Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS

  OF JULIET BLACKWELL

  THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES

  Dead Bolt

  “Cleverly plotted with a terrific sense of the history of the greater Bay Area, Blackwell’s series has plenty of ghosts and supernatural happenings to keep readers entertained and off-balance.”

  —Library Journal

  “Smooth, seductive. . . . Fans will want to see a lot more of the endearing Mel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This is a great ghost book . . . a strong second entry that is developing the characters and laying a solid foundation for a strong series. If you enjoy some spooky with your cozy, this will delight you and have you anxious for more.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  “Juliet Blackwell’s writing is like that of a master painter, placing a perfect splash of detail, drama, color, and whimsy in all the right places!”

  —Victoria Laurie, New York Times bestselling author of the Psychic Eye and Ghost Hunter Mysteries

  If Walls Could Talk

  “A riveting tale with a twisting plot, likable characters, and an ending that will make you shudder [at] how easily something small can get totally out of hand. [It] leaves you wondering what you just saw out of the corner of your eye . . . a good, solid read.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Ms. Blackwell’s offbeat, humorous book is a fun, light read. . . . Mel makes a likable heroine. . . . Overall, a terrific blend of suspense and laughter with a dash of the paranormal thrown in makes this a great read.”

  —TwoLips Reviews

  “Kudos and high fives to Ms. Blackwell for creating a new set of characters for readers to hang around with as well as a new twist on the ghostly paranormal mystery niche. I can’t wait to see what otherworldly stories Juliet has in mind for us next!”

  —Once Upon a Romance

  “Melanie Turner may well be one of the most exciting, smart, and funny heroines currently in any book series. . . . There’s enough excitement to keep you reading until late in the night.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES

  Hexes and Hemlines

  “This exciting urban fantasy murder mystery . . . is an entertaining paranormal whodunit. . . . Her familiar, Oscar, half goblin-gargoyle, becomes a cute potbellied pig who adds jocularity to the fast-paced story line as part of the quirky cast (benign, kind, and evil) that help make this spellbinding tale a fun read.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Hexes and Hemlines carries you along with an unconventional cast where nothing is out-of-bounds. Extraordinarily entertaining.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “This is a fun and totally engrossing series that hooks you instantly and makes you want more. . . . I love the mix of vintage clothes, magic, and a lingering possibility of romance combined with mystery.”

  —Fang-tastic Books

  “Juliet Blackwell has created a series that will appeal to mystery fans as well as paranormal enthusiasts.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  A Cast-Off Coven

  “If you like your mysteries with a side of spell-casting and demon-vanquishing, you’ll enjoy the second title in Blackwell’s Witchcraft Mysteries.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This awesome paranormal mystery stars a terrific heroine.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  Secondhand Spirits

  “Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft Mystery series.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”

  —The Herald News (MA)

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES

  If Walls Could Talk

  Dead Bolt

  WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES

  Secondhand Spirits

  A Cast-off Coven

  Hexes and Hemlines

  In a Witch’s Wardrobe

  MURDER ON THE HOUSE

  A HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERY

  Juliet Blackwell

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Juliet Blackwell

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen r />
  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  About the Author

  Excerpt from TARNISHED AND TORN

  To Pamela Groves:

  My heart is with you.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks are due, as always, to my wonderful editor, Kerry Donovan. You are a woman of great patience, keen intelligence, and obviously of fabulous taste!

  Many thanks to Jeri Hoag and her husband, Paul, for answering all sorts of gruesome questions about carbon-monoxide poisoning. And to the citizens of San Francisco’s Castro District, past and present, for laying the groundwork for such an incredible, diverse, and vibrant neighborhood.

  A special shout-out to my sister Carolyn, who always offers such incredible insights, suggestions, and ideas. To Jace for allowing me to bore you with endless plot problems. To Shay, Suzanne, Kendall, Susan, Chris, Casey, Anna, Mary, Sara, Dan, Karen, and the entire Mira Vista Social Club (and annex)—thank you for being there!

