Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (16 page)

Valerie brought a slick business card out of her nightstand and handed it to me. “Avery Builders. They come highly recommended.”

No
way
.

Chapter Fourteen

L
uz looked over my shoulder, and read the name aloud. “Avery Builders . . . wasn’t that the group you were telling me about? They’re the folks who spent the night with you in the Castro?”

“Just Josh,” I said, ignoring Valerie’s wide eyes. The way Luz described the haunted evening made it sound like a wild orgy in what was, admittedly, one of the most libertine neighborhoods of the city. “And I didn’t exactly ‘spend the night’ with him. . . .”

“Still, ‘of all the gin joints in all the towns . . . ,’” intoned Luz.

“Mind if I keep the card?” I asked Valerie.

“Be my guest,” she said. She still seemed shaken. “Do you think we should move out, someplace safe?”

“You know,” said Luz, “in a situation like this we’re often faced with spirits that follow the victims. You can’t get away just by moving locales.” She tapped, hard, on her temple. “They’re
inside
your head.”

“Valerie, Luz is kidding.” I didn’t like Daniel’s wife, but that didn’t mean I wanted the poor woman to be traumatized. Still, as I tried to placate her I could tell that Luz was mouthing something and making some sort of hand gestures toward Valerie. I didn’t look directly at her for fear I would burst out laughing. “In all probability, this was just an accident, a terrible mistake. I’ll go talk to Avery Builders and see what I can find out, okay?”

“Thank you, Mel,” she said, a delicate hand—sporting a massive diamond and ruby ring—fluttering up to play with the heavy gold chain at her neck.

“Mind if we stick our heads into Caleb’s room and say hi before we go?” I asked.

“Be my guest. I have a hair appointment—can you let yourselves out?”

“Of course.”

Luz and I descended two flights of stairs to a ground-level hallway. Caleb’s door was closed. In response to my knock came a sullen
“I don’t want any.”

“It’s me, Caleb. Mel, and Luz.”

“Oh . . . come in.”

He was sitting in a big T-shirt and droopy jeans on an unmade twin bed, in his stocking feet, looking a lot like an oversized, bewhiskered version of the boy I knew back when he wore Batman pajamas and underwear printed with dinosaurs. My heart lurched, once again, at the sight of the bandage on his arm. I couldn’t stand the thought that he had been hurt—perhaps on purpose.

“What’s up, Goose?” I asked. “How do you feel?”

He shrugged.

“Dude!”
said Luz. “Must be hard to play that with only one good hand. Let me try.”

She made him move over, sat on the bed, and started playing his video game with him. I envied her easy ability with teenagers. She demanded of him, and he gave in with a kind of grudging good humor. With me he was surlier. Once they hit puberty, making kids happy was a lot harder than simply pulling together a new pirate costume.

“How’s the arm?” I tried again. A vial of pain meds sat on his bedside table.

He shrugged again.

“I know your mom’s working a lot lately. . . . Want to come over to my dad’s house for a few days until you have to go back to school?” I offered. “I could see if it’s okay with your folks—that way my dad can coddle you and you guys can watch football on his big screen.”

That
got a response.

“Really? That’d be hecka chill.”

Hecka chill.
I was going to assume that was a good thing.

There was spotty cell reception from the basement level of the house, so I stepped outside into the small side alley to place my calls. It reminded me of not being able to use our cell phones at the Bernini house. Amazing how quickly we grow accustomed to new technology, so that when it fails us we are at a loss.

I called Caleb’s mother, Angelica, first. She was smart and funny and ambitious; I only wished she spent more time with Caleb and less time at the office. But her high-powered job took her out of town a lot, and even when she was home, she often didn’t arrive back from work until late evening, many times leaving again at the crack of dawn. So Caleb was left on his own, or at the mercy of Daniel and Valerie. Daniel loved Caleb, of course, but even though he worked a lot at home, he was mentally absent. And Caleb and Valerie . . . well, that wasn’t exactly a meeting of the minds.

I couldn’t help but wonder about people who had children when they clearly didn’t want to spend time with them. Then again, I reminded myself, I wasn’t a “real” parent, so it wasn’t my place to judge.

