“I like your dress, as well,” I said. “Especially the matching ribbons in your hair.”
“It’s called peony purple,” she said, clutching a bit of the skirt in each hand and holding it up as though ready to curtsy. She gave me a big smile and turned down a narrow passage to the right.
Known locally as the Bernini house, after the family that had lived here for the past several decades, the building was exceptional not only for its square footage but also for its extensive grounds, which took up half a city block. The spacious courtyard garden stretched clear to the next street, where two outbuildings formed a border. This house was a stunner as it was; once renovated, it would be a rare gem. A landmark, even.
I wanted this job so much I could taste it. But there was no guarantee it would be mine.
The clients were also meeting with one of my competitors, Avery Builders. They were good—almost as good as Turner Construction, though it galled me to admit it. Avery and Turner had similar portfolios, and comparable track records for keeping on budget and on schedule. When competition for a job was this tight, the decision usually came down to whomever the clients liked more. Whom they felt more comfortable having in their homes, day in and day out, for months on end.
Client relations make me nervous. I’m a whiz at construction, and understand the ins and outs of buildings and architectural history as if they were in my blood. But when it comes to dealing with people, well . . . I’m fine. Up to a point. Mostly if they let me do what I want, and what I know is right for the house. Diplomacy is not my strong suit.
I did have one distinct advantage: As far as I knew, Avery Builders didn’t have a ghost buster on staff, whereas Turner Construction could boast a real “up-and-comer” in the field of talking to the dead. Just ask Haunted House Quarterly.
Anabelle hummed as she walked ahead of me, finally breaking out into song: “With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, displaying deep dimples. “Do you know that song?”
“I don’t. But I’m no good at music.”
“You don’t play? I’m learning to play the piano.”
“I tried my hand at the clarinet in the fifth grade. It wasn’t pretty.”
Anabelle gave me a withering look, as though I’d suggested she make mud pies in her nice purple dress. Usually I’m good with kids, because I don’t take them—or myself—too seriously. My stepson, Caleb, and I had gotten off to a famously good start because I had immediately grasped why he felt compelled to wear his pirate costume and remain in character for more than a year before graduating, in a manner of speaking, to pretending to be the more “grown-up” Darth Vader. But then I have a flair for sword fights and laser battles, if I do say so myself.
“. . . and gardens of posies for all little girrrrrls . . .”
Anabelle resumed singing, slightly off tune, and stopped in front of a door that stood ajar. “Here we are. Have a seat, please, and I’ll let them know you’re here.”
She skipped back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Good-bye. It was nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said, watching her go and marveling at the energy of youth. When was the last time I had skipped somewhere?
I pushed open the parlor door.
The room was empty.
Not just empty of people; it was vacant. No furniture, no rugs, no lights, no knickknacks. Nothing but a heavy coating of dust, a few scraps of paper on the floor, and a pair of shredded curtains on the large windows that overlooked a huge courtyard and garden. Through a cracked windowpane I could see a tall, rotund man in overalls, hard at work trimming a tall rosebush. Upon noticing me he stopped abruptly, staring, the pruning shears falling from his hand to the ground. I lifted my hand in greeting, but let it drop when he didn’t respond. I felt a frisson of . . . something marching up my spine.
The afternoon sun sifting in through the antique wavy glass illuminated cobwebs in the corners, and a single paneled door I assumed led to a closet. I didn’t see so much as a footstep—other than my own—in the dust on the floor, and the musty smell indicated the room hadn’t been aired out for a very long time.
“Wait, Anabelle! I don’t think . . .” I poked my head through the open door and peered down the long corridor, but the girl was gone.
Then a sound came from the opposite direction.
Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.
I caught a glimpse of something passing in front of the arch at the end of the hall.
Someone, I reminded myself. Get a grip, Mel. The child is playing a joke.
“Hello?” I called out as I started down the dim corridor. “Anabelle?”
I heard it again: a slow step, a shuffle, a clank. My mind’s eye conjured a picture of a ghost in chains. But that was an old Hollywood convention, not reality. I hoped.
Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.
What was that?
And if this truly was a restless spirit, why should I be so surprised? I had been asked to the Bernini house to help broker a deal with the resident ghosts, after all. I just hadn’t expected to see anything right off the bat, much less in the middle of a sunny afternoon.
I took a deep breath and fingered the simple gold band I wore on a chain around my neck, centering myself. All right, fine. If this was a ghost, so be it. It was essential to maintain one’s resolve when going up against them. I’d learned that much, at least. Also important to keep in mind was that ghosts, being immaterial, can’t physically harm a person. I was pretty sure. Actually . . . maybe I should double-check that little factoid. Despite my so-called “promising ghost buster” status, I’d encountered only two situations involving ghosts, and to be honest they still scared the you-know-what out of me.
Slowly, cautiously, I continued down the hallway to where it ended in a T, the sound growing louder with each step. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.
I took a deep breath, screwed up my courage . . . and peeked around the corner.
An old woman hunched over an aluminum walker was slowly making her way down the corridor. Her hair was a blue gray mass of stiff-set curls, and she wore an orange and yellow crochet afghan draped over her narrow shoulders. With each laborious step-push-step she made, her slippered feet and the walker sounded off: clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.
“Hello?” I said.
“Oh!” She let out a surprised yelp, one blue-veined hand fluttering up to her chest. “My word, you gave me a fright!”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, still basking in relief at the sight of a flesh-and-blood woman instead of a spectral presence. “I’m Mel Turner, from Turner Construction?”
“Oh yes, of course. How do you do? I’m Betty Bernini.”
“It’s so nice to meet you. You have an amazing place here.”
“Thank you. Come, we’ve been expecting you. The Propaks are in the front room.” She resumed her slow progress, and I fell in step, resisting the urge to offer to help.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear the doorbell,” Mrs. Bernini said as we walked. “Who let you in?”
“Anabelle answered the door, but she showed me to the parlor—the wrong room, I take it.”
The clanking stopped as Mrs. Bernini straightened and fixed me with a steady gaze.
“Anabelle?”
“Yes, she’s a sweetheart.”
“Anabelle let you in.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling guilty. Was Anabelle not supposed to answer the door? Had I gotten the girl in trouble?
“Let me show you something.” Mrs. Bernini shuffled a little farther down the hall and opened the door to a bookshelf-lined study full of cardboard boxes, stacked furniture, and a cracked old leather couch. She gestured to an oil painting hanging over the fireplace. Done in rich old-master hues of blue, red, and burnt
sienna, it featured a girl and a slightly younger boy. She stood with one hand on the boy’s shoulder, while he held a cocker spaniel puppy.
The girl had long chestnut brown curls, tied in pretty ribbons.
Peony purple.
A brass plate on the picture frame read:
Anabelle and Ezekiel Bowles. 1911.
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A Ghostly Light Page 29
