Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (20 page)

He hesitated, put his hands deep in his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. “Like I said, I don’t hear much. But . . . I guess people are wondering whether the Propaks were tired of waiting.”

I nodded. I had wondered myself. It seemed the most obvious explanation.

“I’m not saying that they would do any such thing . . . ,” Edgar said, a blush rising up his neck and marching across his broad features. “It’s just that there was some tension. Mrs. Bernini didn’t even want people to start cleaning, really, much less beginning construction.”

“Do you know a man who was working on the gardens, goes by Mountain?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, but didn’t make eye contact.

“Do you think he would have any reason to have done such a thing?”

More blushing. It was attractive, making him seem as though he’d been sitting out too long in the Mediterranean sun. I thought about Anabelle’s high color; wasn’t it rare for ghosts to be so rosy? Maybe she’d been spending time in the sun, as well. Before she died, that is. But that seemed odd for the time, when wealthy people most often tried to remain pale.

“Mountain is a decent guy, I think. I’ve certainly never had a problem with him, though he and Portia were sometimes at odds. But now—I can’t believe he says Mrs. Bernini left the house to him. Her intent was clear; she and Portia were very close.”

“Mountain wasn’t the one who told me he was inheriting—it was the Propaks.”

“Really? Huh. Maybe it’s based on something actual, then. But . . . Mountain’s always been a bit . . .” Edgar seemed to search for words. “Well, frankly, odd.”

“So you don’t think he has any legitimate claim on the house?”

“As I said, we have a will, and as far as I know, he hasn’t been able to produce a more recent one.” He slipped his smart phone into his pocket and grabbed a clipboard full of what looked like work orders, along with a bright yellow notice. “Anyway, I’m sorry to rush you, but I need to lock up and get back to the office. I’m sure Portia will be back soon, though, if you want to speak to her some more. She just needed to get herself together. You might give her a day or two.”

“You don’t work here?”

“I wish!
Some
one has to work to pay for this place,” he said, his tone jolly but in the classic “gotta keep the spouse happy, but boy they’re expensive” vein. “I try my hand at fixing items as they come in, love to work in my woodshop out back, but it doesn’t pay the bills. Though lately, with the state of the economy and all, even working a real job barely pays the bills, am I right? You run your own place, though, right? I envy you.”

“Sometimes. But since I’m in charge, I feel like I mostly do paperwork and run around from one jobsite to another,” I said. There were days my hands literally itched with the desire to make something, fix something. There never seemed to be enough time.

But then I wondered if I was whining. This had been another one of my New Year’s resolutions: Quit
whining
, already.

“So you were actually there at Mrs. Bernini’s house the night of the tragedy?” asked Edgar as we walked to the door. The bell tinkled again as we passed through. He turned the sign to
CLOSED
and locked the door behind him.

“I was, yes.”

“You were the last to see her?”

“Among the last. There were several of us there.”

He looked down the street, seeming to hesitate to say something.

“I don’t know how well you know this neighborhood, but folks here know one another. We’re pretty tight.”

“So I’m learning.”

“There was one piece of gossip I did hear,” he said finally.

“What was that?”

“Everybody says you saw a ghost there. Actually
spoke
to a ghost there. Is that true?”

So much for keeping a low profile.

* * *

I’d only been in my two-hour parking spot for an hour. I hated wasting things. And I was only blocks away from the Bernini house. I had been warned—by Inspector Crawford, Graham, and a note on a brick—not to go back there, but a little stroll
past
it to get a sense of the neighborhood couldn’t hurt, could it? My recent conversations with Mrs. Bernini’s neighbors had made me feel like I was getting closer to determining who might have wanted to cause harm to the elderly woman. I would make a few more work-related phone calls, and then I might just walk on by. Real casual-like.

I was about to jaywalk across Castro Street when a beige sedan pulled up to the sidewalk, blocking my way. I glanced inside and saw what looked like a police radio, and a blue light. An unmarked police car? Only then did I notice the driver climbing out.

“You wouldn’t be methodically hunting down suspects and interfering in my case, now, would you, Ms. Turner?” Inspector Crawford didn’t look at me while she spoke. I followed her gaze to see Edgar Kirkbride crossing the street half a block down.

