Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Jim dandy,” George said.

  “Dad, please,” Andrew replied.

  “I’m gonna go start up the car,” said Lacey, heading for the door. “Grandpop?” George shuffled out after her.

  “They don’t believe, you know, which is their prerogative,” Mason said, clearly less keen on tee time than his sister. “But it must have been a shock for you. Please let us know if there’s any way we can help.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said.

  “You didn’t have a chance to talk to her at all?” Andrew asked.

  I shook my head. “I arrived after the . . . it had happened.”

  “Chantelle was practically a legend, really,” Mason said with a sad shake of his head. “I mean, I know a lot of people don’t believe in such things—witness my family. But . . .”

  “But you do?”

  “I’m not sure what I believe.”

  Andrew’s face was ashen, and I saw tears in his eyes. He looked away and cleared his throat. “Me neither. The one thing I know is that Chantelle was a beautiful person, and I don’t just mean physically. The world lost something very special when she passed.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew her well,” I said.

  He glanced at his wife. “No, no, hardly at all. But . . . it’s just such a shame.”

  “Come on, folks, we should go,” Mason said. “Lacey and Grandpop are no doubt outside revving their engines and annoying the neighbors. You know how impatient they get.”

  “Well,” Andrew said, blowing out a breath and standing straight, as though to shrug off his uncharacteristic show of emotion. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I think it’s this place.”

  He gestured to the sterile, echoing room around us. It was off-putting, no doubt about it, thanks to his dreadful remodel.

  “Good to meet you, Mel,” Mason said as the Flynts headed for the door.

  Stephanie paused, grasped my hand in both of hers, and gazed for a long, earnest moment in my eyes.

  “If you are in touch with the spirits, please give Chantelle our best. I hope she goes with our blessing.”

  “Of course.”

  They finally swept out, leaving me in the stark foyer.

  “They’re a trip, aren’t they?” came a sudden voice from behind me.

  I turned to find Egypt coming down the stairs.

  “Interesting family,” I said with a nod. “But then, most families are interesting.”

  She laughed. “You can say that again. Only reason my family didn’t argue over money was because there wasn’t any.”

  “Do the Flynts argue about money?”

  “It didn’t come up? I’m surprised. It seems to be one of their favorite topics. But like I say, maybe it’s because they have a lot of money to argue about.”

  “I may have diverted the discussion by telling them about Chantelle.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was killed yesterday.”

  Egypt froze. “Chantelle? Why? How—I mean, what happened?”

  “I really don’t know. I had an appointment with her at three o’clock, but when I arrived she was already dead.”

  “Was she in an accident?”

  “She had been stabbed.”

  Egypt looked stunned and gaped at me for a moment. “Murdered? Wow, that’s just . . . wow. That’s horrible. I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s not much to say,” I agreed with a nod. “It’s a tragedy. Did you know her?”

  “I . . . A little. I mean, I met her when she came to do a reading of the house. I basically acted as her secretary, following after her and jotting things down as she said them. She’s . . . She was remarkable. Do they know who did it, or why?”

  “Not that I know of.” I glanced at the cardboard tube in her hands. “Are those the original blueprints?”

  She nodded, still seeming distracted, and handed me the heavy tube. “These are the blueprints I was working from with Skip Buhner, though I have to warn you it doesn’t include all the change orders. And there were plenty of change orders. Also, here’s the list of items Chantelle—” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. “Um, that she suggested we return to the house to appease the ghosts.”

  I read the list:

  Weathervane

  Widow’s walk

  Fireplace surrounds

  Lead and stained glass windows throughout

  Ceiling medallions

  Chandeliers

  Carved corbels

  Gold gilt mirrors

  Stage

  My mind tripped over that last item. “Stage?”

  “There used to be a stage in what is now the Pilates studio.”

  “You mean like a stage, stage? For plays?”

  “More like a raised platform, but it had velvet curtains and some really cool carvings around it.”

  I nodded. “This is quite a list.”

  “It was such a shame they took everything out. I know they wanted to modernize the place, but I never understood why they had to just gut it.”

  “You were here throughout the renovation?”

  “For most of it. Stephanie keeps busy with her spiritual work; we met on a retreat out at Green Gulch Farm, in fact. And Andrew is consumed with the business, and frankly I think he just didn’t really have the heart to deal with Crosswinds after a while. So I agreed to act as an intermediary, fielding phone calls, keeping lists of things to discuss, and once a week Andrew and I would meet with the contractor, Skip Buhner, go over everything.”

  “And you lived on-site?”

  “Not while the work was being done. I moved in once the construction was over. They were having trouble selling it so Karla suggested someone living here would make the place more welcoming. Do you know Karla Buhner, the Realtor?”

  “Andrew mentioned her name.”

  “Karla says potential buyers can tell when a house is unoccupied, says it makes a home feel abandoned and unwanted. Gives out sad vibes or something. So Andrew asked if I would be willing to move in.”

  “Have you heard any of the strange sounds, or felt anything . . . odd?”

