Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (33 page)

Not to mention the Bowles family, who would have been mighty upset if Kim Propak had implemented her Alice-in-Wonderland type of changes. I had worked out a deal with the pertinent parties: The Propaks would use Turner Construction to return the home to its historic roots while making a few essential updates, as well as the alterations necessary to make it a comfortable bed-and-breakfast. The ghost family, meanwhile, would not interfere with the construction process—as long as we didn’t touch the playroom. We had put the toys back the way they were, and left the bed made up in pretty snowy white, old-fashioned embroidered linens.

Anabelle might appear from time to time if she felt like it, and Ezekiel would persist with his marbles and toys. The parents would be there, though from what I gathered from Anabelle, they didn’t have much interest in what she called the New People. Rather, they preferred to carry on with their normal lives. Or post-lives. Or whatever it was called.

“So,” said Graham. “Can I assume you’re postponing running off to Paris?”

“I suppose so. Maybe indefinitely. I’m working on a new project, and I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

“Another project?” Graham looked a little taken aback. “I thought your slate was pretty full.”

“This is a brand-new sort of project for me.” I rose up on the steel toes of my work boots, and kissed him softly.

A marble rolled across the floor and tapped at my boot, but I paid no mind.

About the Author

Juliet Blackwell
is the pseudonym for a mystery author who also writes the Witchcraft Mystery series and, along with her sister, wrote the Art Lover’s Mystery series as Hailey Lind. The first in that series,
Feint of Art
, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. As owner of her own faux-finish and design studio, the author has spent many days and nights on construction sites renovating beautiful historic homes throughout the San Francisco Bay Area. She currently resides in a happily haunted house in Oakland, California.

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CONTINUE READING FOR A PREVIEW OF

Juliet Blackwell’s upcoming Witchcraft Mystery,

Tarnished and Torn

Available in July 2013 from Obsidian

“Y
ou’re saying this is a palace . . . for cows?” I asked, casting disbelieving eyes over the huge Cow Palace, which sported a colossal banner that read:
GEM FAIRE ALL WEEKEND!

Where I’m from in West Texas, the idea of a royal bovine showplace wouldn’t have been entirely out of the realm of possibility. Here in the urban outskirts of San Francisco, on the other hand, it seemed rather . . . anomalous. If not downright preposterous.

“The C-O-W in Cow Palace stands for California, Oregon, and Washington,” Bronwyn said, adjusting her new-to-her tunic, a rare, vintage 1960s find. The purple gauze, decorated with rune symbols and pentagrams, matched the violet sweet peas woven through Bronwyn’s frizzy brown hair. “It started out in 1941 as a livestock showcase, and they have rodeos here sometimes, but they also have concerts and sports events. Anyway, the place has more in common with an airport hangar than a palace per se.”

“Too bad . . . and here I had an image of cattle taking tea with the queen,” teased our friend Maya.

“Just wait until we get inside, you cynics. I guarantee you, the Gem Faire will take your breath away,” said Bronwyn with a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin.

The three of us were standing in a long line of eager shoppers waiting for the show to open. Multiple canvas bags were slung over our shoulders in anticipation of plenty of loot for my vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora’s Closet. When Bronwyn first suggested we close the shop in favor of attending the Gem Faire this morning, I almost balked. After all, my customers had been so good to me—and my store—over the past few months that I hated to disappoint anyone who might be desperate for vintage clothing on a warm summer Sunday.

But then I thought: a huge trade show full of wholesale decorative jewels, stones, and ornaments?

Too tempting to pass up
.
Way too tempting.

One of the best things about my job was that I could do this sort of thing—pursue objects of great beauty and history—and call it “work.” With friends by my side? Even better.

The doors opened and the crowd surged forward, through the entryway and into the main “palace,” which was undeniably gargantuan enough to hold several herds of cows.

Jiminy Cricket,
I thought as I looked around us. A thousand medieval knights might have worked for years to amass this quantity of goodies.

Display boards and cloth-covered tables were chock-f of sparkling jewels, gleaming pearls, precious stones, glowing amber, fossilized wood, million-year-old ammonites . . . and then there were the pendants, necklaces, earrings, medallions, rings, anklets, and decorative tchotchkes from hairbrushes to tiny boxes. Hanging overhead were massive posters touting everything from coin necklaces for belly dancers to the health benefits of copper bracelets; half a dozen posters invited the public to “invite wealth into their lives” by learning to “fire dance.” Its stars, as portrayed in the artwork, were dripping with jewelry.

It was chaos. Glittery, cacophonous bedlam.

“Glad I talked you into this?” asked Bronwyn as we started to meander through the aisles among gem-laden tables.

I nodded, dumbstruck.

“I’d say it’s worth opening the store a little late on a Sunday,” said Maya as she paused to stroke a long strand of polished garnets. The wine color of the beads as they reflected the fluorescent lights overhead was a perfect match to today’s ruby highlights in Maya’s black locks.

“You can say that again,” I said. The crowd milling around us was mostly female—some appeared to be jewelry makers or wedding planners or artists, or dealers like me, but mostly they were shopping just for the fun of it.

For me, coming here today—going “shopping with friends”—was an important rite of passage. I had never before done such a thing.

We strolled by a dealer with tables piled high with strands of pearls in just about every color imaginable: sky blue, indigo, purple, pink, green, gray. In addition to the rainbow of color possibilities, the oyster-born treasures were offered in myriad different shapes, from the classic gleaming spheres to misshapen, elongated forms that looked like lumpy grains of rice or twisty coral.

The next booth specialized in Venetian glass beads, handmade and swirling with color. Strands of multicolored glass pieces hung from a long fishing line and created the effect of a beaded curtain; they twinkled beguilingly in the harsh lights of the exhibit hall. There were a few dozen finished necklaces and earrings hanging from display racks, but most were offered as loose beads in lined baskets.

Maya reached out to caress one piece after another, stroking their slick surfaces and rippling the beaded curtain with a pleasant
clickety clackety
sound.

Personally, I kept my hands tucked tight into the pockets of my vintage 1960s sundress. The buzzing crowd that surrounded us already felt just a mite overwhelming; I didn’t want to add to my already overloaded senses by tuning in to an untold number of possible sensations emanating from the jewelry.

Not that I normally picked up much from metal or stone . . . but just to be on the safe side.

When it comes to witchcraft, as in the rest of life, I’m a bit of a misfit. For instance, I’m no good at scrying, or seeing the future in a crystal ball. Also, I tend to be at a loss in concentrating my energy to use magic in emergencies, though I am improving with practice. In the field of psychometrics I am especially weird: most sensitives are adept at feeling vibrations from metal and stone.

But
I
gather sensations from clothing. For some reason, the warmth of humanity shows itself to me through the everyday items we wear on our backs. Textiles talk to me. Stones, however, leave me cold.

“I think I should go find the vintage stuff,” I told Bronwyn and Maya, both of whom were absorbed in their study of delicate hand-knotted necklaces made by a woman whose nametag read, appropriately,
SAPPHIRE STONE
. As for me . . . I have a finite supply of shopping energy. I wanted to spend it on items for the store. “How about I meet you two at the refreshment stand in an hour or so?”

“Sure. Let’s see . . . here’s the map,” Maya said as she studied a brochure that included a map of vendors; before we left Aunt Cora’s Closet this morning she had drawn red circles around a few names. “There are a few antique jewelry dealers in the back right corner, right in front of the big blue curtain.”

“Thanks. I’ll move that way.”

I’m not much of one for crowds. There are too many sensations swirling about. Being outside is better, but in a confined space like this I can start to feel overwhelmed, jangly. Which might have accounted for the annoying, just-out-of-my-grasp inkling that something nefarious was up. Nothing specific, just a vague glimmer, like the “here one moment, gone the next” vision of a mirage on an insufferably long, straight Texas highway.

Slowly, I turned around three hundred sixty degrees, looking for something out of the ordinary: a practitioner with a blinking purple-gray aura, for example, or an out of control familiar. Or maybe a surprise appearance by Aidan Rhodes, a powerful witch who was the self-appointed godfather of the local magical folk.

But I saw nothing but grown mothers and daughters enjoying a day together, sharp-eyed merchants shopping for deals, artisans and jewelry makers in search of supplies. And mounds of gemstones, trinkets, and baubles on every horizontal surface.

Shaking off the vague, peculiar impressions, I made my way toward the back right corner, where a big sign announced:
GRISELDA’S JEWELRY AND GEMS.

Behind the horseshoe display counter, I presumed, stood Griselda. A pawnshop’s worth of gold chains and medallions hung from her neck; both wrists were manacled with dozens of broad bracelets and slim bangles; she wore sparkly rings on each finger; and multiple earrings and cuffs adorned her ears.

A snippet of an old poem my mother used to repeat came back to me: “. . . with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she will have music wherever she goes . . .”
I fought the urge to peek behind the counter to see if she wore anklets and toe rings.

Griselda’s brocade-draped tables were loaded with antique gold lockets and brooches made of mother of pearl and bronze. A large tray lined with deep purple velvet held dozens of rings made of gold and silver, some of which twinkled with semiprecious stones and rhinestones.

At the moment, the only part of Griselda visible was the seat of her tie-dyed stretch pants straining across her backside as she leaned over, vigorously rooting through boxes. She jingled pleasantly with each enthusiastic move.

When two teenagers started looking over the display,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing
over the fine old pieces, Griselda straightened and gave a welcoming, gap-toothed smile.

“This one’s a beaut,” said Griselda, speaking excellent English with a slight Germanic accent. She held up a silver chain with a dented and tarnished but stunning gem-encrusted silver medallion.

The girls seemed rapt, admiring the medallion.

“If you look deep enough into the opal you’ll see the ocean.” Griselda paused dramatically.

The girls giggled, teasing each other about what they saw in the depths of the opal.

“Could I try it on?” asked the younger of the two, a pretty, petite teenager who looked Latina, with almond eyes and straight black hair hanging nearly to her waist.

Griselda held the medallion out to her, but the other teen put out her hand to stop her friend.

“Wait, Marisela,
don’t
. Don’t you know opals are bad luck?” She was lovely, exotic-looking, with a glittering nose ring, and her hair was plaited into a multitude of braids. She had dusky skin, her eyes were a celadon green, and her hair was the light golden brown of clover honey.

“Seriously?” said Marisela with a smile. “I swear, Shawnelle, you’re as bad as my mom with all the superstitions.”

“Do what you want,” Shawnelle replied with a shrug. “But if your teeth start falling out or whatever, don’t come crying to me.”

Marisela still smiled but hesitated. “Oh, I guess . . . yeah, seems like I’ve heard something like that before. Never mind.”

Griselda snorted loudly, laid the medallion back on a special silk-covered stand, and, sensing she wasn’t going to make the sale, turned back to unpack more boxes.

“Besides,” said the green-eyed girl as she tried one ring after another on her long slim fingers, holding her hand out in front of her and admiring each in turn, “we’re here on a mission, remember?”

“Oh, right. ’Scuse me, do you have any tiaras?” Marisela asked in the general direction of Griselda’s backside.

“
Nein
. No tiaras,” came the muffled reply. I could hear Griselda muttering something about opals and bad luck under her breath.