“Jaywalking is a real problem in these parts,” I said, shaking my head. “You get pulled off homicide for the crosswalk beat?”

“Cute,” she said, though a slight curl of one lip indicated that she’d been amused by my joke. “I’m surprised I have to tell you this, but here goes: Keep out of my investigation.”

“I wasn’t . . .” Actually, I supposed I was. “I just wanted to meet Portia Kirkbride, since she was cataloging Mrs. Bernini’s antiques.”

Crawford nodded, studying me. “I was headed there myself. I take it by the ‘closed’ sign she’s not in?”

“She ran out to the bank. I don’t imagine she’ll be gone long.”

“She tell you anything I should know about?”

“Just that she thinks she’s inheriting the house, and so does Mountain, um, Gerald, the gardening guy?”

She nodded.

“But the Kirkbrides claim they have the most recent will. I think that’s about it. That, and the fact that everyone in the neighborhood thinks I can speak to ghosts.”

“I thought
you
thought you could speak to ghosts.”

“Well . . .” I started to avoid her gaze, and began doing some weird twisty thing with my mouth and other facial features, over which I seemed to have no power.

“Nervous?” Inspector Crawford asked, a barely there smile hovering over her lips.

“I, uh.” I blew out a breath and my tongue played inside my cheek. What was I
doing
? One thing was becoming increasingly clear to me: No matter how wildly frustrated or righteously angry I might become, a life of crime was not an option for me. If I felt this guilty when I was perfectly innocent, I could only imagine my reaction if I were
guilty
of something. “Yes, I think I am.”

“Since you’re here, I’d like you to go over what happened that night, one more time, focusing on you thinking you saw Mrs. Bernini in the garden when no one else did.”

I repeated my story, hyperconscious of trying to tell it as I did on Saturday night. I reminded myself that since I wasn’t guilty of anything, minor discrepancies in the tale wouldn’t indict me. But, boy, this woman made me nervous. Especially when she whipped out a small notebook and started to jot down a few items.

“Josh Avery said he wasn’t with you early in the evening, but then joined you all for a bit, separating again after the alleged ‘haunting’ of the toys. And this unusual toy activity would have occurred either right after, or concurrent with, the homicide.”

I nodded. “Josh was staying in the other wing. . . . We didn’t see him during dinner, and then we split up again after we heard noises in the playroom and things fell down the stairs. I didn’t see where he went after that, though he must have told the Propaks he was still there, since he claims to have outlasted me at the house.”

“And you didn’t hear anything, see anything—no matter how small—happening in the garden?”

“No, nothing. But we were pretty absorbed in what was going on in the house. . . .”

“Right, the ‘spirits’ and whatnot.”

I felt a flash of anger at her dismissive tone. “Whatever was happening in the house was real.”

She gazed at me again, for a long time. This time I didn’t look away. I stood my ground . . . for a moment, at least. Then I started to wonder, is it even
legal
to be a ghost hunter? Do you have to be licensed by the state . . . or something? Knowing the way things were in California, surely the powers that be had found a way to tax such endeavors?

At Inspector Crawford’s continued silence, I asked, “I hear Mrs. Bernini was actually killed in the garden and maybe the killer was interrupted by us, and threw her body down the well. Is that true?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Around. It’s a talkative neighborhood.”

“So I’ve learned.”

She didn’t seem like she was going to answer my question, so I posed another. “Do you know anything about the mix-up over the whole inheritance thing?”

“All I know is that the Kirkbrides are making a claim. We’re still waiting to see whether another, more recent version turns up.” She gave a little shrug, and her pounded copper earrings glinted dully in the winter sun. “Figuring out the legality of the inheritance, and the status of the Propaks’ preexisting purchase agreement, are not my job, happily enough. I’m only interested to the extent that they may or may not serve as motives for this crime. Ms. Turner—”

“Call me Mel, please. This is our second murder, after all.”

“Okay,
Mel
, presuming you’re telling me the truth and said ghosts are real, why is it they can’t just tell you what happened?”

“I’m not sure they can’t. Do you think you could arrange for me to go back in, by myself, so I could see if I could communicate with them?”

