Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (22 page)

“Speaking of French fruitcakes,” Dad said, noting the tension, “how’s his shop doing?”

“He seems to be doing well. I’d say he’s not a ‘fruitcake’ as much as a good businessman. There’s a lot of interest in ghost busting and spirits and whatnot in San Francisco.”

Dad snorted.

I took a sip of wine, then excused myself to do some paperwork in the office and to call the hospital to check up on Graham.

I also spent some time on the Internet, but I’m not great with technology. While I found some boring histories of monasteries in Scotland, I couldn’t find anything about the people who actually lived there, much less if any of them were Spanish women, which was seeming less likely all the time.

I did, however, track down a scandal that Kieran had mentioned to me, which revolved around Libole’s
renovation of a castle in Strasbourg. There was fierce public debate over whether all the bones Libole had claimed belonged in the ancestral family catacombs were genuine, or whether they had been pilfered from a village cemetery. It was a fascinating glimpse into Libole’s character, I supposed, but I didn’t see how the kerfuffle was relevant to the Wakefield Retreat Center, much less the death of Larry McCall.

“Do you know any Scottish people?” I asked Stan when he came in to join me.

“I know a lot of folks with Scots blood in them, myself included,” Stan said. “But not Scots as in from Scotland. Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out some of the history behind this monastery I’m working on.”

“I thought you were working with Florian Libole up there? I expected he would know everything and everyone there was to know.”

“Yeah, well, he’s pulled something of a disappearing act.”

“He’s gone missing?”

“I don’t think he’s
missing
missing,” I said, though I realized there was no way to know. Maybe Libole had stumbled onto the same thing as McCall and had suffered McCall’s fate. But this time the killer got smart and hid the body. What a terrible thought. “I think he’s probably just off somewhere for a few days.”

“Okay,” said Stan after a brief pause. “So you can’t find what you need on the Internet?”

“Some stuff, sure. But I get confused. Everything’s got two spellings—the Gaelic and the English, and they’re both confusing. And there are about a million results here, and my eyes are losing focus.”

“You do look tired.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Stan smiled. “You know I think you’re gorgeous. I’m just sayin’, seems like maybe you’re burning the candle at both ends these days. Caleb’s walk on the wild side isn’t helping, I’m sure, not to mention Graham landing in the hospital in addition to working all the hours God gives you. It’s no wonder you’d be a little tired. How ’bout you go on to bed right after dinner, and let me do a little research on the place for you?”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d be happy to. Nothing but reruns on TV tonight anyway.”

“Thanks, Stan. You’re a peach.”

*   *   *

Just as I was falling asleep, my phone rang: Annette Crawford.

“So, about the clipboard: There’s no record of a clipboard or papers being gathered as evidence at the scene. Could be nothing; could be something. Right?”

“Right. And what about Bernardino? Anything on him?”

“He says you’re a pain in the ass.”

“He said that?”

“No, actually I did. He just agreed.”

“Seriously?”

“Just kidding. Just because you dealt with a shady police inspector once doesn’t mean we should all be tarred with the same brush,” Annette said.

“I don’t think
you’re
shady.”

A soft chuckle. “Well, there you go. Not sure I can return the compliment, but be that as it may, I asked around, and Bernardino seems okay. Maybe not the swiftest guy, and he might be a little starstruck by Elrich. What’s he like, anyway?”

“Elrich? Impressive. Charming. Capable of making otherwise rational people starstruck.”

“Including you?”

“Me? Nah. You know me. I’m bitter and twisted. A cynic of the highest order, that’s me.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you’re trying to save some poor schmuck from taking the fall for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Right. Oh, here’s one interesting tidbit. You’re right: Alicia Withers didn’t exist six years ago. No sign of a criminal record, but . . .”

“If she didn’t exist, there’s no real way to know.”

“Right. Also, I thought you might be interested to learn that Pete Nolan has been released on bail.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Mel, be careful. If you’re wrong, and Nolan really did kill McCall, and he killed to keep something a secret instead of just in a fit of pique over building permits, he might be someone to worry about.”

“Hey, speaking of that . . . Florian Libole is a designer involved in the historical re-creation. He seems to have disappeared. Maybe.”

