Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (26 page)

I could relate. That was how I felt in do-it-yourself hardware stores, with those cheery signs that made people think they
could
do it themselves. My one ace in the hole, however, was that most people got themselves in over their heads, and as the renovations dragged on and on and costs mounted, the torn-up kitchen and nonfunctioning bathroom became too much to bear, and I’d field the call. Whereas the worst that could happen with photography was taking crappy pictures.

Speaking of which, I wondered if Caleb had made any headway with the photos I’d taken of the mural.

We found the warehouse down by the water, near the estuary. On one side was an unmarked building, and on the other, a wine-storage facility. The sun was setting, and I was glad to be here with backup, and a gun.

“How come we can’t break in to
that
one?” Zach asked, eyeing the warehouse with the wine, as I tried the tenth key on the key ring.

“We’re not breaking in. I have a key. Remember?”

“At the risk of quibbling, I must point out that if we
were here legitimately, I wouldn’t be standing guard while you fiddled with the damn door lock. You would know which one of those purloined keys might fit this padlock.”

“Did I ask your opinion? You’re the hired muscle.”

“You’re paying me?” Zach perked up.

“It’s an expression.”

He deflated again. “One of these days I’m going to get smart and not answer the phone when you call.”

“But then you’d miss out on all the good stuff. Anyone coming?”

He shook his head. “Neither man nor beast roams this foul desert. It’s deserted out here. Silent as the proverbial grave. Quiet as a tomb. Hushed as a baby’s—”

“Aha!” I exclaimed as the padlock finally fell open. “Success!”

I pushed the door open with care, hanging back a little. I wasn’t expecting a guard dog or anything, but I wasn’t so sure about ghosts. If haunted stones were stored in here, I wanted to be ready for anything.

“Could I hold the gun?” Zach asked in a whisper.

“I gave you a can of wasp spray.”

“Yeah, that was my point. I’m a spritzer of the highest degree, but I’d rather hold the gun.”

“Why are you asking me this
now
?” I demanded as we ventured inside. The warehouse smelled musty and dank, as though fresh air had not circulated in there for a very long time. I was whispering, not for fear of anyone in particular, but because the large space was so echoey that speaking made me feel self-conscious. It was full of wooden shipping crates, their contents stenciled on one side. Some crates had been pried opened to reveal carved stone pieces.

“I didn’t really get weirded out until right now,” said
Zach. “And frankly, the whole wasp-spray-can thing doesn’t suit my tough-guy image.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you don’t really
have
a tough-guy image.”

“Well, now, that’s rather mean-spirited of you, especially since you begged me to be your backup. And besides, that was sort of my point. How am I supposed to be a tough guy carrying a can of wasp spray? The only bad guys who would be impressed by that are wasps.”

“It sprays twenty feet and disarms a bad guy just that fast,” I said. “Inspector Crawford recommended it. I used to carry hair spray, but this is even better because it shoots farther. And you don’t need a license for it like you do with mace or pepper spray.”

“Maybe if I got a can-shaped leather holster . . .”

He trailed off as we passed by a line of tombstones leaning against the metal wall of the warehouse.

Zach glanced at me. “Is that normal? Shouldn’t tombstones be in a graveyard?”

I removed the top of a nearby crate and found an ornately carved wooden credenza. I put the lid back on. “Ancient tombstones are considered works of art. I mean, it’s not like the immediate family is going to object.”

“I do like the gargoyles,” said Zach.

“Those aren’t gargoyles so much as hunky punks.”

“Hunky punks? That’s an architectural term, is it?”

“Oh, we’ve got some doozies. Listen, we should be systematic about this search. You start at that end of the line of crates, and I’ll start at this end. We’ll work toward the middle.”

“I thought you told me the supposed treasure wasn’t a treasure at all, but a woman.”

“True. But if people have been killed over this . . . I
don’t know. I keep thinking there’s more to this story. And this seems like a pretty good place to hide a treasure, doesn’t it?”

There was a loud bang.

I dove behind a crate.

Zach whirled around and let his wasp spray fly. It landed with a splat on the hunky punk, drenching it in foam.

“All clear,” said Zach. “It was the lid from the first crate you opened. It fell.”

