Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (28 page)

“To the Bernini house.”

“You can’t just assume you’re coming with me, Graham. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“So you’re planning on staying in that haunted house alone? With a murderer on the loose? A murderer who might believe you know something, and that you’re a threat?”

“Well, Stephen has offered to stay with me.”

“Stephen. This guy’s really beginning to get on my nerves.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I
do
like him. But I don’t like him spending nights with you . . . especially if I don’t get to.”

“Oh, and Zach will be there.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose as though he had a sudden headache. “Please tell me you’re kidding. What is your obsession with that . . .
boy
?”

“He’s not a boy.” Although I called him that, myself. “And I’m certainly not ‘obsessed’ with him. If I were, I would have accepted his multiple offers to take me out.”

“Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“No, but I sort of love that you are.” I smiled and shrugged. “Zach’s my excuse. He’s the official house sitter; I’m just the hanger-on. Kim Propak wasn’t all that wild about me being back in the house. . . . Do you suppose they want to keep me from learning the truth from the ghosts?”

“Or maybe they’re just putting things on hold for a while because there was a murder there. Do the Propaks even own the home? I thought you said the inheritance was in dispute, which might mean that the purchase agreement is voided, right?”

“Maybe so. Which is actually a good point: It’s not the Propaks’ place, so they don’t really get to say who can be there and who can’t.”

“It may not be
their
place, but it’s certainly not yours.”

“Are you always this argumentative?”

“Only when provoked.”

“I’m just saying, it does not bode well. I have it on good authority that I’m rather provocative.”

His eyes fell to the low-cut line of my shirt. “Mm-hmm.”

“Be serious.”

He smiled. “This is all very new to me, Mel. If I hadn’t experienced what I had with you in that attic a while ago, I probably wouldn’t buy any of it. But as it is . . . you do seem to have an extraordinary ability to be where this sort of thing is going on.”

“The Propaks called me because they wanted a haunted B&B, so I knew I was walking into a possibly haunted scenario. It’s just . . . I don’t know. All I’m planning to do is stay in that house for a night or two. Just long enough to talk with a couple ghosts and figure this whole thing out. I’m now armed, and there will be at least a couple of manly—well, manly-
ish
—men there with me. And as for whether you get to stay there or not . . . I haven’t decided. It might depend on whether you keep annoying me.”

He had the audacity to grin. “Of course I get to stay there. You need me.”

“Oh? How so? We’re not in the market for a windmill or solar panels or whatever other new green technology you might have up your sleeve.”

“I seem to remember that you and I once developed a special ghost-busting technique. One that involved mouth-to-mouth contact in order to arouse the supernatural energies—”

“Stop.”
I punched him in the ribs. Not hard, but he let out a satisfying little
oof
.

Then he pulled me to him, and his mouth came down on mine.

Yes, it had been a while for me, but that wasn’t the whole explanation for the magic I felt in his kiss. It was a hot, searing connection. Sensation zinged through me, all the way down to my toes and into secret corners of my soul. I lost track of anything but the feeling of his wonderful mouth, his strong body. The feelings were so intense that after a few soul-tilting moments, I pulled back with a jerk. Graham kept his strong arms wrapped around me, so I didn’t get far.

“Okay,” I said, wincing a little at the breathless quality of my voice.

“Okay what?” he asked. I was gratified to note that his voice wasn’t all that steady, either.

“You can stay over.”

A grin spread across his face and he kissed the tip of my nose. “One kiss and I get what I want? Maybe I really
do
have secret supernatural powers.”

“Very funny.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I decided that the more people overnight in the house, the better.”

“Meet you there this evening?”

I nodded. “I should be there by seven.”

He gave me one more long, lingering kiss; then I climbed out and watched as his truck disappeared.

* * *

After taking my friend and client Matt tile shopping—for the fourth time—I returned to his house and met with his architect, who had drawn up plans to lift the roof, presuming Matt could manage to get the neighbors to approve his plan. He asked me to put together a detailed bid based on the new blueprints, so I took the heavy roll with me to analyze in more depth at home. Finally, I went over the supplies order with the foreman.

