Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (5 page)

“They’re my . . . assistants,” I said, unwilling to admit that I was afraid to spend the night by myself. “Claire Allen and Stephen Nikolai.”

“Ghost-hunting assistants,” explained Claire, looking about twelve years old with that sucker in her mouth. At the mention of ghosts, Stephen’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and he wrung his hands, as skittish as a kite at the marina. It occurred to me our colorful trio might not make the best impression on my potential clients. Especially standing next to the overgrown Eagle Scout with the big-boy truck.

It was a little late to indulge in that kind of thinking, so I pushed the thought aside and knocked loudly on the door. I half expected little Anabelle to answer.

“Speaking of ghosts—,” Josh began, but stopped when the door opened.

“Welcome,
welcome
,” Kim Propak practically squealed as Marty, next to her, smiled. “Isn’t this
exciting
?”

“Very,” I said.

“Oh, come in, come in. And these must be your friends,” said Kim as her blue eyes raked over us. She seemed to hesitate, but her smile remained intact.

“I hope it’s okay I brought a couple of—”

“Ghost-busting assistants,” interrupted Claire, putting her hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, of course. Assistants! Isn’t that nice? I’m going to put you three in the east wing, and Josh in the west.”

“I’ll show you to your room,” said Marty to Josh.

“And the rest of you, follow me,” said Kim as she headed for the stairs.

Claire and Stephen fell silent, looking about the place with wide eyes. We climbed to the second floor and took a right at the landing. At the very end of the hall sat a towering old grandfather clock.

“Beautiful clock,” I said. “Does it work?”

“Sadly, no. Mrs. Bernini told me she tried to have it fixed, but no matter what they do, it stops at twelve after one, every time. Here we are!” said Kim as she flung open a door with a flourish. “I would give you all separate rooms, but although there are plenty of chambers, several are used for storage, and only a few have decent furniture.”

The room was large, and set up with five twin beds. Intricate crown moldings and an inset tray ceiling gave the room character, but the furniture was a mishmash of chests of drawers, bureaus, and cheap plastic cubbies. Three big guillotine windows overlooked
the courtyard garden, subtly lit by the moon and low path lights.

“Would you all like to share this room? Or, Stephen, would you like your own accommodations?”

“I think we should all stay together,” I said.

“No worries, he’s our gay best friend,” Claire told Kim.

“That’s right,” said Stephen with a glare. “Except that I’m not gay.”

“Who’s not gay?” said Marty as he joined Kim at the door.

“Stephen, it seems,” answered Kim. “Well, to each their own, is what I say. Marty and I have, well, what you’d call a more traditional marriage. But we’re just fine with all the . . . ‘alternative’ ways of life. You know, we’re not from here.”

“You could have fooled me,” Stephen said.

I shot him a look.

“Aren’t you just a
dear
?” Kim said. “We knew the Castro’s reputation before we got here, of course, but we’re still getting used to the neighborhood. I do adore it, though. Don’t you, honey?”

Marty nodded. “It’s very . . . vibrant.”

“Over the Christmas holidays we saw naked Santas! Right out on the street! Not that there’s anything wrong with it, of course. But we didn’t have this sort of thing back in Fort Wayne, if you know what I mean.”

“I
do
,” Stephen said. “I know
exactly
what you mean.”

“This room will be fine. Thank you, Kim,” I said, hoping to bring this little chat to an end.

“Marty and I are staying just down the street, at the Lincoln B&B.” She handed me a piece of scratch paper with a phone number. “Don’t tell anyone, but we’re checking out the competition. Plus, we don’t want to mess up the signals or anything.” She leaned toward me and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I’m very
sensitive
. You know what that’s like, Mel.”

“Sure do,” I said, relieved to learn they were leaving. “But Mrs. Bernini’s staying, right?”

“Oh yes. Her bedroom’s on the first floor, on the other side of the kitchen. She’s very attached to this place.”

“I imagine she’ll enjoy having guests in when the inn is up and running.”

“Oh, I doubt she’ll last that long,” Kim said. She slapped her hand across her mouth. “Oh! That sounded just
awful
! I simply meant that, well, she’s elderly, and we all know how long these remodels can drag on. . . .”

