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

  He nodded.

  “Did you hear about the memorial service tomorrow evening?”

  “Yeah, I already told the guys. I feel bad, but the truth is, McCall was a real jerk. The way he ran around here with that Clipboard of Doom, like he got off on finding problems. You ask me, he was sort of asking for trouble. All due respect.”

  “I’m not sure he meant to be a jerk. I mean . . . he was a building inspector. No one likes building inspectors.”

  “I guess,” he said. Then he brightened up. “Hey, did you hear the one about the building inspector who walks into a bar with a rabbi?”

  “Yup, I just heard it,” I said, cutting him off. “Good one.”

  It really was too soon.

  But as I walked away, I wondered about McCall’s Clipboard of Doom. I didn’t remember seeing it with his body. What could have been on it? And . . . what had happened to it?

  * * *

  I spent the next few hours familiarizing myself with the men, the site, and the drawings but couldn’t bring myself to venture back into the cloister. Not yet. I wasn’t the only one a little nervous about the place: The men started packing up by six, anxious to get off-site before sunset. So far I’d seen plenty during the daylight hours; I could only imagine what went down after dark.

  I decided I’d been brave enough for one day, so I gathered up the paperwork Libole had given me, grabbed Dog, and headed up the hill to the house. Dog sniffed around our bedroom while I put down his rug and his bowls. Once I brought out his bowls, I had to put something in them, of course. So I went to the car and lugged in a big plastic bin of dog food, topped by a bag of treats.

  Dog devoured his food in approximately two inhalations, and I sat with him on his rug, petting him for a few minutes. Despite his propensity to carsickness—which was getting better now that we had been doing therapy—Dog had one very important trait of a construction hound: He fit easily into new environments.

  Dog and I had found each other at the first construction site where I had seen a ghost. I hadn’t planned to adopt him—at the time I had been planning to move to France and fought against more responsibility—but Dog was so skinny and pitiful and . . . abandoned that I wound up taking him home. When it turned out he could see ghosts, just like I could, having him around made me feel less like a crazy ghost-seeing lady. Besides, Dad loved dogs, and the pup had made our offbeat household—Dad, me, Stan, my semi-but-not-really-stepson, Caleb—seem more like a family, as beloved pets were wont to do.

  It was pretty pathetic that we still hadn’t given the poor mutt a real name. It was still on our to-do list, but we hadn’t managed to find one we agreed on. In the meantime, Dog seemed to have learned his current moniker, and it was by no means assured that he would be able to learn a new one. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

  After a few minutes, Dog began to snore. Not a bad idea, I thought with a yawn. But I checked the clock: It was only seven thirty. If I started going to bed at this hour, I would be even more of a social pariah than I was already.

  I made my obligatory evening phone call to Stan, and we went over the plan to take over Pete Nolan’s payroll and be sure the men were paid, as usual, this Friday. I also called Dad, but he didn’t answer. Instead he texted me: Cooking. Spaghetti. ROTFLMAO. LoL! Texting with Dad. Oh, boy. I was going to have to brace myself for this new aspect of our relationship.

  Finally, Graham and I chatted for a while, and I assured him I was safe and sound. I didn’t mention what Libole had said, about stumbling into a nest of vipers.

  While we spoke, I noticed one of the decorative tiles over the fireplace was loose. I picked at it a little, and it fell right off into my hand. The ones on either side of it were moving, as well. By the time the phone call was over, five of the historic glazed tiles were off the fireplace hood, and of course the plaster around them was crumbling. I would have to fix that. I’d bring my tools in tomorrow.

  When I hung up, I looked past the swimming pool and down the hill, to the Gothic ruins glowing pink in the dying light of day. I supposed I could go for a swim, but that sounded awfully ambitious, and what if my splashing constituted what Alicia would consider disturbing the peace? Besides, I should use this evening to bone up on Scottish history in general, and the story of the Wakefield stones in particular.

