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

  “Okay, thanks.”

  She gave me another suspicious glance. “It’s very important for Mr. Elrich to have a harmonious living arrangement. Please respect the household hours.”

  I wasn’t sure what it was about me that gave Alicia the impression I would be whooping it up at three in the morning, or sneaking out on sherry hour. The sad truth was that, as a contractor, I usually woke before dawn and put in long, hard hours. I was rarely ambulatory, much less in the mood for drunken revelry, after nine at night.

  Clamping down on my irritation, I delved deep, looking for a little compassion. Being Ellis Elrich’s personal assistant could not be an easy job. He was incredibly wealthy and probably expected to have his needs anticipated and met at all times, even while surrounding himself with wild cards like me. That was a lot of responsibility without much authority.

  No wonder poor Alicia was wound a little tight.

  “I will try my darnedest to comply,” I said. “I see the schedule indicates that breakfast is served at seven—I’m usually on the jobsite by then, and since we’ll need to work twelve-hour shifts to meet Mr. Elrich’s requests, it might even be earlier, around six. I don’t really eat breakfast, but I do need to have some coffee, if possible.”

  “Earlier than seven?” Alicia frowned.

  “If that’s not possible, I’d be happy to brew my own.” I’m a coffee addict, and like most addicts, don’t want to depend on others for my fix. “I travel with my own French roast, plastic cone, and filters. A little hot water, and I’m good to go.”

  “You most certainly will not brew your own,” said Alicia, jotting down a note to herself. No doubt some remark about troublemaking sexpots who demanded coffee at ungodly hours.

  “Mr. Elrich doesn’t get up early?” This surprised me; most powerful people I knew were early risers.

  “He is typically up by five. But he does not drink coffee. He has no need of chemical stimulants.”

  “Oh. Well, good for him.” I wasn’t going to ask what might be served at sherry hour. “Well, then, thank you so much for allowing me and Dog to stay in this beautiful room.”

  “You’re Mr. Elrich’s guest.”

  If Alicia had her way, I’d no doubt be pitching a tent at a KOA somewhere.

  “Yes, true. Oh, hey, I do have a question: What’s the deal with the protesters at the gate?”

  I would have thought it impossible, but her lips pressed together even tighter in disapproval.

  “Malcontents,” she said. “People who are unhappy with one very small aspect of Mr. Elrich’s Elrich Enterprises. He has nothing to do with it directly and has ordered the management to negotiate the matter with the employees, but the worst offenders have decided to bring their argument directly to his doorstep, so to speak.”

  She paused and fixed me with a look that indicated I should react.

  “Ah,” I said. In truth, I admired the protesters for taking their grievance to the top of the corporate ladder: I imagined they’d get some results if Ellis Elrich himself picked up the phone and directed his managers to make a deal.

  “I suggest you come and go through the construction gate from now on. It is located on the lower level, closer to the building site.” Alicia ducked into the bathroom and flicked on the lights, her dispassionate eyes surveying the scene as though to be sure the toilet paper had been stocked.

  “Thanks. I will. So what’s with the costumes? Something about repatriation?”

  She turned toward me so fast I took a step back in surprise.

  “Costumes? What’s this about costumes?”

  “Um . . . I noticed one of the protesters wearing what appeared to be a costume: a kilt and a plaid tartan? Unless that’s what he wears every day. One person’s costume is another’s self-expression. Am I right?” I should know. “I mean, this is the Bay Area, after all.”

  Bright little flags of red painted Alicia’s cheeks, and she mumbled under her breath, something about “. . . foreign activists and local press . . .”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked for clarification.

  “Never mind. Some rabble-rouser from Scotland who is intent on halting the progress of the Wakefield Retreat Center.”

  From malcontents to rabble-rousers in just a few seconds? On top of a murder committed by a “hothead” the day before yesterday? Maybe Graham was right; maybe getting involved with this project was a bad idea. Maybe I should turn and flee back to Oakland. Surely if I shook enough trees, I could scare up a project or two in San Francisco, enough to keep my guys employed.

