Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (10 page)

“Excuse me?”

“This project is absurd. Ellis has poured an obscene amount of money into it already. Libole seems determined to bankrupt him. It will be a disaster for our bottom line; you mark my words.”

“Perhaps he’s motivated by something other than a bottom line,” I said, wondering why I was defending Ellis Elrich to his chief financial officer.

“Ah, yes. I suppose you are referring to his so-called ‘spiritual awakening’ in Scotland?”

“I don’t know—”

“I see how it is.” Vernon smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You’re falling for him, too, aren’t you? Typical.”

“I imagine Ellis Elrich has many admirers,” I said. “The man’s a motivational speaker, after all. That’s sort of his currency, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. And you would do well to keep that in mind.”

“Okay . . .” What was going on here? Vernon Dunn was a sycophant when Elrich was around yet spoke this way behind his back? “So, are you trying to warn me about something? Why do you think he wants me on this job?”

“Don’t trust Libole. That’s all I’m saying.”

There was a sound of someone coming down the hall. Dunn turned on his heel, stalked into his room, and slammed the door.

It was Alicia, looking agitated, as always. “Are you lost? May I help you with something?”

“I was looking for the library.”

“Down past the parlor, first door to the left.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re not serving a formal dinner tonight, but if you’re hungry, there is always food in the snack bar, as indicated on your map.”

“Oh, super. You know, I might have misplaced my—”

Before I could finish, she whipped another copy of the map out of her notebook and handed it to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“The chef is excellent. Everything’s organic, of course, much of it grown right here on the estate. I’m sure you’ll want to confer with Mr. Villandry when you begin to set up the herb gardens around the Wakefield center. With Harper Elrich’s input, too, of course.”

“Okay, great. Thanks.”

She gave a final little nod and turned to leave.

“Good night,” I said to her stiff back as she stalked down the corridor.

I passed through a parlor set up with several easy chairs and a sectional sofa, as if to invite conversation. Here, too, there was a stucco “beehive” fireplace, decorated with brightly painted Spanish tiles and a raised hearth for extra seating. Broad French doors on one side of the room opened onto the courtyard, while on the other side of the room a twin set of doors led to the pool and meadow and the path to Wakefield. If only the exterior of the building had been Spanish Revival instead of Victorian, it would have made quite a harmonious milieu.

Clouds streaked with pink, gold, and orange hung low over the ocean, announcing the imminent sunset. Beyond the French doors was another terra-cotta-tiled terrace, with a stone balustrade, more conversational groupings of outdoor furniture, and a
chiminea
—a freestanding iron fire pit.

When Graham arrived, I promised myself, I would spend at least one evening on that terrace or lounging in the pool, after-work drink in hand, watching the sunset over the ocean. Even a cynic like me could see the romance in that scenario.

But for now I continued down the hall. The next door, to the left, was marked with another discreet plaque that read, simply, L
IBRARY
.

I stepped inside. It was beautiful, a fantasy library: two stories tall, with a spiral staircase and a catwalk around the second story. There was even a whiff of must so common to old bookshops and junk stores, which made me feel right at home. A quick glance at the first shelf at hand proved it was full of classics:
Moby-Dick,
Jane Eyre,
and
The Iliad
.

I was enamored, looking at the titles on the shelves, when I came around the side of a plush red leather chair and saw a mass of curly hair.

I jumped back and swore.

What were the chances I’d find two bodies in as many days?

S
he opened her eyes.

A sullen gleam reminded me of my teenage stepson. But she must have been in her twenties—young, but not a child. And apart from the blond hair, she looked a lot like her father.

“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

Yep, she and Caleb had a lot in common.

But I hadn’t become one of the few women running a construction company in California—not to mention an up-and-coming ghost buster—by being easily put off.

“You must be Harper? Ellis Elrich’s daughter?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m Mel. I run Turner Construction. I’m staying here while I work on the Wakefield Retreat Center.”

“The ‘Elrich Method’ retreat center?” Harper rolled her eyes and made a rude noise. “This is so bogus.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kieran says my dad practically stole that whole building from Scotland.”

“Kieran?”

“He’s . . .” I could have sworn she blushed a little. But the sullen mask descended and she shrugged. “A friend. So if Daddy Dearest wanted a retreat center so badly, why didn’t he just build a new one?”

“He said something about preserving the building for posterity.”

“I’ll just bet he did,” she said with another eye roll. “That sounds just like him.”

“Anyway, this house is really something, though, right?” I said in a lame attempt to make conversation. “I can’t wait to take a swim in the pool.”

She shrugged again, unimpressed. “You know what? If you’re a remodeler, you should totally put TVs in the bedrooms. That would be an improvement, for sure.”

“Actually, there’s a difference between a remodeler and a renovator . . . ,” I began, but trailed off as I saw the look of utter boredom on the young woman’s face. “Never mind. I hear there’s a TV in the rec room?”