Another late New Year’s resolution: Stop
judging
people.

Angelica and Daniel both sounded happy to let Caleb recuperate at my house for a few days. Then I called my dad and gave him the heads-up.

“I better go grocery shopping,” he grumbled. I knew him well enough to realize he was secretly thrilled at the prospect. “He’ll probably bring a bunch of friends with him, and you know how teenage boys are. Eat you out of house and home.”

“Thanks, Dad. You’re a good grandpa. Oh, that reminds me, I bought ravioli for dinner tonight.”

He grunted in reply.

I signed off and went back into Caleb’s room.

“Got the go-ahead,” I said. “I’ll pick you up tonight after work. I’ll call when I’m on my way, but be ready to go, okay?”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.

I gave him a kiss on his dark, wavy hair, and Luz and I left through the door that led to the narrow alley between houses.

“You think someone did this on purpose?” Luz asked as we climbed into my car. “Why would anyone want to hurt Caleb?”

I shrugged. “No idea.”

“Did you feel anything ghostly, at all?”

I shook my head and sat there for a moment more, pondering my next move. A gleaming Lexus wanted my parking spot and tooted its horn. People were impatient in neighborhoods like this one. I started the engine and pulled out.

“Want to go with me to talk to Avery Builders?” I asked.

“Bet your ass I do.”

* * *

The office was located in San Francisco, in an old converted warehouse not far from the Design Center, which was itself a conglomeration of old warehouses used to display the goods and services of designers catering to the city’s high-end customers.

In the lobby of the brick building there was a café, lots of potted plants, and big windows displaying designer furniture and pricey decorative items. Four people had already jammed themselves into the tiny elevator, so I opted for the stairs. Luz trailed me up to the third floor, complaining the whole way. Luz was allergic to exercise, and she ate like a horse. Still, she managed to remain extremely slender. If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her.

A slate gray sign read
THOMAS AVERY, ESQ; AVERY BUILDERS
. We walked into the entry to find a meticulously decorated room, sporting professional dioramas of buildings and pictures of completed projects. Various objets d’art were spotlit in arched niches. Classical music played softly. Behind a gleaming reception desk sat a handsome young man who beamed at us as though our arrival gave special meaning to his life.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“You can say that again,” whispered Luz.

My first thought was steeped in feelings of inadequacy: Turner Construction might want to ratchet up the professionalism. My second thought was that clients were the ones who ultimately paid for this kind of high-end locale. Turner Construction spent very little on overhead, and we were known for paying above market to our employees, on the assumption that they would work harder and remain loyal. And we had a trustworthy, steadfast workforce in an industry known for transience.

Still, a real live office like this would make a person feel like a grown-up.

“My name’s Braden,” said the eager young man. “How can I help you?”

He had light honey brown hair cut short on the sides and tousled, quite purposefully, atop his head in a metrosexual do that, I was pretty sure, probably cost more than my rotary saw. Maybe I should get myself a job as a receptionist.

“Is Thomas Avery available, by any chance? I’m Mel Turner, from Turner Construction.”

His mouth puckered in a little moue of disappointment. “I’m so sorry, do you have an appointment? Mr. Avery is—”

“Right here,” said the man who had materialized in the doorway to the inner office. Blond, square-jawed . . .

“Josh,” I said.

“Mel. Fancy meeting you here. And this is . . . ?”

“My friend Luz. Your paths crossed briefly outside the Bernini house on Saturday.”

“Yes, indeed. Good to see you. Welcome to Avery Builders. Braden, would you brew us all coffee, or tea?” He turned to us. “What would you like?”

I noticed a granite-topped wet bar holding a French press, at least a dozen different tea selections, and a few delicate-looking porcelain teapots. No Mr. Coffee for them.

“I . . . uh . . . coffee would be great, thanks. Black.”

Josh met my eyes and smiled. “Of course. Strong and black, no doubt.”

Was my coffee choice a reflection of my character? I smoothed my skirt, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Luz asked for green tea, and we all tromped into the inner office and sat around a low coffee table. The love seat and chairs were a bright lipstick red; the walls were painted charcoal gray. Strategically placed lights illuminated a couple of modern paintings and several pre-Columbian-looking artifacts.

