Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (11 page)

Karla shook her head. “The police contacted me about that already. It was nothing, really. A professional colleague, Brittany Humm—she’s a friend of Mel’s, by
the way, I see you two know each other!—has a certain expertise in . . . in psychics and whatnot. So when I told her of my difficulties selling Crosswinds because of the ghosts, she recommended the Flynts ask Chantelle to do a reading.”

“So you are the one who arranged for the reading?”

“Yes, I was. Although I must say, I was a wee bit disappointed that she recommended tearing out all of Skip’s hard work. That’s what I was calling Chantelle to discuss that day. I think it’s an atrocity. No offense, Mel, but it just makes no sense at all. Skip has been working there for
years
, managed to turn it into a showpiece. It’s going to be a hodgepodge of styles if you bring back that old garbage.”

I counted to ten.

“It remains to be seen how far we’ll go with everything,” I said finally. Much as I hated to admit it, Crosswinds had been too butchered to easily restore. I had dreamt about it last night: smooth expanses of white walls, sleek lines, clean open spaces. To bring it back to its former glory would take far more than a couple of trips to the salvage yard. “I think I may have made initial contact with the ghost, though. I thought I’d try to track down the weathervane and widow’s walk, at least start with those, and see what happens.”

“That’s absurd,” Karla said.

“It’s a place to start, and neither of those will interfere with any of Skip’s interior work.”

She shrugged.

I became uncomfortably aware of Landon’s intense gaze. Finally, he said, “Contacted by the ghost?”

“It’s a thing. We can talk later.” I turned back to Karla. “So, do you know what happened to that old weathervane? Or any of the other stuff Skip pulled from the house?”

She blushed and looked away. Very much like her husband. And also like him, she didn’t volunteer any information.

“Karla?” I urged. “Do you still have it?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She checked her phone again, in what I was beginning to think was a nervous habit. Either that or she was desperate for it to ring so she could extricate herself from this discussion. “It’s . . . This whole discussion is absurd.”

That seemed to be her favorite word of the day.

“Could you tell me what you experienced at Crosswinds?” I asked. “In as much detail as possible.”

“It’s . . .” Again with the phone. “It’s embarrassing, really, and I have to say I don’t really believe in any of this. But . . .”

“But?”

“I had a very exclusive client in from Dubai. He was very interested, absolutely loved the place. Very qualified buyer—oil money. You know, they’re buying up all the truly exclusive places these days. Even the more exclusive computer folks aren’t as interested in these big old mansions anymore—they’re all buying islands. It takes a foreigner to truly appreciate an old-style mansion.”

Landon was sitting straight and attentive, as though hanging on every word. Karla kept looking up at him through her lashes.

“Don’t you want something?” I asked Landon. “Coffee or tea? You have to order up at the counter.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Would you mind getting me a refill?” I persisted. I wanted Karla to be able to speak plainly without worrying about what Landon might think. “I would so appreciate it.”

After a beat, he said, “Of course. Anything else?” His
words had a subtle edge, as though he knew I was sending him away.

“That’s it. Thank you.”

Karla’s eyes watched him as he went up to the counter. Then she turned back to me and blushed prettily, and shrugged. “Nice view from here.”

I gave her a tight smile.

“What is it they say: Just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu?” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped. “Besides, a person can cheat on a diet once in a while and still be okay, am I right?”

Karla was a trim woman, but she wasn’t talking about her calorie intake. As someone who only recently had waded back into the romance department after a difficult divorce from a man who frequently cheated on his diet—
me
—I wasn’t about to voice my thoughts on this topic. In fact, one of the reasons I wasn’t ready to commit wholeheartedly to Graham was because I wasn’t sure about the whole one-person-for-the-rest-of-my-life thing, which, it seemed to me, was implied when a person said “I do.” But then Karla and Skip seemed an odd pair, especially if her idea of a good time was going to the Hearts after Dark Ball and landing multimillion-dollar real estate deals; he seemed more the drown-my-sorrows-in-beer-down-at-the-corner-bar type. But I was making assumptions.

Besides, maybe if I’d been married to someone with flat, emotionless eyes like Skip I’d be ordering from the dessert menu myself.