I sagged in relief. “Gotta say, I’m impressed. Way to show that hunky punk who’s boss.”

“Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”

“So am I, believe me. If I’d been quicker on the draw, I probably would have
shot
the poor little guy. At least the wasp spray washes off.”

We shared a smile and resumed our search.

“Um, Mel? What do you suppose is in here?”

He was standing with his hands on a crate stenciled:
BONES
.

“I’m gonna guess bones.”

“Yes, okay, but . . . you really think there are
bones
in here?”

“Probably they don’t mean bones as in . . . bones. Maybe it’s animal skeletons, or . . .”

I trailed off as Zach opened the lid, peered within, and made a face.

“Mel, this wouldn’t be a serial killer’s warehouse, by any chance, would it?”

I came over to stand next to him, and we both studied the open crate. I’m not the kind of anthropologist that studies bones, but I knew enough to recognize that these were human. But they weren’t part of a skeleton; instead, they appeared to be arranged in some sort of design. It
was hard to make it out with the packing peanuts surrounding them.

“Let’s—”

The lights went out. We were plunged into darkness.

“Um, Mel?” whispered Zach.

“Shhhh.”
I pulled Zach down behind the crate with me. I have a tiny flashlight on my key chain, but in case someone had turned off the lights, I didn’t want to reveal our exact location.

“The lights are probably on a timer or motion sensor,” I whispered. “They probably turn the lights off automatically after a while. Just an energy-saving device,” I whispered. “Probably.”

“Want to know my opinion of environmentalists right about now?”

We crouched in silence for another moment. Finally, I peeked over the edge of the crate.

The warehouse door flew open, and the lights flickered on.

Florian Libole was standing in the doorway with a gun.

F
lorian pointed his gun in our direction, I stood with my pistol aimed in his direction, and Zach popped up, holding up his wasp spray in a shooter’s stance.

“Don’t even think about it, pal,” Zach growled.

When Florian recognized me, he made an exasperated grunt and put the gun in his bag. “Oh, it’s you. I thought someone had broken into my warehouse.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“What
are
you going on about? And what are you doing in here? And why are you carrying a gun?”

“Why are
you
carrying a gun?”

“I’m not. It’s not an actual gun. . . . It’s a water pistol spray-painted silver.”

“That’s illegal,” I said.

“Not to mention stupid,” said Zach.

“I could have shot you,” I added.

“After what happened to McCall . . .” Florian shrugged. “I know how you Yanks are with your guns. Which brings
us back to the pertinent question: What the hell are you doing in my warehouse, with a gun?”

“I’m, uh . . . was checking to see if there was room to have those kitchen appliances delivered here, since we’re so far from being ready for them on-site,” I said. “And I’m happy to confirm that there is, indeed, plenty of space.”

Florian gave me the stink-eye. The fact that Zach and I were ankle-deep in packing peanuts, next to an open shipping crate, might have undercut my story.

There was nothing to do but confess.

“We were snooping,” I said. “I apologize. It wasn’t right, but I knew you had some objects in here for the building site, and you haven’t been around lately. . . .”

“And you thought I was dead?”

I nodded. “Hey, I was worried. I reported you missing to the police.”

“You called the
police
? I was hiking the Dipsea Trail.”

“You didn’t say anything. And it’s been three days—that trail’s only eight miles long.”

He shrugged. “I took my time. You had the day-to-day operations well in hand, and I needed a little time to myself. We British are great walkers, you know.”

A great walker could have gotten a little farther than eight miles in three days,
I thought to myself.

“You want to explain what you’re doing with a bunch of human bones in crates?” demanded Zach, taking up the offensive.

“And who might
you
be?” asked Florian.

“This is my . . . personal assistant,” I said. “Zachary Yablonsky.”

Florian was shaking his head. “Cretins,” I heard him mumble.

“Are the bones some of the remains that were found in the building upon dismantling?”

“No. They’re from Eastern Europe, primarily. They’re decorations to increase the authenticity of the building, although Ellis now tells me he finds them rather too macabre for today’s sensibilities. But I assure you, it’s historically accurate. There’s a long and honorable tradition of incorporating bones into historic buildings.”

