Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (30 page)

He handed me a flyer with the information, and a sweet picture of Mrs. Bernini, smiling her warm smile.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “If you give me a handful, I’ll take them to the pizzeria. She has a lot of friends there.”

“I don’t even know how to get in touch with the people who want to redo this place—the Propaks?” said Homer. “I’ve really been out of touch. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I guess I figured we would have more time. I should have spent more time with her.”

“I think we all feel that way when someone passes.” I certainly did when I lost my mother. Death was so final. For most. “The Propaks are out of town for a few days, so I’m house-sitting for them. I can give you their number if you’d like,” I said, finding it on my phone and writing it down for him.

“Oh, yes, please. I was hoping we could have the memorial service here in the house, if the Propaks don’t mind.”

“I can’t imagine they’d mind. . . . In fact, the Propaks aren’t exactly the owners of this house, at this point.”

“Yes, I know. Mountain told me the inheritance is still being contested. I tried to talk with Portia Kirkbride about it, but hit a dead end.” Homer stepped back a little and looked up at the facade of the gracious old house. “This place . . . the ghosts, or whatever they were, scared me when I lived here. But everything else was great—Mr. and Mrs. Bernini changed my life. They gave me a sense of myself. Moving in with them was the luckiest moment of my life.”

“I could let you in,” I said. I had never returned the key to Zach. “Would you like to go take a look around?”

“
No.
I mean, no, I’ll go in for the memorial service when there are a lot of people around. I know it sounds crazy, but the place really does make me nervous. Anyway, I’m going to take these flyers to some of the neighbors,” Homer said. “It was good to see you again.”

“You too. I’ll see you at the memorial.”

Just as he left, a black Chevy truck pulled up. Josh Avery reached into the back of the cab, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and approached the front stoop. We eyed each other warily.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I told you, I want this job. Whatever it takes.”

“You can’t just move in, Josh.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“How did you even know about this?”

“Kim mentioned it.” Josh dropped his bag and fixed me with a look. “You think if I get Kim on the phone, she won’t say I can stay here, too? I think you underestimate my charms.”

“This isn’t a game, Josh. I was going to share all my measurements and photos with you. There’s no reason we couldn’t both come up with thorough bids. And with the legal challenges over the will I think it will be quite some time before
anyone’s
actually allowed to work on the place.” I paused, then added, “Believe it or not, I’m here tonight to look for ghosts.”

“Like the supposed ghosts that are screwing up the jobsite at your ex-husband’s place?”

“Actually, since you brought it up, I’d love to talk to you about that.” I felt for the reassuring weight of the gun in my bag. It was nearly seven, so I was expecting Graham to show up any minute. He was almost always on time. “Such as what happened to my stepson. And fair trade practices. And where your uncle might be.”

“According to Valerie, ‘ghosts’ hurt Caleb.” His sarcastic tone left no doubt as to what he thought of that hypothesis.

“That house shows no signs of being haunted. But your employees there are unhappy.”

He put his hands on his hips, angry. “Are you accusing my employees of something?”

“Who’s accusing who?” said Graham in a calm, quiet voice as he came up behind me. He rested one arm along my shoulders. It was a relief having him, quite literally, at my back.

Josh glanced at him. “Your girlfriend here seems to think my employees injured her son.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I think it was an accident, but accidents are much more likely to occur around disgruntled workers.”

“I tell you what,” said Graham, his voice low and slow. “I brought a bottle of cabernet. Why don’t we go in, pour ourselves a drink, and talk about this like civilized people?”

Josh gave a curt nod, but then he seemed to relax. “Oh, my . . . friend’s here. This time I brought my own entourage. Kim said the more the merrier.”

Striding over to join us on the stoop was Braden, the young receptionist from the fancy office of Avery Builders.

“Isn’t this
great
? What a fabulous old house, and in such a neighborhood!” he gushed, wrapping his arms around Josh. It wasn’t the kind of embrace one expects to see among men who are simply friends or work buddies.