“She’s welcome here as long as she wants, of course,” Marty hastened to reassure us.

“Of course!” Kim said brightly.

“Of course,” I said, though it seemed clear that Kim and Marty wanted Mrs. Bernini out of the house as soon as possible. I felt a twinge of doubt: Did I really want to work for these people?

“Anyway,” Kim said, “why don’t you all leave your things here? The bathroom’s the second door on your right. The central heater’s out of commission, but the space heater warms things up quickly. Mrs. Bernini insists on keeping that big fridge chock-f of food, so help yourself to anything you’d like in the kitchen. And by all means, feel free to look around, explore. That’s what you’re here for.”

“Thank you, we’ll be fine.”

“Don’t forget, if you need anything, anything at all, call us at the Lincoln. It’s a darling place, run by a
charming
gay couple.”

“Sweetheart,” said Marty. “You don’t have to point out that they’re gay every time.”

“I don’t mean anything by it. Did it sound like I meant something by it?” she asked Stephen. He gave her a reassuring wink.

Marty shook his head and smiled. “Let’s go, dear.”

“Buh-bye,” said Stephen.

“We’ll see you all in the morning!” said Kim. Then she waggled her eyebrows. “Or
not
, if you’re scared right out into the night.”

Chapter Four

I
closed the door, leaned
back against it, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Claire made a “whoa” face, eyebrows raised, eyes wide.

Stephen just smiled and shook his head. “I think she means well. But . . . lots of energy there. Maybe she’ll calm down when she has the whole inn to run.” He took a few items out of his backpack and started to fold them neatly into a bureau drawer.

“You moving in?” asked Claire.

“Just getting settled. My mother always used to say, ‘No matter how short the stay, no one should live out of a suitcase.’”

Claire rolled her eyes. “
My
mother used to say, ‘Stop crying or I’ll smack you.’”

Stephen and I stared at her.

“What?” She stuck a piece of licorice in her mouth. “It was sort of a tough-love situation. Seven brothers and sisters.”

“Still, sounds a little . . . harsh.”

“So, I’ve got issues.” She shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Hey, gang, I want to go find Mrs. Bernini and say hi.”

“And order food? Didn’t you lure me here with the promise of pizza?” Stephen asked, conveniently forgetting that he’d lobbied to come with me. “I’m starved.”

“Feel free to raid my stash.” Claire held out a bag that looked as though she had just returned with her Halloween haul. She peered down into the depths. “I’ve got Red Vines, Twizzlers, standard lollies, jawbreakers, bubble gum, lots of stuff. Help yourself.”

Fortified with sour apple Jolly Ranchers and Fireballs, we started down the hall.

The sound of water dripping in a steady
tick-tick-tick
led us to a spacious but outdated bathroom.

The leaking faucet had left a rust mark on the scratched porcelain sink. I tightened the tarnished brass grip, and the dripping stopped. All the fixtures—other than the toilet—appeared to be original to the house, which was rare. Even the humblest homeowners typically redid their bathrooms and kitchens at some point, and those inexpensive remodels were almost always to the detriment of a historic building.

Tatty and in need of a good scrubbing, the lavatory was otherwise charming. I took in the hexagonal tiles on the floor, subway tile on the walls, two pedestal sinks, and huge claw-footed tub. Though the fixtures would need to be removed, resurfaced, and reinstalled, they would make it simple to recapture the bath’s original design. I noticed there were no electrical outlets. Back when they were installing electricity in this home, blow-dryers and electric curlers hadn’t been invented.

I caught a whiff of mildew, and noticed the small ventilation window appeared to have been painted shut. There was no exhaust fan, either, which was common in old homes where ventilation was primarily passive, achieved through windows or air vents running through the walls. It was good for the environment—in fact, a lot of “green” builders were returning to such traditional methods—but such vents had to be designed and installed properly in order to draw the air effectively. I made a mental note to check that out.

In the corridor, the threadbare runner covered scratched hardwood floors. I opened a couple of doors, revealing bedrooms that were empty or crammed with junk—from furniture to magazines to stacks of cardboard boxes.

