Read Haunted Renovation Mystery 1 - Flip That Haunted House Online
Authors: Rose Pressey
Tags: #paranormal mystery cozy mystery women sleuths paranormal romance romantic mystery paranormal
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I hummed along with the radio. Keeping my
thoughts on Owen Baird—the historian—and off Nick Patterson. Thank
goodness, Mr. Baird agreed to meet with me so soon. He lived a few
miles outside of town, so I hurried to the outskirts as quickly as
my rattletrap would take me. After turning down the wrong street, I
doubled back and finally found my way to his place.
The house loomed over me as I gazed up at
its splendor—a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian—yellow with white
ginger board and a white wraparound porch. A two-story turret sat
on the left side of the house. Finials and gables decorated the
exterior. The house was dressed to the nines. I opened the
intricate wrought iron gate, walked through, ambled up the stairs,
and rang the doorbell.
After a few seconds, footsteps approached,
then the door swung open.
“Owen Baird?” I asked.
“You must be Alabama?” His gray eyes stared
at me. They looked like silver coins.
“Yes, thanks for having me over.”
“Please, come in.” He extended his hand for
a handshake.
I almost screeched
ouch
, before he
let go. He waved his arm, instructing me to enter the foyer. The
space was smaller than Maple Hill was, although the hardwood floors
looked the same, only nicer. A small stained glass window flanked
the left wall. I followed his lead and moved into the parlor. Owen
indicated a tiny loveseat for me beside the fireplace.
“Have a seat.”
I sat on the elegant cushion, afraid to
touch anything around me. The room had been restored to reflect the
grace and elegance of the turn of the century. I stared around at
the furnishings placed delicately about the room. White crown
molding and baseboards accented the sage colored walls in the
parlor. A glimpse of a mural of chrysanthemums in the dining room
was visible from where I sat. Delicately carved mahogany furniture
covered in brocade, damask and tapestry sat around the room.
It wasn’t my style, but it worked for this
house. Everything had a place, like in a museum, and Owen was the
curator.
“I love your home,” I said.
“Thank you. I can’t take credit for the
furniture. My wife loves to spend her spare time antiquing. Would
you like some hot cocoa?” He pointed to the pot.
“I’d love some.”
A tray of refreshments rested on the table
next to me. Wow, he was a great host. I didn’t know anyone even did
that anymore. He poured the hot liquid into the mug and I took
it.
“So you purchased the mansion on Maple
Hill?”
I shook my head as I gulped my mouth full of
cocoa.
“Yes, I did.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It’s lovely,” I said. I felt so dainty
sitting on the little loveseat, sipping from the delicate cup. It
reminded me of the tea parties with my cat when I was a little
girl. “I’m doing a lot of renovations, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I hate to see these
historic homes fall into such disrepair.”
Enough of the chitchat, as nice as Owen was,
I wanted details.
“So, what can you tell me about the house?”
I settled back on the loveseat.
“Well…” He took a bite of a cookie. “I
started several years ago trying to collect history on it. I have
some, but it’s been slow going. We had a fire in town about sixty
years ago, so a lot of information was destroyed back then.”
That explained the lack of information.
“What I do know is the home was originally
built by Fredrick Berger in 1836,” he said, as he attempted to
smooth down his wild neck-length wavy-gray hair. It cascaded down
to the top of his shoulders like a waterfall. “After Frederick
died, he left the home to his only child, Corbin. The home was then
sold to the Mitchells in 1875. The Mitchell family owned the house
until 1912 when the owner died.” He took a sip. “Their children
sold the house after that. The next family lived there for another
fifty years until they sold to Thomas Bennett. He was the last
person to own the house until Mr. Cooper purchased the land from
him. So, there’s only been six owners of the house, including
you.”
“Wow. That is incredible.” The history made
my stomach jump with excitement. “Is Mr. Bennett still alive?” I
asked, taking another sip.
“I believe so. He moved to Louisiana a
couple of years ago. Beyond who owned the house, all I know is
Corbin Berger left town in a hurry. He was forced to sell the
house. I have a diary of someone who lived in town during the
period. She talks about Mr. Berger up and moving one day. He lost
the family home and his business. I suppose he started over
somewhere else. Maybe staying here would have been too painful for
him after losing everything.”
“How did he lose the home and business?” I
asked.
