Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (8 page)

I picked up the receiver.

No dial tone.

I clicked it several times, the way they did in old movies.

“Okay, let’s not panic,” said Stephen, clearly on the verge of panicking. He grabbed a brown paper bag and held it in one hand, as though warding off hyperventilation just by having it near. “This isn’t a horror movie, and we aren’t stuck out in the woods somewhere. We’re in a crowded urban area. Surely someone has a phone that works, somewhere.”

“
No
one goes
anywhere
alone,” I said.

“That’s what I like about her,” said Claire. “Real leadership qualities. I’m sticking to you two, no matter what.”

“What about Josh?” Stephen said. “Do we leave him here all alone? What if . . . I dunno, what if they go after him?”

“‘They,’ who?” I asked.

“The ghosts? Whoever did that to Mrs. Bernini?”

“What if
he
was involved in this?” Claire said in a loud stage whisper. “Maybe he threw her down the well!”

“Oh
Lord
, let’s go find a phone. What if she’s . . . still alive? If she’s hurt, she needs the paramedics.”

“I thought you saw her ghost,” Claire said after me as I rushed toward the front door.

Anxiety seized my heart; what I’d seen tonight jumbled my logic. I didn’t know what to think. All I could concentrate on was getting help.

Out on the street everything was quiet. We raced to the neighbor’s house across the street and rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the next house and the next, but though all had lights on, no one answered their door. Of course, it was late at night in an urban area.

“Doesn’t anybody
trust
anybody anymore?” I groused, fighting an unreasonable urge to kick the door we stood in front of.

“Maybe they’re just not home,” said Claire. “It’s Saturday night, after all. Folks go out.”

That’s right. I forgot things like that.

“Listen,” said Stephen. “Now that we’re outside, I’m thinking a little more clearly. How about I jump in the car and run to the Castro? It’s all of five blocks away—there are always lights and people . . . and phones.”

“Good idea.” I turned to Claire. “Want to go with him?”

“Yes. But I think I should stay here with you.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Wait, wait,
wait
,” said Stephen. “Geesh, it’s like I couldn’t even think back there. The night air feels good. None of you is staying here! Someone just shoved that sweet old woman down a well! Get in the car. Both of you.
Right now.
”

Claire and I shared a look. Stephen was right.

We all hopped in. The closer we got to the lights and action of the Castro, the more the tragic turn of events at the Bernini house seemed less about a haunting and more about a very real crime: Someone had attacked Mrs. Bernini. And the worst part was that we had been somewhere nearby, yet unaware she needed help. Sadness and guilt flowed over me. Dear, sweet woman, who’d raised foster children and loved her husband and who was good to her neighbors.

And for whose death Kim and Marty were waiting eagerly.

“Hey, that’s the pizza place we called earlier,” said Claire as she spied the sign for Sylven’s Pizza, one of the first establishments we saw at the intersection with Castro Street. Stephen pulled up, double-parking on the crowded street.

The restaurant was informal but crowded, with several people eating at the half-dozen green, white, and red linoleum-topped tables, and three in line waiting for slices.

“Excuse me,” I asked the man behind the register, “could I use your phone to call nine-one-one? It’s an emergency.”

“Of
course
. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but someone’s been hurt and our phones aren’t working.”

I spoke to the dispatcher and gave her the street address and a very short version of a woman down a well. She told me to go back to the scene and wait for emergency crews. Before handing the phone back, I wondered if there was anyone else I should call. . . . The Propaks? No, I decided I should let the police handle all that.

My hands were shaking as I returned the phone. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry. . . . I overheard part of what you were saying.” The fellow behind the counter was a smallish man in his fifties, his gray hair buzzed close to the scalp, but with a prominent salt-and-pepper mustache. “Isn’t that Mrs. Bernini’s address?”

“You know her?”

“
Everybody
knows her. My neighbor across the street is cataloging her antiques for her. George!” he yelled over his shoulder, to a muscular man shoving a raw pizza into a wood-fired oven. “George, honey, this woman says something happened to Mrs. Bernini!”

