Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (5 page)

Stan and Dad hung back, following the conversation with avid interest but not chiming in. I appreciated the way they were letting me make this decision, as head of the company. When I had taken over Turner Construction after my father fell apart at the sudden loss of my mother, it had been for only “a few months.” I’d assumed Dad would pull himself together, step back in to run the company he had built, and I would take off for Europe to drown my sorrows or kick up my heels, whichever struck my fancy. But it hadn’t worked out that way. After
several years of acting as interim head of Turner Construction, I finally had come to accept that my dad was permanently retired.

The company was now mine, for better or worse.

Still, both Dad and Stan had a stake in the health of Turner Construction and were as nervous as I about the lack of work in the pipeline. Here stood a fabulously wealthy client with a project seemingly custom-made for Turner Construction, and I was balking? Since I hadn’t filled them in on the details of what happened yesterday, they were bound to be bewildered by my attitude.

“I don’t know the first thing about reconstructing an ancient building,” I said. “Our company does historical reconstruction, but that’s in a San Francisco context—we’re talking a hundred years, not six hundred.”

“Not a problem,” said Elrich with a confident shake of his well-coiffed head. “I have a special consultant on retainer. Florian Libole, have you heard of him?”

“Of course,” I said. No one in my line of work would fail to recognize the name. Florian Libole was world famous in the historic reconstruction business, the go-to man for the British aristocracy.

“He’s very anxious to meet you.”

“To meet
me
?”

“There aren’t many firms that specialize in this sort of thing here in California, as you know. If you refuse me, I’m afraid I’ll have to import someone from back east, or worse, from Europe. They would take time getting their bearings, not to mention a job of this magnitude should be handled locally as much as possible—don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I have several other jobs going, and with the commute to Marin County . . .”

“You’re welcome to stay at my place,” he said. “It’s huge, built to house plenty of folks. I’ve got several
people staying there now, and I’ve invited Graham as well. As a matter of fact . . .”

Ellis paused, and I noticed he had everyone’s full attention, even Dog’s. This guy was
good
.

“According to my assistant, the house could use some sprucing up. It’s a Victorian on the outside, but inside it’s sort of Spanish Revival, Mission style, lots of hand-painted tile—you didn’t get a chance see it yesterday, but I think you’ll like it. Don’t forget your bathing suit; we have a beautiful pool and sauna. And feel free to bring the dog—he’ll love running free on the fenced grounds.”

Elrich reached down to pet Dog. The canine wagged his tail and leaned his considerable weight against the billionaire’s leg, leaving long brown hairs on the fine suit. Buzz looked annoyed on his boss’s behalf, but Elrich didn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, he seemed determined to make everyone—even the dog—like him, and appeared to be succeeding.

I looked at Stan’s face, at my dad, at Caleb. They all seemed to be in favor of Ellis Elrich’s proposal. Eccentric clients with more dollars than sense were my specialty. And there was no doubt Turner Construction needed a big job like this.

But only Dog knew what I’d seen yesterday, and he wasn’t talking.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I do appreciate the offer, but I need some time to think it through. I hope you didn’t come all the way here just to talk to me.”

“I had some business in San Francisco anyway, and I rarely take time to explore Oakland. Florian tells me I simply must stop by and see the Chapel of the Chimes while I’m here. He says it’s a hidden gem. Built by Julia Morgan, right? Oakland really is a beautiful city.”

That was very politic of him. My dad’s house was
nowhere near the Chapel of the Chimes; instead, we live in the Fruitvale section of Oakland, a neighborhood once chock-full of orchards but now jammed with small bungalows all in a row, with the exception of the big old farmhouse that was our home. Locals called it “working class”; outsiders referred to it as “gritty.”

“In case you decide to join us.” Elrich signaled to one of the burly men next to him, who reached into his breast pocket and extracted a plain manila envelope. He handed it to Elrich, who offered it to me. “This contains some documents that will fill you in on a few of the details, and most importantly, a check for the deposit.”

I peeked at the check and gulped. There were a whole lot of zeroes. It didn’t take an accountant to realize it was enough to keep Turner Construction—and all the people we employed—solvent for a good six months. And this was just the “deposit.”

“Give it some thought,” said Elrich. “And let me know by tomorrow? I’m sorry to rush you like this, but we don’t have any time to lose. Even with yesterday’s tragedy, it’s essential we keep on schedule to the extent possible.”

“Do you have the go-ahead from the police to start construction again?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I repeated. I wasn’t promising anything, but I hadn’t seen a check that big since . . . well, since never, actually.

Ellis thanked us, patted Dog, and climbed into the limo with his entourage. We watched the huge car glide down the street. The sight of the luxury vehicle had coaxed several of our neighbors out onto their porches, and a trio of laughing kids chased it for a block before giving up.

“A limo like that’s even more exciting than when the
garbage truck fell into the sinkhole right there. Remember that?” observed Stan. He explained to Caleb: “It took three industrial tow trucks to pull the lumbering truck out of the hole, and it forced the city to finally fix the problem.”

“Seriously?” said Caleb. His two homes in San Francisco were in fancy neighborhoods; he still found Oakland’s less-than-posh approach to urban life to be intriguing.

We waved at the neighbors, and when the limo turned the corner and zoomed out of sight, Dad turned to me.

“I thought you said the site meeting in Marin yesterday didn’t result in anything.”

“I wasn’t planning on taking the job.”

“Why the devil not?”

“It’s sort of a good-news, bad-news situation,” I explained.

“I can’t wait to hear this,” he said, and I imagined he was mentally rolling his eyes.

“The good news is, someone died at the Wakefield jobsite yesterday. Was killed, actually.”