But the most impressive feature, to me, was the numerous framed photos and dioramas of jobs completed by Avery Builders. The display was very slick and professional.
Maybe Turner Construction should do something like that,
I thought. But then, we rarely had clients over to our cluttered home office, right down the hall from our decidedly down-home kitchen. Instead, I brought our portfolio to them, or directed them to the Web site Stan maintained.

“Nice place,” Luz said.

“Thank you. We just moved in a month ago—my uncle had operated the business out of his warehouse for the past twenty years. But we’ve decided to dial things up a notch.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, was there a reason you decided to ‘dial it up a notch’?” I clarified, realizing that my blurted query sounded rude. “I thought your uncle’s business was doing quite well.”

The receptionist brought in our drinks and set them on the coffee table before us. We all sipped from our steaming mugs.

“Oh, it was, sure. But I have a background in design, and when I joined the firm, we decided to go after fewer but more exclusive clients.”

“Like the Bernini estate?” Though it was intriguing, I wouldn’t have pegged the Bernini project as particularly exclusive. San Francisco was the land of old-money families like the Gettys, and new-money celebrities like Danielle Steel—
those
were the truly exclusive, high-profile jobs.

Josh just nodded, then smiled as he gave me a thoughtful look. “I see you survived the night at the Bernini house intact. I wasn’t entirely sure.”

“I wish we could say the same for everyone,” I said.

“Ah,
damn
,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor woman. Have the police made any headway on the case, do you know?”

“No idea,” I said. “But it’s only been a day and a half.”

“Don’t you assume, Mel, that whoever was responsible for the mayhem in the nursery was most likely distracting us from the atrocity of Mrs. Bernini’s death?”

“Maybe.” I was no expert—that fact kept being brought back to me—but from what I’d seen and heard, that playroom was honestly haunted. “Where did you disappear to that night?”

He ducked his head, smiled, and shrugged in an adorable gesture. “I’m embarrassed to say I was scared. Crazy, huh?”

“Not so crazy. Encountering spirits is pretty overwhelming, especially if you’re not prepared.”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “You’re not saying you actually think it was ghostly behavior?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“Mel has a certain sensitivity when it comes to other dimensions,” said Luz, blowing on her tea. “She can’t help it. Born that way.”

That last made me smile. Made it sound like the ability to communicate with ghosts was a congenital condition.

“Well,” Josh said finally. “I guess that would come in handy for a renovation like this, where the clients are actually hoping the ‘ghosts’ will stick around.”

“Maybe. But I’m not actually here to talk about the Bernini estate,” I said, remembering the cause of my visit. “I understand you’re working on a house near the corner of Presidio and Clay, for Daniel Burghart?”

He tilted his head in question. “Are the Burgharts former clients of yours? I have to say, some of the work was pretty shoddy.”

I felt myself blush, half with embarrassment, half anger. “Actually, it’s my former house. Daniel is my ex-husband.”

“Otherwise known as the Worm,” Luz muttered.

“Really?” said Josh. “I’m . . . surprised.”

“No, seriously,” said Luz. “That’s his name: the Worm.”

Josh smiled. “I meant, I’m surprised that the house used to be Mel’s. The work there was . . .” He trailed off with a shrug.

“I did some work on it when I lived there, a long time ago,” I said. “Before I ever got into the trades. It was my first . . . well, it was an amateur’s attempt. But it was done with love.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, the point is I’m sure you know that my stepson was hurt there yesterday. Seriously injured.”

“How is he? Your ex is livid, and I don’t blame him. But as to how it happened . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “I really don’t see how it could have been any of my men. We adhere to very strict standards of jobsite—”

“Do you maintain a presence on-site, or are you more of a paper guy?” I interrupted. I knew I was being rude, but the thought of what happened to Caleb made me gruff. There was something about Josh and his fancy office that made me pretty sure he wasn’t as hands-on as I was, project-wise . . . and given what had happened, that pissed me off. “I know Valerie was acting as her own general, but could I talk to your lead on the project?”