  To my father for being such an inspiration in these novels and in life. To my sister Susan for all your support and cheerleading!

  Thanks to all my writer pals, especially Sophie Littlefield, Rachael Herron, Nicole Peeler, Gigi Pandian, Victoria Laurie, Adrienne Miller, Martha Flynn, Lisa Hughey, L. G. C. Smith, Mysti Berry, and Steve Hockensmith. You all keep me sane . . . or at least as close as I’m going to get.

  Chapter One

  What makes a house look haunted?

  Is it enough to appear abandoned, run-down, bleak? To creak and groan when long fingers of fog creep down the nearby hills? Or is it something else: a whisper of a tragic past, a distinct but unsettling impression that dwelling within is something indescribable—and perhaps not human?

  Beats me. I’m a general contractor with a well-earned reputation for restoring and renovating historic homes in the San Francisco Bay Area, and an abiding desire to chuck all my responsibilities and run off to Paris. Reconciling those two imperatives has been hard enough, but recently my life was made even more complicated when Haunted House Quarterly named me “California’s most promising up-and-coming Ghost Buster.”

  A misleading moniker if ever there was one. When it comes to ghosts, I’m pretty clueless. Not that I let that stop me. Recently ghosts had appeared on a couple of my jobsites, and I’d done what any really good contractor would: I handled them as best I could, and got back to work.

  But at the moment I was standing—on purpose—on the front stoop of an alleged haunted house in San Francisco’s vibrant Castro District.

  The graceful old structure didn’t look haunted, what with the cars parked in the drive, the cluster of red clay pots planted with marigolds on the porch, ecru lace curtains hanging in the front windows, and a folded newspaper on the sisal doormat. But the current residents were certain they weren’t the only ones inhabiting the place—and they liked it that way. In fact, they planned to renovate it and transform it into a haunted bed-and-breakfast.

  The house was massive, built in a neoclassical revival style with Italianate flourishes. The street-side facade was symmetrical; the peeling paint on trim and walls alike was a traditional monochromatic cream. There were long rows of tall, narrow windows with ornamental lintels, and the low-pitched roof was supported by ornate corbels that marched along the underside of the eaves with military precision. Where the city’s famous Queen Anne Victorian homes were decorated with scads of elaborately painted and gilded gingerbread flourishes, the neoclassical style was understated, its only frills the “wedding cake” effect of the lintels and corbels, and the Corinthian columns supporting a demilune roof over the front-door portico.

  As usual when facing a magnificent structure, my heart swelled at its history, its artistry . . . and its needs.

  My practiced eye noted a host of problems: One corner under the roof overhang gaped open, inviting vermin. The gutter had detached in a few spots, and the roof displayed long streaks of bright green moss that hinted at water issues. Window sashes sagged, indicating rot. Such obvious signs of neglect meant a thousand other problems would be uncovered once the walls were opened.

  And then there were the purported ghosts.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Here goes. Looking around for a bell or knocker, I found an ancient intercom system to the right of the front door. A quick press of the button was greeted by a burst of static.

  I had just reached out to knock on the door when it swung open.

  I squeaked and jumped in surprise, my hands flailing.

  This was another glitch in any of my ghost buster career aspirations: I’m not what you’d call cool in the face of . . . well, much of anything. At the moment, for instance, I appeared to be at a total loss when faced with a rosy-cheeked little girl, with long chestnut hair and big eyes the deep, soft brown of milk chocolate.

  As I tried to pull myself together, she giggled.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and striving to regain my composure. “My mind was somewhere else.”

  “My mama does that all the time,” the girl said with an understanding little shrug, displaying a preadolescent sweetness of a child who was oh-so-familiar—and patient—with the mysterious ways of adults. Though she held herself with great poise, I pegged her age to be ten or eleven. Give her a couple more years, I thought, and she’d be as snarky and sullen as my teenage stepson.

  She stepped back. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bernini. . . . Is she your grandmother?”

  The girl laughed and shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m Anabelle. Anabelle Bowles. I’ll take you to the parlor. Follow me.”

  I stepped into the front foyer and paused, savoring the moment.

  In the old days all buildings were custom-designed and custom-built, so each historic house is unique. My favorite part of my job, bar none, is stepping into an old structure for the first time; one never knows what to expect.

  Although the lines of this house were neoclassical, the interior details were eclectic. The front entry was airy and open, the intricate woodwork painted a creamy white throughout, rather than stained or shellacked. The brightness was a welcome change from the dark woods so characteristic of the Victorian style, as in the house I was finishing up across town. These walls were lined in high bead-board wainscoting. Tall sash windows allowed sunlight to pour in, giving the home an airy, sunny feel. An enormous fireplace, missing several of its glazed blue green tiles, was flanked by built-in display cases. Each newel post on the banister leading upstairs was carved in a different pattern: One was a series of different-sized balls; another was geometric boxes; yet another sported a face carved into the lintel.

  In marked contrast with the home’s exquisite bones, the interior decorating was appalling. Everywhere I looked there was a pile of clutter: a sagging floral sofa sat along one wall, one missing leg replaced with a stack of old magazines, and an overstuffed velvet armchair was covered with a faded Indian-print cloth. The walls and shelves were lined with children’s school photos, several slipping and crooked in their cheap plastic frames. Newspapers were piled in one corner, and flyers from local merchants littered a scarred maple coffee table from the 1960s. Shreds of discarded paper and a pair of scissors suggested someone had been clipping coupons. And there was a distinct chill to the air, so it felt almost colder than the winter afternoon outside—I imagined the windows were single-paned and leaky, or the heater was broken. Or both.

  It got worse as I studied the walls and ceiling. Rather than strip the faded wallpaper above the old wainscoting, someone had simply painted over it; it was pulling away from the walls and hung in crazy-quilt patches. Rusty water stains bloomed in several spots on the peeling ceiling, and the broad-planked oak flooring
was warped and discolored in several places.

  Beneath the papers and layers of grime that had settled across everything, I thought I spied a marble-topped antique credenza as well as a few light fixtures that appeared to be original handblown glass. In general, though, the turn-of-the-century home’s ambience was, by and large, twenty-first-century Frat Boy. It would require a lot of work, both structural and cosmetic, to transform this historic home into a welcoming B&B.

  Haunted or otherwise.

  “Have you happened to see our dog?” asked Anabelle. “A little cocker spaniel puppy?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve been looking for it. I’m sure it must be around here somewhere. This way.” She led the way down the hall to the left.

  Several broad corridors spiraled off the central foyer. The hallway we walked down was lined with so many identical cream-colored doors the place felt a little more like a hotel than a private home. We passed a formal dining room with a built-in china hutch, a carved marble fireplace, and two impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling.

  The size and grandeur of the room was compromised by the delaminating linoleum-topped table surrounded by at least a dozen mismatched chairs.

  “I like your dress,” said Anabelle, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you could be in Ringling Brothers. We saw them when they came to town. They say it’s the greatest show on earth.”

  I looked down at myself. It’s true, I have a tendency to wear offbeat clothing. Nothing inappropriate, mind you, just . . . unexpected. I chalk this up to the years I spent in camouflage when I played the role of respectable faculty wife to a respectable Berkeley professor who turned out to be a not-so-respectable, cheating slimeball. The minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers, I yanked every scrap of my expensive Faculty Wife Wardrobe out of my closet and drove the whole kit and caboodle over to a women’s shelter.

  Once freed from my “respectable” constraints, I indulged my fondness for spangles and fringe with the help of my friend Stephen—an aspiring costume designer and the much-loved only son of a Vegas showgirl. It started as a joke, sort of, but soon became a “thing.” My unconventional wardrobe inspired good-natured ribbing on the jobsite, where denim rules the day, but I’m serious about my profession: I always wear steel-toed work boots and bring along a pair of coveralls so as to be ready for any construction-related contingency.