  “I hate to admit it but I don’t think I’m particularly sensitive. Everyone else seems to pick up on sensations, but I go on my merry way. And I’m a heavy sleeper, take a little nonaddicting sleep aid that puts me out like a light. You ever have insomnia, I recommend it highly.”

  “Thanks. I have plenty of problems, but so far that’s not one of them.” My schedule required me to get up at five a.m. every day, so falling asleep was rarely a problem. On the contrary, I was lucky to be conscious after nine at night, which put a little crimp in my social life.

  “Anyway, sometimes I hear the weathervane squeaking—in fact, I think I’m the one who first mentioned it. Couldn’t figure out what the noise was. Thought maybe it was a loose pipe or something that the workers forgot, so I asked Skip to look around. I don’t know what happened next, but something scared him.”

  I nodded. “Anything else you can think of?”

  Egypt hesitated.

  “Anything at all, no matter how bizarre or silly it sounds?”

  “I thought I heard a man’s voice, calling out. Sort of like a moan, but more than that? For all I know it’s the neighbors, but it’s . . . eerie.”

  “Can you describe the moaning?”

  She shrugged. “Just sort of . . . a ghostly moaning. Or what I assume a ghost sounds like moaning. I’m getting all my information from the haunted house fund-raiser we put on back in middle school. Haven’t heard any rattling chains, though.”

  “So you hear the weathervane squeaking and a man moaning.”

  She nodded. “But like I said, the moaning might have been one of the neighbors or someone on the street, something not in the least
bit supernatural.”

  “What else?” I felt like Annette Crawford, saying in her cop voice: Even small things might be significant. Tell me everything. To understand the world of spirits beyond the veil, small details that others didn’t find significant often mattered.

  “I guess you’ve heard about the music.”

  “Andrew mentioned that. Have you heard it?”

  “I always sort of assumed it was a car passing by with a loud stereo system. . . .”

  “Blasting a waltz with a thumping three-quarter beat?”

  Egypt shrugged. “Now that you mention it, I guess that seems kind of unlikely. I’m sorry, I guess I’m not the best witness. Chantelle never really believed me, either. What can I say? Crosswinds just doesn’t seem creepy or haunted to me.”

  I smiled. A little obtuseness was a handy quality in a haunted-house sitter. “Do any parts of the house seem unusually cold or drafty? Any lights that go on and off, or doors that open and close for no apparent reason? Maybe the smell of pipe smoke or flowers or perfume—anything unusual?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have you noticed objects being moved around?”

  “It’d be kind of hard to tell—there’s not much in here to move. Andrew won’t pay to stage the house, so Karla and I brought in a few items, but . . .” She waved one hand. I had assumed it was a style choice, but she was right: The home was virtually empty. “The only place that’s lived-in is my room on the fourth floor, and the bathroom up there, of course. I don’t cook so I barely use the kitchen. Just the fridge and the microwave. Oh, I do find old photographs from time to time. I’ve got a little collection going.”

  “What kind of old photos?”

  “Very old, sepia. Always of the same young woman, but in different costumes.”

  “Could I see them?”

  “They’re upstairs.”

  “That reminds me, would it be all right if I took a peek in your room?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a feel for the place, see if there really is anything to this haunting.”

  I knew there was something to it, since I could feel the vibrations, like an alarm clanging so far in the distance it was scarcely perceptible. But for the moment it was best to leave things open-ended.

  “Could we do it another time?” Egypt asked, checking her phone. “Right now I have to run, and I’d like to tidy up first.”

  “Oh Lord, you should see the places I’ve been,” I said, hoping to put her at ease. It didn’t work.

  “Tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

  I decided Egypt excelled at dealing with difficult clients like Andrew Flynt and family: She was unfailingly pleasant and polite, and yet revealed very little.

  “Sure. If you think of anything else, let me know, okay? And, this is probably going to sound weird, but would you mind if I brought my dog in, and we poked around a little?”

  “Your dog?”

  “He won’t hurt anything, though he might leave a few brown hairs. . . .”

  She smiled, but the humor didn’t reach her troubled eyes. “It’s not a problem. Karla would probably say it would add to the lived-in look.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.”

  She nodded, opened her mouth as though to say something further, then shook her head and slipped out the front door.

  Chapter Seven

  Dog and I did some quick scouting through the lower floor, where the massive “Pilates studio”—still awaiting exercise equipment—must once have hosted stage-worthy events for the Summerton clan. There was also a Jacuzzi room, sauna, and bedroom with en suite bath. Two equipment rooms felt overheated and stuffy with a mechanical smell; they were full of big gray boxes featuring multicolored lights and hummed with the high-tech improvements Andrew Flynt had spent so much money to install.

  Dog trotted along at my side, checking out corners, sniffing here and there. I imagined he was disappointed not to find anything putrid or disgusting in the underfurnished building, but as was his wont he was good-natured about it all. He did not, however, bark or mewl or crouch as he often did when in the presence of ghosts.

  But as we passed from the Pilates room to the sauna, something caught my eye.

