Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (4 page)

“Good to meet you,” he said. I found his gaze a shade too intense, too demanding, and I wondered what his story was. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m not fit for it at the moment.”

“Nice to meet you, Gerald.”

“Everyone—except Mrs. Bernini—calls me Mountain.”

“I’m Mel,” I said. “The gardens are lovely.”

“I’ve been bringing the old perennials back to life, and next I’ll be working on the Victorian cutting garden. Are you familiar with cutting gardens?” The Propaks both looked away, as though barely refraining from rolling their eyes. I got the impression that Mountain was more excited about his work in the garden than the home’s nominal owners.

I opened my mouth to reply, but Mountain went on without waiting for a response. “They don’t require the formal design or layout of a decorative garden, but rather they’re planted for efficient use of space and easy harvest of the flowers, which in a climate like ours means that this house can have fresh flowers in vases all year round. I’ve planted yarrow, phlox, rudbeckia, otherwise known as black-eyed Susans—”

“Gerald, dear, we talked about the cutting garden last time, remember?” Mrs. Bernini interrupted. “Perhaps we can discuss this later.”

“Oh . . . sure.” He met my eyes and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” After he left, I added, “From what I can see from the windows, it looks like he’s doing a wonderful job.”

“Oh, he’s very devoted,” Mrs. Bernini said. “He’s coaxed the place back to life. I walk in the gardens every evening. You should take a turn through them before you go. . . . But first, I think we should go over the bidding process for the renovation. We have a somewhat unusual proposition for you.”

“Unusual?” I asked, wary. Just what I needed in my life. More unusual.

“Mel, we were
so
impressed with your portfolio, and you come so highly recommended!” Kim beamed at me from her perch on the edge of the couch. She seemed anxious to ingratiate herself with me. Or maybe that’s just the way folks were in Fort Wayne, Indiana; I’d never been. “But . . . well, you’re not going to believe this.” She paused dramatically, shaking her head. I couldn’t help but notice that her hair didn’t move, hinting at an intimate relationship with Clairol Extra Hold. “We’ve had two other contractors come out, but they were frightened off by the idea of ghosts, if you can believe it. Grown men!”

“I believe it,” I said. Despite their macho affectations, a lot of construction workers were highly superstitious. Of course, a lot of them had cause.

“As you know,” interjected Marty, and I got the feeling that they’d rehearsed this little duet, “we’ve contacted Avery Builders, as well. They’re quite interested.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So this is what we propose: We’d like you to spend the night here in the house. It’s important that you be able to work with all the home’s residents, the living as well as the departed. We’re hoping you could speak with them, explain what we’re doing, and communicate that we’re happy to have them here.”

“You want me to negotiate the renovations . . . with the ghosts,” I clarified.

The Propaks nodded. Mrs. Bernini looked uncomfortable.

“Tell me—did you also propose this arrangement to Thomas Avery?” I smiled at the thought of the head of Avery Builders—a humorless sort if ever there was one—fleeing in terror from a spirit.

“Thomas Avery isn’t the one interested in the project. It’s his nephew, Josh.”

“Josh Avery? I don’t know him.”

“Apparently he’s working with his uncle to learn the skills of the trade, with the intention of taking over the business. One generation passing the torch to the next.”

“Ah. And can this Josh fellow communicate with ghosts?”

Kim and Marty exchanged a glance.

“Not that we know of,” Kim replied. “Maybe!”

“Even if he can’t,” Marty said, “at the very least, we want the contractor we select to be able to deal with whatever . . . encounters . . . they might experience in the house. Like the odd sounds, and the furniture moving.”

“I see,” I said.

“There’s one more thing,” Marty said, and paused for effect. “Kim and I are committed to bringing the house back to its former glory. We’d like to incorporate a few new items, such as a decent heating system and Internet wiring, and plumbing in some private bathrooms for the guests. But overall, we’d like to restore its historic character, use vintage items, that sort of thing.”

Words like that made my heart sing. This was my passion.

