“Why did Chantelle meet with each of them privately?”
“Stephanie said that it was quite a coup to get an entire evening with Chantelle. So while they had her there, she wanted the whole family to receive guidance from the spirits.”
“And did they?” asked Landon. At our questioning looks, he continued: “Was she able to give them guidance from ‘beyond’?”
“Of course. I mean, I suspect so—your sister was so very talented. Very exclusive!”
Karla went on to confirm what the Flynts already had told me: that during the séance Chantelle made contact with spirits who told her to undo all the work Skip had done, or at the very least to replace some of the architectural features of the house.
“But all of this still begs the question,” Landon said in a harsh whisper. “How in the world would any of this relate to someone killing my sister?”
Karla checked her phone. I tried to think how to answer him.
“I spoke with the inspector on the case earlier today, Landon, and she says they’re following up on several leads. It’s possible Chantelle was reading for someone unstable, who became so agitated they attacked her. Or it could be a disgruntled boyfriend. At this point there’s really no reason to think it has to do with Crosswinds.”
He remained silent, staring at the table.
Karla checked her phone once again. “I’m sorry, but I really have to run. I don’t feel like I was able to answer your questions very well, and I apologize for that. But believe me when I say there is no one—with the exception of the Flynt family—who more wants to complete the sale of Crosswinds than I do. So if you need to install a few antique fixtures, it seems rather absurd to me, but it’s fine. Whatever you need to do.”
And with that Karla excused herself, leaving Landon and me staring across the table at each other.
Chapter Twelve
“You said you were looking for me?” I asked.
“Yes. I want to understand how Crosswinds relates to my sister’s death.”
“As I was just saying, we don’t know that it is related,” I repeated. “And fair warning, Landon: Inspector Crawford isn’t fond of people ‘mucking around in her crimes,’ as she would say.”
I would have thought it impossible, but he sat even straighter. “I am not ‘mucking around.’ I never muck.”
“It’s an expression. Not an insult. It’s just . . . She’s a homicide inspector. It’s a pretty rough gig, and she likes to be in control of all the possible issues.”
“From what I gather, you have interfered in quite a few of her cases.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I looked you up, Mel Turner. You’re all over the Internet. On some rather sketchy Web sites and blogs, sorry to say. I also read an article on you in Haunted Home Quarterly. And then I spoke to your father, I believe. And Stan. And a young man named Caleb.”
“What, did they pass the phone around?”
“Indeed.”
Mental head slap.
“Anyway,” I continued, tamping down the impulse to disavow my chatty family. “Inspector Crawford is the best—if your sister’s murderer is out there, she’ll find him. Or her.”
“And what if all of this has to do with the supposed . . . haunting of Crosswinds?”
“Even then. Inspector Crawford and I have worked on some unusual cases together.”
He lifted his eyebrows but did not speak.
“Seriously, Landon. I know it’s hard, but try to get your mind off this. Don’t you have classes to teach?”
“Not for another two weeks. I came early to get settled and to”—his voice cracked slightly—“to spend time with my sister. And now I suppose I need the time to plan her funeral. To tell you the truth I have no idea where she would have wanted to be buried. Who thinks about such things?”
“What about your hometown?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “We both left years ago. There’s not much sentimental attachment.”
“I didn’t know your sister, but here in Oakland there’s Mountain View cemetery. It’s not far from here, as a matter of fact. Hands down the best views of San Francisco. It’s a really magical place.”
“Do you say that as a magical expert?”
I smiled and finished the dregs of my coffee. “More as someone who loves to walk there. It’s so beautiful the locals use it as a park. That might sound macabre, but when you check it out I think you’ll agree that it’s really lovely. It was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who also planned New York City’s Central Park. He was part of the landscape school of park designers. And next door is the Chapel of the Chimes, an incredible columbarium designed by Julia Morgan, the architect who built Hearst’s Castle, sort of Gothic Revival meets Italianate. . . .”
I trailed off. Sometimes my love of architecture and design could veer right on over into crazy-making territory, as my sister Cookie took pains to remind me.
“Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “It’s none of my business, I know.”
“I appreciate the suggestion. Thank you. I will look into it.”
“So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I’m just . . . trying to figure this out. I’m about at my wit’s end. I was up until three in the morning pondering the cardinality of the continuum—sorry, that’s a mathematical equation. I suppose it’s jet lag, combined with the shock. Cheryl—Chantelle and I were orphaned early on in life. I’m afraid there will be no one to mourn her.”
“Chantelle’s death was reported in the local papers yesterday. I think you might underestimate the effect she has had on the lives of people she’s read for, all those she’s helped.”
“Bollocks.” He seemed to catch himself. “Pardon me. Nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. If she really could speak and see beyond the veil, her insight would have provided consolation, and resolution for her clients. I imagine your sister was popular for a reason.”
He seemed to be debating something in his mind.