Zach was staring at me as though I should either back up Libole’s story or call him out as a liar. I had heard of human bones being used as architectural decorations but was fuzzy on the details; besides, I couldn’t help but think of what had happened in Strasbourg. Had Libole been digging up unauthorized bones again?

“Doesn’t anyone go to college anymore?” asked Libole, sounding exasperated. “Haven’t you heard of ossuaries, great collections of bones?”

“Like in the catacombs in Paris?”

“Yes. But more so. One famous one is the Capela dos Ossos, in Évora, Portugal. It was built by a sixteenth-century Franciscan monk to encourage the contemplation of temporality. In other words, that life is fleeting, transitory.”

“He did this by putting up bones?”

“Ossuaries served an important purpose. People wanted to be buried on consecrated or sacred grounds, or in places of historical significance. But there’s only so much land. It was a common practice to bury people, let them be for a number of years, then exhume their skeletal remains and place the bones in ossuaries.”

“I get that part. It’s making the bones into decorations that leaves me a little flat.”

“I don’t see why, really. I mean, what else are you going to do with them? There have been a lot of people on this earth, and their remains have to go somewhere. The skulls and skeletons of about five thousand monks were
exhumed from a variety of cemeteries. Upon entering the Capela dos Ossos, visitors are greeted with the saying:
Nós ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos.
Ellis isn’t allowing me to display the bones, but he has asked that the phrase be carved into stone at the Wakefield refectory.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“‘We, the bones that are here, await yours.’”

“Um, okay . . .”

“In other words, life is fleeting.”

I suppose I should know that better than a lot of people, given how often I had witnessed it snatched away from people in the last year. Still, I wasn’t sure a phrase in Portuguese was going to change anyone’s attitude.

I met Zach’s eyes. He looked as queasy as I felt.

It was fascinating, and macabre. Now that I saw ghosts from time to time, and those ghosts were often—though not always—attached to the remains of the person, I could only imagine what it might be like for me to walk through that Portuguese chapel. Confused spirits would probably glom on to me before I passed the first pew: demanding, yearning, begging for help. I made a mental note not to go anywhere near Évora when I finally managed to move to Europe.

“Well, then, it’s all good news. You’re not dead, and there’s plenty of space for the kitchen appliances. Here’s your key ring.”

“Where did you get my key ring?”

“Like I said, I was worried about you.”

“So you went into my room and rifled through my desk?”

“There was no rifling. I gently opened a drawer to see if there might be a key, and voilà, there was an entire key
ring. By the way, hardly anyone maintains the old letter-writing traditions. Sealing wax? I’m impressed.”

“Cretins,” Florian mumbled, shaking his head.

*   *   *

“I don’t get it . . . ,” said Zach as we climbed into my Scion, feeling a bit deflated. “You thought this guy was dead?”

“I thought it was a possibility. Either that, or that he’d killed the building inspector on the job and had fled the country.”

“But now you don’t think he’s the killer?”

“I can’t be sure. . . . I mean, as you know, I’ve been wrong before. Apparently, I’m not a great judge of character.” I started driving us across town. “But although I think Libole’s sneaky and underhanded, he doesn’t strike me as a murderer. For instance, if he was a ruthless killer, why would he carry a water pistol?”

“We don’t actually
know
it was a water pistol,” Zach pointed out. “He just said it was. It could have been real.”

“True, but then why would he hesitate to shoot us? We were in an isolated warehouse full of shipping crates. Pretty good place to kill somebody.”

“You’re frightening.”

“Or even easier, why wouldn’t he just stay missing?”

Zach helped himself to a piece of gum from the glove box, tossed the wasp spray into the backseat, and nodded thoughtfully.

“What I
do
believe is that Florian Libole has been perpetrating a fraud against Ellis Elrich by replacing the Wakefield monastery—the one Elrich wanted him to bring over from Europe—with a different one.”

“Which one?”

“It’s from the Isle of Inchcolm, in the Firth of Forth, above the Cairn of the Kerr.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, you could just say so.”

“I’m not kidding. That’s where it’s from. The one Elrich wanted was from an island I can’t pronounce. Gaelic isn’t for sissies.”

“Gotcha. How did you figure this out?”