“The Mitchell family moved to town and
opened a store that competed with his. All the business went to
them and Corbin couldn’t afford to keep the home. It was just too
much for him to manage. He didn’t expect the Mitchells would buy
it, but they were the only people in town who could afford it, so
he reluctantly sold. I think they had one heck of a feud going on.”
He shook his head.
“This may seem like an odd question, but is
it haunted?”
“There have been rumors of course. Have you
seen a ghost?”
“Oh, just noises here and there.” I didn’t
want other paranormal investigators knocking on my door until I’d
figured this mess out.
His phone rang, cutting off our
discussion.
“Thank you so much for all of the
information. I’ll get out of your hair now.” I stood from the
loveseat. “It’s great to know some of the history about the house.
Thank you again.” I shook his hand.
His grip eased this time.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Hargrove. Please don’t
hesitate to call if you need to know anything else. I’m not sure if
I can help, but I’ll certainly try.” He stood.
“I’ll show myself out.”
“Keep in touch,” he said, as he walked
toward his kitchen and the ringing phone. “I heard all about Mr.
Cooper. So terribly unfortunate,” he added, giving me a sympathetic
gaze.
“Yes, it was.”
I couldn’t escape the gossip.
As I reached the door, the phone stopped
ringing and Owen called out.
“Ms. Hargrove. I almost forgot.”
I stopped and turned to face him. “Yes?”
He chuckled. “I missed the call.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Oh, no, don’t worry. They’ll call back. I
forgot to tell you, Payne Cooper’s great-grandfather was Corbin
Berger, the original owner.”
How had I not heard this before? “Wow.
That’s fascinating. So, I guess he bought the place for sentimental
value. I’m surprised he sold it.”
“I doubt it. Mr. Cooper wasn’t the
sentimental kind. He was just in it for the money.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
The phone rang again. He was a busy man.
“You’d better get it this time.”
He smiled. “Bye now.”
I waved and closed the door behind me.
Chapter Forty
With my new info, I didn’t know where to
turn. It looked as if the ghostly stranger would always be a
mystery. Would I ever sell a house with a ghost? I schlepped back
to the car feeling somewhat defeated. I had no real clue who the
murderer was and no clue who the ghost was.
As far as the recent crime, Nick Patterson
and Julia Cooper were likely candidates, since they were following
me around town. Well, Julia just once, that I knew of. They were
probably responsible for the broken taillights, the owner of the
blue sedan, and all the other harassment. I couldn’t even help a
sad ghost stuck for eternity in the house, what made me think I
could solve anything else.
Why would the ghost decide to stay? Granted,
when I finished the house it would be fantastic, but I’ve heard
eternity in heaven is much better. Surely, the ghost would prefer
to move on. At least I had some details on the house. It was pretty
cool to discover all the history behind it, but I craved to know
more. The story of Corbin Berger and the Mitchell family fascinated
me. There had to be photographs of the families somewhere. Plus,
I’d love to get my hands on the diary Owen told me about. I’d have
to ask to borrow it.
I drove through town headed to Maple Hill
Road. A couple of men hung signs for the annual fall festival
coming up in a few weeks. The warm colored banners dangled from the
lampposts and street signs throughout town. Business as usual with
people meandering up and down the sidewalks. A sea of bubbly faces.
I wondered if anyone else worried about who killed Payne Cooper.
More than likely people were discussing the crime, just not with
me. Not with one of the suspects.
I wanted to make sure Reed was working on
the roof, although the thought of seeing him after the kiss made my
stomach do cartwheels.
My cell rang and I swerved, trying to
answer.
“Hello?”
“What are you up to now?” Lacey asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you sleuthing around, trying to solve
this murder still?”
“What makes you think I’m sleuthing again?
Is
sleuthing
a word?”
“Oh, come on now, Bama. I wasn’t born
yesterday. I know you. Last night, you had Jessica Fletcher wannabe
written all over your face. Just because I told you to stop,
doesn’t mean you will. Far from it. And I know that.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you
do.” I snorted, and switched the phone to my other ear. The car
swerved as I positioned the phone.
“Wanna bet?”
“Not really.” I laughed.
She remained quiet.
“Okay. All right, I confess. I’ve been
snooping around again. I figured I could do my own detective
work.”
She snorted. “Don’t you think the police are
trying to find the killer? After all, it is their job. They want to
find the person responsible as much as you do. If they don’t, it’ll
look like they’re not doing their job.”
