Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (25 page)

I stared at the fire so long, I saw green marks when I closed my eyes. The dark of the rest of the house seemed to close in on us. I shut my eyes, just for a moment, feeling the sting of weariness, enjoying the brief respite from the tense séance gathering.

I had to force myself to open them.

When I opened my eyes the room was cheerful and warm, the lights were ablaze, and the table was set for a meal. When had we put out dishes and silverware? I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing, my mind muddled, as vague and disconnected as Hugh always seemed. I heard voices swirling around me, but they seemed far off, unintelligible.

The light in the room was strange . . . blue and flickering, like an old home movie.

A woman was in the kitchen. I could hear the clatter of dishes, the sound of water running, the radio playing “Hotel California.”

The door knocker rapped. Bam bam bam . . .
bam
!

The woman called out:

“Bridget, get the door, will you please?”

No response. The banging continued.

“Bridget?”

Drying her hands on her apron, the woman headed for the door. I recognized her from the photos: Jean Lawrence.

“All right, all right, I’m coming!” she called out.

A teenage girl came down the stairs. “What, Mom?”

“Too late now,” said Jean, the exasperation in her voice belied by the smile on her face at the sight of her daughter. “I wanted you to answer the door. Your father must be out in the shed.”

“He’s packing,” said Bridget. “I heard him whistling out there earlier.”

“Ooh, is that the new dress we bought?” Jean said, reaching for the doorknob. “Come here and let me see it in the light.”

Bam bam bam . . .
bam
!

As though in slow motion, her eyes still on her daughter, Jean opened the door, not even looking to see who it was.

Bam bam bam . . .
bam!

“Mel!”

I snapped out of it.

Seven pairs of eyes were on me. Olivier was, predictably, amused. Meredith seemed wary. Graham and Annette looked concerned. Hugh’s face was ashen, Simone’s puzzled.

Cookie looked appalled. She was standing, and I was willing to wager it was she who had shouted my name, breaking the contact and destroying the circle.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice strange in my ears.

Graham rose and came to stand behind me, placing warm hands on my suddenly cold, stiff shoulders and massaging gently.

“You left us there for a few minutes,” he said.

“Are you all right, Mel?” Annette asked.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“What did you see?” Cookie asked.

“I thought . . . I could see what was happening. I saw the mom, Jean Lawrence, in the kitchen, the daughter Bridget coming down the stairs.” I looked at Olivier and Meredith. “I think I was there, that night.”

“The spirits were eager to speak with you,” said Meredith. “They recognized you; they have been waiting.”

“Well, that’s seriously creepy,” Cookie said.

“What else did you see?” Olivier asked.

“Someone was knocking on the door.”

“Like earlier tonight?” Olivier asked.

I nodded.

“Who was it?” asked Annette, sitting up eagerly.

“I didn’t see,” I said. “I came out of it just as she was opening the door.”

“Wait, wait,
wait
,” said Cookie. “I thought the
dad
killed everybody. Why do we care about who was at the door?”

“Because Sidney Lawrence didn’t do it,” I said.

Hugh gasped, and Simone held him to her chest.

“Are you certain of that?” Annette asked.

“No. But I know how to find out. Let’s do this one more time,” I said. “Everybody take a seat and join hands.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Annette asked.

“I have to,” I said.

“Are you
kidding
me?” said Cookie with a tone of outrage I hadn’t heard since the time Daphne and I used her junior prom dress for an art project. “This is dangerous! If the dad didn’t kill his family, then whoever did could still be around! And if Mel sees who it is, she could be . . . I mean . . . What’s to keep him from coming after her?”

“Me, for starters,” said Annette.

“It’s okay, Cookie,” I said. “This is what we’re here for.”

“It most certainly is
not
okay, Melanie Ann Turner. You should have seen yourself. It was . . . it was as if you weren’t even
here
. What’s
wrong
with you people? Graham?”

“Gotta say, I’m siding with your sister here, Mel,” said Graham.

“Cookie,” said Olivier, coming over to take her hand. “You must understand, your sister is very gifted. She might be able to tell us what happened that night, be able to help Hugh understand his family’s tragedy. Maybe discover a killer. It is very noble, what she does. You understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” Cookie said flatly. “I don’t care about Hugh’s family tragedy. Sorry, Hugh, but I don’t. Not if it means risking Mel’s safety.”

“If I can help solve a murder and clear an innocent man’s name, Cookie, then it’s something I have to do.”

Cookie glared at me for a moment, then let out a shaky breath.