  But Elrich’s words rang in my head: What of Pete Nolan’s men currently working on the project? Would they all be sent packing? Would Elrich bring in a crew from Europe to get this thing done, and would someone else get to work with Florian Libole, historic renovator extraordinaire?

  And . . . what was the story behind that weeping woman?

  “You’ll notice there are no TVs in the rooms. Mr. Elrich doesn’t believe in people sitting by themselves watching the programming dictated by the whims of Hollywood’s elite. However, there is a well-stocked library full of worthy books in the east wing and a large-screen television in the rec room for gatherings.”

  “Thanks. I’m not a big fan of television either.” Still, I hoped I didn’t sound as morally superior as Alicia here.

  “The renowned French chef Jean-Claude Villandry is in charge of the kitchen, which is strictly organic and locally sourced to the fullest extent possible. Do you have any special dietary demands? Gluten-free? Vegan? Religious concerns?”

  “I’m pretty much an equal-opportunity eater.”

  She nodded and made another notation on her clipboard. “If you consult your schedule, you’ll see that you have a meeting with Mr. Elrich in fifteen minutes.”

  I consulted my schedule. Yep, there it was: a meeting with Mr. Elrich in fifteen.

  “You might want to”—her eyes raked over me—“freshen up.”

  So much for good intentions; it was clear I didn’t measure up to whatever it was that Alicia wanted to see in a general contractor. Starting from having the gall to have ovaries. My admittedly weak attempts to win her over were clearly not working.

  “I’ll be there. Where’s the, uh”—I consulted the schedule—“Discovery Room?”

  “Turn the schedule over.”

  I flipped it over and saw a map of the house and grounds, including the retreat center building site and a helipad.

  “Ellis has a helicopter?”

  “Sometimes he needs to travel quickly. It’s a long drive to the airport.”

  “How about that? I’ve never known anyone with his own helicopter.”

  “Is there anything else, Ms. Turner?”

  “Call me Mel. No, thanks. I’m set.”

  “Don’t be late to the meeting.”

  “I think I can manage it.”

  “I’ll let you settle in, then.” Alicia stalked off down the corridor, leaving me to unpack and “freshen up.”

  I sat on the side of the bed and bounced a little, wondering whether to get Dog out of the car now or wait until after the meeting. I had parked in the shade, the windows were rolled down, it was a nice cool day, and he was no doubt sleeping. I decided to wait until after the meeting, so I would have time to help him accommodate to his new surroundings before leaving him alone in the room. With my luck, he would pee on a satin pillow or discover a new fascination with chewing and eat the bed, and how would I explain that to the already morose Alicia?

  Wakefield was only a little more than an hour’s drive from Oakland, which meant I hadn’t worked up much of a sweat during the early-morning drive, and since my current outfit was the most conventional thing I had to wear, I busied myself by unpacking my suitcase—coveralls, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of inappropriate dresses designed by my friend Stephen, the only son of a Vegas showgirl. I shifted my underthings into a dark wood dresser and stashed my shoes in the ample closet. I hadn’t brought much: a pair of flip-flops, running s
hoes for when I wasn’t wearing my work boots, plus the sandals I had on.

  I put my toiletries in the bathroom . . . and that was about it.

  Despite Alicia’s dubious ministrations, I felt a thrill. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in nice hotels, and just beyond the French doors the pool sparkled, sending ripples of light onto the ceiling. The en suite bathroom was rimmed in cobalt blue glazed tiles, roomy and attractive. It featured a huge “Italian” shower, which meant there was no shower curtain. European style.

  It wasn’t the worst place in the world to spend a few weeks.

  Unwilling to mar the “done” look of the bedroom, I decided to stash my suitcase under the tall bed. As I pushed it under, I felt it hit something. I knelt down to look and spied not a single dust bunny. Props to Alicia, I thought grudgingly. There was, however, a book. I reached as far as I could and was just barely able to grab it with the tips of my fingers.