“Where in the world is he
from
?” Karla continued, eyes still on Landon, apparently not ready to move on from this topic.

“Upstate New York, I think he said. But he’s been living in England for several years.”

“Oooh, I love England. I’m a bit of an anglophile.”

“I have a thing for France myself. Anyway, back to the topic: What did you see at Crosswinds?”

“That place has become an albatross around my neck.” Her lips pressed back together and I wondered whether her displeasure was related to the ghosts or the delayed commission, or both. “When I signed Andrew and Stephanie Flynt I thought I had it made, you know? They are so charming, so cultured. Very exclusive.”

“And the ghosts?” I was feeling like a broken record, but either Karla was avoiding talking about this or she had a scattered mind.

Just then Landon returned to our table. Perfect timing.

“Well, there’s the squeaking of the weathervane overhead, of course. And the strains of an orchestra. But I was able to explain those away until Abdellah Hammoudi’s wife, Iftikar, claimed she heard a man’s voice crying out. She hit the floor, and her husband had to coax her out of the place.”

“She hit the floor?”

“She said the man was yelling at her to get on the floor. What can I tell you? Her English wasn’t so hot, she might have misheard.”

“But you didn’t hear it?”

She shook her head. “I really don’t know what she heard, but it was
something
. And it freaked her out, and her husband later called to pull his bid. Do you have any idea what a three percent commission on twenty-nine million amounts to?”

I shook my head, not even willing to try the math in my head. I measure things on jobsites so I’m pretty good at adding five-sevenths of an inch, but otherwise arithmetic wasn’t my strong suit.

“Eight hundred seventy thousand dollars,” said Landon without a pause.

“Human calculator,” I said at Karla’s questioning look. “Math
s
professor.”

“Ah,” she said.

“That’s quite a commission,” I said. “I can see why you’re anxious to seal a deal.”

She made a grunting sound of agreement. “Anyway, after that fiasco I managed to find another likely buyer, this one from India, and something similar happened. The woman heard a man yelling at her, berating her. Someone, or something, is running people off. It’s absurd.”

“But you yourself haven’t seen anything?”

“I’ve heard the music, that’s all. Do you think . . . ? Could that Egypt person have anything to do with this?”

“Why would you think that?”

“She lives there, and claims she doesn’t hear anything. Doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. I was thinking, as soon as the place is under contract she’ll have to move out. She’s going to lose a pretty cushy situation there.”

Sounded to me like Skip and Karla had discussed this possibility. And they could be right. Skip had mentioned Egypt was good at computers. Maybe she was a technological whiz who’d figured out how to pipe random noises into the house, and to tell poor Iftikar Hammoudi to hit the floor.

But if she was that gifted, why wasn’t she using her powers to make a comfortable living somewhere? The Bay Area was the high-tech hub of California, after all. Why go through all that trouble to stay in a former servant’s room in a house where you barely even used the kitchen?

“And Chantelle’s reading said the ghosts were unhappy?” asked Landon.

“Yes, apparently. I wasn’t actually there; it was just family, and Egypt was there to take notes. But Stephanie told me they went through the whole house, every room,
and even up on to the
roof
. And then afterward Chantelle met with each and every one of the Flynts privately. At her rate?
Very
expensive.”

“Why did Chantelle meet with each of them privately?”

“Stephanie said that it was quite a coup to get an entire evening with Chantelle. So while they had her there, she wanted the whole family to receive guidance from the spirits.”

“And did they?” asked Landon. At our questioning looks, he continued: “Was she able to give them guidance from ‘beyond’?”

“Of course. I mean, I suspect so—your sister was so very talented. Very exclusive!”

Karla went on to confirm what the Flynts already had told me: that during the séance Chantelle made contact with spirits who told her to undo all the work Skip had done, or at the very least to replace some of the architectural features of the house.

“But all of this still begs the question,” Landon said in a harsh whisper. “How in the world would any of this relate to someone killing my sister?”

Karla checked her phone. I tried to think how to answer him.

“I spoke with the inspector on the case earlier today, Landon, and she says they’re following up on several leads. It’s possible Chantelle was reading for someone unstable, who became so agitated they attacked her. Or it could be a disgruntled boyfriend. At this point there’s really no reason to think it has to do with Crosswinds.”