“Yeah. But then Dad always comes in, or one of his creepy colleagues, and they always want to watch something educational and engage me in erudite conversation so Dad will be impressed.”

I imagined any young woman who used the word ‘erudite’ in casual conversation probably had more to say than she’d like to admit.

“So, your dad’s colleagues are creepy?” Now that someone had been murdered on the grounds, I figured I should keep my eyes and ears open, just in case Pete Nolan wasn’t the perpetrator. “In what ways?”

“Whatever. Just normal creepy. I gotta go.”

I watched her leave. Her hair was unruly, curls gone
to frizz, but her wardrobe looked new and expensive. She was clearly still in an awkward phase, and I decided maybe she was younger than I’d initially thought: late teens or very early twenties. Still finding her place and her voice.

I remembered that age well. That was when I had been dazzled by the man who later became my husband, and then—in hindsight, entirely predictably—my
ex
-husband. It was also around that time that I was trying to get over my crush on Graham Donovan, the wild young man who worked for my dad.

Speaking of whom . . . Graham was no longer so young or so wild, but I sure wished he were here. I missed him, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend many more nights under this roof without him. Even assuming Larry McCall’s killer was behind bars, there was a lot of tension in the Elrich mansion. Creepy tension.

But for the moment I had the library all to myself, which suited me fine. Plop me down in a bookstore or library and the hours zoom by.

I started circling the room, head tilted, reading the spines as I perused the shelves. Ellis—or whoever had put this library together—had done a wonderful job. There was a large selection of literature, where Nathanial Hawthorne’s classics rested alongside Stephen King’s latest. I plucked a couple of novels I hadn’t yet read from the shelves before turning to the large nonfiction section. This collection featured some standard reference books as well as numerous self-help books, several of which had been penned by none other than Ellis Elrich himself, promoting the Elrich Method. I added one of those to my pile of books to read. Elrich was such an enigma that I thought it would be helpful to learn more about how my client’s mind worked. As my mother, an avid reader,
had taught me,
If you want insight into someone, read what they write
.

I tucked several others—one on medieval architecture and one on Scottish history—under my arm, consulted the map Alicia had given me, and headed for the snack bar. This turned out to be a well-stocked pantry next to the house’s industrial-sized kitchen. The pantry had a microwave, a hot pot, a drip coffeemaker, an espresso machine, and a toaster oven. Shelves displaying salty and sweet snacks lined the room, and the granite countertop offered bowls of fresh fruit. An oversized refrigerator was stocked with fruit and soft drinks as well as yogurt, kefir, a variety of cheeses, and a stack of prepared single-serving meals. I took a look at one, labeled “Pan-Seared Tuna with Avocado Remoulade.” It was like shopping in the prepared-foods section of a pricey, upscale grocery store, except it was all free.

I opted for a caprese sandwich—mozzarella made from organic milk, organic basil, locally sourced organic tomatoes, on San Francisco sourdough bread—a bottle of spring water to refill the aluminum water bottle in my room, and, prompted by today’s discovery, a bag of Doritos. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed what looked like a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie. Wouldn’t want to risk waking up hungry in the middle of the night.

On the way back to my room, I thought about the food that had been set out, like an offering, in the monastery’s mysterious round room. I had felt a deep, gnawing hunger when in the presence of the Lady in Red. Was someone trying to assuage the ghost by feeding it? If so, why risk the violent wrath of really buff construction workers by pilfering their food? Why not just bring something from home?

Dog was waiting for me at the bedroom door,
whapping himself in his face with his own tail in an ecstatic display upon my return. Not to cast aspersions on his loyalty, but it was unclear whether he was more interested in my arrival or in my sandwich. I set the books down on the desk, switched on the gas fireplace, and enjoyed an impromptu picnic by the fire, sharing a couple of bites of the sandwich with Dog. He would have liked the Doritos and cookie, too, but since they weren’t good for him, I sacrificed myself. Once the food was gone, Dog took a long drink of water, curled up on the rug I had brought from home and placed in front of the fireplace, and started to snore.

I love real wood fires but could easily get used to this: One flick of a finger and the flames roared. I changed into my pajamas by firelight and found myself relishing the solitude. I adored my father, and Stan, and Caleb, and Graham, too, but my life was so jam-packed with men and their needs and opinions and energy; it was fun to have an evening all to myself. I crawled into the king-sized bed and snuggled into the fluffy pillows, the thousand-thread-count cotton linens, and the goose-down comforter, with my dog snoozing in front of the leaping flames and a sweeping vista out the French doors. . . .

On second thought, I got up and closed the heavy brocade drapes. If I could see out, others could see in. And that, as Harper Elrich would say, was just plain creepy.

