Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (7 page)

T
he door slammed behind me. I rushed to it and tried the knob; it was locked from the outside. I banged and yelled for a long moment before thinking,
Is this ghostly behavior? Or some sort of joke?
I thought of Kobe’s little group and what Etta—and Monty, for that matter—had told me about possible drug dealing around here. Could I have stumbled across some kind of drug deal?

I’m from Oakland, so I’m not particularly skittish around street thugs, but I do know one thing: You don’t mess around with anything having to do with the drug trade. Young people in possession of guns but no future added up to people getting shot—a lot.

I stopped yelling. If I had unwittingly interrupted some sort of drug exchange, it was best to play along, hunker down in here until everyone had cleared out.

Of course, I hadn’t seen a soul around other than Monty or heard anything next door while I was talking with him. But . . . if not that, who could have pushed me in here?

I heard it again—the whistling. Faint, off-key, the way my dad did when he used to work in his woodshop after hours.

It sounded like it came from inside the shed.

I stopped and listened for a moment, pondering my options. I had my phone with me, but it would be embarrassing to have to call Luz or Stephen to come let me out. And it was hardly high-security in this shack. If worse came to worst, I could always break the window to escape and replace it along with all the other outstanding work we still owed Monty. For that matter, given the state of these wooden walls, I could probably bash a hole in the siding without too much problem.

Or . . . I could just go out the other side, crime tape or no.

I started to make my way through the building, crawling over old chairs, past cans of old house paint and motor oil, around cracked storm windows, atop a large wooden crate with
CALISTOGA MINERAL WATER
written on the side. Everything was covered with spiderwebs and accumulated grime, as though it hadn’t been touched for decades. Finally, I emerged at the other end of the outbuilding.

The place where Linda’s body was found.

The floor held numerous footprints and scuff marks in the dust, and an evidence marker lay on its side. There was no sign of blood. The police must have bagged all the evidence after photographing the scene. I wondered what they had found, though I knew it wasn’t my business. None of this was. Probably the death was the result of an accident, an overdose, or maybe the grim outcome of a hard life.

But perhaps, just perhaps, Linda would talk to me.

I peered back the way I’d come. It didn’t seem like she had come in that side, as I’d had to clear a path to get through myself.

I heard something behind me. I swung around to face the closed door.

Someone started banging on the door with something heavy:
Bam bam bam . . . bam!

There wasn’t a knocker on either access door. Maybe they were pounding with a rock or a bar of some sort.

Bam bam bam . . . bam!

As I watched the door, little puffs of dust arose with each hammering. Orangey rays seeped in through the cracks surrounding the door, reminding me that while the afternoon was waning, there was still daylight out there. A lot of good that did me.

Then I realized that I didn’t see a shadow cast through the cracks in the door.

The banging stopped. But then I heard whistling again . . . this time from the opposite end of the building.

“Hello?” I said. My voice came out as a low croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Are you trying to communicate with me?”

Two more bangs on the door. I wondered . . .

“Two bangs for yes, one for no.”

I waited. Silence. So much for the Morse code approach to ghosts.

“Linda? Linda, if you’re here, I’d like to help. Could you give me a sign, talk to me?”

Bam bam bam. Bam!

“Stop banging already,” said a child’s voice from outside. “I’m opening the door.”

The door swung open.

It was Kobe, the other kids loitering behind him, trying to look around him into the shed. Kobe gave me a disgusted, patronizing look, as though I were the child and he the adult.

“You not supposed to be in here,” he said. “Don’t you know not to cross crime scene tape? Says right there,
DO NOT CROSS
.”

“I didn’t. I went in the other way,” I said before I could stop myself. Why did I feel compelled to explain myself?

“Who you talking to, anyway?” he demanded.

This time I didn’t answer.

“And what are you wearing?” he asked, looking at today’s outfit, a bit worse for the day I’d had working on the foundation, plus the dust and grime of the shed. I pulled a twig out of my fringed hem and swiped at a smudge of grease on my arm.

“Never mind my dress. I’m a grown-up; I get to wear what I want. Did you push me in here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just a few minutes ago, someone pushed me in here. On the other side of the shed. Is this some kind of joke?”

“You crazy, lady,” Kobe said, shaking his head and looking at me with disapproval. “We was just walking by and Monty told us someone was back here, banging on the shed door, and would we come see who it was fool enough to get their sorry selves stuck in the shed where they just found a body.”

I glanced up to the top of the side alley and saw Monty on the porch, craning his neck around the corner. He raised a hand to me.

