Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I don’t see it here,” said Alicia.

  “Maybe the pockets of his pants? Isn’t that where most men keep their keys?” I asked, and went to the closet. It held three sleek suits, several loose white shirts, jeans, and a row of shined shoes and boots. Also athletic gear, which surprised me—Libole didn’t seem like anyone’s portrait of health. Perhaps he was like me with the swimming pool: full of good intentions.

  A suitcase on the overhead shelf was empty. There were several cardboard blueprint tubes in one corner—I checked each one, but found only construction drawings. There weren’t any other obvious hiding places in the neat-as-a-pin bedroom, besides the desk.

  Alicia was sitting at it, hands flat upon the blotter, as though debating.

  When I met her eyes, she shrugged. “I hate to compromise his privacy.”

  “It’s like we were saying, though,” I said, surprised and a little dismayed at how easily the lies came to me these days—but then the visual of Graham on the floor of the chapel, blood seeping out onto the new concrete floor, eased my conscience and strengthened my resolve. “That warehouse really belongs to Elrich Enterprises, and you don’t want to be crawling over industrial-sized kitchen appliances for the next several months, do you?”

  “True.”

  “Check the main drawer,” I suggested. Alicia pulled it open and found a key ring with almost as many keys as Alicia had on hers. “Well, would you look at that? It’s got to be one of these, right?”

  “Unless these are entirely unrelated,” she said. Ever the optimist.

  “Okay . . .” That gave me the justification to hunt through the rest of his drawers. I found old-fashioned ink pens, extra ink cartridges, and letter-writing supplies, including heavy cream-colored linen paper, matching envelopes, and a stick of sealing wax and a signet with a capital “FSL.” He was a classy guy.

  “Now that we have the keys, I think we should go,” said Alicia, clearly nervous.

  “Check this out,” I said, holding up the sealing wax and signet. “No wonder poor Florian feels surrounded by cretins all the time.”

  She chuckled. Every time I made Alicia smile, it felt like a small victory; it reminded me of being with Caleb.

  “Let’s go.”

  As soon as we turned around, I could see that someone lurked in the doorway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Backlit by the lamps in the hallway, the face was shrouded in darkness. But I would recognize that frizzy halo anywhere.

  Harper.

  “What are you guys doing in here?” she demanded.

  “We’re worried about Florian,” I said, stepping in front of Alicia, who looked as though she was hoping the floor would open up and swallow her. “No one’s heard from him for a couple of days. Have you?”

  “No. But it’s not as if anyone checks in with me. He’s probably just off on one of his jaunts. Good riddance, I say. Guy’s a creep. It’s freakin’ two o’clock in the morning. I thought everyone around here was an early riser.”

  Aha, I thought. She was hoping to have the place to herself, maybe watch a little HGTV. Or whatever it was that her ilk liked to gorge on.

  “You are absolutely right, Harper. It’s well past our bedtime. Boy, I’m beat. Aren’t you?” I directed this last to Alicia, who was still cowering behind me.

  She nodded.

  “All righty, then,” I chirped. “We’re off to bed. Don’t stay up all night, young lady. See you in the morning!”

  Harper glared at me.

  Alicia and I scooted out of Florian’s room. Alicia locked the door behind us and said good night to Harper, who rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the TV room.

  “Do you think she’ll say anything to Mr. Elrich?” Alicia whispered as we halted outside my bedroom door.

  “There’s nothing to say,” I said. “We were worried about Florian and peeked in to make sure he was okay. That’s all.”

  Alicia nodded. “Yes, you’re right. That’s all.”

  “Just . . . don’t mention the keys,” I said. “That would probably be best. We can put them back where we found them after I get into the warehouse. You’ll get me the address?”

  “Yes. I’ll have to go back through a stack of invoices, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to find it.”

  “Great. We’ll take care of things before Florian returns, and he’ll never know the difference.”

  “Won’t he notice you’ve put huge appliances in his warehouse?”

  Oops. I’d forgotten that little lie. “I’ll just tell him I picked the lock, or something. You know how we contractors are. Nefarious characters.”

  “So I’m learning,” she said with a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mel. And this may sound silly . . . I don’t know if you believe in the power of prayer, but I do. I’ll pray for Graham tonight.”

  I was left at my door with a lump in my throat. I wasn’t sure what I believed, but right about now I would take all the prayers I could get.

  As I watched Alicia walk down the hall, I thought perhaps I had misjudged her.

  I sure hoped it didn’t turn out that she was McCall’s killer.

  * * *

  Only a few short hours later, I was fumbling with the lid on my coffee mug and thinking about calling the hospital when Ellis walked into the breakfast bar.

  “Mel, glad I caught you,” he said. “I spoke with Dr. Petralis a few minutes ago, and there’s good news: It seems the swelling has gone down, so they won’t have to operate. They’re keeping Graham in a medically induced coma for the moment, but he anticipates there won’t be any more complications.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, and then lost it. I collapsed onto a blue wooden bench, landing with a thump.