“As I’m sure you know,” Marty continued, “my brother serves on the board of American Architectural Design. He and I think this house would be a great candidate for the AIA award for historic renovation. Also, as Kim mentioned, she has a contract for a picture book documenting the renovation and the history of the house. The ghosts will make a great addition to the story.”

In order to be considered for the prestigious American Institute of Architects award, the renovation would have to be well documented every step of the way.

“Are you working with a photographer?” I asked.

“We were, but . . . a few things happened. . . .” Kim glanced at her husband. “She wasn’t comfortable working around spirits. Some people are
so
sensitive. You wouldn’t happen to know a good local photographer, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have a friend who might be available.” Checking the directory on my phone, I jotted down Zach Malinski’s name and number and handed the note to Kim. Calling Zach a “friend” was a bit of a stretch considering he had once sort of kidnapped me. But I still liked him.

“To go back to the overnight visit: You want potential contractors to spend the night in this presumably haunted house in order to win the renovation contract?”

Kim and Marty nodded eagerly.

What they were proposing sounded like a plot for a B movie featuring scantily clad teenagers and psychopaths wielding chain saws. I glanced around the room looking for cameras, half hoping this was a new reality show for the do-it-yourself crowd:
Punk the Contractor
.

All I saw was the pleasant countenance of Mrs. Bernini, the excited smile of Kim-the-Doris-Day-look-alike, the earnest gaze of Marty Propak, and a house that really, really needed me.

Still, no way would I participate in a stunt like this. It was . . . undignified.

On the other hand . . . I could almost taste that AIA award. It was something I had coveted for years, steadily working toward it, and this would be the closest I had ever come.

And yet . . . surely I hadn’t fallen so low.

“I thought it might be fun,” said Mrs. Bernini, noting my hesitancy. “You could bring a friend or two, and I would be here, and it would be like a slumber party. We could order pizza!”

As she spoke, Mrs. Bernini’s eyes lit up and she looked, for a moment, like a young woman. I couldn’t help but return her smile. But still . . .

Spending the night in a haunted house to win a renovation contract?

Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.

I have my pride.

Chapter Three

W
ho w
as I kidding? I have no pride.

My best friend, Luz, drove me to the Bernini estate the following Saturday evening. Luz was originally from East LA, had clawed her way through college and grad school through sheer grit and determination, and was now a professor of social work at San Francisco State University. She wasn’t daunted by much of anything . . . except ghosts. And clowns.

“Sure you won’t join us?” I teased. “It’ll be fun. We’re going to order pizza.”

“Tempting as that offer is,” she said, “it’s not sufficient incentive to risk being eaten by ghosts.”

“I think you’re mixing up ghosts and zombies.”

“Whatever. I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“This is the way to get the job. Besides, getting away from Dad’s House of Testosterone isn’t the worst idea in the world.”

Through a quirk of fate, I live in a big old farmhouse in Oakland with my father, an old family friend named Stan Tomassi, and a former stray dog—male, of course—that has yet to be named. Lately my stepson, Caleb, has been spending a lot of time with us, hanging out with the boys.

I love them all, but this had not been the plan. After my divorce a few years ago, all I wanted was to move to Paris and hide away from the world for a decade or two. I had a vision of myself as a romantic, hauntingly thin woman of mystery who occasionally emerged from her Left Bank atelier only to wander the Champs-Élysées, eat a soupçon of
glace à la cerise
,
and entrance a few handsome Frenchmen before disappearing into the Parisian fog to return to her exquisitely solo pity party.
That
had been the plan.

Instead, my mother passed away suddenly, my stunned and grieving father fell apart, and before I quite knew what was happening, I had taken over the reins of the family business, had moved into my father’s house, and was living, working, and breathing in the male-dominated world of construction. And if anything, I’d
gained
ten pounds over the last couple of years.

At times I was a little grumpy about it all.

“I understand wanting to take a break from the boys,” Luz continued. “But if you ask me, a ‘break’ should involve mai tais on a foreign beach somewhere, not spending the night in an alleged haunted house.”

“It’s more than ‘alleged,’” I said as we pulled up to find my friends Stephen and Claire leaning against her red Toyota truck, whose magnetic door panels read
CLAIRE’S LIVING THINGS
. “From what I witnessed the other day, I think it’s pretty much fact. This is one genuine haunted house.”