George was a strapping fellow, at least six feet and with a gym rat’s bulky physique. “What’s up?” he said, wiping his hands on his apron as he came over.

“I’m J.D.,” the mustachioed man introduced himself. “And this is my husband, George.”

“As in Clooney.”

“You
wish
,” J.D. said with a gentle slap on George’s chest. “But tell us, what’s going on? Can we help?”

“I don’t think so—the paramedics are on their way. I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to the house and see if there’s anything more we can do.”

Just as I turned to leave, Raj walked in through the front doors, carrying an empty thermal bag.

“Something the matter with the pizza?” he asked.

“No, it was great. I . . . um . . .”

“Something’s happened to Mrs. Bernini,” J.D. said, shaking his head. “How awful.”

“
What?
What happened?”

“I don’t know, I think she was . . . hurt,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain; we’re going back now to meet the police.”

“Good heavens,” I heard J.D. say as I left, “and we had to break up fisticuffs here in the shop earlier. I swear I don’t know
what’s
happening to this neighborhood.”

“Raj,” said George, “take over the cooking for a while. I’m gonna go over there, see what’s up.”

“Me too,” said a young man at one of the tables as he wrapped up the remnants of a huge slice of pepperoni.

I rushed back to the car just in time to see Claire bumming a cigarette from a young man dressed in metal-studded black leather pants and matching motorcycle jacket.

“I thought you quit,” Stephen commented as she and I got back in the car.

“Extenuating circumstances,” Claire said.

“Let’s get back to the house,” I said. “Police are on their way.”

“Mel, you really should consider carrying a gun,” said Stephen, speeding down the residential streets. “In Nevada everybody carries a gun.”

“You’re right—the only thing that would have improved this evening would have been me shooting at people. And if they shot back, even better.”

“I’m just saying if you’re going to go around getting involved in murders all the time, you might give some thought to carrying some heat.”

“I think the term is ‘packing some heat,’” said Claire, lighting up her cigarette and lowering the window to exhale. “Some meanie you are.”

Stephen glared at Claire’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “I said I was born and raised in Vegas, not that I was with the
mob
. And just so you know, blowing smoke out the window doesn’t really help.” Stephen waved his hand in front of his face in a theatrical gesture. “Smokers damage their noses so they can’t smell it, but the rest of us know perfectly well when there’s smoke in the air.”

Claire glowered at him, raised her window, and blew a puff of smoke at the back of his head.

“I think we all need to calm down,” I said, my dread increasing as we approached the house.

“
I
think we need a freakin’ drink,” muttered Claire.

“I’m relieved to see that, at the very least, the smut mouth is still on mute,” said Stephen.

“One habit at a time, as they say,” said Claire, blowing another cloud of smoke toward his sensitive nose.

Next time, I promised myself, I was
so
bringing a different ghost-busting crew.

Chapter Eight

“T
his blows,” said Claire, smoking yet another bummed cigarette as
we stood by and watched the gruesome rescue scene.

“You can say that again,” muttered Stephen.

I mostly concentrated on breathing.

The rain had ceased, but clouds hid the moon, making the night black and foreboding. There was an otherworldly feeling enveloping the courtyard, all search lamps focused on that too-black hole of the well. It was late by now, but as Claire would point out, on Saturday night in the Castro the real action didn’t begin until ten at the earliest. Passersby, intrigued by the lights and sounds of the emergency vehicles, had started to peek through the garden gate in ghoulish curiosity. I recognized a few faces: one of Mrs. Bernini’s immediate neighbors, plus George and the other young man from the pizza shop. But I wasn’t feeling social; all I could do was stare at the rescue workers, hoping against hope.

The paramedics had arrived at the house first, then the hook and ladder and the police. We showed them to the well, and after shouting down but receiving no answer, they sent down a walkie-talkie. When that produced no response, the fire department began setting up a hoisting device over the hole so they could lower a rescue worker down into the pit.

