, it’s stirred up some interest. And someone’s been messing up rooms . . . or maybe it’s the ghosts, maybe they’re angry with us. Do you think that could be?”

“I noticed Mrs. Bernini’s bedroom was tossed. You’re saying you think the resident ghosts were responsible?” Poltergeists, maybe, but why would Anabelle trash the place?

“No, that was . . . that was me,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I . . . I don’t know what to do. I’ve been looking for a more recent will. Portia has a handwritten one, but I’ve been hoping to find an updated version somewhere that might specifically say she wanted me and Marty to take ownership of the place. We have a copy of the purchase agreement, but it seems Portia doesn’t have to honor the arrangement.”

A single tear fell prettily down her cheek.

“And now with the Kirkbrides and Mountain going at each other . . . and people coming by to lay things on the shrine, and some of them trying to look over the wall to the gardens where it . . .
happened
, I really don’t want to leave the house empty. Zach, dear, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to house-sit for us? Starting tomorrow?”

Zach shook his head. “I’d love to help you out, Kim, but . . .”

“Of
course
Zach will house-sit,” I said. “He’d be happy to. Wouldn’t you, Zach?”

“Oh!” said Kim, clapping her hands together, tears forgotten. “That would be so lovely! You sure you don’t mind?”

“Mind? Are you kidding?” I said. “You should see Zach’s place. Poor fellow lives in a studio apartment the size of a shoe box.”

After a long moment, Zach finally said: “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

“And while he’s house-sitting,” I said, “would it be okay if I came by, as well, and took some measurements and whatnot to work up a proper job bid for you?”

“Oh, Marty said you had talked about that. I suppose there wouldn’t be anything wrong with that. . . . My only concern is that you include dear Josh. We wouldn’t want to leave him out, now, would we?”

“Of course not.”

Before we left, Kim told me she was
so
excited about the architect’s new drawings she simply
had
to show them to us. She brought out a huge roll of blueprints and conceptual drawings, and laid them out on the dining room table.

“But these don’t exactly fit in with the historic quality of the house,” I said as I looked them over. There was some fun, Alice-in-Wonderland-type stuff, curvy shapes and asymmetrical walls. But this house was historic, with its own distinct style. I hated to be a stickler about it, but I don’t understand why someone would buy a Spanish-style house and then try to make it look French, or tear out the wood paneling in an Arts and Crafts home. What was the point?