Well,
that
was interesting.

We all filed into the kitchen and Graham filled a few mismatched juice glasses with wine while I told Josh the essence of what Nacho had told me about the goings-on at Daniel’s house, leaving out any names.

“Wow, that’s . . .” Josh took a deep sip of wine, placed it on the table, looked at Braden for a long moment, then ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe things have gotten that bad with Valerie. You’re absolutely right, I should have been on top of that situation. And as to the overtime pay, we’ll have to check into it. I hate to say it, but it’s possible he’s right.”

Braden didn’t add to the conversation, but he brought a small notebook out of his bag and started a list that began:

(1) Check into overtime.

(2) Figure out Valerie Burghart.

“Payroll can be tough to figure out, what with workers’ comp and the like,” I said. In this business, meeting one’s monthly payroll obligations, at all, was challenging. It was a delicate balancing act that depended on the flow and wane of project revenues and outlays. Lucky for me, Stan took care of the majority of those issues for Turner Construction.

Josh nodded. “I have to admit it’s been a pretty tough learning curve. Obviously a few things have fallen through the cracks.”

“Couldn’t your uncle give you a few pointers?” I asked, oh-so-innocently.

“He hasn’t spoken to me for weeks.”

“Oh? Where he’s gotten to?”

He shrugged. “Tom invited me here to work with him, brought me into the business, treated me like his own son. It was good at first—I dealt with client relations and PR, while Tom kept on top of the jobsite crews. I even took on his last name, just to keep things consistent. But then when he found out that Braden and I are together, he really lost it.” Josh looked down into his glass of wine.

Braden dutifully wrote down:

(3) Find Uncle Tom.

“By the time it all came out, I had several big upcoming projects under contract, and the clients loved me. But Tom didn’t want to deal, so he basically walked away. Early retirement, I guess. I begged him to come back and help, told him about this project. But then he actually
sailed
away somewhere just to get away from me. Braden is trying to help, but office work isn’t his strong suit. We’re a little overwhelmed.”

“Mea culpa,” said Braden, holding up both hands in surrender. “I was a theater major.”

“That’s . . . quite a story,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear about your uncle’s reaction. For both of you.”

“I don’t know why I thought everything would be different out here.” Josh looked at Braden and they shared a sad smile. “San Francisco has such a reputation for openness. . . . I just thought things would be different.”

“Just to be clear,” said Graham. “You didn’t happen to call ICE on a fellow who works for you, goes by the name of Chewy?”

Josh frowned and shook his head. “Chewy got picked up? I would never do that.”

“He told me he was having a few . . . paperwork issues,” said Braden. “But I didn’t really know who to talk to about it. I thought immigration was still called INS, that’s how behind
I
am.” He wrote:

(4) Help Chewy.

“You know, in terms of the workload and certain basic practices—I could help you out with some of that, if you want. My office manager, Stan, could give Braden some pointers. And we could talk about loaning you some good workers until you get things settled.”

“Seriously? You’d do that for your competition?”

“Avery Builders is a good company, and you employ a lot of people. I’d hate to see all that put in jeopardy because your uncle is acting like an irresponsible jerk.” I noticed Graham smiling at me, and I tried not to get distracted. “One more thing I’m curious about: How was it that you happened to be working on my ex-husband’s house, and I met you here? That’s such a coincidence.”

“Well, I . . .” He tilted his head and gave me a smile that was, I’m sure, meant to charm me. “Marty Propak’s brother, the AIA guy, was a visiting professor at UC Berkeley, so he was over at your ex-husband’s place one evening when I stopped by with some paperwork. Daniel couldn’t stop talking about what a great contractor you were—right in front of me, by the way. The guy was describing the Bernini house, and the job sounded incredible.”

“So you poached the job?” Graham asked.

“I like to think of myself as practicing aggressive business tactics,” responded Josh. “But Braden says I’m just acting like an ass.”

“Uh-
huh
,” said Braden.

“Wait, you’re saying
Daniel
gave my name to Marty Propak?”