As soon as we’d parked and joined them, Claire took a bright orange Tootsie Pop out of her mouth and gestured with it. “Cool house. Didn’t know they grew ’em this big in this part of town.”

“What’s with the candy?”

“Want one? I’ve got plenty.”

“No thanks.”

“Oral fixation.”

Stephen shot her a questioning look.

“I’m trying to quit smoking,” she explained in a scratchy, deep voice that sounded as though she’d gone through a pack a day since puberty. “And just for the record, New Year’s resolutions blow.”

Claire was petite and flat-chested, tattooed, and wore “steampunk”-inspired clothing, which, she explained, was sort of a mix of punk, Goth, and Victoriana. Her straight dark hair and slightly almond eyes hinted at a mixed Asian heritage, but she’d never volunteered the information and I hadn’t had the guts to ask. Despite—or perhaps because of—her diminutive size, she drank and swore like a sailor on shore leave after six months at sea. Claire was also a gifted landscape architect, and surprisingly good at intuiting clients’ needs and coping with their sometimes unreasonable whims. I’d invited her to come along tonight in part so she could check out the gorgeous gardens of the Bernini estate, but also because of all my friends Claire seemed brash enough not to be put off by the undead. I imagined she could kick butt if riled. She was already edgy, and nicotine withdrawal is not pretty.

Stephen was here only because I had made the mistake of telling him about the sleepover, and he had begged to come along. I didn’t have the heart to say no. Stephen was tall, pale, and so slender that I feared he would be knocked over by a strong gust of wind. He reminded me of a consumptive poet from the nineteenth century, an impression enhanced tonight by his sage green velvet waistcoat with tails.

I was wearing one of Stephen’s designs, as well. A fairly tame one: a wine-colored shift with spaghetti straps and a spray of silk roses at the hemline. Over it I wore a long black and purple knit sweater that fell past my knees. My feet were clad in my steel-toed work boots because, well, I
always
wear my steel-toed work boots.

“I gotta tell you, you three look like refugees from a community theater production of
Peer Gynt
,”
Luz said as she joined us on the porch. Her eyes raked over the facade and she raised an eyebrow in my direction. “
This
is the house you’re so in love with?”

“It needs me.”

“Huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

Just then a shiny black full-sized truck with “Avery Builders” painted in scrolled letters pulled into the drive. From the cab emerged a well-built man in his thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, and blond, he was a Viking in work boots and plaid shirt. He had a sleeping bag tucked under one brawny arm, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like an Eagle Scout. Or maybe a Navy SEAL.

Josh must take after his mother’s side of the family. I had known Tom Avery for years; he was an excellent contractor, but he was also short, blustery, and overweight, and had a drinking problem.

Luz glanced over at me, raising her eyebrows and sticking out her chin as if to say,
Not bad. Not bad at all.

I widened my eyes at her in reply:
Zip it.

She flashed a big grin. “I tell you what, girlfriend, you do land yourself in some interesting situations. All right, all you intrepid ghost busters, listen up. Have fun tonight, and be careful. If you find yourself in need of rescue, whatever you do,
do not
call me. Upon the morrow, should you decide it’s time for a mental health assessment, I’m your gal. And the offer of bail for misdemeanor offenses stands.”

Luz climbed into her car and took off as Josh made a beeline for Stephen.

“Hello there. You must be Mel Turner,” he said, holding his hand out to shake. “I’m Josh, Thomas Avery’s nephew.”

“Nice to meet you, but I’m Stephen.
This
”—Stephen put his arm around my shoulders—“is Mel, short for Melanie.”

I elbowed him in the ribs for outing my real name.

Josh blinked. My gender was a surprise, no doubt, but I imagined this evening’s getup wasn’t helping him envision me as his cutthroat competition.

We shook hands and exchanged business cards.

“I didn’t realize we were supposed to bring backup,” said Josh, looking at my companions.

I
hadn’t realized tonight’s sleepover was going to include my rival. I had assumed we’d be here on different nights.