“Are you thinking he was involved in the murder? Or that he’s in danger of being murdered?”

“I really don’t know. Maybe neither. It just seems strange.”

“You should report it to Detective Bernardino.”

“Okay. I suppose you’re right. Just in case.”

After a short pause, Annette said: “I take it there are ghosts on this building site?”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Neither do I, believe me.”

“Mel, do me a favor and watch your back. Find out what those ghosts want, what they have to do with this murder, and then move on.”

“Yeah, thanks. That’s the general idea.”

“And buy yourself a can of wasp spray.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Shoots twenty feet, capable of taking down bad guys in their tracks. As effective as mace.”

“Oh, um . . .” I decided she wouldn’t want to know about my father’s Glock, which I was carrying. Without a license, of course. “Good safety tip. Hey, Annette? When things settle down a bit, you should come see Wakefield. It’s really something. We could have lunch. Maybe even lounge by the pool.”

“I’d like that. Keep me posted. And buy some wasp spray.”

T
he night in my bedroom was surprisingly restful. No flute music, no mysterious lights shining in far-off ruins. I slept like the dead.

In the morning I called Tony on the jobsite and explained that I would be late. He and I went over the schedule for the day, and I asked him to set up a perimeter around the round room and not to allow any of the men to go near it. As long as they weren’t getting chased out of the monastery by Donnchadh, they had plenty to keep them busy without me there.

I then called to check on Graham. I knew the nurses’ voices by now and was happy when I got one of the nice ones. She told me there was no change, which was good, and that Dr. Petralis was considering bringing Graham out of the medically induced coma within the next day or two.

Caleb was due at the Park Police substation at eleven. I planned to drop him off, then go by Olivier’s place and have a little ghost chat.

As I was having my morning coffee and fending off Dad’s offers of breakfast—which Caleb was shoveling down with gusto, even while grumbling at the early hour—Stan came into the kitchen.

“I printed out a few articles for you,” he said, handing them to me as he poured himself coffee.

I glanced through them: a few general histories of the area, a long history of the monastery and its rulers, the Scottish Reformation. A lot of information, a lot of names and dates.

“Anything particularly interesting?” I asked.

“Not really, sad to say. No fun ghost stories, gruesome murders, anything like that. But as you said, there were a lot of potential references. I only made it through a few. Here’s one thing I found, though: There’s a Scottish paraphernalia shop right here in Jack London Square.”

“What’s a Scottish paraphernalia shop?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dad said. “It’s a shop that sells paraphernalia.” He glanced at Caleb, and the two of them said in unison: “From Scotland!” and started laughing.

Good Lord, what have I done?
I thought to myself. They weren’t even related. How could they be so much alike?

Stan grinned. “Makes a person wonder, right? I’m imagining a lot of plaid, but what do I know? But I thought maybe the owner would be Scottish, and indeed she is. So I called her. She seemed to have a lot of information about folklore, that sort of thing. Said she’d heard of the monastery in question, that there might be a ghost story associated with it, and she was going to look it up.”

“Stan, you’re amazing. It’s like you’ve been hiding your snoopy light under a bushel. I’m using you on all my murder investigations from now on.”

Dad and Caleb gave me the same scathing look.

“Not that I’m getting involved in any more murder investigations,” I clarified. “Nope, not me. Ghosts or no ghosts. Maybe I should start building new tract houses—what do you think?”

“You’d probably build it on an ancient burial ground,” said Caleb, “like in that old movie
Poltergeist
.”

He and my dad exchanged glances, grunted, and returned to their respective breakfasts, hunkering down over their plates.

“So this Scottish store?” I asked. “Hard to imagine there’s a whole lot of demand for plaid in downtown Oakland.”

Stan shrugged. “You know how hard it’s been to get merchants into those spaces. Maybe they gave her a good deal. Anyway, she opens at ten, but she said she’d be there a little after nine, if you wanted to stop by.”

“What’s this article about Hearst?” I asked, flipping through the pages.