A set of double doors led to the master bedroom, which had a few boxes piled in one corner but looked, by and large, inhabitable. A water-stained but intricately painted floral frieze ran between the tall crown molding and a picture rail. There was a matching bureau and highboy set, an old-fashioned vanity, and a queen-sized iron bed sitting slightly askew from the wall.

Could this be the bed that moved, from time to time? Stephen and Claire waited in the hall while I sat on the edge of the mattress, bouncing up and down lightly.

“Just checking,” I said in response to their questioning looks. “There’s been some . . . activity with this bed. Or so they say.”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” said Stephen, blushing.

“I
meant
paranormal-type activity. Seems normal at the moment.”

Directly across the hall from the master was another set of double doors. Claire tried the glass knob, but it was locked.

“I’ll bet Mrs. Bernini has the key,” I said.

“I’ll bet there’s a
reason
it’s locked,” said Stephen, eyes wide.

“
I’ll
bet I could open it in two minutes with a bobby pin,” said Claire, bending over to inspect the old-fashioned keyhole. “Or any skeleton key should open it.”

“Let’s refrain from referring to skeletons, shall we?” said Stephen.

Claire cast a disgusted look his way. “At this rate you’re not going to make it through dinner, pal.”

Then came a far-off sound:
clank
,
shuffle
,
scrape
.

Claire grabbed Stephen’s arm. They both stopped in their tracks, wide-eyed. At this rate,
neither
of them was going to make it through the dinner hour.

“That’s just Mrs. Bernini,” I said. “She uses a walker. Let’s find Josh, and we can all go down and meet her.”

From the upstairs windows I could see long white fingers of coastal fog creeping down over nearby Twin Peaks, and it was starting to drizzle. It seemed a perfect night for a haunting.

We finally found Josh’s sleeping bag and duffel in an innocuous-looking bedroom in the wing opposite ours, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Must be exploring,” I said.

“Just so he’s not been eaten,” said Stephen.

Claire blew a gargantuan bubble with her gum, popped it, and said, “Zombies. Or werewolves.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you ever go to the movies? Only zombies or werewolves actually
eat
you. Vampires suck your blood. But ghosts mostly scare the crap out of you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You see, Stephen? Independent verification.”

We descended the stairs and found Mrs. Bernini in the kitchen.

“Mrs. Bernini, I’d like you to meet my friends, Claire and Stephen. Claire is a gifted landscape architect. I told her about your gardens.”

“You’ll have to meet my friend Gerald. He calls himself Mountain, since he’s a big boy. You’ll look like a hobbit next to him!”

Claire smiled gamely. She wasn’t wild about anyone—even a harmless old woman—teasing her about her size.

“And Stephen, what do you do, a handsome young fellow like you?”

“I’m a barista.”

“A what, dear?”

He smiled. “I work at a café, making specialty coffees. But my real love is costume design.”

Mrs. Bernini looked puzzled, but gave him a vague smile.

“Have you seen Josh?” I asked. “Big, tall, blond . . .”

“Gorgeous,” Claire added.

The elderly woman shook her head. “Only you. Is there someone else here? I swear, there could be a small army in this house and I wouldn’t know it. That’s why we needed foster children, just to fill it up.”

I glanced at my watch—it was almost eight. “Let’s go ahead and order—he’ll turn up.”

“Sylven’s has wonderful pizza. I like just about anything except anchovies. Sometimes they make me up a special pie, custom-made just for me. Isn’t that sweet?”

We agreed to take our chances with a custom pizza that might include just about anything except anchovies.

“Young man, will you bring me that magnet off the refrigerator?”

Stephen obliged, and Mrs. Bernini dialed Sylven’s Pizza. From her side of the conversation, it was clear she was a regular customer.

After hanging up, Mrs. Bernini opened an enormous pocketbook and handed me a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Here, for the pizza.”

“It’s on me,” I said.

“Nonsense. Take the money. I’m glad for your company. And tip the delivery fellow well. He’s a good boy, takes care of his mother.”

* * *

For the next half hour Mrs. Bernini kept us entertained with stories about her foster children and the evolving flavor of the neighborhood over the past several decades. But then she was interrupted by something that sounded like the hollow clops of horses’ hooves on cobblestone streets. We heard the clink and clank of a carriage, a whinny, and the jangle of a harness.