  First, I studied Florian Libole’s drawings, curious to see how he had envisioned updating this ancient building. A reinforced concrete envelope held the remains of the old cellars, and steel would be cleverly inserted into the antique stones to form a skeleton. Various small rooms would house modern essentials such as the furnace and hot-water heaters. The electrical and plumbing would be incorporated into new and existing troughs in the stone, or disguised by soffits when necessary. Libole was clever, I thought. He had earned his reputation.

  Then I started reading through the history of the place, but my eyes lost focus. I was beat. I wasn’t up to thinking through deadlines and schedules, much less about despondent, ravenous ghosts.

  Speaking of hunger, where was that snack bar, again?

  I looked for the map of the house and the daily schedule that Alicia had provided, but couldn’t find it anywhere. I could hear my mother’s voice saying: Melanie Ann Turner, you would lose your head if it wasn’t attached.

  Okay, this house was big, but it wasn’t that big. Surely I could find my way to food. And the library—I’d love a good book to read in bed. I gave Dog a pat and slipped out.

  Before I even got to the end of the corridor, I ran into Vernon Dunn. He was big enough that it was awkward passing him in the hall. The overhead light shone down on his shiny bald spot and glinted off his aviator glasses.

  “Hello, Mel,” he said with a smile. Or maybe it was a sneer; it was hard to tell.

  “Hi, Vernon. I didn’t realize— Are you staying here as well?”

  “Ellis likes to keep us all close at hand.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Florian is next to you.”

  “Is he?”

  “Next to your bedroom, I mean.”

  “Ah. Anyway, I was just on my way to the snack bar,” I replied, wishing I weren’t here, or he weren’t here. Either way. Vernon gave me the creeps. Florian had mentioned a lack of poetry in the man’s soul, but something about the chief financial officer made me think he lacked other things, as well.

  “You know, Ellis has reasons for wanting you so badly.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This project is absurd. Ellis has poured an obscene amount of money into it already. Libole seems determined to bankrupt him. It will be a disaster for our bottom line; you mark my words.”

  “Perhaps he’s motivated by something other than a bottom line,” I said, wondering why I was defending Ellis Elrich to his chief financial officer.

  “Ah, yes. I suppose you are referring to his so-called ‘spiritual awakening’ in Scotland?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I see how it is.” Vernon smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You’re falling for him, too, aren’t you? Typical.”

  “I imagine Ellis Elrich has many admirers,” I said. “The man’s a motivational speaker, after all. That’s sort of his currency, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. And you would do well to keep that in mind.”

  “Okay . . .” What was going on here? Vernon Dunn was a sycophant when Elrich was around yet spoke this way behind his back? “So, are you trying to warn me about something? Why do you think he wants me on this job?”

  “Don’t trust Libole. That’s all I’m saying.”

  There was a sound of someone coming down the hall. Dunn turned on his heel, stalked into his room, and slammed the door.

  It was Alicia, looking agitated, as always. “Are you lost? May I help you with something?”

  “I was looking for the library.”

  “Down past the parlor, first door to the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re not servi
ng a formal dinner tonight, but if you’re hungry, there is always food in the snack bar, as indicated on your map.”

  “Oh, super. You know, I might have misplaced my—”

  Before I could finish, she whipped another copy of the map out of her notebook and handed it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “The chef is excellent. Everything’s organic, of course, much of it grown right here on the estate. I’m sure you’ll want to confer with Mr. Villandry when you begin to set up the herb gardens around the Wakefield center. With Harper Elrich’s input, too, of course.”

  “Okay, great. Thanks.”

  She gave a final little nod and turned to leave.

  “Good night,” I said to her stiff back as she stalked down the corridor.

  I passed through a parlor set up with several easy chairs and a sectional sofa, as if to invite conversation. Here, too, there was a stucco “beehive” fireplace, decorated with brightly painted Spanish tiles and a raised hearth for extra seating. Broad French doors on one side of the room opened onto the courtyard, while on the other side of the room a twin set of doors led to the pool and meadow and the path to Wakefield. If only the exterior of the building had been Spanish Revival instead of Victorian, it would have made quite a harmonious milieu.