I snorted.
“I’m not sure they know how to do their job,
but I guess you’re right,” I said reluctantly. “But it seems as if
they’re not very concerned. They aren’t taking me seriously.” I
pulled onto Maple Hill Road.
“Just be careful, all right? I gotta go,
Rob’s calling.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
I clicked off the phone as I pulled in the
driveway. Men navigated the roof, but I didn’t see Reed. His truck
wasn’t in his driveway, either. Who kisses a girl like that and
then disappears? I retrieved my cleaning supplies from the trunk
and headed into the house. I nodded at the men on the roof as they
watched me pass.
My old broom had seen better days, but I
swept the parlor floor with it anyway. Half the bristles were
missing and the loose handle wiggled with each sweep. The dustpan
didn’t look much better with its cracked surface. Regardless what
my tools looked like though, I needed to clean the hardwood before
the room was painted. The cloud of dust danced upward as I worked
and fought the urge to sneeze.
As I swept dirt into a pile, the click of
the front door made me jump. As if I thought I were the last human
on earth and I’d just discovered I might not be alone, after
all.
I propped the broom against the wall and
moved toward the door. Was it Reed? I eased around the corner in
case I needed to run for my life.
“Mama,” I mouthed, then groaned.
My mother stood in front of me. She wore a
cropped gold leather jacket with matching pants and purple
killer-heels to finish off the ensemble. 1983 was missing an
outfit. I had a flashback to the days when my mother would drop me
off at school. Needless to say, she was nothing like the rest of
the mothers. While they dressed in khakis and turtlenecks, my
mother wore mini-skirts with mesh shirts with appropriate matching
bra. I was pretty sure she envisioned herself as Madonna, but I’d
never asked. I didn’t truly want to know.
She trudged through the door with my dad
trailing along faithfully behind.
“Mama, what are you doing here? Nice outfit
by the way. Are you channeling Joan Collins from her Dynasty
years?”
She didn’t even bat an eye at my
comment.
“Hi, sugar.”
“Daddy, I’m glad you’re here.” I hugged him.
Daddy worked in Louisville a lot, selling supplies to stores, so I
didn’t get to see him as much as I wanted. He’d retire soon and I
was thankful. He needed to relax and spend his days fishing.
“Hi, sweetheart. The house needs a lot of
work, huh?” he asked, then grinned.
“Yes, it still needs a lot of sprucing up,
but I’m working on it.” I wiped my brow to give an indication of my
hard labor.
“Don’t work yourself too hard.” He
smiled.
“So, Mama, you didn’t tell me why y’all are
here?”
“You’re father and I decided to go see a
movie.” She stood with her hands on her hips. Her gaze scanning my
appearance.
“She decided.” He moaned.
My mother shot him an evil glare.
“You came all the way to Rosewood to see a
movie? There’s a theater in Northridge.”
“Oh, you know they never have anything good
playing in there,” she said, waving her hand.
She had a point.
“We just thought we’d stop by and say
hello,” she said, as she looked around the room. She was snooping.
That’s why she’d stopped by. She hated not being a part of this
project.
“You want to grab lunch?” I asked. Anything
to get them away from the house.
“We really don’t have time if we want to
make the movie before the previews. You know how your Daddy loves
to watch the previews.”
He shook his head. “I do love the
previews.”
“Well, how about I show you the house,
Daddy? Do you have time for that?” A quick tour and they’d be out
of there.
“I suppose we have time. Vern, you want to
turn the car off?” she asked my father.
He nodded and looked at me with sympathy
before heading out. His blue eyes sparkled like the afternoon sky
when he smiled at me.
A loud bang echoed from the other room.
“Oh my good heavens, what was that?” Mama
held her chest.
I darted into the parlor.
“It’s just the broom. It fell over.” I
lifted it from the floor.
My mother followed me, swooshing every step
of the way in those tacky leather pants. My dad moved through the
house, probably checking the plumbing. Mama leaned against the
wall, looking like an extra-large golden Christmas tree ornament,
all round and shiny.
“Mama, your suit is blinding me.”
Once again, she ignored my comments. I guess
if she was enjoying the outfits, it was no harm to me. Flashbacks
from childhood embarrassment still lingered, though.
“Your mother loves being the center of
attention,” Daddy said, stepping back in the room.
“When will the house be complete?” my mother
nudged.