“And I know whereof I speak,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I don’t want to brag, but Haunted Home Quarterly doesn’t anoint just anybody as their most promising up-and-coming ghost buster.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a reluctant half smile. “That article was over a year old. Have you fulfilled your promise?”
“You have no idea.”
When my phone beeped, I answered a text about plumbing issues for one of the numerous guest suites at the job in Marin, and then confirmed an order with Economy Lumber.
“Sorry about that,” I said as I stashed my phone. “Rude, I know. Anyway, I really should get back to work.”
“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” he said with a ghost of a smile.
“Shakespeare?”
“Henry IV. Say, if you’re going to Crosswinds, I’d like to accompany you.”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m headed out to some salvage yards.”
“Whatever for?”
“It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but I’m hoping to find items that were stripped from Crosswinds so I can put them back. Or, failing that, to find something similar. Also because my client is paying me to troll salvage yards, which is one of my favorite things to do.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Aren’t salvage yards, by definition, full of other people’s rubbish?”
“‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,’” I said. “Shakespeare wrote that, too.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Well, he should have. Think about it, Landon: It’s not trash, it’s remnants of other lives. You never know what you might find, so it’s kind of like a treasure hunt. Sometimes I comb through salvage yards when I’m at a loss or was up until three a.m. trying to figure out the continuing cardinal equation.”
“Right. That’s what I meant.”
Another reluctant smile. “It sounds fascinating. Might I accompany you?”
I hesitated.
“Please,” he said softly. “I’m sorry if I am making a pest of myself, but I’m truly at my wit’s end. I need to do something, anything constructive, and quite frankly you’re the only person I’ve met since I moved here. Besides, if Chantelle’s reading of Crosswinds was in any way connected to her demise . . .”
I started to remind Landon once more that there was no evidence, none, that his sister’s murder was related to Crosswinds. But he was a smart man; he already knew that. As he said, he was at his wit’s end. Once he moved into his apartment and the semester got under way he would meet people, but until then he was cast adrift. He didn’t strike me as the type to drink himself senseless and dance up a storm on the club scene or lose himself in the latest marathon of Hoarders while ordering room service.
“Sure,” I said, gathering my things. “It’ll be fun. Allow me to introduce you to the magical world of other people’s rubbish.”
• • •
First on the list: two Oakland junkyards, which yielded precisely nothing. I hadn’t expected much; they were sketchy places specializing in stolen hubcaps, kidnapped garden statuary, and purloined copper pipe, but they were close by and I figured it was worth handing out a few business cards. If nothing else, word would pass down through the junkyard grapevine that I was interested in items from Skip Buhner, in particular a weathervane shaped like a ship.
“Well, that was interesting,” Landon said as we climbed back into my Scion. “I may now die happily, having seen firsthand the veritable underbelly of Oakland’s rubbish.”
“Stick with me, professor, and I’ll show you the world,” I said, firing up the engine. As we set out for one of my favorites, Griega Salvage, I could have sworn I heard Landon chuckle.
Most builders knew Griega well. Salvage yards in the Bay Area ran the gamut from true junkyards specializing in rusty car parts and broken plastic toys, to businesses that could pass as antiques stores. Griega Salvage’s owner was devoted to true architectural salvage, such as marble columns and tumbled cherubs and huge stained glass windows. Griega also carried such basics as crystal doorknobs and carved and stamped hardware that was hard to find elsewhere. Mingled among the more precious items was just enough junk to make the search exciting.
The open yard was chock-full of treasures and rife with possibility: fountains and carved fireplace surrounds, slipper tubs and ornamental metal, plumbing fixtures and cool old wooden doors. I felt like a kid in a candy store.
Some people go for spa treatments or fancy dinners when they want to treat themselves. I poke around funky places like this.
Landon didn’t look quite as thrilled. True, items left out of doors got a bit grungy, adding to the accumulated grime of the basements and attics where the pieces previously had been stored. I wondered if he might be afraid to muss his black jacket, which to me looked old-fashioned but which was no doubt on the cutting edge of fashion in London.
After several minutes of watching me pick through a pile of old metal pieces, Landon leaned toward me and whispered, “What are we looking for?”
I looked around: There was no one in sight. “Why are you whispering? I told you, I’m looking for some things removed from Crosswinds.”
“Two questions.”
“Shoot.”
“First, do you honestly think anything will still be here, after all these months? Second, even if something is still here, will you be able to find it amidst all this . . . treasure?”
“Check out those andirons,” I said, pointing to a pair of iron and brass andirons wedged under an old brass bed frame. I squatted down and reached one arm through the metal bars, but could just barely touch them with my fingertips.
“Are those on the list?” Landon asked, squatting next to me and sounding moderately more interested.
“No, but aren’t they cool?”
Landon frowned.
“Here’s the thing,” I explained. “Shopping salvage yards is a lot like looking for a romantic partner. You only find them when you aren’t looking. And when you do find one, you have to strike while the iron is hot.”
Landon mulled that over. “So, then, if I follow your logic we won’t find what we’re looking for precisely because we’re looking for it. Then why are we here?”