  Clouds streaked with pink, gold, and orange hung low over the ocean, announcing the imminent sunset. Beyond the French doors was another terra-cotta-tiled terrace, with a stone balustrade, more conversational groupings of outdoor furniture, and a chiminea—a freestanding iron fire pit.

  When Graham arrived, I promised myself, I would spend at least one evening on that terrace or lounging in the pool, after-work drink in hand, watching the sunset over the ocean. Even a cynic like me could see the romance in that scenario.

  But for now I continued down the hall. The next door, to the left, was marked with another discreet plaque that read, simply, LIBRARY.

  I stepped inside. It was beautiful, a fantasy library: two stories tall, with a spiral staircase and a catwalk around the second story. There was even a whiff of must so common to old bookshops and junk stores, which made me feel right at home. A quick glance at the first shelf at hand proved it was full of classics: Moby-Dick, Jane Eyre, and The Iliad.

  I was enamored, looking at the titles on the shelves, when I came around the side of a plush red leather chair and saw a mass of curly hair.

  I jumped back and swore.

  What were the chances I’d find two bodies in as many days?

  Chapter Eight

  She opened her eyes.

  A sullen gleam reminded me of my teenage stepson. But she must have been in her twenties—young, but not a child. And apart from the blond hair, she looked a lot like her father.

  “Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Yep, she and Caleb had a lot in common.

  But I hadn’t become one of the few women running a construction company in California—not to mention an up-and-coming ghost buster—by being easily put off.

  “You must be Harper? Ellis Elrich’s daughter?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Mel. I run Turner Construction. I’m staying here while I work on the Wakefield Retreat Center.”

  “The ‘Elrich Method’ retreat center?” Harper rolled her eyes and made a rude noise. “This is so bogus.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Kieran says my dad practically stole that whole building from Scotland.”

  “Kieran?”

  “He’s . . .” I could have sworn she blushed a little. But the sullen mask descended and she shrugged. “A friend. So if Daddy Dearest wanted a retreat center so badly, why didn’t he just build a new one?”

  “He said something about preserving the building for posterity.”

  “I’ll just bet he did,” she said with another eye roll. “That sounds just like him.”

  “Anyway, this house is really something, though, right?” I said in a lame attempt to make conversation. “I can’t wait to take a swim in the pool.”

  She shrugged again, unimpressed. “You know what? If you’re a remodeler, you should totally put TVs in the bedrooms. That would be an improvement, for sure.”

  “Actually, there’s a difference between a remodeler and a renovator . . . ,” I began, but trailed off as I saw the look of utter boredom on the young woman’s face. “Never mind. I hear there’s a TV in the rec room?”

  “Yeah. But then Dad always comes in, or one of his creepy colleagues, and they always want to watch something educational and engage me in erudite conversation so Dad will be impressed.”

  I imagined any young woman who used the word ‘erudite’ in casual conversation probably had more to say than she’d like to admit.

  “So, your dad’s colleagues are creepy?” Now that someone had been murdered on the grounds, I figured I should keep my eyes and ears open, just in case Pete Nolan wasn’t the perpetrator. “In what ways?”

  “Whatever. Just normal creepy. I gotta go.”

  I watched her leave. Her hair was unruly, curls gone to frizz, but her wardrobe looked new and expensive. She was clearly still in an awkward phase, and I decided maybe she was younger than I’d initially thought: late teens or very early twenties. Still finding her place and her voice.

  I remembered that age well. That was when I had been dazzled by the man who later became my husband, and then—in hindsight, entirely predictably—my ex-husband. It was also around that time that I was trying to get over my crush on Graham Donovan, the wild young man who worked for my dad.

  Speaking of whom . . . Graham was no longer so young or so wild, but I sure wished he were here. I missed him, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend many more nights under this roof without him. Even assuming Larry McCall’s killer was behind bars, there was a lot of tension in the Elrich mansion. Creepy tension.

  But for the moment I had the library all to myself, which suited me fine. Plop me down in a bookstore or library and the hours zoom by.

