Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (12 page)

“It was my understanding that the work crews brought their own lunches,” she said. “
Nolan’s
men always did, and he supplied a thermos of water.”

“I’d love to provide the crew with coffee and some snacks now and then. Nothing fancy—just to help keep them hydrated and to boost morale. A quick snack can make a big difference when you’re working long hours out of doors.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” said Ellis. “Mel, thank you for pointing this out. Alicia, I know you’ll take care of it with your usual élan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the reverend.”

As soon as he left, Alicia turned her wide-eyed, serious gaze to me.

“What sort of snacks?”

“A supply of fresh coffee would be the most important thing. As you mentioned, most of the guys bring their
own lunches, but it would be nice to have a few doughnuts in the morning, maybe some energy bars for later in the afternoon when their energy’s flagging. Turner Construction would be happy to defray the costs.” I threw this in, knowing full well the cost would be added to the bill I sent Ellis Elrich and knowing that Alicia was equally aware. It was the cost of doing business.

“Are there any known allergies to contend with? Religious constraints?”

“Religious constraints?”

“I hear Muslims and Orthodox Jews don’t eat pork. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t think we need anything that complicated,” I said. “Just a few energy bars and doughnuts and coffee. Maybe sports drinks—some of the guys like those. Frankly, you don’t get a lot of complaints about free food and drink on a construction site.”

Alicia whipped out her book and jotted down a few notes.

“If you’ll all please gather around,” a woman called out, and the crowd shuffled over.

There were no pews in the chapel, so we stood in a loose semicircle as the nondenominational reverend climbed onto a makeshift podium and gave a lovely homily for a man she’d never met. While she spoke, I thought about what Florian had said about the monks being roused from their REM cycles to come down the night staircase and into this chapel, to sing and pray and worship, and if they nodded off, a superior would come at them to rouse them with a swinging cresset lamp.

I imagined the scent of incense, the Gregorian chants, the many shadows that might hold secrets. . . .

I think I dozed off for a few minutes, but then I jolted myself back to the ceremony.

Still, my gaze was drawn to the opening that led to the sacristy and the chambers beyond, all the way to the round room. Though the stone arch was dark, I couldn’t help but remember what I’d seen there, what I’d felt. Had I really heard a woman crying? What had been that strange hunger?

When the reverend finished, Elrich rose and gave a stirring talk about the love of life, coping with loss, and not taking our lives and health for granted. At the end of his speech, there was barely a dry eye in the house. It made me wish the deceased man’s family could have been here; Ellis’s words made the grumpy building inspector one of us.

I felt someone come up behind me. Assuming it was Graham, I turned around, but then I saw Graham was standing on the other side of the room, near the entrance.

The man behind me looked vaguely familiar, but it took a moment to realize where I knew him from. The kilt was the giveaway: He had been one of the protesters at the gate. The one in costume, carrying a sign about Scottish history and repatriation.

“You’re Mel Turner?” He spoke in a low voice, with a soft accent.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I thought . . . I thought you’d be a man.”

“Sorry.”

He glanced around, as though worried about being seen, and held out a folded piece of paper. When I took it, he disappeared into the crowd.

Seconds later, Buzz-the-driver pushed through the group, apparently following the mystery man.

I opened the note, hyperaware that Graham was watching me from across the room.

I have information regarding Larry McCall’s murder. Meet me at the Pelican Inn after the service.
It was signed simply,
Kieran.

*   *   *

“You’re certifiable; you know that?” said Graham as we walked up the moonlit pathway after the service. Dog trotted after us, veering off every now and then to explore some thrilling new scent.

“I’m curious, that’s all. Aren’t you curious?”

“You know that old saw ‘curiosity killed the cat’?”

“I know it ends ‘and satisfaction brought it back.’ You have to admit it’s intriguing, though, right?”

“A man was killed here a couple of days ago. Murdered, Mel. You haven’t been able to encounter the ghosts without running, screaming, from the building, but you have no qualms about meeting a stranger in a bar?”

I had told Graham about my less-than-dignified departure from the building after the incident with the food offering in the round room. I hadn’t actually even
seen
anything that time, but I’d felt it. And I had
run
.