He remained silent, staring at the table.

Karla checked her phone once again. “I’m sorry, but I really have to run. I don’t feel like I was able to answer your questions very well, and I apologize for that. But believe me when I say there is no one—with the
exception of the Flynt family—who more wants to complete the sale of Crosswinds than I do. So if you need to install a few antique fixtures, it seems rather absurd to me, but it’s fine. Whatever you need to do.”

And with that Karla excused herself, leaving Landon and me staring across the table at each other.

“Y
ou said you were looking for me?” I asked.

“Yes. I want to understand how Crosswinds relates to my sister’s death.”

“As I was just saying, we don’t know that it
is
related,” I repeated. “And fair warning, Landon: Inspector Crawford isn’t fond of people ‘mucking around in her crimes,’ as she would say.”

I would have thought it impossible, but he sat even straighter. “I am not ‘mucking around.’ I never muck.”

“It’s an expression. Not an insult. It’s just . . . She’s a homicide inspector. It’s a pretty rough gig, and she likes to be in control of all the possible issues.”

“From what I gather,
you
have interfered in quite a few of her cases.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I looked you up, Mel Turner. You’re all over the Internet. On some rather sketchy Web sites and blogs, sorry to say. I also read an article on you in
Haunted Home Quarterly
. And then I spoke to your father, I believe. And Stan. And a young man named Caleb.”

“What, did they pass the phone around?”

“Indeed.”

Mental head slap.

“Anyway,” I continued, tamping down the impulse to disavow my chatty family. “Inspector Crawford is the best—if your sister’s murderer is out there, she’ll find him. Or her.”

“And what if all of this has to do with the supposed . . . haunting of Crosswinds?”

“Even then. Inspector Crawford and I have worked on some unusual cases together.”

He lifted his eyebrows but did not speak.

“Seriously, Landon. I know it’s hard, but try to get your mind off this. Don’t you have classes to teach?”

“Not for another two weeks. I came early to get settled and to”—his voice cracked slightly—“to spend time with my sister. And now I suppose I need the time to plan her funeral. To tell you the truth I have no idea where she would have wanted to be buried. Who thinks about such things?”

“What about your hometown?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “We both left years ago. There’s not much sentimental attachment.”

“I didn’t know your sister, but here in Oakland there’s Mountain View cemetery. It’s not far from here, as a matter of fact. Hands down the best views of San Francisco. It’s a really magical place.”

“Do you say that as a magical expert?”

I smiled and finished the dregs of my coffee. “More as someone who loves to walk there. It’s so beautiful the locals use it as a park. That might sound macabre, but when you check it out I think you’ll agree that it’s really lovely. It was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who also planned New York City’s Central Park. He was part of the landscape school of park designers. And next door is the Chapel of the Chimes, an incredible columbarium
designed by Julia Morgan, the architect who built Hearst’s Castle, sort of Gothic Revival meets Italianate. . . .”

I trailed off. Sometimes my love of architecture and design could veer right on over into crazy-making territory, as my sister Cookie took pains to remind me.

“Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “It’s none of my business, I know.”

“I appreciate the suggestion. Thank you. I will look into it.”

“So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m just . . . trying to figure this out. I’m about at my wit’s end. I was up until three in the morning pondering the cardinality of the continuum—sorry, that’s a mathematical equation. I suppose it’s jet lag, combined with the shock. Cheryl—Chantelle and I were orphaned early on in life. I’m afraid there will be no one to mourn her.”

“Chantelle’s death was reported in the local papers yesterday. I think you might underestimate the effect she has had on the lives of people she’s read for, all those she’s helped.”

“Bollocks.”
He seemed to catch himself. “Pardon me. Nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. If she really could speak and see beyond the veil, her insight would have provided consolation, and resolution for her clients. I imagine your sister was popular for a reason.”

He seemed to be debating something in his mind.

“And I know whereof I speak,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I don’t want to brag, but
Haunted Home Quarterly
doesn’t anoint just anybody as their most promising up-and-coming ghost buster.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a reluctant half smile. “That article was over a year old. Have you fulfilled your promise?”

“You have no idea.”

