Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “May I ask the nature of your reading?”

  “A twenty-nine-million-dollar haunted house.”

  His elegant eyebrows rose, just a smidgen.

  He was still kneeling, and despite the tragic circumstances I couldn’t help but admire him for it. Last week my friend Luz finally convinced me to give yoga a try, and the balancing-on-the-knee thing just about did me in.

  “Do you know Chantelle well?” he asked. “Any idea what could have happened? Who might have done such a thing?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. We spoke for the first time a couple of hours ago, to make the appointment. We’d never met in person.”

  The elevator pinged and uniformed officers poured out. I automatically raised my hands and stepped away from the door to allow them to enter.

  “Hands up! Back away from the body!”

  I peered around the police to watch Landon Demetrius do as he was told, raising his hands in the air and rising smoothly from his kneeling position without tipping or falling over, or even using his hands to steady himself. He would do just fine in yoga class.

  “I called Inspector Crawford,” I said, my hands still in the air. “She’s on her way.”

  “You in the apartment,” one cop barked. “Come out here into the hallway.”

  “And you stay right here,” the other police officer said to me. His colleague kneeled by Chantelle and placed two fingers on her neck, checking for signs of life. He shook his head and spoke softly into his radio.

  Landon and I lined up against the wall, like kids waiting to meet with the principal, one officer in particular eyeing us suspiciously. Landon stood ramrod-straight, and I found myself checking my posture.

  He looked at his phone, pursed his lips, and then glanced around the hallway as if to spot whatever was foiling his reception.

  “Old buildings,” Landon muttered, shaking his head.

  “It’s not that told. Probably from the 1970s, at the most.” I dealt with truly old buildings—at least by local standards—and the 1970s didn’t qualify. Besides, the architecture of that decade was so ugly that I didn’t like it lumped in with historic buildings.

  “Old enough not to have decent cell reception,” he snapped.

  “Probably reinforced concrete, or steel beams—earthquake stuff,” said the young cop babysitting us. “And, uh, hands up.”

  A few more moments of silence ensued. I heard the sound of thumping from inside the apartment, as if the cops were searching the premises for evidence. The elevator pinged and opened once again, and another trio of uniformed officers arrived and crowded into the apartment.

  “So, you don’t care for old buildings?” I asked Landon.

  He checked his phone once more, then shoved it into his pocket. “Not as much as I like connectivity.”

  Now that was a phrase I couldn’t imagine uttering. As a contractor I live on the phone, and find it an indispensable tool for running several construction sites simultaneously. But to prefer connectivity over history? No, thank you.

  His eyes slewed toward me. They were a light sherry, with a few specks of green.

  “How does this sort of thing usually go?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This . . . homicide investigation sort of thing.”

  “What makes you think I know?” For some reason I didn’t want this man to believe I was the kind of woman who tripped over dead bodies with disturbing frequency. Even though I was.

  “You’re friends with a homicide inspector. I just assumed—”

  Said inspector chose that moment to step off the elevator and fix me with her patented Interrogation 101 look: one raised eyebrow. Annette Crawford was tall for a woman, curvy yet muscular, a dedicated professional with a no-nonsense air. There was never any question as to who was in charge when Inspector Crawford was on the scene. She had climbed the ranks of the police department the old-fashioned way, through sheer hard work and talent, and had had to prove wrong more than a few who assumed a woman of color was not their peer. After working with her on a cold case recently, I knew she also had a wicked sense of humor and the imagination to think outside the box.

  She nodded at the young officer, glanced at Landon, then zeroed in on me as she approached.

  “Put your hands down,” she said. “No one’s under arrest. Yet.”

  “I had nothing to do with it this time,” I said, relieved. Holding one’s hands in the air is surprisingly hard work. “Nothing at all. I had an appointment, and when I arrived found her dead.”

  Landon looked at me. “This time?”

  “And you are?” Crawford asked.

  “Landon Demetrius III,” he said. “I’m Chantelle’s brother.”

  “Chantelle is . . . ?”

  “The victim,” I said quietly.

  “I see,” said Annette, conveying a lot in a few words. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Demetrius.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Were you the one who found her?”

  He nodded.

  “All right. Let me take a look at the scene, and then we’ll have a little chat.” She raised her chin in the direction of the young cop babysitting us. “Keep an eye on them, will you?”

  “Yes sir! Um, Inspector,” stuttered the officer.

  She swept into the apartment.

  Landon glanced at me. “I thought you said you two were friends. She didn’t seem particularly friendly.”

  “‘Friend’ might have been a bit of a stretch. Acquaintance would be more accurate.”

  “Been involved with a murder investigation previously, have you?”

  “A few. But my role was minimal.”

  “As in, not really your fault?”

  “As in, I was an innocent witness.”

  He looked down his nose, and I sensed he didn’t believe me. I sighed: first Andrew Flynt and now Landon Demetrius III. I’m from Oakland, so I’m accustomed to San Franciscans looking askance at me, but it doesn’t mean I like it. I started to say something snide, but reconsidered. His sister had just been murdered, after all. Assuming he didn’t do it, the least I could do was cut him a little slack. I thought about my own sisters, and what it would mean to find them like that, on the floor in a pool of their own blood.