“I’d hardly say I was ‘screaming.’ Whimpering, perhaps. Cringing—now, that I’ll grant you.”

He smiled.

“Besides, this man’s not exactly a ‘stranger in a bar.’ He’s a friend of Harper’s.”

“If he and Harper are such good friends, why wasn’t he welcome at the memorial service?”

“Maybe ‘friend’ isn’t the exact right word. Anyway, I don’t think you appreciate the poetry of the situation.”

He gave me a
look
.

“C’mon, the Pelican Inn’s a public place. And they have great food.”

“You’re still hungry, after that spread?”

“Have you had their fish and chips? With malt
vinegar? Besides, this Kieran fellow is wearing a kilt. How tough could he be?”

“You ever see
Braveheart
? Men in kilts are not to be messed with.”

I whistled to Dog, who ignored me. “Seriously, Graham—you’ve doubted Pete Nolan’s guilt from the beginning. What if this Kieran has something of value to say?”

“Then why doesn’t he tell it to the police? No offense, Mel, but you’re a contractor, not a cop. Why would he slip you a note at a gathering to which he was not invited? Come to think of it—how does he even know who you are?”

“I don’t know. But he must have some reason for wanting to talk to me. Which is why I want to meet with him—in public, with a big, strong man at my side. Want to come?”

“I’m sure as hell not going to let you go alone,” he growled.

“You’re a prince, Mr. Donovan,” I said, and gave him a kiss. After a long moment, he returned the kiss, deepening it.

It was a warm, moonlit night, and it took us a remarkably long time to make it all the way back to the house.

O
ur mysterious protester had nabbed the corner barrel, the prime seat in the Pelican Inn Pub.

He sat hunched over a mug of ale, and though he was no longer in costume, he had a romantic, tormented look that made him seem as if from another time. He reminded me of a smuggler in his lair. A
romantic
, poetry-spewing smuggler in his lair.

Graham and I perched on low stools at the small oak barrel that served as a table.

“Thank you so much for joining me,” he said, rather breathless, in a soft Scottish brogue. “I was beginning to despair.”

“I’ve never been passed a note for a secret assignation at a memorial service before,” I said with a shrug. “It was hard to resist.”

“Do you want something?” he asked, as though holding a salon in his living room. “They have only beer and wine. But there’s a lovely port. . . .”

“Sure, I’ll try some port,” I said.

“IPA for me,” said Graham.

Kieran gestured to the man behind the bar.

The Pelican Inn, a small pub sandwiched between Muir Woods and Muir Beach, was crowded, as usual. During the day, dozens of bicycles would be strewn about the large patch of lawn out front, as cyclists weary from riding up Mount Tam or along the hilly coast stopped in for refreshments. There were other bikers, as well, the kind who let their motorcycles tackle the big grades. Hikers dropped in after strolling through nearby Muir Woods, taking in the soaring redwoods and lush fern-strewn creeks. And then there were the regulars from nearby Mill Valley or Sausalito.

Though it looked like a snug country inn from the British countryside, the pub had actually been built in the seventies, a decade generally noted for its wretched architecture. But the Pelican Inn had been constructed with love and historical accuracy, to the point that the owners had imported pieces directly from English pubs.

In the way of historic buildings, the doorways were too low, the thresholds too high, the stairs uneven, and I had always wondered how the owners had managed to pull permits for the build.

The Wakefield project was having difficulty passing code, as well, though Larry McCall’s demise might ease that situation. In that sense, Ellis Elrich would most directly benefit from his death, though I couldn’t imagine Elrich would put everything—his empire, his wealth, his family—at risk just to secure waivers and permits for his imported building. Could McCall’s death have been caused by one of Ellis’s misguided minions? Not Vernon Dunn; he would be happy with any delay. But what of
Florian, Alicia, or even Harper? Ellis appeared to have a lot of suspicious characters in his life.

I should probably take a trip to the Marin County Building Department soon to introduce myself, just as a matter of good construction manners—and to help smooth the way for future issues that were sure to arise. Maybe I could ask around about past permit issues, get a sense of the personalities involved. I imagined the police had already asked questions regarding McCall’s death, so a few days’ grace would be adequate.