She raised one eyebrow and fixed me with a look. It occurred to me that she and Luz might well be long-lost sisters.

“Nothing personal, Mel,” she muttered, “but the day I start setting up séances is the day I hand over my shiny police badge. And I’m nowhere near retirement age.”

* * *

After Inspector Crawford took off, I continued walking toward the Bernini estate.

I knew the inspector would rather I stay away from the scene, but it wasn’t illegal merely to stroll by, was it? The sidewalk was a public space, wasn’t it?

It was cold, but bright and sunny as befitted a San Francisco winter. I wore fingerless gloves that my sister Daphne had knit me for Christmas, and a colorful scarf my other sister, Charlotte, had woven. I was the only one of three girls who managed to skip the crafty gene.

I built stuff. End of story.

Oh, also, I talked to ghosts. And apparently figured out murders from time to time. Okay,
think
, Mel. Who would want to kill Mrs. Bernini? She was so fragile, it wouldn’t have taken much strength to knock her down. I would bet even the slender Portia could have managed it.

The Propaks might have wanted to hurry along her demise, and I suppose they might have wanted us there in order to cast suspicion on one or all of us . . . but surely there were better, more subtle ways. A pillow while she slept, for example. It was horrific to think about, but certainly no worse than throwing someone down a well.

Mountain and Portia both thought they were supposed to inherit the house, at least partially in exchange for services rendered. A house of this size, and a lot of these dimensions, would be worth millions in this city. And that was as is, with no renovations whatsoever. That was generous remuneration, I don’t care how many antiques were cataloged or roses pruned. So there was motive, except that Mrs. Bernini was old and frail. Wouldn’t it have made sense, if inheritance was the goal, to wait a few years for nature to take its course?

Josh Avery wanted the renovation job, and he seemed to be an ambitious sort. Which would make him likely to kill
me
, maybe, but why Mrs. Bernini? She may have been reluctant, but she gave no sign she would stand in the way of the construction work.

What about Howdy Doody Homer? Might he have expected to inherit, and been angry about the Kirkbrides and/or Mountain?

And what did the ghosts have to do with anything at all?

I stood across the street from the Bernini house, taking it in. The house showed no signs of the other night’s events, other than a black bow on the front door, in Victorian style. I appreciate those old-fashioned public ways of signaling grief, the old conventions of loss: wearing black, or an armband, closing the shades, putting a funeral wreath on the door. There was something so . . . horrific and shaming about having to inform person after person of a loved one’s death, and then to be put in the position of having to comfort them or thank them for their awkward words of condolence.

When my mother died, I remember wishing everyone somehow could have known without me telling them. I wanted to wear my grief on my sleeve and yet not have to engage in discussion with anyone: I didn’t want to hear their own stories of sadness, or take their advice on how to move on, or accept their tales of her being in a better place. I wanted to wallow in my sadness, to scream and cry and be left alone with my grief.

But Mrs. Bernini . . . who were her loved ones? Did the foster children visit? She certainly had enough portraits around the house.

But then I noticed a shrine had sprung up near the garden gate. Bundles of flowers, votive candles, a teddy bear with a balloon. One thing was for sure: She had fans in the neighborhood. I felt tears prickle the back of my eyes, and suddenly I was back there, that night, peering down into the darkness of the well and seeing that crocheted shawl, knowing, deep down, what had happened. I could still hear the
shuffle, clank, scrape
of her walker.

Trying to shake it off and get my mind back on work, I returned a few phone calls about getting the HVAC—heating, venting, air-conditioning—guy out to the Cheshire House to finish up the venting before the floors were done. There wasn’t much need for air-conditioning in a city like San Francisco, but heat, definitely.

While I was on the phone, Kim and Marty came out the front door and headed for their Escalade.

There was a large, leafy hedge at my back and I leaned into it to avoid being seen, but neither Propak was looking across the street. In fact, they appeared to be engrossed in their discussion, or perhaps arguing. They certainly didn’t look like murderers . . . not that I really knew what a murderer looked like. The past couple of times I’d been involved in homicide investigations, the murderers hadn’t come conveniently packaged. It’s not as though they wore all black.