When my phone beeped, I answered a text about plumbing issues for one of the numerous guest suites at the job in Marin, and then confirmed an order with Economy Lumber.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I stashed my phone. “Rude, I know. Anyway, I really should get back to work.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” he said with a ghost of a smile.

“Shakespeare?”

“
Henry IV.
Say, if you’re going to Crosswinds, I’d like to accompany you.”

“Actually, I’m not. I’m headed out to some salvage yards.”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but I’m hoping to find items that were stripped from Crosswinds so I can put them back. Or, failing that, to find something similar. Also because my client is paying me to troll salvage yards, which is one of my favorite things to do.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Aren’t salvage yards, by definition, full of other people’s rubbish?”

“‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,’” I said. “Shakespeare wrote that, too.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, he should have. Think about it, Landon: It’s not trash, it’s remnants of other lives. You never know what you might find, so it’s kind of like a treasure hunt. Sometimes I comb through salvage yards when I’m at a loss or was up until three a.m. trying to figure out the continuing cardinal equation.”

“The cardinality of continuum.”

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

Another reluctant smile. “It sounds fascinating. Might I accompany you?”

I hesitated.

“Please,” he said softly. “I’m sorry if I am making a pest of myself, but I’m truly at my wit’s end. I need to do something, anything constructive, and quite frankly you’re the only person I’ve met since I moved here. Besides, if Chantelle’s reading of Crosswinds was in any way connected to her demise . . .”

I started to remind Landon once more that there was no evidence, none, that his sister’s murder was related to Crosswinds. But he was a smart man; he already knew that. As he said, he was at his wit’s end. Once he moved into his apartment and the semester got under way he would meet people, but until then he was cast adrift. He didn’t strike me as the type to drink himself senseless and dance up a storm on the club scene or lose himself in the latest marathon of
Hoarders
while ordering room service.

“Sure,” I said, gathering my things. “It’ll be fun. Allow me to introduce you to the magical world of other people’s rubbish.”

•   •   •

First on the list: two Oakland junkyards, which yielded precisely nothing. I hadn’t expected much; they were sketchy places specializing in stolen hubcaps, kidnapped garden statuary, and purloined copper pipe, but they were close by and I figured it was worth handing out a few business cards. If nothing else, word would pass down through the junkyard grapevine that I was interested in items from Skip Buhner, in particular a weathervane shaped like a ship.

“Well, that was interesting,” Landon said as we climbed back into my Scion. “I may now die happily, having seen firsthand the veritable underbelly of Oakland’s rubbish.”

“Stick with me, professor, and I’ll show you the world,” I said, firing up the engine. As we set out for one
of my favorites, Griega Salvage, I could have sworn I heard Landon chuckle.

Most builders knew Griega well. Salvage yards in the Bay Area ran the gamut from true junkyards specializing in rusty car parts and broken plastic toys, to businesses that could pass as antiques stores. Griega Salvage’s owner was devoted to true architectural salvage, such as marble columns and tumbled cherubs and huge stained glass windows. Griega also carried such basics as crystal doorknobs and carved and stamped hardware that was hard to find elsewhere. Mingled among the more precious items was just enough junk to make the search exciting.

The open yard was chock-full of treasures and rife with possibility: fountains and carved fireplace surrounds, slipper tubs and ornamental metal, plumbing fixtures and cool old wooden doors. I felt like a kid in a candy store.

Some people go for spa treatments or fancy dinners when they want to treat themselves. I poke around funky places like this.

Landon didn’t look quite as thrilled. True, items left out of doors got a bit grungy, adding to the accumulated grime of the basements and attics where the pieces previously had been stored. I wondered if he might be afraid to muss his black jacket, which to me looked old-fashioned but which was no doubt on the cutting edge of fashion in London.

After several minutes of watching me pick through a pile of old metal pieces, Landon leaned toward me and whispered, “What are we looking for?”

I looked around: There was no one in sight. “Why are you whispering? I told you, I’m looking for some things removed from Crosswinds.”

“Two questions.”

“Shoot.”

“First, do you honestly think anything will still be here, after all these months? Second, even if something is still here, will you be able to find it amidst all this . . . treasure?”

