Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Thanks for coming, Mel. My grandfather will be right out. But in the meantime, I have a question of my own for you: This house has already cost us a fortune, and the carrying costs are eating into our profits every month. Whatever you’re planning on doing will add to those costs. Can you guarantee that after you’re done the ghosts will be taken care of?”

  “I don’t know that I can guarantee it, no. But I’ll do my best, and I haven’t failed yet.”

  I didn’t always rid a haunted house of its ghosts—whether a ghost stays or moves on is really not up to me. But so far, at least, I had been able to reach satisfying arrangements with all of the spirits I’d encountered on the job. In some cases I had been able to put the ghosts to rest, while others I had negotiated a settlement that allowed the ghosts to coexist peacefully with the living. But I wasn’t going to go into such details with Lacey Flynt.

  “I mean, shouldn’t that be sort of assumed in a contract?” Lacey pressed her point. “That construction work would also get rid of any resident ghosts?”

  If there was one thing worse than dealing with an overprivileged client, it was dealing with a group of overprivileged clients. I didn’t mind dealing with Andrew, or Andrew and Stephanie as a couple. But I was not going to deal with the entire Flynt clan.

  “Your father came to me for help, Lacey, not the other way around. If your family decides to work with someone else, that’s your prerogative. But for simplicity’s sake I would prefer to deal directly with your father and mother, as the owners of Crosswinds.”

  “Oh, hey, Mel,” Mason said as he walked into the lobby. His gaze shifted to Lacey then back to me. “Oops, Lacey, are you screwing things up again?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lacey said. “I’m just trying to get some assurance that she’s going to take care of things so we can off-load that damned house.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Mason said. “But now you want a ghost-free guarantee?”

  Lacey glared at her brother. “I just want this whole thing to be done with, once and for all.”

  “Don’t we all,” said George as he joined us. He had a blue blazer draped over one arm, and a manila envelope in his hand. “Your father’s been obsessed with redoing that place, and with that ridiculous psychic.” He seemed to realize he was being rude, and flashed an apologetic look at me. “May she rest in peace, of course. But it’s high time to move on and get some damned work done. Mel, thank you for stopping by. Andrew was on his way out of town and asked me to give you the contract in person.” He handed the manila envelope to me. “All signed, plus a check for your retainer. I had my lawyers look it over and they made a few small alterations. I trust there will be no problem.”

  I slipped the papers out of the envelope and skimmed them. The changes the lawyers had made were minor, so I nodded.

  “Looks fine. Thank you. Will Andrew be out of town for long?”

  George snorted.

  “A few days, a week at most,” said Mason, with an ingratiating smile. “Dad asked me to answer any questions you might have in the interim, but I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing much better than I.”

  I had the sense that Mason, as family peacekeeper, had cultivated that smile and his negotiating tactics. It could not be easy to navigate the stormy seas of the Flynt Family, what with all that money at stake. Not for the first time I felt grateful for my far more modest upbringing. The members of the Turner Clan got on one another’s nerves from time to time, but money, at least, was never an issue.

  “And your mother, Stephanie?” I asked. “I assume she and your father are the legal owners of the property?”

  George snorted again. I was beginning to feel sorry for Andrew, growing up with that sort of attitude from Daddy.

  “Mom’s busy,” said Lacey. “She has her own work to do.”

  “I see.” Given that Stephanie had turned over her responsibilities in the original renovation to Egypt, I supposed it wasn’t surprising she would opt out now that ghosts were involved. Still, I disliked getting handed off from one family member to another. This job was almost certain to be a headache, and if I weren’t already so embroiled, I may well have torn that contract up and walked away.

  “Well, I have a business to run,” said George. “Thanks again for stopping by, Mel, and I hope you can whip that place into shape quickly so we can all move on.” He turned to the receptionist. “I’m off to Sausalito, and then I have lunch with the mayor at Garibaldi’s. Should be back early afternoon to meet the auditors.”

  “They’re coming today?” Lacey asked.

  George nodded. “Part of the IPO prep. Nothing for you to worry about; it’s an independent agency and your brother put everything in order.”

  Another nod to our trio, and he left.

  All of us—Lacey, Mason, the receptionist, and I—fell silent for a moment, watching the door swing shut behind the elderly magnate. Whatever else one might say about George Flynt, he commanded attention.

  “Well,” I said, as my phone beeped. More texts—I was hoping one was from the sheetrock guy I was waiting on. “Nice to see you both again. I’d best be getting back to work.”

  “You’re not going to give her the tour?” asked the receptionist, holding up a special visitor’s badge.

  “Good point,” said Mason, passing the badge to me. “Would you like a tour?”