  “Are you all right?” Ellis asked, sitting beside me.

  I nodded and then blew out a long breath. “I’ve been . . . I guess I didn’t really realize how worried I was. I was going to call the hospital right after I got my coffee—I wasn’t sure I could face it without caffeine.”

  Ellis gave me an understanding smile. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to sleep in. I sent all the men home for the day.”

  “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. Though, truth to tell, if we want to keep on schedule, we can’t afford to lose much time.”

  “One day,” said Ellis. “With the collapse and now this . . . Give yourself a break, regroup. I can see how hard you work. Go visit Graham; then come back and enjoy the pool. Maybe take a hike or go for a horseback ride—there’s a stable not far from here. This is a beautiful place, which I have to remind myself of from time to time. It’s too easy to get caught up in the work and ignore the amazing locale around us.”

  I smiled and nodded my thanks.

  I would go visit Graham, all right. But after that . . . ? I wanted to try talking with Donnchadh one more time. Maybe with an empty jobsite, I’d have a shot at getting through a conversation with the ghost without being interrupted by his need to run every Y chromosome out of the building.

  Whoever had killed Larry McCall had gone after Graham. I felt sure of it. Maybe my old pal Donnchadh could help me figure out the guilty party.

  * * *

  What is it about hospitals that makes spending time in them so anxiety-producing yet deadly dull? I had forgotten to bring a book, and the folks in the ICU frowned on the use of cell phones. I flipped through a couple of very dated People magazines, checked out a two-day-old San Francisco Chronicle, and tried not to worry about Graham, which was impossible. Watching him breathe, hooked up to machines . . . the way he lay there, so still, was petrifying.

  A couple hours later, Dad showed up. It was good to see him, and after a short visit he shooed me away, saying he’d keep Graham company for a while and reminding me I had a business to run. I allowed myself to be convinced and headed back to Wakefield to have a little chat with my depressed ghost. Still, I knew better than to expect the encounter to turn out the way I wanted. Ghosts never seemed able to tell me
what was going on, who had killed whom, or anything useful, really.

  But it was all I could think of to do at the moment.

  I stopped off at the house, took Dog out for a walk, returned him to our room for his afternoon nap, and slipped my dad’s Glock in the pocket of my sweatshirt before heading down to the ancient stones.

  I entered the chapel and crept as quietly as possible through the chambers that led toward the refectory.

  Footsteps.

  Someone was in the cloister.

  Ghost or human? Which would be scarier? I put my hand on the hilt of the gun and crept around the corner.

  “What?” demanded Harper, hiding something behind her back.

  For a heart-stopping moment, I thought she might be holding a gun, herself. But then I heard the crinkle of paper.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “I thought you were . . . You scared the crap out of me! I thought maybe you were that ghost, or whatever.”

  “Just me. What do you have behind your back?”

  “None of your beeswax.”

  I smiled. It was such a little-kid thing to say.

  “Do you have some of the original plans to this place, by any chance?”

  “No. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She shrugged, but finally showed me a sheaf of papers.

  They were full-color landscape drawings. I took a few and held them out in front of me to get the full effect.

  “These are really lovely,” I said. “Did you do these?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re very talented.”

  She shrugged, but a blush stained her cheeks.

  “So.” I gestured to a graph on one side of the drawing. “Is this the key to the plants?”

  “Yeah. They’re all native plantings. It doesn’t make sense to landscape with imported species. They’re more expensive. Plus a lot will die anyway because they’re not suited for the conditions. Native plants can adapt to the local climate, and they’re better for the environment and everything. It’s called, like, habitat planting because, like, it provides a habitat for things.”

  I nodded.

  “So anyway, I included things like goldenrod, and Douglas iris, and California fuchsia.” She leaned over my arm and started pointing out features of the drawing. “Here’s yarrow—you can get that either white or yellow, so I like to mix them—and instead of regular grass, I stipulate Siskiyou blue grass, ’cause it’s, like, tufted? Deergrass is good that way, too. And Bee’s bliss sage, and this yellow part, right here? That’s sticky monkey flower.”

  “That’s a thing?” I laughed. “Sticky monkey flower?”

  A smile lit up her face. “Right? So funny. I don’t know how they get these names, though it is sticky. But it doesn’t look much like a monkey.”

  “This is really beautiful work. I guess Florian has talked to you about designing the garth, or the herb garden, to be planted within the cloister?”

  “He mentioned it, yeah. But he wants it to be all perfect, historically accurate and everything.”

  “I’m sure he has some sources you could use to re-create a historically accurate garden. I don’t agree with Florian on everything, but I think he’s right in this case. We can’t very well work so hard at making this place a showcase of historical renovation and then fall down on the garden design. And those medicinal plants are really cool. Plus, I read they used a lot of spices in their beer—that would be kind of fun to play with as well.”

  “Why’s he such a stickler about the historic character of some parts of the building but not others?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, he had the original key for the stones, but then he altered it.”

  “He did? Have you seen the originals?”