“Fine.” She looked around at the group. “But I want to make one thing perfectly clear: If anything happens to Mel, anything at all, each and every one of you will answer to
me
. Do you understand? We’ll give this séance one more try because Mel insists, but the moment it’s over I am taking her home and we’re ordering Thai food and watching a DVD on the couch under the quilt Mom made. That is it. Period. End of story.”

And with that she flounced back to her chair, plopped down, her back ramrod straight, and held her hands out, palms up. “Well? Let’s get this party started.”

Chastened, we did as we were told. I hid a secret smile. My big sister had stood up for me.

We held each other’s hands and bowed our heads. Meredith began her incantation . . . and just like that I was back again.

This time Jean was in the kitchen, chatting with someone I couldn’t see.

“I always know it’s you by your knock,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Why couldn’t I see who she was talking to? I felt the urge to go into the kitchen, but my body felt strange, not my own. It wouldn’t respond to my commands. Nightmarelike, it was as though I could run forever and yet never move. I walked—or was I walking? It felt like floating. No one saw me, no one noticed me as I moved into the foyer, and then into the parlor.

As if
I
were the ghost.

Bridget was in the front room, humming, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She turned around and looked over her shoulder, to see herself from behind.

She glanced into the hall, then picked up a man’s plaid jacket from the brocade loveseat. She patted it down and took out a pack of cigarettes, then frowned as she felt something else. She pulled it out: a gun.

She whirled around, the gun held out in front of her.

“Why do you have a
gun
in your ja—”

There was a brief struggle. The log came down . . . and Bridget fell, banging her head on the fireplace hearth.

“
Bridget
!” Jean screamed from the doorway. “My baby!
My baby!
” She reached for her daughter, then reared back, her eyes wide with fear. She turned and ran. A shot rang out. And another.

A dark stain marred Jean’s white shirt, and she collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. But she was still alive, looking over her shoulder.

“Sidney . . . ,”
she whispered, then screamed,
“No
 . . .
Sidney!”

Another shot.

And a child’s gasp. At the top of the stairs was Linda. She wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans shorts, her unkempt hair curling around her pretty face, her arms and legs thin and long. A girl on the brink of womanhood.

“Daddy! Daddy shot Mommy!”
She screamed as she ran down the hall.

Sidney burst in through the kitchen, running to tackle the shooter.

“Nooooo!”

More gunshots.
Boom, boom.

Sidney fell near his wife. The killer put the gun in Sidney’s hand, wrapped his fingers around it, held the barrel to Sidney’s temple, and pulled the trigger.

Boom
.

“W
hy couldn’t she see the killer?” asked Annette.

“An excellent question,” I said. “It was incredibly frustrating.”

“I was afraid of that,” Meredith said, shaking her head. “But I was hoping they would say a name, or in some other way identify the killer. You remember anything like that?”

I shook my head. “You knew this would happen?”

“I didn’t
know
it would happen, but I’m not surprised. What you saw was not a replay of the actual event, but a reenactment of sorts. You couldn’t see the killer because he or she did not die here that night. The ghosts manifested because they are here, connected to this home, in these walls. But he is not. He is still alive.”

“I knew it,” Hugh said. He held his head in his hands, rocking, and his voice was raw. “I
knew
it. It never made any sense. All these years . . . and it wasn’t my father after all.”

I shook my head.

He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling with tears in his eyes. Simone stood behind him, hugging him gently.

“Well, that’s just great,” I said, disgusted. “So does this mean we’re back where we started?”

Meredith shrugged. “A vision like the one you experienced can be like a dream, vague and just beyond conscious grasp. But you may remember more when you sleep. Or something you encounter during the course of your day may spark a sudden picture. Don’t try to force it.”

“Fine, fine,” Cookie announced, her arm wrapped around my shoulders. “We’re leaving. Thai food and movies at our place. Everyone’s invited, but only if you promise not to talk about ghosts, goblins, witches, werewolves, or things that go bump in the night. I’ve had just about enough of this.”

And with that, Cookie grabbed my elbow and steered me out the door.

“So does this mean you’re giving up your plans to star in a reality TV show about ghost busting?”

“Don’t start with me, Mel. Just don’t start.”

•   •   •

The next morning, I was running late. Despite our movie marathon—three romantic comedies, back to back—I had had trouble sleeping. I kept dreaming about the events I had seen and heard at 2906 Greenbrier. Jean answering the door, the log slamming down on Bridget’s head, the finger pulling the trigger. The sound of the knocker, over and over.
Boom
.
Boom
.
Boom
.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see who was behind the door.