“Check out those andirons,” I said, pointing to a pair of iron and brass andirons wedged under an old brass bed frame. I squatted down and reached one arm through the metal bars, but could just barely touch them with my fingertips.

“Are those on the list?” Landon asked, squatting next to me and sounding moderately more interested.

“No, but aren’t they cool?”

Landon frowned.

“Here’s the thing,” I explained. “Shopping salvage yards is a lot like looking for a romantic partner. You only find them when you aren’t looking. And when you do find one, you have to strike while the iron is hot.”

Landon mulled that over. “So, then, if I follow your logic we won’t find what we’re looking for precisely because we’re looking for it. Then why are we here?”

I was regretting bringing him along.

“Because you just never know.” I abandoned the andirons. “Let me see if Nancy’s here. If she can’t help us, we’ll move on to the next one on the list.”

Salvage yard proprietors were as varied as salvage yards themselves: Some were toothless guys in overalls and ripped T-shirts who moonlighted as trash haulers, and others were like Nancy, who knew the difference between Art Deco and Art Nouveau, and had a knack for acquiring some true gems. Nancy was a large woman with a short, spiky haircut and a pleasant but no-nonsense attitude. I sometimes wondered if she had formal training in architecture, though we weren’t close enough for me to ask.

Landon and I found her sitting behind her desk in the small office, a phone to her ear. There was a shrine to some sort of goddess in one corner, covered in little cards and figurines and pieces of fruit. But the rest of the office was jammed with treasures too fragile to be exposed to the elements: wooden carvings and paintings and photographs. As I flipped through a few of the pictures I was reminded of the photos from Crosswinds, and thought of what Karla said about pretend ancestors hanging on the walls.

“Hi, Mel. Long time no see,” Nancy said as she hung up the phone. “Help you?”

“I hope so. Do you know a builder named Skip Buhner, of Buhner Builders?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Not one of our regulars.”

“I’m looking for some things he might have sold from a Pacific Heights remodel a few months ago. In particular, there was a weathervane, all copper, shaped like a ship. Antique, from the late eighteen hundreds? Nice green patina?”

The phone rang. She answered, had a brief conversation, and hung up.

“Sorry. Weathervane, you said? I love weathervanes. They’re special. Powerful.”

“Powerful? How so?” Landon asked.

“They represent the four directions: North, South, East, West. And they’re said to capture some of the energy of the elements, responsive as they are to the wind, and, because they’re usually on the highest point of a roof, they soak up the vibrations from the home.”

“Huh,” I said. I grew up in the Bay Area, and used to be dismissive of what we Oaklanders called “Berkeley types”: New Age-y, health-food-eating, spiritual nuts. But ever since I started seeing ghosts . . . Let’s just say I’d become more open-minded.

“Frankly,” Nancy continued. “We don’t get a lot of weathervanes, and most get snatched up by antiques dealers. But something might have come in when I wasn’t here—did you check the metal corner outside?”

I nodded. “No luck. Do you keep records of who buys what?”

“Only when we think something might have been stolen.”

“Do you frequently acquire stolen goods?” Landon asked.

“We’re a salvage yard, and buy things other people don’t want. Sometimes this means the criminal element tries to use us a way to fence stolen goods they can’t off-load elsewhere. I’m pretty good at spotting them and sending them packing, but my employees occasionally let something pass,” said Nancy. “If someone wants to buy an item I think is fishy, I keep track just in case. It’s sort of middle-of-the-road karma: I still make money off it, but if someone comes looking for it later I have a direction to point them in.”

“So, nothing from the Flynt job, by Buhner? A place called Crosswinds?”

She cocked her head. “You don’t mean the Crosswinds Collection?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you talking about the Crosswinds Collection? That’s right—now that I think about it, there was a weathervane on the cover. Shaped like a ship.”

The phone rang again, she answered and chatted for a moment, then hung up and turned back to us. “Sorry. I’m the only one covering the phones today.”

“So you were saying about the Crosswinds Collection?”

“Yeah, I think it was at Uncle Joe’s. You know them?”

I nodded. I knew Uncle Joe’s Salvage Yard only too
well. I had been trapped there once, a couple of years ago, on a case related to the first ghost I had knowingly seen and heard. I hadn’t been back, and had been hoping to skip it this go-round. Bad memories.