  It was a beat-up paperback novel.

  The cover showed a shirtless man, his long golden hair blowing in the wind. A red-haired beauty stood beside him, her hands resting on his impressive biceps, her lovely face looking up at him in adoration. In the background, a ruined castle loomed menacingly against the sunset sky.

  Keeper of the Castle had clearly been read many times and, judging by the crinkling around some of the pages, had been dropped in a bathtub at some point. The book’s spine was cracked and splayed open to one section: a lovingly described sex scene that, without becoming too graphic, involved heaving bosoms and thrusting manhoods.

  Oh, my.

  I remembered my sister Cookie used to read romance novels like this when she was a teenager. I had teased her about it, and goaded our youngest sister, Daphne, to follow in my snide footsteps. But one day I discovered Daphne had a stash of similar novels hidden under her bed.

  Now, upon reading that particular scene, I understood the reason.

  The book no doubt belonged to the last guest to stay in this room. But what should I do with it? Put it on the bedside table and let Alicia think it belonged to me? Toss it back under the bed and let the maid or whoever found it assume it belonged to me? Stash it among my things? Sneak it into Elrich’s august library and add it to his collection of “worthy” works of literature? And ultimately, why did I care what Alicia thought of my reading habits? Whether I read a trashy novel or Camus in the original French, she still wouldn’t think much of me.

  For the moment I placed it on a small shelf, which, I noticed, held not a single book but instead a classy glass bowl full of shells, a framed decorative tile, and a couple of brightly painted ceramic vases.

  I checked the clock: time to meet with Ellis Elrich and his minions.

  I consulted the map and located the stairs leading down to the Discovery Room. I pushed through a heavy wooden door off the main foyer and began to descend. Though the door doubled as a fire block, it was well appointed, like everything else in the house, and closed behind me with a muted snick. The house had been well insulated; when the thick doors were closed, hardly any sound escaped.

  The basement was as attractive as it could be, given that the only source of natural light was narrow slits near the ceiling. They brightened up the space a bit but did nothing to assuage the discomfort of a claustrophobe.

  Discreet brass plaques indicated an exercise room, sauna, and Jacuzzi were to the left and the Discovery Room was to the right.

  I turned right, wondering what I would discover.

  Chapter Five

  The Discovery Room was apparently named for the hand-painted frescoes that covered the four stucco walls. Each wall depicted a different theme of discovery: one was of Hernán Cortés encountering the Aztecs, another depicted Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, and I thought a third represented Madame Curie. I never did figure out what the fourth was, as my attention was diverted by the handful of men sitting around a gleaming mahogany conference table. In front of each place was a notepad—engraved with Elrich Method—and a pen, a glass of water, and a muffin. A beautiful floral centerpiece added freshness to the virtually windowless room.

  “Ah, here she is now. Mel, welcome. I’d like you to meet my chief financial officer, Vernon Dunn,” Ellis said as he gestured to a large, constipated-looking man in his sixties. “And I believe you know Florian Libole, at least by reputation.”

  Libole’s pencil-thin mustache and long gray hair reminded me of a musketeer, a connection I had the feeling he played up given his outfit of loose linen shirt and leather boots—not work boots, mind you, or motorcycle boots, but nice leather boots that hadn’t see a day of labor in their lives.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands.

  “And these are two of the men you will be working with on-site, Tony Esparza and Jacek Miekisz. Tony has stepped in as foreman, and Jacek is our master stonemason, direct from Poland.”

  “How ya doin’?” Tony asked. He looked to be in his early thirties, a big guy with navy blue tribal tattooing not only on his hands and neck, but also on his face. Tony looked ill at ease, which I could understand. His boss had just been arrested for murder, and he’d been saddled with the lead on this project.