Josh nodded.

“My ex-husband?” I clarified.

“Daniel always speaks well of you. I’ve got to hand it to you both: I think I’d have a harder time learning to be civil after a divorce. I think it’s great that you two are still friends, and you’re both there for Caleb.”

“I’m, uh . . .” I was saved by a knock on the door. My world was tilting on its axis, and I was just as happy to be interrupted. “I’ll get it. Maybe that’s Zach.”

But when I opened the front door, Stan, Caleb, Dad, and Dog were standing on the front stoop.

“Hi, guys . . . What are you doing here?”

“We wanted to check this place out,” said Dad.

“And make sure you’re safe,” said Caleb with a nod. He stood tall and held his arms out slightly from his body in a military stance, like my dad always did. I wondered if he even knew he was mimicking my father, or if it was unconscious, a male-bonding thing. He was taking himself very seriously, so I refrained from mentioning how adorable he was.

“The thing is, you guys can’t stay here. . . . I mean, it’s really not appropriate. . . .”

“We’re not staying,” said Stan. “But Bill was suggesting he do a walk-through with you, and help you start working up the bid.”

Before his unscheduled hiatus, Dad was the best in the business at spotting construction issues and estimating time schedules and budgets. His knack for realistic assessments was responsible, in no small part, for the fact that Turner Construction had a reputation for doing excellent work in a timely manner, and without excessive cost overruns. I had to scramble to achieve anywhere near his accuracy with such things.

But far more important, was this a sign Dad was stepping back into the family business?

“And Dog?”

“I hated to leave him home alone,” said Dad, patting the canine on his haunches.

“Oh sure, why leave anyone out?” I asked, standing back and letting in the crowd.

Chapter Twenty-five

J
ust as I had when I was a kid, I trailed after Dad as he inspected the house and took notes of his mutterings and queries: Check for old oil tanks in the crawl space under the kitchen; replacements for the unusual mother-of-pearl push-button light switches were now available at Omega Lighting in Berkeley; the venting situation should be assessed as soon as possible, especially with the old furnace and water heater.

“The windows are unusually tight,” said my dad. “Check this out, Graham. Nice work with the weather stripping, especially considering the age of the house.”

“I noticed that, as well,” said Graham. “Must help with the heating bill.”

Except for when the ghosts show up,
I thought to myself. Speaking of which, I kept expecting some sign of spectral inhabitants, but so far there was nothing.

After an exhaustive tour, Dad rejoined Stan and Caleb, who were talking about ordering pizza.

I asked Graham to help me put up the smoke detectors and carbon monoxide monitor I had brought with me. Graham hauled a ladder out of the shed out back, I grabbed the drill, and he and I started installing the smoke detectors throughout the house.

We had just finished installing a detector at the top of the stairs when we heard a sudden screeching, scraping noise, as though a piece of heavy furniture was being dragged across the floor.

The nursery door was ajar.

And there were fresh gouges in the floor, leading from the master to the playroom. When I peeked into the bedroom, it was clear to see the bed was pulled away from the wall. I had a sudden idea.

“I think . . . would you help me move this bed into the nursery?”

“Why?”

“I think they want it there. I think that’s where the family died. All together.”

“The ghost family? That’s horrifying. How?”

“That part I still haven’t figured out.”

We wrestled the mattress and box spring off the frame, then awkwardly maneuvered the heavy old iron frame through the wide double doors. Luckily we weren’t particularly concerned about scratching the hardwood floors, as they were already in such bad shape.

It screeched as we pushed it across the hall.

We managed to get the bed frame positioned in the nursery, then brought in the mattress, and remade the bed. I had a moment of near panic when our eyes met over the bed, and the domesticity of the scene struck a chord.

“Why don’t you . . . uh . . . go get the pillows from the other room?”

Graham smiled a knowing smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

As I was leaning over and smoothing the bedspread, a wave of frigid cold enveloped me. I felt a hand tugging at my skirt from behind.