  “He had a couple of sets. I was in here once when he dropped them. He tried to cover it up, but I saw before he could gather them all up. But when I asked him about it, he just treated me like a child, said I wouldn’t understand. Like I was stupid or something. But I understand this: He had altered those historic drawings to make it look like they were original.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She shrugged. “I think he’s, like, cheating? Or trying to take credit for someone else, or something.”

  But that didn’t make sense—everyone knew he was changing the original schema, such as it was, in order to update the building. Why would he try to cover it up?

  “Anyway, I gotta go. Um, good luck with the building and everything. And I hope Graham is okay. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Thanks. Nice talking with you.”

  I watched her walk out by the side gate from the soon-to-be garth. Then I returned through the building.

  As always, the sound of my work boots rang out in the echoey space. Even in the areas that still had no real roof, the stone walls created phenomenal acoustics. It must have been hard to sneak up on people in the medieval era.

  I stood in the antechamber for a moment, gathering my resolve. It didn’t take much today: All I had to do was think about Graham and I felt focused.

  Donnchadh and I went through our now-familiar greeting ritual: He pulled his sword and began to charge, I stood stock-still, and then he realized I was a woman and stood down.

  As far as friendships go, I suppose it left a lot to be desired, but at least I always knew where to find him. And, like those people in the cartoon about the bottomless pit, I was getting used to it.

  Once he’d relaxed, I asked him: “Do you remember last time I was here? You ran after someone you heard in the sacristy?”

  He tilted his head, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Is that a no?”

  “I dinnae recall.”

  “You don’t remember running out through the sacristy and into the chapel? I’m wondering if you maybe saw something?”

  He shrugged and slumped back down onto the step.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I cannae . . . I cannae remember things.”

  I was disappointed but not surprised. I’d heard this before from ghosts. It would be nice if the specters could simply tell me who was guilty and what had happened. But apparently the spirit world had different rules and parameters from our earth-bound existence.

  “Can’t remember things such as . . . ?”

  “What I’m guarding. You asked me about it last time you were here. . . .” Apparently, he remembered me asking, which was interesting. “I cannae stop thinking about it. I dinnae even know exactly what it is I’m protecting. I simply . . . I know I must keep the men away.”

  He looked at me with anguish in his eyes. He must be so confused, I thought. Bound by duty to protect something he couldn’t even remember.

  “How about this?” I decided to change the subject entirely, just to see what would happen. “Do you happen to know what went into the original mortar used with these stones?”

  “What went into it?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting on the stone step beside him. “The recipe for the mortar.”

  This, Donnchadh could remember. Though he hadn’t been a builder per se, apparently back then everyone knew a little about such things. I started pumping him for architectural information, and we talked for some time.

  I hit another ghost-buster milestone: I spent a perfectly pleasant afternoon with a ghost. He was still depressed, but he perked up a bit as we talked.

  Suddenly, he sat up straight and put a finger to his lips to shush me.

  “Have you seen her?” he whispered.

  “Her who?” But I knew whom he meant as soon as a frigid cold engulfed me.

  “Ssshhh.” He hushed me again and got up to creep over to the doorway. I joined him.

  I couldn’t see anything at first, just a flash of red in my peripheral vision. But then I heard the whispering and weeping as she walked by.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Donnchadh whispered, rapt.

  “I .
. .” Were Donnchadh and I seeing the same thing? How did ghosts appear to one another? This was a whole new ball game for me. “Sure, yes, she really is lovely.”

  This time I was prepared for the sadness and hunger, but they still made me feel weak. Donnchadh, for his part, had an enthralled, amazed expression on his face, and there was a hint of a smile.

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  If it was possible for a ghost to blush, I do believe Donnchadh MacPhaidein would have done so. He started sputtering. “I dinnae . . . I . . .”

  “Surely she would be happy to meet—” I was about to say “one of her kind,” but stopped myself. What was I, ghost matchmaker? And were they the same kind? “Someone like you.”

  “She’s a lady. Can’t you see? Gold brocade on her dress . . . She’s like a dream. Wouldn’t be seemly. I’m nae of her class.”

  “Oh.” If I thought I was at a loss with the whole ghost thing, now I was dealing with ancient forms of what was proper and not. I wasn’t all that good with twenty-first-century social conventions, forget those from centuries ago. Still, given the circumstances, it seemed like a little New World informality might help things along.

  “Have you at least spoken to her?”

  He shrugged, looking depressed again. “I’ve tried, but I cannae understand her.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I believe she’s from the far-off lands.”

  “She speaks another language?”

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  She passed by us, and I shivered from the cold. This was not the chill from the stones; it was a bone-deep freeze, causing my breath to come out in little white puffs. Donnchadh, of course, was impervious. I wondered why he didn’t have the same effect on me.

  “She is verra frail, verra hungry.”

  “Are you the one who’s been stealing food? And you put it out for her?”

  Again, if only a ghost could blush. He shrugged and ducked his head. “There is nourishment. She is verra hungry.”