  I banished the thought; it was too painful to even contemplate.

  I started to say something to Landon when black spots began to swim before my eyes and a wave of nausea took hold deep in my belly. I shook my head and breathed slowly, trying to hold it together. The temperature in the hallway plummeted; my breath came out in little clouds and hung in the frigid air.

  Part of my brain knew what was happening, but the rest refused to acknowledge it.

  Chantelle emerged from the apartment. She cupped Landon’s face in her hands for a moment, then reached into the same jacket pocket where he had stowed his cell phone. She turned and gazed at me with those beautiful eyes, smiled beatifically, and nodded once. Then she drifted down the corridor and disappeared into the open elevator. The doors closed softly and the elevator started to ascend.

  Landon frowned. “It’s like ice in here. Another problem with these outdated buildings. Lousy HVAC systems.”

  “Got that right,” said the young officer.

  I didn’t respond, still nauseated and breathless.

  “Are you quite all right?” Landon asked me after a moment.

  I nodded.

  Not for the first time I felt exasperated after a supernatural encounter. Why couldn’t the ghosts of murder victims just tell me what happened? If they weren’t going to be of use, why subject me to funky feelings and such strangeness? I was a contractor, for heaven’s sake. How come it was always up to me to solve these crimes?

  Me, and Annette Crawford of the SFPD, of course.

  I checked myself. It di
d no good to curse my fate. I’d tried that before, and it didn’t get me anywhere.

  “So,” I said to Landon while we waited for Inspector Crawford to return. “Are—were you and your sister close?”

  “Not recently.”

  “You live around here?”

  “You already asked me that. Why are you obsessed with my residence? Are you with Homeland Security?”

  I was going to bet that Landon Demetrius III here was the type to respond to tragedy with testiness. Either that, or he was an exceptionally cool murderer who didn’t feel the need to be polite to anyone.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just making conversation. How was it you were visiting the sister you aren’t close to when . . .”

  “When she was murdered?” He blew out a breath, as though trying to rein in his emotions. “I just flew in from England. I teach at Cambridge. We were quite close as children, but we . . . grew apart. Last time I saw Chantelle she still called herself Cheryl. Must have been ten years ago.”

  “I see.”

  “But I shall never forgive myself for not arriving an hour earlier. Or perhaps even fifteen minutes earlier . . . Whatever it would have taken to avoid this tragedy.”

  Landon’s voice caught in his throat, and his emotions seemed genuine. Unless he was a first-class actor, which, for all I knew, he was. “I’m sorry, Landon. If it helps at all, I . . . I think she’s okay.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, yes, she’s passed on, but she’s okay. What you felt a moment ago, when it got so cold? That was her putting her hands on your face.”

  The expression on Landon’s face said plainly he thought I was nuts. It didn’t surprise me, I was accustomed to it by now, but it still annoyed me. I hadn’t been in touch with the dead long enough to have figured out how to deliver the news—“Your loved one is gone, but not gone gone”—in a way that offers comfort instead of inspiring hostility or fear for my sanity. I wasn’t sure it was even possible.

  “Oh. I see. You’re one of those.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A psychic.” His tone was clipped. “As I said, my sister and I had grown apart, but I know she had . . . acquaintances who were as sketchy as her career implied. Is that why you dress in such an absurd fashion?”

  I always wore my steel-toed work boots and carried coveralls in my vehicle for when I needed to crawl through dusty attics or basements, but most days I dressed in my friend Stephen’s designs. His clothes were influenced by his childhood growing up in Las Vegas with a showgirl mother, and featured a lot of fringe and spangles. Usually when first meeting with clients I dressed more conservatively, but this morning’s appointment with Andrew Flynt had been set at the last minute so he had to take me as he could get me. And, as Landon had just pointed out, my fashion sense wasn’t all that disconcerting when I was in “ghost talker” mode; people seemed open to esoteric fashion choices from their supernatural connections.

  “I dress this way because I can, not that it’s any of your business,” I responded. “And no, I’m not a psychic. I sometimes see dead people, that’s all.”

  “That’s . . . all?”

  “It’s not by choice, believe me. It just happens. I saw your sister a moment ago. She was smiling and looked . . . happy. She came out of the apartment, paused and touched your face, and then got on the elevator. Going up.”

  Landon’s face darkened. “I must say, it is in very poor taste to make fun of someone who has just suffered a terrible loss. My sister’s body is still warm, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’m not making fun,” I protested. “Honest, I’m not. I’m—”

  “Winning friends and influencing people are we, Turner?” Inspector Crawford appeared in the apartment doorway. Without waiting for me to reply, she turned to Landon. “Follow me, please, Mr. Demetrius.”

  They disappeared into the apartment. I remained in the hall and watched the forensics team arrive, loaded down with bags of equipment. A few neighbors stuck their heads out of their apartments to check on the hubbub. I did my best to avoid their curious gazes.

  I wondered if Chantelle would return. Why had she gotten onto the elevator? Where was she going? Had she ridden the lift all the way up, through the roof, and into the sky, Willy Wonka style?