I was regretting bringing him along.
“Because you just never know.” I abandoned the andirons. “Let me see if Nancy’s here. If she can’t help us, we’ll move on to the next one on the list.”
Salvage yard proprietors were as varied as salvage yards themselves: Some were toothless guys in overalls and ripped T-shirts who moonlighted as trash haulers, and others were like Nancy, who knew the difference between Art Deco and Art Nouveau, and had a knack for acquiring some true gems. Nancy was a large woman with a short, spiky haircut and a pleasant but no-nonsense attitude. I sometimes wondered if she had formal training in architecture, though we weren’t close enough for me to ask.
Landon and I found her sitting behind her desk in the small office, a phone to her ear. There was a shrine to some sort of goddess in one corner, covered in little cards and figurines and pieces of fruit. But the rest of the office was jammed with treasures too fragile to be exposed to the elements: wooden carvings and paintings and photographs. As I flipped through a few of the pictures I was reminded of the photos from Crosswinds, and thought of what Karla said about pretend ancestors hanging on the walls.
“Hi, Mel. Long time no see,” Nancy said as she hung up the phone. “Help you?”
“I hope so. Do you know a builder named Skip Buhner, of Buhner Builders?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Not one of our regulars.”
“I’m looking for some things he might have sold from a Pacific Heights remodel a few months ago. In particular, there was a weathervane, all copper, shaped like a ship. Antique, from the late eighteen hundreds? Nice green patina?”
The phone rang. She answered, had a brief conversation, and hung up.
“Sorry. Weathervane, you said? I love weathervanes. They’re special. Powerful.”
“Powerful? How so?” Landon asked.
“They represent the four directions: North, South, East, West. And they’re said to capture some of the energy of the elements, responsive as they are to the wind, and, because they’re usually on the highest point of a roof, they soak up the vibrations from the home.”
“Huh,” I said. I grew up in the Bay Area, and used to be dismissive of what we Oaklanders called “Berkeley types”: New Age-y, health-food-eating, spiritual nuts. But ever since I started seeing ghosts . . . Let’s just say I’d become more open-minded.
“Frankly,” Nancy continued. “We don’t get a lot of weathervanes, and most get snatched up by antiques dealers. But something might have come in when I wasn’t here—did you check the metal corner outside?”
I nodded. “No luck. Do you keep records of who buys what?”
“Only when we think something might have been stolen.”
“Do you frequently acquire stolen goods?” Landon asked.
“We’re a salvage yard, and buy things other people don’t want. Sometimes this means the criminal element tries to use us a way to fence stolen goods they can’t off-load elsewhere. I’m pretty good at spotting them and sending them packing, but my employees occasionally let something pass,” said Nancy. “If someone wants to buy an item I think is fishy, I keep track just in case. It’s sort of middle-of-the-road karma: I still make money off it, but if someone comes looking for it later I have a direction to point them in.”
“So, nothing from the Flynt job, by Buhner? A place called Crosswinds?”
She cocked her head. “You don�
�t mean the Crosswinds Collection?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you talking about the Crosswinds Collection? That’s right—now that I think about it, there was a weathervane on the cover. Shaped like a ship.”
The phone rang again, she answered and chatted for a moment, then hung up and turned back to us. “Sorry. I’m the only one covering the phones today.”
“So you were saying about the Crosswinds Collection?”
“Yeah, I think it was at Uncle Joe’s. You know them?”
I nodded. I knew Uncle Joe’s Salvage Yard only too well. I had been trapped there once, a couple of years ago, on a case related to the first ghost I had knowingly seen and heard. I hadn’t been back, and had been hoping to skip it this go-round. Bad memories.
“A couple of months ago, they send out this big announcement, like they’re suddenly an auction house. I mean, who do they think they’re fooling? I don’t mean to cast aspersions but . . .” She trailed off with shrug. “Anyway, they claimed to be running an auction for an anonymous client. Sent out an e-mail blast and everything.”
“Who was their client, do you know?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t go. For all I knew that stuff was stolen, which is really bad karma.”
In another part of the world Nancy might have crossed herself. But we were in Berkeley, so it was all down to karma. I imagined she might leave an extra something out for her goddess after we left.
“Do you happen to still have the catalog?” I asked.
She shook her head slowly. “It’s possible I kept it, but no idea where it would be.”
I took in the desk, laden with piles of papers and folders. I wasn’t casting judgment—it looked a lot like my office at home.
“Probably I threw it in the recycling. The whole thing sounded fishy to me.”
“Okay. Thanks for all the info. Hey, about those andirons out there, under the brass bed. . . .”
We haggled a little, and in the end I bought the andirons, a few other decorative metal pieces that caught my eye, and three plaster ceiling medallions. Also a toilet lid for the downstairs bathroom in my dad’s house, which was a never-ending renovation project. Turner Construction’s home base proved that old adage about the cobbler’s child having no shoes.
Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Page 11