  I started circling the room, head tilted, reading the spines as I perused the shelves. Ellis—or whoever had put this library together—had done a wonderful job. There was a large selection of literature, where Nathanial Hawthorne’s classics rested alongside Stephen King’s latest. I plucked a couple of novels I hadn’t yet read from the shelves before turning to the large nonfiction section. This collection featured some standard reference books as well as numerous self-help books, several of which had been penned by none other than Ellis Elrich himself, promoting the Elrich Method. I added one of those to my pile of books to read. Elrich was such an enigma that I thought it would be helpful to learn more about how my client’s mind worked. As my mother, an avid reader, had taught me, If you want insight into someone, read what they write.

  I tucked several others—one on medieval architecture and one on Scottish history—under my arm, consulted the map Alicia had given me, and headed for the snack bar. This turned out to be a well-stocked pantry next to the house’s industrial-sized kitchen. The pantry had a microwave, a hot pot, a drip coffeemaker, an espresso machine, and a toaster oven. Shelves displaying salty and sweet snacks lined the room, and the granite countertop offered bowls of fresh fruit. An oversized refrigerator was stocked with fruit and soft drinks as well as yogurt, kefir, a variety of cheeses, and a stack of prepared single-serving meals. I took a look at one, labeled “Pan-Seared Tuna with Avocado Remoulade.” It was like shopping in the prepared-foods section of a pricey, upscale grocery store, except it was all free.

  I opted for a caprese sandwich—mozzarella made from organic milk, organic basil, locally sourced organic tomatoes, on San Francisco sourdough bread—a bottle of spring water to refill the aluminum water bottle in my room, and, prompted by today’s discovery, a bag of Doritos. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed what looked like a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie. Wouldn’t want to risk waking up hungry in the middle of the
night.

  On the way back to my room, I thought about the food that had been set out, like an offering, in the monastery’s mysterious round room. I had felt a deep, gnawing hunger when in the presence of the Lady in Red. Was someone trying to assuage the ghost by feeding it? If so, why risk the violent wrath of really buff construction workers by pilfering their food? Why not just bring something from home?

  Dog was waiting for me at the bedroom door, whapping himself in his face with his own tail in an ecstatic display upon my return. Not to cast aspersions on his loyalty, but it was unclear whether he was more interested in my arrival or in my sandwich. I set the books down on the desk, switched on the gas fireplace, and enjoyed an impromptu picnic by the fire, sharing a couple of bites of the sandwich with Dog. He would have liked the Doritos and cookie, too, but since they weren’t good for him, I sacrificed myself. Once the food was gone, Dog took a long drink of water, curled up on the rug I had brought from home and placed in front of the fireplace, and started to snore.

  I love real wood fires but could easily get used to this: One flick of a finger and the flames roared. I changed into my pajamas by firelight and found myself relishing the solitude. I adored my father, and Stan, and Caleb, and Graham, too, but my life was so jam-packed with men and their needs and opinions and energy; it was fun to have an evening all to myself. I crawled into the king-sized bed and snuggled into the fluffy pillows, the thousand-thread-count cotton linens, and the goose-down comforter, with my dog snoozing in front of the leaping flames and a sweeping vista out the French doors. . . .

  On second thought, I got up and closed the heavy brocade drapes. If I could see out, others could see in. And that, as Harper Elrich would say, was just plain creepy.

  I cracked open Wuthering Heights, which I’d never read, though I’d always pretended I had. The Gothic tale seemed fitting, given the moonlit but fog-shrouded ruins down the hill. But though I was determined to enjoy Emily Brontë’s spooky tale, I found the prose a bit dense and dated. Well worth the effort, I was sure, but it took more concentration than I had at the moment. Jane Eyre was almost as challenging, and despite my best intentions, I wasn’t really in the mood for The Iliad. I paged through Ellis Elrich’s biography for a few minutes and noticed a photograph of him in a kilt in Scotland. The caption mentioned Elrich had trekked through the Scottish Highlands and isles and had stumbled upon the ruins of the Wakefield monastery.