His boots slipped on the damp, slick stones as he was painstakingly lowered down the well in a safety harness. Once he reached his goal, he radioed up. His tone was unemotional, matter-of-fact:

“No pulse. Looks like a head injury. Probably dead before she was thrown down here.”

Though part of me had known it, my heart lurched to my throat. I heard a muffled cry from Claire; Stephen hugged her to his chest.

Meanwhile, a group of officers crouched down near the central fountain. They called for a floodlight and the photographer, and started setting out evidence tags. Mrs. Bernini’s aluminum walker was still lying on its side on the stone path. And there was something else that looked like a splash of dark paint on the edge of the fountain. Was that . . . blood?

I didn’t have a chance to find out. The uniformed officer who had been first on the scene escorted us out of the garden and into the front yard, where all the emergency vehicles were crowded in the drive and along the street. He called in a suspicious death on his police radio, then started taking down our stories. I gave him the contact info for Kim and Marty Propak at the Lincoln Inn down the street.

As I listened to Claire’s and Stephen’s versions of events, I realized it was too bad we hadn’t come to some agreement as to what we were going to tell of ghostly goings-on. It was clear from the man’s eyes that he thought we were high, or crazy, or both.

More onlookers gathered around the emergency vehicles, standing with umbrellas and rain jackets, a few in bathrobes. After the police officer took our statements, Claire, Stephen, and I sat silently, huddled together under a blue blanket provided by the paramedics. Since they couldn’t help Mrs. Bernini, they had nothing to do but make sure we weren’t in shock.

After a long wait—I think I fell asleep at some point, suffering from an adrenaline crash—I was awakened by a hand on my shoulder. It was the responding officer.

“Inspector needs to speak with you,” he said. “You two wait here for your turns,” he said to Claire and Stephen.

I followed him to the driveway, where I was both relieved and disturbed to realize I knew the lead homicide inspector who had caught the call: Annette Crawford.

“Inspector,” I said with a nod. “It’s, um . . .” It seemed odd to say “nice to see you again,” under the circumstances. “Hello.”

“Ms. . . . ?”

“Turner. Mel Turner.”

“Right. Union Street homicide, upholstery shop.”

I nodded. Curious to think that Crawford’s world was organized as a series of murder scenes. It made me wonder how a person remained mentally stable as a homicide inspector in a busy urban area. I’d been exposed to just a taste, and was already doubting my sanity.

But those thoughts were soon taken over by other, more self-serving ones: Unless things had changed dramatically since last we spoke, Inspector Crawford did not hold with any of this “ghost stuff.” Which might make it difficult to describe to her the night we’d just experienced at the Bernini house.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing on another one of my crime scenes?”

“I was spending the night here. I had a rather unusual arrangement with the soon-to-be owners, Kim and Marty Propak.”

“They were going to buy the place?”

I nodded. “They had signed a purchase agreement with Mrs. Bernini.”

“So they’re the new owners of the house?”

“As far as I—”

There was a rustle in the crowd of onlookers.

“But there
must
be some mistake. She left this house to me!”

A woman had broken through the imaginary line everyone else was observing. She wore a polo shirt and khaki pants, but no coat, and she hugged herself against the wintry chill. She looked like she was in her late thirties or early forties but took great care of herself: a French manicure, an expensive haircut, perfect makeup despite the late hour. She reminded me of my ex-husband’s new wife: a beautiful, high-maintenance woman.

A man ran up beside her. He was about her height, and with broad workingman features. Not unattractive, just rather ordinary. He placed a coat over her shoulders, then left his hands resting there.

A police officer tried to shoo them back.

“It’s important I speak to the officer in charge,” the woman said. “Mrs. Bernini left this house to me. She couldn’t have
sold
it to anyone!”

“Come on, lady, back it up,” said the uniformed officer. “Right now we’re investigating a crime.”

“He’s right, honey,” said her companion, though he flashed a challenging glare at the cop. “Let’s go home and we’ll figure this all out later.”

A murmur arose from the crowd, and onlookers started voicing their opinions. I heard people grumbling loudly:
“It was her house; she could do anything she wanted with it.”