“We were talking about him last night, so I thought I’d see what I could find about him importing buildings. Turns out Hearst bought a whole Spanish monastery in 1925, dismantled it, and had it shipped over and put in storage in Brooklyn, where it remained essentially abandoned. In 1952 two wealthy historians bought it and rebuilt it in North Miami Beach. Now they say it’s the oldest building in the western hemisphere, originally built in Segovia in the twelfth century.”

“That story sounds fishy to me,” said Dad. “Since when have historians been wealthy?”

“My point was that Hearst brought over other buildings and then abandoned them. So maybe there are other such stones floating around, or even entire buildings.”

I was staring at one of the photos that went with the
article about the Hearst monastery. It was a pile of lichen-covered golden gray stones, with bright blue numbers and letters marked on them. They were from Spain.

“Those look a lot like the stones behind the Japanese Tea Garden,” said Dad, peering over my shoulder. “Remember those? That’s when I had to go pick
you
up in disgrace from Golden Gate Park. Guess it runs in the family.”

The Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park was the hub of many a school field trip. When I was a kid, I had adored running around koi ponds and scamming almond cookies, but I had been banished after Chris Marriott and I split off from the rest of the class and clambered around a pile of old stones that sat in a clearing behind the garden.

That
was what had been bothering me since the first time I saw those stones in a pile at Wakefield: They reminded me of the stones in the park.

*   *   *

“Now I have to go to a Scottish store? Seriously?” whined Caleb. Apparently, his chagrin had worn off overnight.

“Yep. I’m your ride to Golden Gate Park, so you’re stuck with me. You can stay in the car and read if you want. There are some architectural magazines behind the seat, plus the latest
Haunted Home Quarterly
featuring yours truly.”

Since I had confiscated his iPod and his cell phone, Caleb’s entertainment options were limited. Apparently,
Haunted Home Quarterly
wasn’t enough of a draw, so he trailed behind me as I headed into the World of Scotland.

There was a lot of paraphernalia crammed onto the store shelves. Tams, wool fisherman sweaters, aprons referencing scotch, golf, and the Loch Ness monster. There were hankies, bagpipes, bumper stickers, sporrans, golf balls, and
shortbread cookies. And overriding everything was plaid: plaid scarves, plaid wall hangings and pillows, and plaid doggy raincoats. Behind the register hung a sign advertising genealogical research services. I couldn’t help thinking a shop with a focus on all things Scottish was a long shot in this town, but then I tended toward the pessimistic.

My knock was met by a pretty sixtyish woman with long gray hair worn in a braid pinned on top of her head. She asked us to call her Amy, and before we got past the first rack of plaid shawls, she told me how much she had enjoyed her talk with Stan and asked me if he was single.

“As a matter of fact, he is,” I said. “He’s a great guy.”

“He sounded like it,” Amy said with a sweet smile. “He mentioned that you’re working on a re-creation of a monastery in Marin?”

“It’s a re-creation in the sense that we’re putting the old place back together, but it’s the original building.”

“Oh, my. How about that?” She brought out several books and laid them on the counter. “Stan gave me the name, so I looked it up last night.”

“This is great,” I said, anxious to see if any of the volumes could answer my questions. There were a couple of old photos of the Wakefield monastery, mostly black-and-white, not nearly as clear as the ones Florian Libole had shown me. There was a brief paragraph that didn’t say much beyond what Libole had already told me.

After I had exhausted all the references to the monastery, I looked up, deflated. Caleb was poking around at the back of the store, perusing a collection of decorative knives and daggers. Leave it to him to find the one dangerous thing in such a wholesome shop.

“You look disappointed,” said Amy. “The information isn’t helpful? What were you looking for, exactly?”

“If only I knew. I guess I was hoping for something more personal, maybe about the monks who lived there, that sort of thing. I mean, this is probably a really stupid question,” I began, thinking I should find an expert on Scottish history at a university and wondering if Luz might be able to point me in the right direction. “But, for instance, did knights live in monasteries?”

“No, of course not,” said Amy. “However, this particular monastery served as a kind of inn for passersby of importance, the aristocracy, that sort of thing.”

I nodded. “And there are no . . . ghost stories, nothing like that?”