I cracked open
Wuthering Heights
, which I’d never read, though I’d always pretended I had. The Gothic tale seemed fitting, given the moonlit but fog-shrouded ruins down the hill. But though I was determined to enjoy Emily Brontë’s spooky tale, I found the prose a bit dense and dated. Well worth the effort, I was sure, but it took more concentration than I had at the moment.
Jane Eyre
was almost as challenging, and despite my best intentions, I wasn’t really in the mood for
The Iliad
. I paged through Ellis Elrich’s biography for a few minutes and noticed a photograph of him in a kilt in Scotland. The caption mentioned Elrich had trekked through the Scottish Highlands and isles and had stumbled upon the ruins of the Wakefield monastery.

That helped explain his attachment to the place.

I closed the book. I really should read more about my host and client, but at the moment, nonfiction didn’t suit my mood. I was yearning for an engrossing story.

My eyes alit on the vivid cover of
Keeper of the Castle
.

Maybe just a few pages. Just to see what it was all about.

An hour later, the penniless daughter of the laird and the poor-but-scrappy serf were arguing about nothing in particular, and you could cut the sexual tension with a knife.

I was utterly absorbed in the tale when I heard an odd sound.

Music. Or something like music. Was that a flute? Eerie, ethereal, it was a simple tune played over and over, as though the musician didn’t know the next notes.

One of Elrich’s many guests, perhaps?

I sat up and listened. The music was coming from outside.

I pulled on a robe, grabbed my aluminum water bottle, and went out the French doors to the terrace. The cool night air was fragrant with eucalyptus and damp earth. Though this area didn’t see a lot of rain per se, the fog gave everything a good dousing. California’s famous redwood trees flourished along the misty coast, absorbing water through their leaves as well as their roots.

I took a long swig from my water bottle and looked
down over the meadow toward the ocean, the moon shining so brightly I could see the blanket of low-lying fog gliding this way, having already enveloped the piles of stones and building materials down below. As I watched, I saw a flicker of light in the half-built chapel.

Was someone down there? Or had I imagined it?

Were the ghosts wandering those stone corridors, looking for their lost loves? Had the evil laird refused his daughter permission to marry a commoner, and now . . .
Get a grip, Mel,
I chided myself. I was going to have to stop reading that book; it was putting ideas in my head. Like I needed fiction, given the life I led.

There it was again: a flicker illuminating one arched window, then the next. I saw the glow of yellowish light, as though from a candle, and then a flash of red. The lilting notes drifted up from the ruins. And was that a . . . a plaintive wail? Was the woman in red still crying?

“Pretty, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind me.

I jumped a good six inches and dropped my aluminum bottle, which clattered loudly on the terra-cotta tiles as it sprayed its contents across the terrace. I swore a blue streak as I crouched to pick it up.

“Sorry,” said Ellis Elrich with a chuckle. He held a snifter of amber liquid in each hand. “Guilty conscience?”

“No, I . . .” I looked at the monastery. The lights were gone, and the flute had been silenced. “Just absorbed in thought. I thought I saw something at the construction site.”

Dog finally roused himself to bark as he trotted out to the terrace, tail wagging, and made a beeline for Elrich.

“Some guard dog you are,” I muttered.

Elrich held out one of the brandy snifters. “Cognac. Very old cognac.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” I said as I took it from him.

I swirled the amber liquid and breathed in the heady aroma. A beautiful moonlit night, a lovely snifter of cognac on the terrace of a gorgeous estate—what a perfect romantic setting. My flannel pajamas spoiled the ambience a bit, but that was the only off note. But surely Ellis Elrich wasn’t interested in
me
? Rich men who were ugly and old had their pick of beautiful young women; I could only imagine the romantic prospects available to a rich man who was handsome and young. Besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired men to spout poetry, much less to flout their lawyers’ advice and date an employee.

Once more I wished Graham would hurry up and get here.

Ellis petted Dog. “He knows a dog lover when he sees one. What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t really have one, sad to say. We just call him Dog.”

“Let me guess: He was a stray, and you refused to name him for fear of becoming attached.”

I had to laugh. “How did you know?”

“Experience. I remember the first time Harper swore a kitty had ‘followed her home.’ But,” he said with a shrug, “since it was pretty clear there was no way that kitten was ever leaving, I let her name it right from the start. Fluffy. Silly name for a short-haired cat—for any cat, actually—but Harper was only six, so we let it go.”

After giving Dog a final pat, Ellis peered down the hill at the monastery, lit by the nearly full moon. As he studied the vista, I studied him. Ellis had the bland good looks of a B-movie actor or a successful motivational speaker: easy on the eyes but nothing too out of the ordinary. Still, he had a certain charm, an appeal that grew the longer I knew him.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“I don’t either, now. Must have been my imagination.”

“It’s possible someone broke through the perimeter fence. One of the protesters, maybe. I should notify security.” But he stayed where he was, sipping his cognac, apparently feeling no sense of urgency.

“Has that happened before?”

“From time to time.” He shrugged. “A while back, some kids were found camping in the woods. You can hardly blame them, with this view, right?”