“So,” Graham said, rousing me from my thoughts. “Who are you, and what’s this about?”

“Oh, excuse me!” the man said as he handed us business cards:
Kieran Lachaidh, Antiquities.

“Lack-aid?” I said in a weak attempt to pronounce his last name.

“Lach-ee,” he corrected me. “Means ‘from the land of lochs.’”

I nodded, and steeled myself against asking him what he thought of the Loch Ness monster. The discomfiture I’d felt yesterday when doing the walk-through with Florian came back with a vengeance. I really had to brush up on my Scottish history if I was going to do a decent job with these ancient stones. Surely there was more to Scotland than scotch, golf, plaid, and the Loch Ness monster.

“Antiquities? Is that like an antiques dealer?”

“Not quite. I track down antiquities that are part of our national heritage.”

“Ah. So you think Ellis Elrich has something that belongs to Scotland?”

“Yes. An entire monastery.”

Graham and I exchanged a look.

“I’m, uh, not the right person to talk to,” I said. “I
really don’t know anything about the building’s origins or the legalities involved. . . . Florian Libole is the designer, and he brokered the deal with the Scottish authorities. He’s who you want to talk to about this.”

Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “How much do you know about Libole?”

“Not much, really. I just met him yesterday. But he’s well-known and respected as an expert on ancient buildings.”

“He’s well-known, all right. As to respected, that depends very much on who you talk to.”

“That’s often the case, isn’t it?” said Graham.

“Are you saying Libole stole this building from the Scottish people?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“He says the monastery had fallen into ruins, and nearby villagers had been plundering the site, and the money went to the village and the government to pay for school and the like. He showed me photos. . . .”

“You’ve never been to the original site, have you?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been to Scotland.”

“I used to play there as a lad, with my brothers. It’s a special place, and we adored it. Everyone from the area loved it. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“How did you know who Mel was?” asked Graham.

Kieran placed a newspaper on the table and tapped the lead story. The local Mill Valley paper discussed the travails of the Wakefield project, the death of Larry McCall, and named the new builder on the job: Mel Turner, of Turner Construction.

“You’re the new leader of this project, right? Or did I get that wrong?”

“I am.”

“Elrich’s smart. I’ll give him that. A woman general contractor is sure to curry favor.”

That stung. “Maybe he hired me because I was the best candidate for the job.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with rebuilding ancient stone monasteries, then?”

“No one in the United States has a lot of experience with ancient stone monasteries because we don’t
have
ancient stone monasteries. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m not perfectly competent to reconstruct one. Now, is there a reason you asked me to come all the way out here to meet you, or did you just want to insult me?”

Kieran blushed. “Sorry. Good heavens, I didn’t mean any such thing. Listen, allow me to start again. Could I give you a brief history of the place?”

Graham and I exchanged looks. What the hell—we were here and we had drinks.

“We’ll give you fifteen minutes,” I said, and took a sip of the tawny port.

“The monastery was taken from the Isle of Inchcolm, in the Firth of Forth.”

“The Isle of Inchcolm in the Firth of Forth?”

“Yes, near a place called the Cairn of the Kerr.”

I was immediately reminded of an old movie my sisters and I had watched growing up, in which a character played by Danny Kaye is confused by whether it’s the Flagon with the Dragon that holds the Brew that is True, or the Vessel with the Pestle that holds the Pellet with the Poison. I tried not to smile.

“I believe Ellis Elrich wanted this particular building for a very good reason,” continued Kieran. “I believe it holds a treasure.”

“A treasure, is there?” I took another sip of port.

“Aye. Also, there’s a curse.”

“A treasure
and
a curse? Do tell.”

“It’s . . .” He looked around, as though the local
bicyclists and hikers were eavesdropping, hoping to get a jump on his treasure. “I believe the curse is protecting an ancient chalice.”

“The Chalice from the Palace?”

“Sorry?”

“Never mind. Do go on.”

“Or perhaps a ciborium.”

“A what?”

“It’s like a goblet that holds the hosts—the Communion wafers. Either way, we believe Ellis Elrich has robbed us of a cultural treasure.”

“So if this place is cursed, why do you love it so?”