  The wall seemed awfully thick. I prowled around looking for a closet door or something that would account for the missing space, but couldn’t find anything.

  Every house has hidden chases, channels that hold heating vents, air returns, pipes, and electrical wires. Old buildings often had large voids between the walls that had once been filled with stovepipes or chimneys that were no longer necessary.

  But a void in this location struck me as odd. There are reasons old houses were laid out a certain way, and this layout wasn’t making sense.

  “Is it just me, or is this weird?” I asked Dog. He cocked his head, and I could tell he agreed with me. “Let’s go find those blueprints.”

  We climbed the stairs to the main floor and I unrolled the heavy blueprints atop a shiny black granite kitchen counter.

  Yep. There were areas left empty for no apparent reason. They did not contain electrical grids or vents, at least not according to the drawings. They were simply dead space. Worse, I realized as I examined the drawings closely, the blueprints did not match the actual building in some places. For instance, the blueprints called for a twenty-five-foot-long foyer, but the actual foyer wasn’t a full twenty-five feet. I would bet my steel-toed boots on it.

  “The game is afoot, Dog,” I said. Dog, for his part, looked ready to figure things out. Or maybe he was hoping for a snack, it was hard to tell.

  I unclipped a heavy tape measure from my belt. It was my favorite, the one I had nabbed from my dad when it became clear that his “temporary” hiatus as general director of Turner Construction had morphed into full-blown retirement, leaving me in charge. The tape was made of heavy metal and never crimped like the new ones tended to.

  I took a few quick measurements, then consulted the drawings. It wasn’t my imagination: The blueprints did not match up with my measurements. Where was the missing square footage? It was one thing to cover up existing moldings, quite another to hide entire rooms or hallways.

  That couldn’t be what had happened. Must be my measurements. So I went out to my Scion and rummaged around until I found my latest gadget: a tool that measured with a beam of light instead of a tape.

  Same result. There were definitely hidden spaces in this house.

  And then, as I was trying to figure out what was going on, I heard the faraway strains of classical music. Without thinking, I started humming along: Ta da tan, tan, tan . . .

  Another waltz.

  The music sounded as if it was coming from the foyer, but when I got there I realized the strains were coming from behind the wall, in the dead space. I put my ear up to the new wallboard.

  Ta da tan, tan, tan . . . ta da tan, tan, toooon . . .

  Whispers.

  Giggles.

  And overhead, the loud squeaking of the weathervane.

  Then from very far away, a man’s anguished voice, calling out: “Ooooooor!”

  Dog started barking, and raced up the broad sweep of stairs before I could stop him.

  I ran after him, past the second floor, then the third-floor landing. I was gasping for breath, but kept going, all the way up to the fourth floor where I could hear the clicking of Dog’s nails on the wood floor, then down the hall past Egypt’s room.

  I found Dog at the end of the corridor, simultaneously barking and mewling and crouching, his attention fixed on a large window overlooking part of the roof.

  Still trying to catch my breath, I approached slowly, listening, taking in deep breaths to try to catch any odd odors, trying to “feel” what I was dealing with, if something was off. I kept casting compulsive gl
ances over my shoulders and searching my peripheral vision, where I habitually first saw ghosts.

  Except I didn’t see or sense anything here. But Dog certainly did. And in this area, at least, he was the expert.

  It was bright daylight, but contrary to ghost mythology the time of day was irrelevant to spectral activity. Nighttime made everything spookier, and it was easier for spirits to manifest more fully at night, but in my experience ghosts didn’t care much about the clock. When they wanted to reach out—and were able to—they did.

  I reached around Dog and pushed up the sash window. Wonder of wonders, it was an original wood frame, not one of Andrew’s vinyl replacements. I stuck my head out the window and craned my neck, but saw nothing except the roof a few feet away.

  “What is it, Dog? Do you see something?” I asked, sounding like a character from an old Lassie movie. Still, it made me feel better to talk to him. One of the many reasons Dog had become part of our family was because his ability to see ghosts made me feel less like a nut. And because he had saved my life more than once. And because he was just plain adorable.

  “I’m not seeing anything,” I continued. Dog wagged his tail at the sound of my voice, but his hackles were up and he was growling, a deep, rumbling growl that he made only in the presence of ghosts.

  “It’s like that, is it?” I don’t know what Dog was seeing or sensing, but if he said something was there, then something was there. “All righty, then. Looks like it’s the roof for me. Maybe that weathervane is trying to tell me something?”

  At the far end of the hall was a rather rickety-looking set of metal spiral stairs that led to the roof of the turret, accessed through a skylight window.

  “You stay here, okay? Stay.” It wasn’t as though Dog was big on English. But he would understand my tone, and I didn’t want him trying to follow me up those little metal stairs. “I’ll see you on the flip side.”

  Then I mounted the spiral stairs, my boots clanging on the thin metal risers. Why in the world had Skip Buhner left the wooden window in the hall but yanked out the antique stairs to the roof, I wondered. The original spiral had no doubt been substantial, either wrought iron or wood, not cheap and rickety like these.