Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (8 page)

“Gertrude Jekyll?” I interrupted. “Really?”

“You know her?”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t. I just . . . That’s quite a name,” I said with a smile.

He looked down his nose at me, his mustache aquiver. “She was a very well-respected designer in her day.”

“I’m sure she was. And she had a heck of a handle. Bet ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ wasn’t her stripper name, eh?” At Libole’s startled expression, I changed the subject. “So tell me, what’s Vernon Dunn’s objection to this project?”

“The man cares for nothing but money. He has absolutely no poetry within his soul.”

“Ah. I—”

“It is a nest of vipers, Ms. Turner. Beware Alicia Withers, as well.”

“Okay . . .”

He leaned toward me and dropped his voice. “She’s a snoop.”

“Oh?”

“I lock my doors. Still, she has the skeleton key. I’m sure you’ve seen that key ring she carries around. I can hear it clanking after I retire every night. I fear there is no privacy where she is concerned.”

As we grew closer to the jobsite, the noise level increased. Between the compressors, the saws, and the banging, we had to raise our voices. The crew was in full swing.

“I’m surprised the police have already released the scene,” I said.

“Elrich has friends in high places. The room where the body was found is still off-limits, I’m afraid. But the rest of the building was released yesterday.”

Just as Elrich had promised.

Tony greeted us in front of the small trailer that served as the site office. I introduced him to Dog, and he introduced me to his second in command, Miguel, a bear of a man in his forties. I found a shady spot out of the way to tie up Dog, filled his water bowl from the site’s big yellow thermos, and followed Tony to the temporary shed where Jacek was overseeing the stonecutting. As before, the master stonemason remained mute, nodding and smoking while his assistant, Cesar, explained the specialized stonecutting equipment.

I was beginning to wonder whether Jacek’s apparent surliness was the result of limited English language skills, which did not bode well. I spoke a little construction-site Spanish, but my Polish was pretty rusty.

Jacek, Cesar, and two other assistants were covered in so much gray stone dust that they looked like walking statues, and dozens of cigarette butts littered the ground.
Between the smoking and their daily exposure to dust, I couldn’t help but worry about the state of their lungs.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing respirators?” I asked.

Jacek shrugged, and Cesar rolled his eyes.

I had also noticed that only about half the men were wearing hard hats, even though they were working on a jobsite featuring masonry.

Regrettably, a lot of construction guys feel their manliness is challenged by commonsense health and safety guidelines. And if the man in charge was cavalier about the subject, the others fell in step. The only way to get these macho types to do the right thing was to lay down the law and then allow them to grouse and grumble about bureaucrats. At least some of them would be secretly pleased that they could care for their health without losing face.

I felt a little awkward—I hadn’t been formally presented to these folks as the general in charge yet. But there was no time like the present.

“Tony, call the guys together, will you, please? There are a few things I need to say.” Tony obligingly summoned the crew, and I climbed onto a large block of stone.

“Starting tomorrow,” I said, my voice rising to carry over the whine of a compressor, “I’ll be in charge of this worksite. I’m Mel Turner, of Turner Construction. Please call me Mel. And yes, before you even bring it up, I’ll say that I have an odd style of dress. You’ll see tomorrow. Feel free to snicker and make jokes behind my back, but I’ll be signing your paychecks, so get used to it. Several of my men will be joining you tomorrow, and as you know, we’ll be working double shifts in an effort to bring this project in on time. But just so we’re clear, Turner Construction follows basic health and safety guidelines,
no exceptions. Stonemasons will wear respirators while cutting, and everyone will wear a hard hat at all times. Anybody has a problem with that, feel free to leave. We’ve got a big job ahead of us, and we don’t need to waste time with accidents.”

The men shifted on their feet and stared at me with cold, flat eyes. Had I been less experienced with construction crews, I would have thought they hated me. But this was just how it went. They were holding back, evaluating me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tested me a little in the next few days. I was not only the new kid on the block. I was the new
girl
on the block. They’d put me through my paces.

Complicating the situation, these men were working on a site plagued by sabotage, spirits were running them out of the building, and their former boss had just been booked on suspicion of homicide. Was it any wonder they were feeling a bit insecure?

“Any questions?”

“You heard about these . . . ghosts?” asked one slim young man who didn’t look much older than Caleb.

There were a few snide exhalations of breath, and his colleagues looked at him askance.

“Just sayin’,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands covered in heavy leather work gloves.

“Yes. I have heard about that,” I said. “I’ll be looking into it.”