“Hey, Mel? You okay? What are you doing in there?”

“Yeah, thanks, fine,” I called. Then I turned my attention back to the kids. “Thanks for letting me out.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, you shouldn’t be here. Even if it wasn’t the actual place she was killed, it’s still creepy.”

“What do you mean, ‘not the actual place she was killed’?”

“I overheard the police talking. They couldn’t find the pill vials or whatever and there was some throw-up that should have been on the floor or whatever. They think maybe she was moved.”

“Why were you listening in on the cops?” I asked as we walked back up the alley between houses.

“Wasn’t listening, exactly. ’Cept grown-ups think kids are like the furniture or whatever. Can I help it if they talk right in front of me? I got ears, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” said a couple of kids behind him in support. His very own Greek chorus. I wondered what Kobe would grow up to become: CEO of a global corporation, leader of a cult, bestselling author? No matter what, I was willing to bet this young fellow would lead a fascinating life.

“Anyway, we’re outta here. Stay out of the shed, will ya?” said Kobe as he strolled down the street, followed by his entourage.

“Thanks again. Hey, we’re going to be working here again next weekend, and the deal still stands: You come help with some cleanup, there’s a good lunch in it for you.”

“Um . . . maybe,” was the only reply.

I joined Monty up on the porch.

“I think we should be all clear to resume the work next weekend, Monty, no problem. And if I get a chance, maybe I’ll try to come with some help in the next day or two, to finish up the ramp at least.”

“Oh, good. Thanks.” He seemed distracted. “Did you, like, see anything in the shed? What were you doing in there? You see any evidence or anything?”

“Not really.”

“I guess she was a junkie,” said Monty.

I didn’t want to spill the beans about the possibility it was Linda Lawrence . . . among other things, I really wasn’t much of a gossip, and I didn’t know anything certain yet.

“Why do you think that?”

“She was found with pills. You didn’t hear that?”

I shook my head. How come everyone else knew so much? I was thinking of my father’s refrain:
Nobody tells me anything
. Or maybe I hadn’t been listening. . . . I remembered hearing a sort of roar in my ears for some time after finding the body, from exhaustion or shock.

“Did you hear maybe the body was moved?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. I think she probably just went into the shed, and then that was it. At least it’s not a bad way to go. One final trip.” He made a sort of flapping gesture with his hands. “Floated away for good.”

It felt unseemly, this sort of speculation over a soul lost. Junkie or no, it was a tragedy. She was once someone’s baby. If she really was Linda Lawrence . . . now that I knew her story, that she had survived the murderous rampage of her father only to succumb to death in such an ugly way, it felt even more wretched.

“Anyway,” I said to change the subject, “until we can get back in to finish up, I was going to offer to take down the plastic sheeting over your bookshelves.”

The entire living room was full of bookshelves, all loaded with two rows of books, one in front of the other. It made it hard to see all the titles, but I did the same in my room at home. Too many books, not enough time. I remembered when I first met Monty, he told me, “One of the great things about being at home is I get to do my reading. It’s hard to make the time when you’re working and all.” He made my heart break with how game he was being about his sad lot in life.

“I already took ’em down. I asked one of the volunteers to help me before they left.”

“Oh, good. Anything else you need before I go?” I asked, feeling awkward.

Monty really seemed like he wanted to chat. I had to admit I found him a little annoying, even grasping, but I could only imagine how I would be if I were alone all day, unable to leave my house without help. I was tired and grimy, and a bit off my game after what had just taken place in the shed. But my friends had informed me that three years out of my ugly divorce was plenty of time to heal, and that I no longer received a pass for being in a bad mood. I was trying to be a nicer person.

“You really do have an impressive collection of books,” I said. “Do you have a favorite author?”

“Too many to name. I read a lot of nonfiction, biographies and the like. Right now, I’m reading about the early industrialists, real jerks like Rockefeller and Carnegie. But then, you have to hand it to Carnegie—after making all that money off of exploiting workers and the like, he got afraid of what would happen after he died. He was afraid he’d go to hell.”

“Really?”

He nodded eagerly, rolling over to one section of the shelves and pulling out a thick tome. He handed me the book. “That’s why he started with his philanthropy.”

“I know he funded libraries all over the country,” I said. “You have to like that in a person.”

“Libraries and so much more. A lot of his philanthropic funds are still active today. Whether the money got there through guilt or fear or rivalry, it was still good for society.”

“Rivalry?”

“He and Rockefeller went after each other, each trying to outdo the other with the extent of their philanthropy, just as they’d tried to do in business.”

“I’m guessing the competitive drive was strong in them both. But at least this way they gave away a lot of money, right?”

“Right.”

As I put the book back on the shelf, I wondered how Monty accessed the volumes on the upper shelves. Then it occurred to me that someone with his physical challenges could benefit from recent technological advances. Stan loved using his e-book reader, since it was so lightweight and easy to slip in the pocket hanging from his chair. He never had to reach for a book.

“Monty, have you ever tried electronic books?”

“Nah. I’m old-school. I like to see them on my shelves,” he answered. “Sitting there like old friends. I only keep the ones I love, give the rest away to Friends of the Library.”

For some reason, Monty’s love of books—a passion which I shared—made me feel even worse for entertaining, even momentarily, the horrid thought that he might have been hiding bodies in his crawl space. I really did have to stop watching TV with my dad. I had plenty of murder and mayhem to keep my imagination stoked in real life; no need to add in the greater culture’s obsession with crime.

“I’m really sorry about the work delay, Monty. I know the officer in charge; I’ll call tomorrow and try to get a definite date we can come back and at least finish up the ramp.”

“Don’t sweat it. What I’d really love is the rest of the interior painting and if we could finish putting up those extra bookshelves.”

“I’m sure we can manage that much, at least. I don’t think there would be any harm if I come by for a couple of evenings and finish up the interior stuff—I’ll make a phone call, okay?”

“That would be great.”

I escaped to my car, where Dog whapped his tail maniacally and crooned at me as if to let me know he thought I’d
never
come back. He did his best to crawl into my lap, which is something I usually discourage—Dog is not a lap-sized canine. But today, I wrapped my arms around the wiggling, hairy brown dog, reveling in one of the simple, normal pleasures in life.

But I couldn’t stop wondering . . . what the heck just happened in that shed?

I
lay in bed the next morning, hardly believing it was Monday.

After such an eventful weekend, it was hard to get back to work. The thing about construction is it’s a juggling act: finishing up one job, starting a new one, writing contracts and pulling paperwork and job permits for the next project, and meeting with prospective clients and selling yourself for yet another. As long as all of these processes rolled along nicely, you kept your employees working and getting paid. When things backed up, though, it was easy to fall off track. And I feared we might be jumping the rails.

At the moment, Turner Construction was working steadily on a haunted bed-and-breakfast over in the Castro neighborhood, where we had partnered with another construction company, and it was coming along well. Also, we were finishing up
(oh please, oh please let us be finally finishing up)
on my friend Matt’s place, which was the first building in which I’d knowingly seen a ghost.

But we needed other jobs in the pipeline, and though we had a few in the paperwork stage, I was starting to get nervous that we hadn’t had much new work coming in. In large part, the high-end construction business is recession-proof: Our clients are generally well-off, and though I’m no economist, I’d noticed that no matter what, there were some damned wealthy people in this country. Moreover, they didn’t seem to lose their money with the vagaries of the market, much less by losing their jobs. These people were the one percent. And since they were my bread and butter—especially those who had the resources and inclination to save beautiful old buildings—I was hardly in the position to come down on them for having more than the rest of us. And heck, a few of them even did good things with their money, giving to charity and setting up foundations and the like. Maybe not on the level of Carnegie and Rockefeller, but every bit counted.

But could the ongoing economic sluggishness finally be coming home to roost at Turner Construction? I certainly hoped not, because besides supporting me and my dad and our friend Stan, we also employed a handful of full-time workers, as well as subcontracting in the trades. I liked to think of us as a small but important economic engine, but it couldn’t run without the oil provided by people with enough money to say, “Yes. What the heck? Why don’t we do it right and slap some real gold leaf on there?”

These were the thoughts I had while I lay sleepless in bed, waiting for it to be time to get up.

Finally I showered and pulled on a dress. I had a rather eccentric style, especially rare for those of us in the building trade. Stephen was a frustrated costume designer raised among showgirls in Vegas, and he kept me well supplied with somewhat low-cut dresses featuring spangles and fringe. I matched these with my steel-toed work boots and carried coveralls around in my car for crawling around in the muck and mire of jobsites.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I heard voices. Dad’s was no surprise; he was always up before me, whipping up a hearty and nourishing breakfast that I was sure to decline as politely as possible. But the second voice didn’t belong to Stan, that was for sure. It was a woman’s voice

That was odd. Other than me, there were no females in this house. Dad, Stan, my frequently visiting stepson, even the dog . . . nothing but boy energy, day in, day out.

I proceeded downstairs, through the living room, past Turner Construction’s home office off the hall, and rounded the corner to the kitchen.

“Mel!”
a woman’s voice squealed, and my sister Charlotte flung her slender, sweet-smelling arms around my neck. I returned her hug, stunned.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh! That’s a fine way to greet your elders! Does a girl need a reason to visit her daddy and favorite sister?” She flashed our father a smile worthy of a prime-time toothpaste commercial.

“I’m not your favorite sister,” I said.

“Oh, pshaw!” she replied with a giggle.

The usually grumpy “daddy” was bustling about the kitchen with a broad smile on his face, the one he habitually wore when Charlotte—his golden child, though he denied it—was around.

Stan met my eyes, chuckled, and shook his head, then sipped his coffee.

I like my sister. I do. I love her like, well, a sister. But we had nothing in common. Nothing but our parents and youngest sister, Daphne.

For instance, Charlotte went by the nickname “Cookie.” On purpose. She wasn’t even being ironic.

Right there,
I thought. Right there was where our problems started. Cookie was perky, long-legged, and naturally slender yet curvy. And a blonde. Though we had grown up on a series of construction sites, she had not only managed not to learn her way around the business end of a hammer, but had done so without encountering our father’s wrath. Instead, Dad found Cookie’s ineptness “cute.” I assumed Cookie had mastered the fine art of flirtation about the same time she had graduated from diapers to pull-ups. Unlike me, my sister had been born with that rare, mystical feminine quality of getting pretty much any man in her vicinity to do pretty much anything she wanted.

Why learn how to swing a hammer when you can talk anyone with a Y chromosome into doing it for you?

After graduating from high school (in her senior year, she was voted homecoming queen, “most popular,” and “prettiest eyes”; in my senior year, I was accidentally left out of the yearbook entirely), Cookie enrolled at San Francisco State with vague plans of becoming a teacher or an interior decorator. She left without a degree but with a husband, Kyle, who was the nicest guy in the world. Kyle Dopkin was patient where Cookie was impulsive, reserved where she was outgoing, and responsible where she was flighty. I could not imagine what the accomplished IT professional was drawn to in my sister—other than the obvious—but he seemed convinced he had won the marital lottery, so I was happy for them. They had two beautiful children and a long-haired cat, and every December sent out holiday cards featuring photos of the entire well-coiffed family posed in front of their marble fireplace in what Cookie referred to as “The Condo in Redondo.”

In this instance, she
was
being ironic—she and Kyle actually owned a gorgeous seaside home in Manhattan Beach. Since I’m not familiar with the LA area, I wasn’t clear on why this joke was funny, but Cookie assured me it was.

“So . . .” I continued, filling my favorite to-go cup with strong coffee and noting the matched set of designer luggage sitting near the back door. More bags than one person would need for an overnight visit. Then again, Cookie never traveled light. “To what do we owe this unannounced visit?”

“Why, Mel, it’s almost as if you weren’t happy to see me!” Cookie gushed as she rooted through her Gucci handbag for her smartphone. “Oh, hey, Daddy, look at these pictures!”

She held up the device and started flipping through images.

I peered over my father’s shoulder, expecting to see photos of my adorable towheaded niece and nephew.

Instead, it was a major appliance of some kind.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My new wine refrigerator, silly!” Cookie said, as though it should have been perfectly obvious. “Kyle wanted a different model, but I insisted on stainless steel and glass, which I think is
just
the thing, don’t you? It keeps our wine at the
perfect
temperature, not too cold, not too warm. Our dinner guests
love
it!”

“We’ve got a wine refrigerator, too,” I grumbled. “It’s called the basement.”

Stan barked out a laugh, and my dad chuckled. Cookie left me in the dust in the good-looks and perfect-life categories. But I was not without charm.

Cookie wrinkled her nose and immediately recaptured the limelight.

“Daddy, you know what I would
love
? Would you make me some of your super-duper waffles? I
dream
about those waffles.”

Stan made a sound between a chuckle and a cough and hid his grin behind the newspaper.

“Waffles, eh? What do you think I am, a short-order cook?” Dad groused happily as he crouched and began rooting around in the cupboard under the stove for the ancient waffle iron. “I haven’t made waffles in ages. Your sister Mel doesn’t deign to eat my breakfast.”

“It’s not
your
breakfast I refuse to eat, Dad, it’s
any
breakfast,” I pointed out for the millionth time.

Cookie shook her golden head and frowned adorably, laying her hand on my shoulder. “Mel, I worry about you. You need to take care of yourself, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Now, tell me, are you seeing anyone lately? You’re not still bitter over the divorce from Daniel, are you?” Before I could answer, she continued. “You know what you need to do? You need to—”

“
Boy
, will you
look
at the time!” I topped off my travel mug and screwed on the sippy top. “Love to sit here and chat but I have
got
to run. You’ll be here for a while, though, right? I want to hear all about Kyle and the kids. We can have a nice visit when I get home.”

“Of course! We’ll spend some quality girl time together. Oh, I know! How about a mani-pedi? My treat?”

“Um, yeah, maybe. Soon as I have a free day. Busy, busy, busy this time of the year; you know how it is. Bye, Dad, Stan.”

I darted out the back door, hurried down the flagstone path to my car, jumped in, and gunned the engine. After a not-so-great weekend, I was looking forward to getting back to my work routine. Since the police hadn’t called, I was hoping the body in the shed had been a drug overdose. Heartbreaking, but it would have nothing to do with me or my volunteers’ jobsite.

But as I neared the approach to the Bay Bridge, I started to wonder what my sister’s sudden arrival meant. I was guessing trouble in paradise.

Cookie had left Kyle before, but she had always brought the kids with her, and the crises had blown over as soon as Kyle caved in to whatever it was she wanted. This time, though, she had come alone. Did this mean the problem was more serious? But if so, why would she leave the kids? Cookie had a lot of faults—I had a mental list of them that I had started when I was eight years old and updated occasionally—but she was a loving mother. Then again, for all I knew, she was in town for a few days to make sure a new couch was upholstered in the perfect raw silk or to buy a trousseau for the renewal of her wedding vows. Or something innocuous like that.

It was hard for me to fathom Cookie’s world, to imagine what she did with her days. Like many of the well-to-do women I worked for, Cookie was too intelligent and energetic to just sit around looking pretty, but with a gardener and a maid and a nanny to do the household chores, and no job outside the home, she had lots of empty hours to fill. Kyle was gone all day and the kids were now in school. That much free time could be a burden, and was likely to lead to trouble or to depression.

As I zoomed through the tollbooth and started across the bridge, I realized that just as I had no idea what Cookie thought or did all day, neither did she understand who I was or how I passed the time.

For example, one thing I did
not
do was mani-pedis. I work with my hands, so fingernail polish was immediately ruined, and in any event my nails needed to be kept short. Pedicures were even more useless, since my feet were almost always clad in steel-toed boots. Also, thanks to Cookie, I had learned to hate that kind of girlish fussiness. Four years my senior, Cookie had treated me like a human doll when we were children, dressing me up in ribbons and bows and makeup, and staging elaborate tea parties when all I wanted was to put on my OshKosh B’gosh overalls and play in the yard with my Hot Wheels. Even now I wasn’t very girly, despite my tendency to wear sparkles and feathers. Come to think of it, maybe those years as Cookie’s fashion mannequin were why I dressed so absurdly now. Certainly, she no longer dressed this way. Cookie’s love of bows and ruffles and gewgaws had long since given way to cool linen and elegant silks in simple, classical designs. Cookie always looked fabulous. I glanced at what I was wearing today—yup, unsuited for my profession as usual—and pondered. Was I only now going through an adolescent phase of fashion experimentation? If so, could I blame it on my sister?

Speaking of awkward adolescence and fashion choices, I was reminded of Kobe’s remarks upon my dress when I emerged from the shed last night.

I still hadn’t been able to come up with any rational explanation for why someone would have pushed me in. And who would have done so? Had the banging on the door been a sign from the spirits, or were Kobe and his gang having fun with the crazy construction lady? Or could it have been a local drug gang, as I’d first thought, or . . . ? I suppose it could have been the spirits themselves, somehow, desperate to communicate with me?

I wondered who owned the vacant Murder House. The yard was maintained—more or less—and the lights appeared to be on timers, and even the heater was working . . . so someone must be in charge of the place. I imagined the police had already been in touch with the owner, asking the pertinent questions. And as I’d told myself repeatedly since Saturday’s discovery, the situation didn’t have anything to do with me or mine.

Still, after checking on Matt’s project, I had to head to the city offices to expedite some building permits. . . . While I was there, what could it hurt to look up the owner of the house? I was pretty sure Inspector Crawford already knew who it was, but despite our newly cozy-ish relationship, I didn’t feel comfortable asking her, especially since I could find out for myself easily enough. Most folks don’t realize just how accessible property ownership information was. In fact, if I’d thought of it at home I could easily have looked it up on a public website.