Then I returned to the Castro, to check out the house where Owen Campbell once lived. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find there, but it seemed worth a look.

Notwithstanding recent murder and mayhem, this was a pleasant, relaxed neighborhood. An elderly couple passed me on the sidewalk and nodded their hellos. A woman in the Victorian next door was working in her postage stamp of a yard planting bright red begonias. Two men sat on the porch of the house across the street holding steaming mugs and talking.

The old Campbell house was perched upon a hill, but it had not been built on a grand scale. In fact, it could have been the servants’ quarters to the Bernini house, the kind of place that was built for practicality rather than to establish social status. It was one story, and though not small, its wraparound porches and low overhanging roof made it seem more suited to the colonial steamy tropics than frequently foggy San Francisco.

Adding to the tropical feeling of the place were the plantings: several different types of palms, ferns with fronds that reached at least ten feet, and two mature, thick-leaved banana trees flanking the broad wooden stairs that led to the front porch.

I paused out on the sidewalk, half hoping to see Owen Campbell’s ghost relaxing on the old porch swing, or meandering through the overgrown garden paths. I couldn’t help thinking it would simplify matters if I could just get some straight answers from a representative from the spirit world. At this point I wasn’t picky about which one.

The house’s wood trim had once been painted a blue green, but it was so faded and peeling it looked as though a faux finisher had been at work. As I crossed the porch to the front door, I saw four mailboxes, four doorbells. The house had been split into apartments. That helped explain the condition of the place. An absentee landlord, or family ownership where no one took full responsibility—those were the sorts of things that explained such obvious neglect.

Something rustled in the garden, and a verdant stand of thick undergrowth started to shake.

Then a booming voice rang out:
“Who’s there?”

Mountain emerged, looking as he had when I first met him: big hands in leather gloves, pruning shears stuck in the pocket of his overalls. He did not seem all that pleased to see me.

“It’s Mel Turner,” I said. I was wary of him, but with all the neighbors around I felt safe. “We met the other day at Mrs. Bernini’s. Do you remember?”

He pulled up short.

“Oh, yeah . . .” Recognition dawned on his florid face. “You surprised me, is all. I wasn’t expecting anyone. When I get digging and weeding and pruning and planting . . . I lose myself in this stuff.”

“Oh, sure, I understand. I love to garden.”

That was a half-truth. I love the
idea
of gardening, and I appreciate the heck out of beautiful gardens. How much digging I actually did, though . . . ? My father would have a thing or two to say about that. Currently I was trying to convince our Oakland neighbors that our yard was an experiment in growing “California native grasses.”

I wasn’t fooling anyone.

“So . . .” He inspected the underside of a leaf and picked something off. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m . . . okay. So very sorry about what happened to Mrs. Bernini.”

He pinched his nose and sniffed loudly. There were tears in his blue eyes. “Can you believe it? I really can’t . . . I mean, who would do such a thing? I know we live in a city, and things happen . . . but this neighborhood feels so much like a home, you know what I mean? We all know each other. Everyone knew Mrs. Bernini. Everyone loved her.”

“I understand you were working on the gardens for her?” I hesitated, then added, “For free?”

“I was bringing them back from the brink, I like to say. I’ve got a green thumb. I’m actually a Web site designer by day, but it’s always been my dream to work with plants full-time.”

“And . . .” Again, I hesitated. How could I ask him about the will—or multiple wills? “Did you do it out of the goodness of your heart, or was Mrs. Bernini compensating you for all that work?”

“She told me it would all be mine one day. It seemed like such a far-off thing when we talked about it. I mean, the last thing I wanted was for her to . . . to pass on. I don’t care about the house, but the gardens . . . they’re a different story.”

“It’s quite a big lot, but—”

“The house needs too much work. Personally, I think it should just be razed.” He reached into a thick patch of ginger plants and pulled out the smallest by their roots. “What this neighborhood really needs is a park. Imagine how beautiful it would be. I could expand Campbell’s plans—I have some of his original drawings—and bring his dream to fruition. Set up waterworks, fountains, in addition to the gardens. The way it was supposed to be.”