As I stumbled downstairs and made my way to the kitchen, I heard Cookie on the phone in the living room, giggling.

“Who’s she talking to?” I asked Dad, who was sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

“Kyle,” Dad said. He held up crossed fingers.

“Did she call him or did he call her?”

“I didn’t hear the phone ring, so she must’ve called him.”

“Interesting,” I said, pouring a cup of coffee.

“Don’t say anything to screw it up.”

“Why would I screw it up? I like Kyle. And as much fun as Cookie’s visit has been, I’m thinking this house is no longer big enough to house three Turners. We’re a strong-minded bunch.”

“You get that from your mother,” Dad said.

“Yeah, sure.
Mom
was the stubborn one.”

“I don’t know what the hell kind of crazy party you dragged Cookie to last night, but I guess it knocked some sense into her.”

“It was a séance, Dad; you know that. You insisted I take her, remember?”

He ignored that. “You got plans today? I gather you’re not working on Monty’s place anymore.”

“You can say that again.” That reminded me: I should call Annette and see where things stood with Monty.

Just then, Cookie sailed into the room. She kissed Dad on the cheek and poured a glass of orange juice. “Morning, Mel! Did you sleep okay?”

“Kind of fitfully, actually. You seem in a good mood.”

“Guess what!” she said.

“What?”

“Kyle and I are going on a cruise!”

“Really? Well, isn’t that nice?” Dad said, looking pleased. “Your mother and I really enjoyed the cruise we took that one time. The Panama Canal was sensational.”

“Sounds like you’re going to need a passport,” I said. She beamed at me.

“And the cruise is just the beginning. Maybe next summer we’ll rent a house in the Italian countryside, you know, like in that movie we saw last night? The whole family can come!”

“A Turner family reunion?” I asked.

“Better make sure it’s a big house,” Dad said.

“Well, I’m off to make a few phone calls. Kyle’s hoping I can catch a plane tonight. I’ve been away too long!”

She sailed back out of the room.

Pleased that the crisis between Cookie and Kyle had blown over, Dad prepared to make a celebratory breakfast. I was explaining to him that I wasn’t in the mood for eggs and grits when my phone rang. I looked at the screen to see that it was Monty calling.

“I wanted you to know that, even though I’m injured and all, I’m going to work at the Tubman youth center today. I used my one phone call from jail to talk to Ray Buckley. I told him none of this was your fault, that you were acting in good faith. I came clean about everything.”

“Oh, that’s . . . um, great, Monty.”

“He’s a really good guy, not judgy at all. I thanked him for what he tried to do for me, and he said that if I made bail, I should meet him at the youth center for workday today so I could make it up to him and to society. So you see, I’m not such a bad person after all.”

“I appreciate that, Monty. I think you have a lot to offer.” I wasn’t going to ask about the whole disability fraud part of this equation. I imagined Annette was on top of that.

“So, that’s what I wanted to say. Oh, one more thing. Since you aren’t going to be working on my house today, your weekend must be free. Maybe you could join us at the youth center project? I’m meeting Ray there in half an hour. I even recruited Kobe and some of his friends.”

“I don’t really . . .” I wanted a day off. Just one day off. But tomorrow was Sunday, so I could lounge around then. And the thought of Kobe and his friends having a youth center to call their own appealed . . . “Okay, sure. I have something to do this morning, but I should be there by eleven.”

My dad’s eyes were on me as I hung up.

“Let me guess: Monty wants you to do something else for him? That guy’s got some nerve.”

“Not for himself this time. Believe it or not, he’s trying to make it up to me—and society, I guess—by volunteering at the youth center.”

“I didn’t hear you saying no.”

“Well, I was going to work at his place today, and since that’s no longer happening, I might as well use the time at the youth center. And he’s volunteering with a head injury. You have to give him a little credit.”

“Oh, I give him exactly as much credit as he deserves.”

“Speaking of volunteering, weren’t you going over to Etta’s today to work on that model train set of hers?”

I was itching to return to the Murder House. Now that I was no longer frightened by its ghostly residents, I wanted to see if they would speak to me directly. But it would be nice to know I had backup right across the street.

He grunted. “Yep, leaving in a few minutes. By the way, Graham mentioned you thought Etta was a murderess at one point. Does that mean you were trying to set me up with a murderess?”

My cheeks flamed. “I think he must have heard wrong,” I fibbed. “Anyway, I’ll stop by Etta’s this morning, too, but we’d better drive separately since I’m going to the youth center afterward. I’ll take Dog with me. You can have Cookie.”

“See you there.”