“It’s
our
curse. We love our curses; we’re Scottish. It shouldn’t be here—it should be where it belongs.”

“But . . .” I shook my head. “All I’ve seen are solid stones, a few carved decorative items. I can’t think of anywhere a chalice, or anything else for that matter, might be hidden.”

“Perhaps it’s among all the other pieces?”

“Other pieces?”

“Florian Libole has been collecting pieces for several years. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He mentioned he had been collecting some items that he kept in a warehouse, but I haven’t seen them.”

“They might be worth a look.”

“Okay, but none of this explains what happened to Larry McCall, which is ostensibly why you asked me to meet you tonight.”

He nodded and took a long draft on his beer.

“Pete Nolan isn’t the murderer.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Talk to him. He’s got some insight into what happened.”

“Okay, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do
about it. If Pete wasn’t the killer— Well, this is a job for the police.”

“But if they’ve got the wrong man, and they stopped looking . . . then the real killer is still out there.”

“Still . . . why come to
me
with this?”

“You have a, um, reputation,” said Kieran, reaching into a bag and placing a copy of
Haunted Home Quarterly
on the table. “It says right here, you’ve been involved in resolving several murders. Murders associated with haunted buildings.”

“How did you find this?”

Kieran looked amused. “I looked you up on the Internet. It wasn’t hard. I was hoping you had access to Ellis Elrich.”

“Speaking of whom . . . Harper mentioned your name the other day,” I said.

“Harper?”

“Harper Elrich. Ring a bell?”

“Yes, yes, of course. She stopped at the gates the other day after almost running me over with her Suburban. She asked us what we were doing, and why.”

I nodded, watching him. He wasn’t meeting my eye.

“Isn’t she a surer access to Ellis Elrich than I am?”

“I merely explained my side of the story to her and asked her to help explain it to her father.” He took a sip of his beer. “After all, a man’s gotta use whatever he’s got, to get what he’s got to get.”

A poet, he wasn’t. But I got his meaning.

*   *   *

Graham looked straight ahead, concentrating on his driving as he steered us back to Wakefield. Narrow and windy, the roads in this part of Marin County could be treacherous for drivers unaccustomed to the challenges posed by hairpin turns, migratory deer, occasional
mudslides, and sheer cliffs. Graham negotiated the turns with the confidence and ease of someone who’d grown up in the area and had cut his teeth on these roads with his motorcycle.

I liked the way Graham drove. It was sexy. It made me feel comfortable, like I could let myself relax, and didn’t have to be in charge.

“What do you think?” I asked with a yawn. Unfortunately, once I got comfortable, I started to fall asleep. Yep, I was a real live wire.

“I’m sorry to say it, because it means a murderer’s on the loose,” Graham began, “but I think this Kieran character has a point. Charging Pete Nolan hasn’t felt right from the beginning.”

I nodded.

“On the other hand,” added Graham, “he didn’t provide us with any information we can actually use. No proof of anything, certainly. If he had anything more than suspicion, he’d be talking to the police, not us.”

“Which is what makes me think he’s more interested in stopping the construction than in ferreting out McCall’s killer,” I said, struggling to stay awake. “I imagine the more convoluted the search for a killer, the better the chance that the project would be put on hold. Especially, for example, if Elrich himself stood accused of the murder—or some sort of conspiracy to commit murder. Not that I think Elrich is guilty of anything. With his wealth and influence, he could surely find a way to get the permit department to cooperate without resorting to homicide. Just getting McCall fired would do the trick.”

Graham nodded. “Ellis didn’t become a very rich man just because he’s a smooth talker—he did it the old-fashioned way, by being an excellent businessman. It’s not good business to choose a complicated and
potentially disastrous solution over an easy solution. There would be no reason for Elrich to kill McCall when he could just buy him off or have him fired. Unless . . .”

“What?”

“Unless McCall had discovered something that made killing him the better option.”

“Like a hidden treasure?”

Graham shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this. Is it just me, or does the notion of a hidden treasure in an ancient monastery sound like something out of an overblown romantic novel?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said loftily. “I don’t buy overblown romantic novels.” I just find them under my bed. . . .

“And as you pointed out,” Graham continued, “where would you hide a treasure among those stones?”