Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (2 page)

Beats me. I’m a general contractor with a well-earned reputation for restoring and renovating historic homes in the San Francisco Bay Area, and an abiding desire to chuck all my responsibilities and run off to Paris. Reconciling those two imperatives has been hard enough, but recently my life was made even more complicated when
Haunted House Quarterly
named me “California’s most promising up-and-coming Ghost Buster.”

A misleading moniker if ever there was one. When it comes to ghosts, I’m pretty clueless. Not that I let that stop me. Recently ghosts had appeared on a couple of my jobsites, and I’d done what any really good contractor would: I handled them as best I could, and got back to work.

But at the moment I was standing—on purpose—on the front stoop of an alleged haunted house in San Francisco’s vibrant Castro District.

The graceful old structure didn’t
look
haunted, what with the cars parked in the drive, the cluster of red clay pots planted with marigolds on the porch, ecru lace curtains hanging in the front windows, and a folded newspaper on the sisal doormat. But the current residents were certain they weren’t the only ones inhabiting the place—and they liked it that way. In fact, they planned to renovate it and transform it into a haunted bed-and-breakfast.

The house was massive, built in a neoclassical revival style with Italianate flourishes. The street-side facade was symmetrical; the peeling paint on trim and walls alike was a traditional monochromatic cream. There were long rows of tall, narrow windows with ornamental lintels, and the low-pitched roof was supported by ornate corbels that marched along the underside of the eaves with military precision. Where the city’s famous Queen Anne Victorian homes were decorated with scads of elaborately painted and gilded gingerbread flourishes, the neoclassical style was understated, its only frills the “wedding cake” effect of the lintels and corbels, and the Corinthian columns supporting a demilune roof over the front-door portico.

As usual when facing a magnificent structure, my heart swelled at its history, its artistry . . . and its needs.

My practiced eye noted a host of problems: One corner under the roof overhang gaped open, inviting vermin. The gutter had detached in a few spots, and the roof displayed long streaks of bright green moss that hinted at water issues. Window sashes sagged, indicating rot. Such obvious signs of neglect meant a thousand other problems would be uncovered once the walls were opened.

And then there were the purported ghosts.

I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
Here goes.
Looking around for a bell or knocker, I found an ancient intercom system to the right of the front door. A quick press of the button was greeted by a burst of static.

I had just reached out to knock on the door when it swung open.

I squeaked and jumped in surprise, my hands flailing.

This was another glitch in any of my ghost buster career aspirations: I’m not what you’d call cool in the face of . . . well, much of anything. At the moment, for instance, I appeared to be at a total loss when faced with a rosy-cheeked little girl, with long chestnut hair and big eyes the deep, soft brown of milk chocolate.

As I tried to pull myself together, she giggled.

“Sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and striving to regain my composure. “My mind was somewhere else.”

“My mama does that all the time,” the girl said with an understanding little shrug, displaying a preadolescent sweetness of a child who was oh-so-familiar—and patient—with the mysterious ways of adults. Though she held herself with great poise, I pegged her age to be ten or eleven. Give her a couple more years, I thought, and she’d be as snarky and sullen as my teenage stepson.

She stepped back. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bernini. . . . Is she your grandmother?”

The girl laughed and shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m Anabelle. Anabelle Bowles. I’ll take you to the parlor. Follow me.”

I stepped into the front foyer and paused, savoring the moment.

In the old days all buildings were custom-designed and custom-built, so each historic house is unique. My favorite part of my job, bar none, is stepping into an old structure for the first time; one never knows what to expect.

Although the lines of this house were neoclassical, the interior details were eclectic. The front entry was airy and open, the intricate woodwork painted a creamy white throughout, rather than stained or shellacked. The brightness was a welcome change from the dark woods so characteristic of the Victorian style, as in the house I was finishing up across town. These walls were lined in high bead-board wainscoting. Tall sash windows allowed sunlight to pour in, giving the home an airy, sunny feel. An enormous fireplace, missing several of its glazed blue green tiles, was flanked by built-in display cases. Each newel post on the banister leading upstairs was carved in a different pattern: One was a series of different-sized balls; another was geometric boxes; yet another sported a face carved into the lintel.

In marked contrast with the home’s exquisite bones, the interior decorating was appalling. Everywhere I looked there was a pile of clutter: a sagging floral sofa sat along one wall, one missing leg replaced with a stack of old magazines, and an overstuffed velvet armchair was covered with a faded Indian-print cloth. The walls and shelves were lined with children’s school photos, several slipping and crooked in their cheap plastic frames. Newspapers were piled in one corner, and flyers from local merchants littered a scarred maple coffee table from the 1960s. Shreds of discarded paper and a pair of scissors suggested someone had been clipping coupons. And there was a distinct chill to the air, so it felt almost colder than the winter afternoon outside—I imagined the windows were single-paned and leaky, or the heater was broken. Or both.

It got worse as I studied the walls and ceiling. Rather than strip the faded wallpaper above the old wainscoting, someone had simply painted over it; it was pulling away from the walls and hung in crazy-quilt patches. Rusty water stains bloomed in several spots on the peeling ceiling, and the broad-planked oak flooring was warped and discolored in several places.

Beneath the papers and layers of grime that had settled across everything, I thought I spied a marble-topped antique credenza as well as a few light fixtures that appeared to be original handblown glass. In general, though, the turn-of-the-century home’s ambience was, by and large, twenty-first-century Frat Boy. It would require a lot of work, both structural and cosmetic, to transform this historic home into a welcoming B&B.

Haunted or otherwise.

“Have you happened to see our dog?” asked Anabelle. “A little cocker spaniel puppy?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been looking for it. I’m sure it must be around here somewhere. This way.” She led the way down the hall to the left.