“Also, someone’s been stealing food,” said a big fellow.

“Stealing food?”

“It’s got to the point where we need someone to watch the lunch boxes. I locked mine in my truck, but this is ridiculous.”

Others jumped into the discussion. Ghosts were one thing, lunches another. These guys worked hard, they got hungry, and they were out in the middle of nowhere, with no easy access to cafés or stores. I wondered why Pete Nolan hadn’t made arrangements for an on-site canteen, as was common on remote locales. A canteen would not only keep the workers fueled but would contribute to a team mentality, an esprit de corps
.
If the crew thought they couldn’t trust one another not to steal lunches, the whole project would be affected.

“I’ll check that out,” I said. “We should at least be able to get some fresh coffee and energy drinks down here for you guys. I’ll see what I can do.”

It pleased me to see a few heads nodding. Heck, throw in a dozen glazed doughnuts and they’d be eating out of my hand. I wasn’t averse to bribing my way into the hearts of men. Besides, up at the house we had a twenty-four-hour snack bar supplied by a famous French chef. It didn’t seem quite fair.

I handed out my Turner Construction business card, which included my cell phone number, shook a number of hands, and assured everyone that payroll would be met, as usual, on Friday. I would see to it personally.

Finally, I joined Florian Libole, who had been lounging on a stone bench by the entrance to the chapel, watching.

“Are you quite ready to speak about architecture now, Norma Rae?” he asked, mustache aquiver.

“‘Norma Rae’? Because I think the guys should have coffee? Or follow basic safety procedures?”

He gave me a scathing look. So much for my plan to win over the distinguished Florian Libole. I was beginning to feel discouraged. Ellis Elrich might like me, but so far his entourage appeared less than impressed. I
looked forward to the arrival of my guys on-site tomorrow, not to mention Graham. Murderer on the loose or not, I needed some friends at my back.

“Shall we begin?” Florian asked.

I handed him a hard hat and put on my own.

“After you,” I said, and watched him duck into the main entrance to the chapel.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking about my less-than-dignified departure from this building yesterday. The vision of Larry McCall’s ghost, then seeing his body on the floor; the weeping; that strange Lady in Red. The sensations of despondency and nauseating hunger.

But as I had assured the men in my life just yesterday: Surely this place was now pre-disastered, and I could go about figuring out what the ghosts were trying to tell me and get this job done. Right?

Besides, workers were scuttling in and out of the building, pushing wheelbarrows and mixing mortar. Men swarmed across scaffolding like honeybees on a hive, soldering and sawing and laying stone.

I paused in the archway and stroked the ring around my neck before stepping inside.

F
lorian launched into full-blown tour-guide mode, pointing to a wall here, a section of ceiling there.

“The building was abandoned centuries ago, and half of it had long since been dragged off by the surrounding villagers, who used the stones to lay the foundation for their own homes or in landscaping and walls.”

“I saw someone demonstrating at the gate,” I said as I trailed Libole through one stone chamber after another, in varying degrees of completion. “I take it there have been issues of repatriation?”

He grunted and waved one large hand in the air. “Stuff and nonsense. This is the classic case of wanting something only after someone else has invested in its salvation. No one wanted this monastery; it had been falling apart for aeons. Elrich paid the village and the Scottish government handsomely for it. They can do much more with the money than they could ever have hoped to do with the building. It’s different over there,
you know: They have more ruins than you can shake a shillelagh at. Worse, the monastery was on a small island off the coast; nothing there but rocks and sheep.”

He handed me a manila envelope containing photos of the ruins in their original location on an island off the bleak, forbidding coast of Scotland. The monastery did, indeed, look like an abandoned ruin, consisting primarily of haphazard piles of tumbled stones scattered about the rocky ground. Only one tower and a few exterior walls remained standing.

“Why is Elrich so intent on this building in particular?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to build something new, or to renovate an existing historic building in the area? There’s the old mill in Mill Valley. . . .”

“Ellis Elrich doesn’t believe in taking the easy path. He took a trip to Scotland long ago and apparently had what he refers to as a ‘spiritual awakening.’ I believe he fell in love with the place at that time.” Libole shrugged and pointed out an area of stone joinery where the walls met the ceiling. “You can see that this part of the building, here in the back, featured thick, bulky walls and small, rounded windows that didn’t let in much light.”

“Was that on purpose or due to the engineering of the time?”

“Excellent question! Windows and other openings had to be small and narrow to support the weight of the building. But with advances in engineering, building methods changed. The front of the chapel, which was built more than a century after the rear portion, is Gothic; the walls are taller and thinner, with large openings to allow in light through pointed arches. Graceful, isn’t it?”