  The most pertinent question at the moment, for me at least, was if Chantelle’s death had anything to do with Crosswinds. A psychic who made enough money to live at the top of Nob Hill might have had plenty of enemies. Certainly Landon had insinuated as much. Not to mention that, at a thousand bucks a pop for a consultation, Chantelle could have had money lying around her apartment that would attract interest. The building had a doorman, but Gabe didn’t seem like a crack security guard. And even if he was, he was only one man and couldn’t be everywhere at once. A determined and skilled thief could easily find a way in. Not to mention a neighbor who needed money for the rent, someone delivering takeout to any of the residents, or a repairman here to fix the plumbing. Chantelle’s untimely death could as easily—no, more easily—have been due to being at the wrong place at the wrong time than to anything supernatural.

  Probably it had nothing at all to do with Crosswinds and its ghostly weathervane.

  “Turner!”

  “Here!” I said, snapping-to without thinking. Then I regrouped. “You missed your calling as a drill sergeant, Inspector.”

  “Funny,” Annette said, her notebook and pen ready. “Speaking of drills, you know this one by now. Tell me what you saw, what you did, and what you think. Add nothing in, and leave nothing out.”

  I told her my very short story, including my earlier visit to the haunted Crosswinds. Her patented cop look suggested she thought I was holding something back. Which, this time at least, I wasn’t. But I didn’t take it personally. I could only imagine how often she was lied to in the course of a single day.

  “You know, it’s downright eerie how often I find you at murder scenes,” the Inspector said. “I’m going to assume we’ll find some sort of connection between your latest haunted house and this situation.”

  “Well, there is a connection—that’s why I’m here. Chantelle did a reading of the haunted house I’ve just been hired to renovate.”

  “Her brother says she did readings of a lot of places, has done so for years. But she didn’t get dead until you arrived on the scene.”

  “When you put it like that, it really is eerie.”

  We both took a moment.

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh. “That about it?”

  I nodded.

  “You can go. I know where to find you for follow-up.”

  “Annette, do you have any idea when Chantelle was killed?”

  “That’s up to the medical examiner to determine. And it’s none of your business. You be sure to let me know if anything comes up over at Crosswinds that might be related to this, you hear?”

  “Will do.”

  She went back into the apartment, and I headed for the elevator.

  “Turner.”

  I turned around and saw the inspector with Landon Demetrius. He was wiping his fingertips with a wet cloth, presumably to remove fingerprint ink.

  “Take this one with you,” Annette said. “Please.”

  “I won’t stand for this,” Landon protested. “Surely I can help. My bags—”

  “Will stay right where they are. Everything in the apartment is potential evidence until further notice,” Crawford said in her don’t-even-think-of-arguing-with-me voice. “Forensics has to process everything, I’m sorry to say. You’ll get your things back when they’re finished. On behalf of the San Francisco Police Department, please accept our apologies for the inconvenience this may cause you, as well as our sincere condolences on the loss of your sister.”

  “But surely, Inspector—”

  “C’mon, Landon,” I said. “I’l
l give you a ride. There’s no use arguing with the SFPD, I guarantee you.”

  As I guided Landon toward the elevator, I read the thanks in Annette’s silent nod.

  Chapter Four

  On the way down in the elevator, I glanced at my watch: I was due home for dinner in an hour. Landon stumbled next to me and I reached out a hand to steady him. He looked stunned, almost bewildered. Grief was a strange thing. Everyone has their own way of processing it, and none of us knows what that will entail until we’re faced with it.

  “Where to?” I asked gently. “Were you . . . Were you planning to stay with your sister?”

  “No, I have reservations at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley. I’m a visiting professor at the university for the upcoming semester. I’ll be subletting an apartment but can’t move in until Monday. Until then, I’m in the hotel. But I dropped my suitcase and other things at Cheryl’s—I mean, Chantelle’s—apartment. We had planned to spend the evening together, and she was going to take me to the hotel after dinner.”

  “Listen, how about you come home with me for dinner?” We arrived at the lobby and the elevator doors slid open to reveal Gabe doing some sort of Tai-Chi.

  “Hell of a thing,” he mumbled. “Poor Chantelle. Did you see her?”

  I nodded and asked him to retrieve my car, not wanting to engage further in this discussion.

  I turned back to Landon. “Give yourself a chance to relax, have a drink and a good meal. I can scare up an extra toothbrush for tonight, and take you back to the hotel.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Ms., uh . . .”

  “Turner. Call me Mel.”

  “Mel, I certainly mean no offense when I say I’m . . . I’m not really in the mood for a romantic dinner.”

  I burst out laughing as a discomfited Gabe ran to retrieve my Scion.

  “No worries. It’s not a date, professor. I’m inviting you to dinner with my dad, in our house in Oakland. Dad’s making his special lasagna.”

  “Lasagna?”

  “You know—big flat noodles, tomato sauce, lots of cheese bubbling up, special herbs. Dad serves it with a big salad and sourdough garlic bread. . . .” My stomach growled so loud I thought he might hear it. “Don’t you have lasagna in England?”