“A very nice woman in a Scottish paraphernalia shop.”

“What do they sell in a Scottish paraphernalia shop? The mind reels.”

“A lot of plaid. But I mean, think about it: They’re tumbled ruins of dark gray stones. There’s a key that’s supposed to help reassemble the portions of the building that were still intact, but much of it is just conjecture. By the time those stones arrived, how was Ellis going to notice these weren’t the stones he thought he’d paid for?”

“A stone’s a stone.”

“Exactly. Except it’s not, because these stones carry their very own curse with them. And on top of that, Libole supplemented them with stones originally from Spain via Golden Gate Park, again without telling Elrich.”

“Why be so secretive? Why not just tell Elrich the truth?”

“Apparently, people have a hard time letting Ellis Elrich down.”

“But you don’t think he wanted to keep the secret enough to kill over it?”

“He could have. . . . I really don’t know.”

Could he have dispatched someone to get rid of Larry McCall when the building inspector found out about the stones from Golden Gate Park? I couldn’t be sure, but I was finally getting smart. It wasn’t wise to make possibly career-ending accusations at someone when they were armed and in an isolated warehouse. Even if Libole’s
weapon was only a toy, and Zach and I had real weapons . . . I wasn’t prepared to start shooting people, either.

This was a job for the police. So when I dropped Zach back at his car in the Safeway parking lot, I called Detective Bernardino. We had a very uncomfortable chat, during which he informed me that the police had their person of interest in Pete Nolan, thank you very much, and Ellis Elrich would surely deal with any fraud perpetrated by Florian Libole if and when he was ready. Bernardino also told me to stop insinuating to the McCall family that someone besides Pete Nolan might have killed their loved one and to ask the SFPD to stay out of his case and off his back. And, finally, he said not to call him again at this hour of the night.

I would never again complain about Annette Crawford.

*   *   *

I limped back to Ellis Elrich’s house, exhausted. I was happy to see that the protesters had dispersed for the day; I wasn’t up for running the gauntlet at the main gates. This had been one hell of a day . . . and I still hadn’t figured things out.

All I wanted to do was go to my room, take a very hot shower for a very long time, and put on some clean clothes. I crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t run into the sour Vernon Dunn, or even Alicia. Maybe I could grab something in the snack bar and slip into my room without being spotted, flick on the fire in the fireplace and . . .

But Ellis was in the foyer when I walked in.

“Mel, how are you? I was sorry you slipped out at the Pelican Inn—I was going to offer to spare you the drive back. One of the men could have driven your car.”

“Thanks. That’s thoughtful of you. But I was fine, just needed to pull myself together. Do you have a few minutes to talk? In private?”

“Of course.” He led the way down to the Discovery Room.

“I don’t quite know how to say this,” I said as we settled ourselves under the watchful eyes of Madame Curie. “And I’m tired, so I might fumble it a little. But . . . I think Florian Libole may have imported the wrong monastery.”

*   *   *

Ellis took the news pretty well, considering he had spent a fortune on—and garnered a great deal of press over—a mistaken monastery.

I showed him pictures of the original Wakefield in Scotland, with its half-tumbled tower, then compared them to the ruins on the Isle of Inchcolm in the Firth of Forth. The pictures helped to illustrate my point, but even to my own ears the story sounded far-fetched. Ellis listened attentively, thanked me for the information, and then went out to the terrace.

Last I saw, he was picking up smooth river stones and building his little cairns by the silvery light of a nearly full moon. If only everyone could deal with frustration so calmly.

I felt like I was tattling on Libole, but I wasn’t brave enough to accuse him in person. The funny thing was that despite everything—the fraud, the pomposity—I sort of liked Florian. He was a font of knowledge about obscure architectural history. And the plan he had invented for the monastery we were rebuilding was genius, mixing and matching his resources to create a historic building from several sources, just like Julia Morgan at
Hearst Castle. Too bad he hadn’t figured out a way to embrace the situation with full disclosure.

After my shower, I crawled into bed and finished
Keeper of the Castle
,
which had a very satisfying ending. I missed Dog’s company but was lulled to sleep by the odd, lilting notes of Donnchadh’s flute.