I nodded as I took it all in. Gothic architecture was revered for a reason: The arches seemed to soar into the heavens. Perfect for a house of worship.

“Also within the cloisters are a chapter house, a warming house, and a refectory. Claustral buildings include a night stair, the sacristy, latrines, cellars, and a piscine.”

My mind reeled. What had I gotten myself into? I didn’t even know what half those things
were
. It looked like someone would be hitting the books at night to get up to speed with her medieval building project.

“A, um, ‘piscine’? Would that be a . . . pool?” Hard to imagine monks taking a dip on the chilly coast of Scotland, but one never knew.

“Don’t be silly,” said Florian. “A piscine was a special room reserved for washing the goblets and plates used for saying Mass.”

“Oh, I see.” Just as I thought, being a monk wasn’t much fun.

“Notice the cresset lamps and the hunky punks.”

“I’m sorry. The what?” I was starting to wonder if Florian was pulling my leg. Was I being hunky punked?

“Cresset lamps are indentations in the stone, into which oil was poured and a wick was placed. Some were portable, and used to awaken brethren who dared fall asleep during midnight Mass. And hunky punks are carved little squat fellows, often with funny faces. They have no purpose I can see, but they are entertaining. I have more in the warehouse.”

“Like gargoyles?”

“Something like that.”

He led the way outside to a rough patch of land that was ringed by a temporary wood security fence. Foundation stem walls had been laid around it.

“This area will be surrounded by a colonnaded walkway, called the promenade. The second story was where the monks copied books. Before the invention of the
Gutenberg printing press, all books were written out and illustrated by hand. It was a primary occupation of the brethren.”

I nodded. This much, I did know.

“Mr. Elrich would like to utilize those spaces as guest bedchambers, each with its own en suite. The cloister surrounds an herb garden, called a garth. We will plant the garth with traditional plants. We’re to consult ‘Harper’ in the matter.”

The way he said the name left no doubt as to his opinion of her.

“Harper?” I asked.

“Harper Elrich.”

“Is that Elrich’s wife?”

“He isn’t married. It’s his daughter.”

“Oh, I see. Is she a landscape designer?”

He sneered. “In her dreams. But as you know, the client gets what he wants. Especially this client.”

Next Libole led the way into the refectory, otherwise known as the dining room. It was attached to a large space that would become the kitchen. Libole handed me paperwork showing the proposed floor plan, as well as receipts for the industrial-sized refrigerators, freezers, cookstoves, and other appliances that had already been ordered according to the instructions of the chef, Jean-Claude Villandry.

I slowed my pace when we neared the round room, where I’d found McCall’s body. As Libole had mentioned, it was still cordoned off with yellow police crime scene tape. It felt somehow comforting to know that Elrich’s influence didn’t extend to compelling the police to set aside a proper homicide investigation for the sake of the Wakefield Retreat Center.

But now that I saw this room without being distracted
by ghosts or a dead body, I realized that not only was the room incomplete, but these stones were unlike the rest of the monastery.

“Why are these stones different?” I asked, looking in the doorway.

Libole shrugged. “Different quarries, perhaps. And as you know, parts of the building were built at different times, sometimes centuries later.”

“These stones appear to still have bits of plaster on them. Were the walls often plastered, back in the day?”

“Apparently so,” he said, his tone making clear what he thought of questions with self-evident answers. “Again, they were probably from a different time.”

“There are several pigments,” I said as I looked more closely, then stepped back to get the big picture. “Almost as though there was a mural here. But I don’t think the stones are placed properly or we might be able to make out the painting—”

“It’s lost to us.” Libole waved a hand in the air, impatient. “There’s far too little of it remaining to interpret what used to be here. But I
will
say the people of the time believed very firmly in hell and divine retribution, and many of these walls would have been covered in frescoes depicting such horrors. Best to have it replastered, perhaps by a fresco artist who can re-create something typical to the period. I have been visiting monasteries from the same era, ones that have been preserved or artfully restored, and I have notes as to appropriate themes.”

“I’d love to look at your ideas, of course,” I said. “And I know a muralist who does wonderful work. Though obviously we’re putting the cart before the horse. We still don’t have the electrical roughed in, much less dictating final wall finishes and the like.”

“Of course.”

Giving in to temptation, I reached into the room to drag my fingers across the ragged bits of plaster clinging to the stone: In some places it was shiny and smooth, cold but inviting to the touch; in others it felt ready to crumble under pressure.