  Jacek looked dusty, as most stonemasons do, as though he had come to the meeting directly from his workshop. He also looked bored, and though he nodded politely, he said nothing.

  The sour Alicia sat in one corner, taking notes. She did not look up.

  “I am so thrilled that you’ve joined our team,” continued Elrich in a warm voice. “Now that you’re on the job, I feel confident we will be able to do justice to the reconstruction of Wakefield, keep all these people employed, and make our deadline.”

  “Which, uh, deadline is that?” I realized we might have skipped a few of the details when I dove headfirst into this project. I hadn’t made it all the way through the thick sheaf of papers in the manila envelope. Once I saw the size of Elrich’s check, I had been blinded by dollar signs.

  “Our grand opening is scheduled in three months.”

  “Three months?” I asked, unable to keep from squeaking. On some projects, just getting the paperwork through the permit office took that long. Constructing a modern building out of stone was one thing; assembling a bunch of medieval stones into a habitable building that would pass inspection in earthquake country? Quite another. Not to mention introducing wiring and plumbing to meet current standards of safety and convenience. A project on this scale would typically take years, not months. “Do you think such a time frame is, um, realistic?”

  Vernon Dunn smiled. “Exactly! I do believe that setting the date that early might be difficult. Perhaps we should push it back, take our time. . . .”

  Ellis gave Vernon a look that combined patience with annoyance. “Your objections have been noted. There is no need to repeat them.”

  “It’s not an objection, per se,” said Vernon with an obsequious smile. “No, not at all. This is a marvelous project, simply marvelous. Why, Wakefield will be a wonder to which visitors will flock for generations to come. I merely think, well, as they say, art cannot be rushed. Good things come to those who wait, and all that. Why hurry?”

  “The drawings have been worked and reworked, and all supplies are on-site or in the warehouse,” said Florian Libole. “I have conducted meticulous research on Wakefield. The men are in place, including a master stonemason and his Polish crew, and they’re eager to work two shifts: from six in the morning to six at night. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

  “Uh . . .” Tony looked like he had been called on in algebra class without his homework. “Yup, that’s true. Two shifts.”

  “So, everything is in place,” Libole reiterated with a final nod. “Waiting would be folly.”

  Libole and Dunn glared at each other through the spray of flowers in the centerpiece.

  The discussion continued along these lines. I spent a lot of time not saying anything, which my mother had long ago taught me was the best way to deal with tense situation
s stemming from overinflated egos. It occurred to me to wonder whether my host and boss, Ellis Elrich, would think less of me for my silence, but given that the man had driven all the way—actually, had had his driver bring him all the way—to Oakland to persuade me to take over, I figured my position was secure, at least for the moment. Elrich was trying hard not to show it, but I believed the man really was sweating a little.

  I would be, too, if my grand opening was scheduled less than three months out. The stone building still looked like ruins rising on the horizon, nothing like a fully functioning retreat center.

  Tony managed a few less-than-articulate statements, whereas Jacek just sat and glowered, playing with his crumpled cigarette packet, giving the distinct impression that all he wanted in this world was to slip outside for a smoke. Though I don’t smoke, I would have taken up the habit in a New York minute just to have an excuse to leave the room.

  At long last, Elrich said, “That’s settled, then,” and asked everyone to go “with the exception of Ms. Turner.”

  I watched the others file out of the room, feeling like a scolded kid told to stay in and talk to the principal. I longed to follow everyone else out to recess.

  But I turned back to find an amused expression on Elrich’s face.

  “Did that make you nervous?”

  “Your problems with your employees aren’t any of my business,” I said.

  Now he smiled and inclined his head. “True enough. And as I’m sure you noticed on the way in through the main gates, I’ve got plenty of problems with my employees.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded and looked around the room. My eyes alit on a credenza sporting large framed photos, pictures of a smiling Ellis Elrich handing over huge gifts to charities ranging from the March of Dimes to the Humane Society to the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees.