Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Read online

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “How is Graham?”

  “Healing, we hope. I still haven’t been able to talk to him about what he might have discovered that would have prompted someone to hurt him.”

  “Perhaps it was enough that he was asking questions. Never discount the danger posed by being curious.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, here’s what I wanted to ask you: Suppose the Wakefield stones were mixed with elements from other buildings. Would it be possible for ghosts to cling to the stones from separate sources and then become confused . . . ?”

  “Very much so. The reason ghosts are so often associated with buildings is that their energy has seeped into the very walls of the structure. If those walls are dismantled and moved . . . well, often a ghost will dissipate. Particularly strong visions may follow the bits and pieces, but they will feel . . . disjointed. Scattered. Sort of like ghostly multitasking.”

  “And if stones from different buildings were mixed together in a new construct, will the ghosts with different origins be aware of each other?”

  “Perhaps. Nothing I have read suggests that could not happen.”

  “And could they interact?”

  “That’s another matter entirely. . . . To tell you the truth, this doesn’t come up much. I’m really not sure. You know, it would be fascinating to try to record these ghosts of yours and listen to see whether they communicate. If you bring the recording to the lab, we can use the computer to alter the frequency and edit out the ambient noise. Often it is only after a ghost hunt that we see evidence of spirits—though I know this has not been your experience!”

  “Actually, I think we might already have a recording of one of the ghosts.”

  Olivier did a double take. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. Do you speak Spanish, by any chance?”

  “I speak French and English.”

  “I realize that. But I thought all you European types spoke, like, five languages.”

  “With French, why learn another language?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . in case of vacation, or invasion during a world war, or . . . ?”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “I know how to say ‘circular saw’ in Spanish.”

  He smiled. “But seriously, Mel, if you have recorded evidence of a ghost, that would be amazing. I would love to analyze it.”

  “A friend of mine is listening to it right now—she’s going to try to translate it. But you can take a crack at it next.”

  * * *

  One more quick stop before heading back to Marin was to see my faux finisher, Yuri Andropov. Yuri ran popular decorative-painting classes on the weekends for rich people, which allowed him to remain in his studio in the China Basin area of San Francisco. Most of his artist neighbors had been pushed out over the past few years by high rents. San Francisco’s loss was Oakland’s gain; our East Bay nightlife, café and restaurant scene were flourishing with the influx of creative types.

  Yuri was a generally cranky, but quite talented, fiftyish man who as a child had immigrated to Madison, Wisconsin, with his family from the Ukraine; as soon as he’d turned eighteen, he had come to San Francisco and had never looked back.

  “What do you know about traditional fresco methods?” I asked, watching as he painted foliage on a massive canvas that was destined for a hotel in Singapore. The decidedly Renaissance-inspired scene featured frolicking water nymphs and leering satyrs.

  He frowned as he dredged his brush through a bit more sap green paint. “I know everything. You know that.”

  “Right. I forgot,” I said. “So, give me a crash course.”

  “The faux fresco method we use today is simply watered-down paint, to which we add chalk to mimic the patina of true fresco. But genuine fresco isn’t a layer of paint on top of the wall; instead, dry paint pigments are placed in wet plaster so that the colors become part of the wall. This was sometimes supplemented with paint on top, called secco painting. But over time the secco painting flakes off, whereas the fresco will never be destroyed unless the plaster itself falls off the wall.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  “Often the plaster was used to strengthen the wall, so it wasn’t just decorative but structural.”

  “Huh. I’m assuming this was long before Portland cement was developed; what was plaster made of, back in the day?”

  “Bits of straw and clay and sand were in the main part, but the fine plaster on top was made of ash. Pigments were made from ground stone—which is why there’s a preponderance of so-called earth colors, such as terra-cotta and ocher—as well as from flowers and saps and vegetables. In addition, all sorts of things used to be burned: vegetation, even bones, then ground into a powder used in patinas.”

  “How can you tell what a plaster was made of?”

  “These days it’s easy. Micro X-ray diffraction, infrared spectroscopy, gas chromatography coupled with mass spectrometry and carbon-14 dating.”

  “That’s easy?”

  Yuri smiled. The knit cap he wore because his studio had no heat was covered in paint stains, like everything else on his body. He was unshaven and probably hadn’t done laundry in a while. Because he was often mistaken for a homeless man, people tended to underestimate him. He was a fine artist.

  “I thought you told me you used to be an anthropologist. These are common archaeological techniques.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t that kind of anthropologist.”

  “What kind were you?”

  “The kind without skills or useful knowledge. The kind likely to go off about theories of cultural relativism. Interesting at cocktail parties but generally useless when it comes to anything practical.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, I don’t suppose you have one of these diffraction dealies lying around?”

  He dabbed a few highlights on some leaves that were starting to look three-dimensional under his skilled hands, and then fixed me with a quizzical look.

  “You have some old plaster you’re interested in learning more about? I thought you were here to hire me to create new murals that are meant to look old.”

  “Right—for Elrich’s house, I want you to paint some traditional Spanish Revival murals. You’re going to get a kick out of this place: It’s a Victorian mansion with a Spanish interior. Don’t ask. By the way, I showed the clients the drawings you sent, and they loved them. Especially the market scenes. We’ll want them to look faded, as though they’ve been there forever. How soon can you start?”

  “As soon as tomorrow. The project I was set to begin tomorrow has been rescheduled due to construction delays. So I can fit you in.”

  “Great. We’re ready for you. Anyway, the plaster I’m interested in investigating pertains to another project. I’d love to figure out more about it.”

  “Take the machine if you want. It’s not large.”

  “Seriously?”

  He set his brushes and palette down on a sheet-draped table and started climbing a rickety-looking ladder to a little storage loft. I hurried over to steady the ladder; it squeaked loudly in protest as he climbed.

  “You need a better ladder,” I couldn’t help but point out.

  “It’s on my shopping list. Let’s see . . .” He scrounged around for a minute. “Here it is,” he said as he held up a device that looked like a large hair dryer. “One micro X-ray diffraction doohickey.”

  “Do all artists have these close at hand?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I bought it used off the Internet, believe it or not.” He shrugged. “I put in a bid to restore the Coit Tower murals, so I thought it would come in handy, let me know exactly what I was dealing with.”

  “You worked on Coit Tower? The Diego Rivera murals?”

  “Nah, lost the bid. That would have been something, though, right?”

  “So, what will this thingy show me?”

  “It’s going to give you a picture, like this. . . .”


  Step by step, Yuri walked me through how to use the device.

  “It won’t give you, in itself, a breakdown of what the plaster is composed of, but it will give you a spatial mineral cartography that would then have to be analyzed. You’ll have a starting point for figuring out exactly what you’re dealing with.”

  “Okay . . .” This seemed like a little more detail than what I needed. “I guess I was hoping I could hold it up to the wall and get a readout.”

  “This isn’t Star Trek. It’s chemistry. You should check out that old plaster, though. It could tell you a lot.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  * * *

  Back in Marin, the worksite was humming along. I answered several payroll questions, ordered some more supplies, and inspected the progress in the chapel and the reinforcement projects. As long as the men stayed away from the round room, there didn’t seem to be further problems with the fierce guardian ghost.

  Then I checked out the suspect blocks of stone.

  I put the diffraction device up to one of the stones that retained its plaster. Yuri had said that plaster strengthened walls, but I was guessing that it also provided a smooth, even surface to camouflage the rough-hewn stone. Back then, when everything was handmade, people valued the perfection of form. Now that everything is churned out by machines, we value the slight imperfections and flaws of handmade items. The grass is always greener.

  “What are you doing?” came Tony’s voice from behind me.

  “I’m checking out these stones with this fancy contraption, here. It’s supposed to tell me something about the composition of the plaster.”

  “Libole said that stuff didn’t matter, that we were going to go over it with new plaster anyway.”

  “We probably will. But I’d like to know what we’re dealing with so we can replicate it properly,” I said. “Do you have any idea where Libole is, by any chance?”

  He shook his head.

  “Hey, Tony, I’ve been meaning to ask. . . . You said this is the second time that round room has imploded, yet Libole didn’t suggest devising any sort of external support, any sort of reinforcement?”

  “No, and . . .” He let off with a shrug.

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a tower, not a single story. That’s what all these extra stones are for. But we can’t even get it to stand up like it is. It’s strange, like Libole’s trying to shove this thing in there, but it doesn’t fit. He showed me how it was on the drawings, which are supposedly the original schema, but . . . I don’t know what he’s smoking, or what sort of Scottish history he’s been reading, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I agree with you. It seems odd.”

  I stepped back and looked again at the lines that indicated there had been a painting, or fresco, here on these stones. Traditionally, murals were used to tell stories or recount historical events. Medieval monks were among the few literate people of their day, but nonetheless art was used to reinforce stories of redemption and risk, or heaven and hell, as Florian Libole had pointed out.

  So what story might the pictures on these stones have told?

  “Could you help me stack these stones together? I think this one goes with that one. See how the line of red in the plaster carries through?”

  Tony looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Libole was pretty adamant that we don’t mess around with those stones.”

  “I’m not suggesting we mess around with them, just restack them, like this.” I tried to move one near another. It took all my strength, and I managed to move it about six inches.

  I left off, panting. “I see now why the men have been using the heavy equipment with these things. Can you operate the crane?”

  “Sorry, Mel. Count me out,” Tony said, shaking his head as he backed toward the little office trailer. “Those things are nothing but trouble.”

  I considered calling one of my guys over to help me with the crane, but then I realized there was no need. Instead, I used my phone to take a picture of each separate piece, then ventured into the building to do the same with whichever stones I could access from the demolished section. I had a vague notion that I could transfer the photos to the computer and then mix and match to re-create the original mural picture. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to use any computer graphics programs.