“It’s a historic building, Mountain,” I said as soon as I found my voice. The mere
idea
of razing such a beautiful place took my breath away. “It needs work, yes, but it’s not that far gone.”

He shrugged and snapped off a few sprigs protruding from a young palm.

“It sounds as though there are other claims on the house . . . ?”

“You mean
Portia Kirkbride
?” He said her name in a nasty, singsong tone of voice. “With her whole antiques shtick . . .”

He met my eyes, and seemed to catch himself.

“It might be a moot point anyway. . . . I don’t have a copy of the will.” He shook his head and moved toward a potting bench at the side of the house. I followed. “Mrs. Bernini promised me things, but it seems like she never wrote it down. I’ve been looking. . . . I asked the Propaks if I could search the house for it, but they refused.” He started inspecting a row of potted orchids sitting on a rustic bench. “I’ve known Mrs. Bernini for many years. It’s possible she . . . I dunno. Maybe she promised something to the wrong person.”

I couldn’t get a handle on this guy. He seemed like a really nice fellow, until he didn’t. And since I was looking for someone coldhearted enough to throw an old woman down a well, I couldn’t be too careful. I glanced across the street to see that the two men on the porch had been joined by a third. Surely I was safe with all these people around. And having Mountain expound upon his favorite subject was as good a way as any to get a better feel for him.

Not that I’d shown any particular talent for sniffing out murderers. But it was worth a shot.

“This garden is so lovely. I’m surprised, though, that San Francisco is warm enough for a tropical garden.”

“Not for everything, that’s for sure,” Mountain said as he removed an orchid from a pot it had overgrown, its thick roots protruding, reaching out for new territory. “They do love the heat and humidity, of course. But Campbell had a hothouse for the more delicate flowers, which he coaxed indoors and brought out on sunny days. And the rest of them . . . they might not love it here, but they survive. We don’t have much frost to speak of, and since the ground never freezes, their roots are protected.”

“It’s really beautiful. I wonder why Campbell settled here if he missed the tropics so much.”

“He was here for business reasons, I guess. Not sure. And anyway, he built this place for his wife, Tallulah. He brought her here from the West Indies.”

“And he wanted her to feel at home?”

He nodded, finding a larger pot for the orchid in his hands and filling it, not with potting soil, but with a mix of bark and mulch. “I don’t think it was easy for her. . . . San Francisco was always more progressive than many parts of this country, but she was . . . well, he called her ‘Hispanic’ so they could marry. But . . . I saw a painting of her. . . . I’m not sure how well she fit in around here, even with the Barbary Coast folks.”

“They could only marry if she was Hispanic?”

He nodded. “Hispanic, or white, of course. Antimiscegenation laws weren’t overturned until 1948.”

“Seriously? In California? I don’t know why I’m so surprised. . . . We just always seem more progressive than that.”

“The state was so large and wild that there wasn’t a lot of law to go around, so laws weren’t always enforced. Maybe that’s what gave the state a reputation for being liberal.” Mountain set the orchid in its new pot down on a tree stump, and lifted another one onto the potting bench. “But the laws here were just as racist as anywhere else. Over time the state was filled with so many immigrants, and attitudes changed, so it didn’t really count anymore.”

“You seem to know a lot about Owen Campbell.”

“I did some research when I first moved into this house. And then I found Campbell’s journal in the basement.”

“Did you happen upon any information on his relations to the family in the Bernini house?”

“Oh sure, they were the only two real houses out here back then: Campbell’s and the Bowles Folly. And as neighbors they . . . didn’t really get along.”

“Any idea why?”

“There was an issue over water rights. They’d both sunken wells, but Campbell was upstream. He set up a pipeline and started selling clean water to the city. There was a huge demand.”

Mountain yanked another orchid out of its pot, bark flying. For someone who loved plants, there was something apparently brutal about it. But then, I had observed that a lot of plants appear to be masochists—roses, for instance. The more you cut them, the more they bloomed.