“No. But there is a wonderful ghost story associated with another monastery, not far from Wakefield.” She pulled a well-read copy of Scottish lore out from a desk drawer. “This book’s not for sale, I’m afraid. But it tells the legend of the curse of Eochaidh and Sidheag.”

“Now we’re talking.” I wasn’t even going to
try
to repeat what she’d just said.

“There was a noble lady who had taken refuge at Eochaidh Monastery. Her family was trying to hide her from a powerful laird—that’s Scottish for “lord”—who wanted her hand in marriage.”

Amy turned the book toward me; it was splayed to show woodcuts of a lady in a procession, medieval structures behind her. The noblewoman was dressed in finery, with a dozen horses, and a man with a broadsword was standing nearby. She tapped on his picture.

“She was protected by a great warrior, named Donnchadh MacPhaidein.” She continued, reading aloud: “‘He was a man of uncommon height and strength, whose loyalty knew no bounds. He vowed to protect his ward even unto death.’”

Well, Donnchadh MacPhaidein, we meet again.
“And what happened to him?”

“He died defending her. He held off a small army ‘with the strength of ten men.’ They say he was in love with her, which is why he fought so bravely.”

“Until he was killed.”

“I’m afraid so. And ever since then, the place was cursed. MacPhaidein’s ghost would attack any man who ventured in—though he spared the women. The villagers started tearing it down over time, hoping to get rid of the spirit, but still he roamed the ruins.”

“Was the noblewoman Spanish, by any chance?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“And was she killed as well?”

“No. She was abducted and forced to marry the laird.”

“How sad.”

“It is, yes,” said Amy with a shrug. “Of course, she went on to live a noble life and gave birth to several sons. So . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to see those days with modern eyes, I think. Everything was so different then; you were pretty lucky not to starve to death as a peasant, or die in war or plague, or be starved out in a siege.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“This is interesting,” said Amy. “The lady was referred to as
cuach
, which translates, roughly, as ‘the vessel.’”

“Excuse me?”

“The ‘vessel.’ Which shows how women were thought of back then. She was considered to be the vessel for the next generation, her bloodline associated with greatness.”

“So, just to recap: Donnchadh MacPhaidein, a large man with a broadsword, was killed while defending a woman known as the vessel, and ever since has been said to haunt the ruins of the monastery?”

“After putting up a heck of a fight, yes.”

So maybe the vessel wasn’t an actual treasure at all. Maybe it was a woman who had lived, and died, centuries ago. The one Donnchadh had died defending.

It would break Donnchadh’s heart to know he had failed. Perhaps this was what kept him around, knowing somehow that he had failed in his duty; he couldn’t let go of his charge. I wondered if it would help him to move on if I told him what had happened. How could a poor, despondent knight be made to understand he no longer had a duty to protect anyone?

And who the heck was the sad, hungry ghost, then?

“But . . . you say this tale refers to another monastery,
not
Wakefield?”

“Yes. It was a place on another island, not too far away—by modern standards, of course. The Isle of Inchcolm, in the Firth of Forth. But those isles are full of similar ruins.”

“You’re saying the monastery on the Isle of Inchcolm in the Firth of Forth isn’t Wakefield?”

“That’s correct.” Amy perused the photos in the book and shook her head. “Compared to others of their time and place, neither of these monasteries was operational for very long. And the isles were too out of the way to be critical for nation building, or anything historically significant like that. I imagine that’s why the state allowed Wakefield to be hauled away to Marin County, of all places.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Could I . . . ? Would it be possible to take a tour sometime? I would love to see it.”

“I don’t see why not,” I said, and handed her my card. Dad and Stan were asking about it as well—maybe I could have them all come by on the same day. Who
knows? Maybe Amy and Stan would hit it off in person as well as they did on the phone. Just call me Mel Turner, Matchmaker. But . . . it would be better to rid the place of ghosts first. “I’m working on a few urgent projects right now. But maybe in a week or two, when things settle down a bit?”

“Perfect,” Amy said, looking around the store. It was now officially opening time, and the store wasn’t exactly jammed with eager customers clamoring for Scottish paraphernalia. “I can come anytime, really.”

Before leaving, I bought a tin of shortbread, some tea, a plaid scarf for Graham, and some little decorative golf balls.