“I’ll show myself around outside.” Dad
slipped off around the corner.
He knew when to escape and I wished I could
go with him. I knew why she’d stopped by—to drill me about the
house. I suspected that was the entire reason for the trip and now
I had proof. She never wanted to go to the movies in Rosewood
before, and she hadn’t wanted to go now. I listened as my mother
chirped out questions.
“Have you picked out colors for paint?” She
reached over and smoothed down my hair.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Did you plan on new fixtures in the
bathrooms?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“What about the kitchen cabinets? You said
you’re painting them?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Daddy slipped back in the room and stood
beside me. My mouth twitched, and my nerves were shot. He listened
quietly, as usual.
“Have you talked to the police lately?”
No way was I answering that question.
“Nope.” I lied.
“Are they still watching out for you, like
you promised?”
“Yes, Mama.” Not a lie. They were probably
watching me.
I made the mistake of mentioning my meeting
with Owen Baird. I had to tell her every detail. Finally, after
she’d asked every question under the sun, my father came to my
rescue.
“Come along, Janice, we’re going to miss the
previews.” He grabbed her arm and eased her up from the floor where
she’d taken a seat. A loud swoosh escaped from the leather pants as
she stood.
“Bye-bye.” She stumbled over and wrapped her
arms around me.
Spellbound
by
Estee Lauder
swathed
me. Mama’s favorite scent. “Call me.”
“I will.”
I didn’t say when.
“Bye, Daddy.”
He nodded on his way out the door. The
expression in his eyes seemed to say sorry for not stopping her
from coming and sorry for not stopping her from the game of twenty
questions. I gave a half-grin that I hope said: I’m used to it. No
big deal.
After my parents left, I decided to be brave
once again and venture back down to the basement. Call me crazy. I
may have been asking for trouble, but I’d give it one last attempt.
Maybe there was a hidden meaning to why the ghost was luring me
down there. I walked over to my purse and pulled out the
flashlight—I smiled to myself for remembering it. Even in the
daylight, it was dark down there.
I made my way through the house, listening
for any unexplained noises. Walking through the hallway, a ghost of
a breeze zipped past. With my hand grasping the handrail, I crept
back down the stairs. Thankfully, I reached the bottom step without
killing myself, and I flicked on the flashlight. I walked over to
the bulb and pulled the flimsy string. The light gave off a faint
glow, as much as it could for its size and lit up the area. I
glanced around, praying once again a rat wouldn’t scurry over my
feet. I stood over to the left of the middle of the room, clueless
as to why I was even down there. My mind was void of rational
thinking. And a ghost was communicating with
me
? Surely, he
could have picked a better person to chat with.
The stress really was getting to me. I must
be nuts. With that thought, I moved toward the stairs. I’d put the
silly notion of connecting with the spirit world out of my head,
once and for all. Heck, maybe I hadn’t seen a ghost at all. It
could have been a figment of my imagination. I prayed I wasn’t
truly losing it.
As I moved up on the first step, something
caught my eye. Across the room, sticking up from the dirt was what
appeared to be the edge of a book. I ran over and kneeled down.
With my hands, I scooped up handfuls of dirt and pulled at the
book, struggling to unearth it.
Finally, with my fingers covered in soil, I
gave one more yank and held the treasure in my hands. It was a
brown leather-bound book with faded gold writing on the cover—a
diary. Covered in dust, I blew on the book, coughing from the dust
stirred up into my face. Tears formed and trickled down my cheeks.
What had I found? I looked back to the dirt, but didn’t see
anything else. With the little book secure in my dirty hands, I
scrambled up, almost tripping as I stood.
Hurrying to the stairs, in one hand I
grasped the flashlight, and clutched the book to my chest with the
other. When I reached the top step, I stumbled. Taking in a deep
breath, I righted myself, my goods still clutched firmly in my
hands.
I stepped outside and positioned myself on
the porch steps. My fingers itched to open the book. Right away, I
knew it was old by its weathered leather cover. Placing it on my
lap, I brushed off the dust and inspected it more closely. There
was no sign of a title, not on the front, back, or side. I eased
the cover open, careful not to damage the fragile yellowed pages.
Martha Mitchell was written on the inside—the former owner. I
gasped. The name had been etched in my mind from the moment Mr.
Baird shared the history.
I scanned the pages of elegant handwriting
and one entry sent shivers down my spine.