Several broad corridors spiraled off the central foyer. The hallway we walked down was lined with so many identical cream-colored doors the place felt a little more like a hotel than a private home. We passed a formal dining room with a built-in china hutch, a carved marble fireplace, and two impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling.

The size and grandeur of the room was compromised by the delaminating linoleum-topped table surrounded by at least a dozen mismatched chairs.

“I like your dress,” said Anabelle, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you could be in Ringling Brothers. We saw them when they came to town. They say it’s the greatest show on earth.”

I looked down at myself. It’s true, I have a tendency to wear offbeat clothing. Nothing inappropriate, mind you, just . . . unexpected. I chalk this up to the years I spent in camouflage when I played the role of respectable faculty wife to a respectable Berkeley professor who turned out to be a not-so-respectable, cheating slimeball. The minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers, I yanked every scrap of my expensive Faculty Wife Wardrobe out of my closet and drove the whole kit and caboodle over to a women’s shelter.

Once freed from my “respectable” constraints, I indulged my fondness for spangles and fringe with the help of my friend Stephen—an aspiring costume designer and the much-loved only son of a Vegas showgirl. It started as a joke, sort of, but soon became a “thing.” My unconventional wardrobe inspired good-natured ribbing on the jobsite, where denim rules the day, but I’m serious about my profession: I always wear steel-toed work boots and bring along a pair of coveralls so as to be ready for any construction-related contingency.

But today I was meeting a client for the first time, so I had left the sparkles shut away in my closet in favor of a simple, above-the-knee patterned dress topped by a cardigan. Although an odd ensemble for
me
, to my eyes at least nothing about the outfit screamed “circus.” Then I reminded myself that the residents of the Castro were famous for their outré fashions. Perhaps Anabelle wasn’t accustomed to such uninspired attire in this neighborhood.

“I like your dress, as well,” I said. “Especially the matching ribbons in your hair.”

“It’s called peony purple,” she said, clutching a bit of the skirt in each hand and holding it up as though ready to curtsy. She gave me a big smile and turned down a narrow passage to the right.

Known locally as the Bernini house, after the family that had lived here for the past several decades, the building was exceptional not only for its square footage but also for its extensive grounds, which took up half a city block. The spacious courtyard garden stretched clear to the next street, where two outbuildings formed a border. This house was a stunner as it was; once renovated, it would be a rare gem. A landmark, even.

I wanted this job so much I could taste it. But there was no guarantee it would be mine.

The clients were also meeting with one of my competitors, Avery Builders. They were good—almost as good as Turner Construction, though it galled me to admit it. Avery and Turner had similar portfolios, and comparable track records for keeping on budget and on schedule. When competition for a job was this tight, the decision usually came down to whomever the clients liked more. Whom they felt more comfortable having in their homes, day in and day out, for months on end.

Client relations make me nervous. I’m a whiz at construction, and understand the ins and outs of buildings and architectural history as if they were in my blood. But when it comes to dealing with people, well . . . I’m fine. Up to a point. Mostly if they let me do what I want, and what I know is right for the house. Diplomacy is not my strong suit.

I did have one distinct advantage: As far as I knew, Avery Builders didn’t have a ghost buster on staff, whereas Turner Construction could boast a real “up-and-comer” in the field of talking to the dead. Just ask
Haunted House Quarterly
.

Anabelle hummed as she walked ahead of me, finally breaking out into song:
“With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, displaying deep dimples. “Do you know that song?”

“I don’t. But I’m no good at music.”

“You don’t play? I’m learning to play the piano.”

“I tried my hand at the clarinet in the fifth grade. It wasn’t pretty.”

Anabelle gave me a withering look, as though I’d suggested she make mud pies in her nice purple dress. Usually I’m good with kids, because I don’t take them—or myself—too seriously. My stepson, Caleb, and I had gotten off to a famously good start because I had immediately grasped why he felt compelled to wear his pirate costume and remain in character for more than a year before graduating, in a manner of speaking, to pretending to be the more “grown-up” Darth Vader. But then I have a flair for sword fights and laser battles, if I do say so myself.

“. . . and gardens of posies for all little girrrrrls . . .”

Anabelle resumed singing, slightly off tune, and stopped in front of a door that stood ajar. “Here we are. Have a seat, please, and I’ll let them know you’re here.”

She skipped back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye. It was nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said, watching her go and marveling at the energy of youth. When was the last time I had skipped somewhere?

I pushed open the parlor door.

The room was empty.

Not just empty of people; it was vacant. No furniture, no rugs, no lights, no knickknacks. Nothing but a heavy coating of dust, a few scraps of paper on the floor, and a pair of shredded curtains on the large windows that overlooked a huge courtyard and garden. Through a cracked windowpane I could see a tall, rotund man in overalls, hard at work trimming a tall rosebush. Upon noticing me he stopped abruptly, staring, the pruning shears falling from his hand to the ground. I lifted my hand in greeting, but let it drop when he didn’t respond. I felt a frisson of . . .
something
marching up my spine.

The afternoon sun sifting in through the antique wavy glass illuminated cobwebs in the corners, and a single paneled door I assumed led to a closet. I didn’t see so much as a footstep—other than my own—in the dust on the floor, and the musty smell indicated the room hadn’t been aired out for a very long time.

“Wait, Anabelle! I don’t think . . .” I poked my head through the open door and peered down the long corridor, but the girl was gone.

Then a sound came from the opposite direction.

Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

I caught a glimpse of something passing in front of the arch at the end of the hall.

Some
one
, I reminded myself.
Get a grip, Mel. The child is playing a joke.

“Hello?” I called out as I started down the dim corridor. “Anabelle?”

I heard it again: a slow step, a shuffle, a clank. My mind’s eye conjured a picture of a ghost in chains. But that was an old Hollywood convention, not reality. I hoped.