  My phone rang: It was Luz. The hospital, assuming she was the wife, had called to let her know the doctors were ready to bring Graham out of the coma. I dashed to the house to grab Dog.

  I saw Alicia in the hall and told her the happy news.

  “That’s wonderful!” She gave me an awkward hug.

  That did it. I was just going to come out and ask her. “Alicia, could I ask you . . . ? Why don’t you have a past?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Someone pointed out to me that Alicia Withers didn’t exist a few years ago.”

  She froze.

  “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business—”

  “I had to get out of a situation,” she said suddenly. “Mr. Elrich helped me.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, I’m not sure you do,” she said, now fixing me with a straightforward look. Serious as ever but filled with a sudden passion. “Ellis Elrich saved my life.”

  “What happened?”

  “We used to be neighbors when we were kids. There were a bunch of us back then, in a working-class neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio. My father was an alcoholic. Ellis’s dad used to beat him up. Anyway, we had a few things in common.

  “Over the years, our lives went in different directions and we lost touch, as people do. But . . . I was damaged, by my childhood. I learned later through therapy that sometimes people try to ‘solve’ childhood trauma by marrying people who remind them of their abusive parents. As though, as adults, they can relive the whole thing, but change things for the better. I wound up marrying a charming alcholic who was a lot like my dad. He . . . um . . .” Her carefully sculpted affect seemed to crack just a little. “He was violent.”

  I thought of the scar near her eye and on her lip. The ones I thought gave her character.

  “Like a lot of people in that situation, I was afraid to leave, afraid to find help. I always found an excuse for his behavior, and each time he cried and came back, I convinced myself that he really loved me and it would never happen again. One day I saw a poster for the Elrich Method, and I called Ellis. Do you know that until recently, he answered his own phone?”

  “You mean, instead of having a secretary do it?”

  “Exactly. If you looked up Elrich Enterprises on the Internet, there was a company directory, and Ellis Elrich’s number was listed right there. When I finally got the courage to call him, of course I expected an assistant to answer. I about fell off the bed when I heard Ellis answer it himself.” At this a tiny half smile lit up her face.

  “Did he remember you?”

  “Yes. Can you believe it? He said he recognized my voice, even after all those years. I wound up telling him my whole sordid, ugly story. He said: ‘I will give you the means to leave. After that, it is up to you to do so. If you decide to stay where you are, I will mourn for you, but I won’t help you again.’”

  Her eyes had an almost fanatical gleam, as if she were a member of a cult. But I could imagine what Ellis’s offer must have meant to a woman in need of a lifeline.

  “He offered me a job, a place to stay. He had his lawyers help me change my name, and we covered my tracks so my ex-husband couldn’t find me. Ellis Elrich gave me my life back. More importantly, he gave me myself back. I would do anything for him.”

  Once again I was reminded of how some people drew the short straw in life. I sensed Alicia didn’t want my sympathy, though, so I simply thanked her for telling me and told her I was going to the hospital to visit Graham.

  As I was about to walk through the front door, she called out, “Mel?”

  I stopped and turned.

  “I wo
uld do anything for Ellis, but I didn’t kill Larry McCall.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  According to the doctors, Graham was out of the danger zone. But he still fought extreme nausea every time he so much as moved his head. There wasn’t much modern medicine could do except wait and allow Graham’s body to heal.

  Unfortunately, Graham wasn’t what one might call an accommodating patient.

  “I think it’s interesting that people in here are called ‘patients’ when a lot of them aren’t particularly patient. Don’t you?” I asked.

  He glared at me.

  After a little while had passed, he was able to maintain a conversation. Unfortunately, he had no memory of what had happened in the chapel, or who might have attacked him. Neither could he suggest anything he might have learned from McCall’s widow that had prompted the assault.

  I told him that I suspected Libole had purchased the stones from Golden Gate Park, that the Wakefield monastery was not the original Wakefield but another building entirely, and that Florian Libole was hiding the truth from everyone and had disappeared. And that maybe Larry McCall had found out about the stones and had been killed because of it. I just couldn’t figure out why.

  “Big deal, right?” I said. “So Florian mixed and matched some stones. Julia Morgan did the same thing at Hearst Castle and elsewhere, and everyone lauded her as a genius.”

  “Not the same thing,” Graham said. “Morgan told Hearst what she was doing. But Libole hasn’t said anything to anybody. Wakefield is supposed to be original, the actual building Ellis knew, a place with special significance to him. If Libole’s changing it, using other stones . . .”

  “But Ellis knows some of the original stones were missing. Libole told me himself he had some new stones quarried in Texas.”

  “Good point. I don’t know. Maybe the pressure got to him. There’s been a lot going wrong on this project, and as you may have noticed, people hate to disappoint Ellis Elrich.”

  “He’s hard to figure out, isn’t he?” I said. “I didn’t want to like him, but I may be falling under his spell.”