Just then I felt a sudden wave of hunger and sadness overtake me. I was so ravenous I felt faint, so sad I had to fight back tears.

“Do you know what this room was used for?” I asked, taking a deep breath and trying to tamp down the sudden sensations.

He paused so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Not really. It was probably merely another sort of storage room.”

“It’s an unusual shape, isn’t it? Are there a lot of round storage rooms?”

“Not really, not at that time. Now, I’d like to hear your opinion about a problem we’ve been having. . . .”

He led the way outside to a stone outbuilding with walls constructed only a few feet off the ground. Several men stopped their work when we arrived, leaning on their shovels and pickaxes.

They fixed me with a steady gaze. It dawned on me that this was a test, for which I was unprepared. Luckily, I was no novice.

“So this area won’t have a new foundation laid for it?” I asked. “You’re laying these stones directly on the ground?”

“It’s a low outbuilding,” said Libole. “Mr. Elrich would prefer to have authenticity preserved wherever possible.”

“A stone foundation won’t pass code in earthquake country,” I pointed out.

Libole actually rolled his eyes. “Code
again
? You are worse than a building inspector—you know that?”

Those were fighting words on a jobsite, but I wasn’t about to take the bait. I’d been living with my father for years. Crotchety old men didn’t faze me.

“Just fill me in on the work-arounds,” I said.

One of the men started detailing the bracing and connecting they’d done to be sure a stone foundation would function properly in earthquake country. The bracing wouldn’t be adequate for a larger structure, but it should suffice for a small outbuilding.

Still, it seemed like a lot of extra work just to avoid pouring a simple concrete foundation and stem walls. But then again, I supposed it made sense to keep the historical feel as much as possible in areas where there was a little leeway.

“Here’s the problem,” Tony said as he joined us, his silver earrings sparkling in the sunshine. Back in the day, when I used to follow my dad around as a kid, it was rare to see long hair, much less tattoos, on the jobsite. Construction workers were, by and large, a conservative lot. But times had changed. “See this chalky residue? It keeps happening, and we can’t figure out how to stop it.”

“This is pretty standard stuff for an old stone building,” I said. “It’s a problem of capillary moisture and subsequent efflorescence.”

“Right,” said Tony. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Stone wicks moisture up from the ground,” I explained. “No big deal in the Southwest, or even more inland areas of California, but in a place like this, on the coast? There’s so much moisture in the ground and air, we’ll be fighting chalky residue forever.”

“What about a plastic membrane base of some sort?”

“I don’t think we need anything that complicated. In a building this size, a stainless steel flashing would be sufficient.”

There were some subtle nods among the men. I had passed this simple test. I was sure there would be other, much more difficult ones, but for the moment I would take what I could get.

As much as I enjoyed the history of the building, I felt relieved when we came to the end of our walk-through, emerging from the shadows of the stones out into the sunshine of the late afternoon. Once outside, I felt brave enough to ask Libole the question that was weighing on my mind: “Would a woman ever have been brought into the cloisters?”

“A woman? Never.” Libole shrugged. “There were, however, guest accommodations separated from the monastic cloisters, sometimes quite sumptuous. Because of our space and locale, we have moved such chambers closer to the monastery, when in fact there would have been more of a distance.”

“So a woman might have stayed here, but outside the cloister where the monks lived?”

“A noblewoman, with her entourage, quite possibly. There were no hotels in those days, so nobles were offered shelter on their journeys.”

Whereas the peasants could shiver in the cold,
I thought.

I took another look around at the great piles of stones yet to be used. One group appeared different from the others.

“These . . . these are from the round room?”

“Perhaps,” said Libole. “Or from a similar part of the structure, yes. From the same era.”

Out in the sunshine, I could see things more clearly. Much of the plaster was tinted with typical shades for
old frescoes: ocher, terra-cotta, the colors of pigments taken from the earth. All were pale, and other than a curl here or a line there, it was impossible to make out what the picture must have been. But I was now sure they had once constituted a mural.

There were also flecks of something decidedly modern: bits of bright blue chalk here and there, as though the stones had once been marked. The stones reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly.

“You mentioned that many of the stones have gone missing?”

“Cretins, Ms. Turner.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We are surrounded by cretins. Villagers dragged pieces away to build farms and whatnot. I have been forced to search high and low, but finally found an adequate quarry to replace what’s missing. As luck would have it, the quarry was not in the hills of Italy or the mountains of Afghanistan. Oh, no. It was in Texas.”