Dad, Stan, and Caleb looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Dog looked at me as though waiting for me to drop some food, but that was his typical stare.

“Someone
died
?” asked Caleb. “Who?”

“No one you know,” I said. “A building inspector.”

“Well, no one likes building inspectors,” Dad observed with a grunt.

“Even so,” said Stan, “I would have thought a murder would count as the
bad
news.”

“Yes, well, obviously, if you were the one killed. Or his family, or . . . Okay, clearly it’s tragic. Horrible. All I’m saying is that in terms of
me
, at least the place is now pre-disastered.”

They weren’t following my logic. I tried again.

“You know how, lately, I have a tendency to stumble across dead bodies on my jobsites? Well, this jobsite already has a dead body. What are the chances I’ll come across another one?”

“That’s . . . random,” said Caleb.

“We sure could use the work, babe,” said Dad with a shake of his head. “But I don’t want you on yet another job with yet another murderer running around.”

“That’s more good news, actually—the killer’s in custody. He was the general on the job: Pete Nolan. Graham said you know him?”

“Sure, I know Pete,” said Dad. “They say
Pete’s
the one who killed this guy?”

“He’s a loose cannon, all right,” said Stan. “That SOB sucker-punched me once when he didn’t like what I said about the Oakland Raiders’ chances for the Super Bowl. Remember that?”

“That was when Pete was a drunk,” said my dad. “He hasn’t had any problems like that for years now.”

Stan shrugged, unconvinced.

“Anyway, he’s in custody,” I continued. “So I guess that’s the end of that. That’s what I mean about the place being pre-disastered.”

“So if a dead guy on-site is the good news,” said Caleb. “What’s the
bad
news?”

Ghosts,
I thought to myself, but did not say aloud. I remembered the sensation I had felt in the presence of the Lady in Red. It gave me a knot in the pit of my stomach, just thinking of it. On the other hand, maybe I needed to help her. Maybe that was my special role: to find buildings full of miserable ghosts and either banish them, or help them cross over, or negotiate a settlement between them and the living.

“The bad news is, it’s too far for me to commute. Raul
could step in on the day to day finishing up our current projects, but I’d have to take Elrich up on his offer to stay up there for a while. At least until we get things running smoothly.”

The truth was, I could use some time away. I adored my father, and his friend Stan, and this old farmhouse. But Elrich was offering me the chance to have some time to myself as his guest at a beautiful estate complete with pool and a view of the ocean?
Yes, please
.

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, babe,” said Dad.

I had to admit, he didn’t appear exactly broken up over the prospect of my being away for a while. I supposed it was possible
I
had become a bit annoying, what with nagging him to eat organic vegetables and to stop watching so much TV.

Probably we could both use a little time apart.

“But I don’t know. . . .” Dad trailed off, his attention seeming as divided as Caleb’s usually did. He kept fiddling with his new smartphone. “Maybe if you’re gonna go on up and stay at Elrich’s house, you should take a gun, just in case. You’re a good shot with that Glock.”

“Um . . . okay.”

He looked up, surprised. “You’re getting smart now, are you? Change your mind about gun control?”

Stan, who had a few decided opinions about gun control, gaped at me.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “I just . . . Just in case, it might not hurt to have a little extra protection.”

“You think you’ll be in danger?” asked Stan. “Mel, no job is worth putting yourself at risk.”

“No. Not really. Not at all. I’m just . . . I thought it might be a good idea. Considering my track record. Besides, Graham will be there, so I’ll have plenty of protection.”

“Still . . .” Dad trailed off again. This was not like him.

“What are you
doing
?” I demanded, annoyed.

“This ‘smart’ phone isn’t near as smart as a person would hope.” Dad only recently, and quite reluctantly, had upgraded from a flip phone. He had been waiting to make sure it wasn’t just a fad, he explained. Now that he had bought the newfangled device, he appeared to be enamored with its many features and apps. “I’m trying to look up directions to the barbecue.”

“Dad, you’ve been going to Garfield Lumber for thirty years,” I pointed out. I felt a sudden stab of worry. Dad wasn’t
that
old, was he? “You need to look up the directions?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to hear the voice tell me how to get there. See if she’s right. I like her voice. Sounds like a real nice gal.”

Caleb rolled his eyes but smiled and held out his hand. “Here. Give it to me, Bill. I’ll show you.”

“Okay, everybody ready?” I asked, wanting to get the show on the road. “Shall we take the van?”

Stan was in a wheelchair following a construction accident years ago. It was best to take the specially outfitted van so he didn’t have to get out of his chair.

“Sure,” Dad said, tossing me the keys. As we were climbing in—he, Caleb, and Dog in back, Stan riding shotgun—he asked: “Hey, when are you and Graham gonna make me a grandfather again?”

Stan hooted with laughter.

Wow
.
That
was out of left field. I was just beginning to inch past my I-hate-all-men phase; no way was I ready to move on to procreation.

“You’ve got Caleb,” I said, trying to ignore the strange butterfly sensation at the base of my throat. “That’s all I’m guaranteeing at the moment.”

“Well, now, I guess he’ll do just fine,” Dad said.

Caleb pretended to be absorbed in programming Dad’s phone, but when I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, I could tell he was smiling.

“Hey, Bill,” Caleb said. “What do you call a ridiculous old man?”

“I give up. What?”

“A fossil fool.”

Dad chuckled.

Garfield Lumber’s stale hot dogs and cheap beer had never tasted better to me.

Unfortunately, construction workers are big on lame anecdotes; after Dad blabbed about what had happened at Wakefield, I spent the rest of the evening listening to jokes that culminated in dead building inspectors.

Maybe it was just too soon, but I didn’t find them at all amusing.