On the way to Murder House, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s visions. Also, I was hoping Dad wouldn’t say anything to Etta about my wild conjecture. I had been trying to keep an open mind, but it did seem absurd the more I thought about it. It was just that she was armed and able today, so I could just imagine her twenty-five years ago. And I knew better than to think that only men killed.

One thing about last night’s visions: I was now sure the murderer was a man. Or was I? I saw a man’s plaid jacket, but a woman could wear a man’s jacket.

Still . . . something about the vision made me feel that the killer was a man.

Gee, that narrowed it down.

A man with a plaid jacket. A lot of people wore plaid jackets. Like that photo Hugh had shown me, where he and his dad and Uncle Ray were wearing matching plaid hunting jackets, holding up their freshly caught trout with pride.

I thought of those pictures, taken so long ago. Sidney and Ray could have been brothers; they had similar coloring and build. I remembered Ray saying how touched he was the day Hugh called him “dad.”

Little Linda told the police she had seen her daddy at the base of the stairs that terrible night.

And when the adult Linda went back to the house last Friday, she thought she had seen her father’s ghost at the bottom of the stairs . . . but it turned out to be Hugh.

My heart started to pound.

Could Linda have realized on Friday, as she stood at the top of the stairs, that it wasn’t her father she saw that long-ago night? That it was someone who had resembled him in the dark, violent night?

Could it have been Ray? Ray, who always stopped to knock, even though he was part of the family? Ray, who treated the children as his own, who bent over backward for them? Could he have been guilty of the embezzlement, rather than Sidney? Ray had no money problems, and he kept the company books. If Sidney was out of the way, Ray could blame everything on him, even while vociferously defending his old friend.

But why would he have killed Bridget and Jean? I kept turning it over in my mind. Jean was supposed to have taken the kids to the seaside that afternoon, and Sidney was to join them the next day, but Hugh got sick. Would Ray have expected Sidney to be alone, perhaps expecting to blame the breaking and entering on the local drug trade? Was he surprised by finding them at home, and so struck out in a moment of panic?

The vision came over me again.

Bridget turning . . .
Why do you have a gun?

The sight of the log coming down.

The bang of the gun, the mother running, screaming.

Calling out,
Sidney!

But Sidney had been in the yard, in the shed. Whistling happily while he gathered items for their delayed outing.

My heart raced, my breath sped up. It seemed impossible, didn’t it?

Ray Buckley was such a good guy. Not judgy, as Monty said. Committed to all sorts of good deeds.

Almost as though he was plagued by a guilty conscience.

•   •   •

I parked in front of Murder House, and brought out my phone. I tried Monty. No answer, but I left a message on his machine. “Monty, don’t go anywhere with Ray alone,” I said. “He . . . he may have been the one who attacked you yesterday.”

I had guessed wrong before. If I was wrong this time . . . I would have a lot of ’splainin’ to do.

Next, I tried Ray. I had no idea what I would say if he picked up, but all I could think was that if he was with Monty and planning something . . . I had to come up with something that might change his mind. No answer, again.

Finally, I called Annette.

“Listen, I think it’s Ray. I think he thinks Monty saw him with Linda’s body. I think he’s the one who attacked him yesterday. Ray might be out to shut Monty up permanently.”

“You saw him in your vision?”

“No, nothing like that. But I think Ray is responsible for everything, and I’ll explain it all right after you send a car over to pick him up. He’s over at the Tubman youth center meeting with Monty. Neither of them is answering their phones. I’m worried for Monty.”

Annette agreed, then called me back a few minutes later.

“Okay, I’m listening. Run this whole thing past me. Why would a respectable businessman like Ray Buckley go after Linda?”

“I think when they did that walk-through of the Murder House together, he realized that Linda was putting it all together in her mind, that maybe she had seen Ray—who looked a lot like Sidney—rather than her father. What if she tried to blackmail him and he killed her? He had knee surgery recently, so he probably had access to prescription painkillers. Maybe he offered them to her and lied about what they were, or . . . crushed them and put them in a drink of some kind?

“And then Monty moved the body and screwed up the crime scene forensic evidence.”

“But Ray was investigated at the time of the family murders. He had no financial motive. The cops found him credible at the time.”

“You’ve met him. He comes off as very credible. Very empathetic.”

“We still don’t have motive. Why would he have done something so horrific?”

“The accusations of embezzlement.” I said it before I had fully fabricated it in my own mind. “What if Ray was the one embezzling? That’s why he was so well-off financially. After Sidney’s death, Ray blamed everything on him, and the external investigation was dropped.”