  Lacey rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would she want a tour? She, like, builds houses and chases ghosts. I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in our business.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” I said, feeling contrary. “Why wouldn’t I be interested? I mean, it’s Tempus, Ltd., am I right?”

  “You don’t have any idea what we do here, do you?” Lacey demanded. She might be rude, but she was also shrewd.

  “I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m fuzzy on the details.”

  Lacey snorted in an exact imitation of her grandfather. “Besides, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to give her a tour. We need to think about industrial espionage.”

  “Good point,” I said. “There’s always a chance I orchestrated everything having to do with the ghosts at Crosswinds in order to perpetrate industrial espionage at a company I’ve never even heard of.”

  Mason laughed out loud.

  “Calm down, Lacey,” he said. “Mel’s not an industrial spy, and even if she were, just going on the tour wouldn’t do her any good. It’s not that exciting.”

  Lacey threw up her hands and disappeared down the hall, presumably to her office.

  “Allow me to show you around,” said Mason, still chuckling, and I followed him to a closed door, where he put his thumb on a screen. A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. We passed a conference room featuring a gleaming twelve-foot acrylic table and a huge TV screen.

  “Are you really concerned about industrial espionage?” I asked.

  “It probably sounds paranoid, but there’s nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come. Who said that? Victor Hugo, I think?”

  “Not sure,” I said with a shrug, peeking into what looked like standard offices as we walked past.

  “Here at Tempus we’re devoted to halting the aging process and allowing individuals to look and feel their very best at all times. To accomplish this, we have a multipronged approach: vitamins and supplements, an individualized exercise program, a series of hormone injections . . .”

  As Mason rattled off his well-rehearsed promo speech, we walked past giant photographs of what I assumed were cutting-edge scientific procedures decorating the walls of the long hallway. Mason paused outside a room outfitted like a high-tech lab. Inside were a variety of monitors, vaguely scientific-looking equipment, and three people in white lab coats.

  “The actual medical interventions are done off-site, of course. These are ou
r offices for the clean work, but we also have research labs in Sausalito and several consulting physicians who work with us out of their offices.”

  “I see. But to go back to the first thing you said: You’re dedicated to halting the aging process?”

  He smiled, eyebrows lifting like a little boy opening a present. “Amazing, right? Think about it: New technologies are leading to the kind of cellular regeneration only dreamed of in the past. It’s like the fountain of youth. It’s incredible.”

  “Yes, it, uh, certainly is,” I agreed. The fountain of youth was a work of fiction, of course, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Tempus here might not be selling a fiction, as well. Eternal youth would no doubt command a very high price.

  What I had originally thought was a lovely tribute to older people, I realized now was advertisement for the company’s product. Look how much younger you can look and feel! proclaimed a series of before-and-after shots adorning the walls. But then what did I know? Perhaps science really had advanced to the point where we could at least slow the aging process, if not halt it.

  On the other hand, I thought, watching a pampered older woman being led out of one of the rooms marked “aesthetician,” the place seemed a lot like a plastic surgeon’s office. Nothing like a nip and a tuck to shave off a few years.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Mason said.

  “Do you?”

  “You think we’re catering to the vanity and unrealistic expectations of the very wealthy.”

  “I . . . uh . . . I really don’t know anything about this sort of thing, Mason. The only aging I’m familiar with is with buildings. Even there, there are ways to shore things up and make buildings last, but age always tells eventually, doesn’t it? But that’s part of their beauty. I mean, isn’t that one of the nice parts of life?”

  He chuckled. “I felt the same as you do when my grandfather first brought me into the business. But, think of it like ghosts: Once you see, you become a believer.”

  “I suppose—” I stopped short in front of a large photo of Chantelle, her ethereal good looks beckoning. Then I turned questioning eyes to Mason.

  “Yeah, um . . .” He blushed. “I guess we should probably take that down, given what’s . . . happened.”

  “Was Chantelle involved in Tempus?”

  “She was interested in the project, of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Me, for one. Maybe I read Frankenstein at an impressionable age, but I was wary of anyone messing around with nature.

  “Was Chantelle a client?”

  He tilted his head a little to one side in what looked like a cross between a shake of the head and a nod.

  “Or maybe a shareholder?” I suggested.

  “The company hasn’t gone public yet. We’re preparing for an IPO this spring.” He waved me into a beautifully outfitted office with a view of downtown San Francisco and the Bay Bridge in the distance. “And this is my office. What do you think?”

  “Lovely,” I said with a nod. “So, what was Chantelle’s involvement in Tempus?”

  “She was supportive of the idea, and wanted to get involved. Dad was negotiating with her to provide an endorsement. Her celebrity would have been a boon for the business, no doubt. But that’s all a moot point now, of course.”

  “And Lacey’s involved in the business as well?”

  He paused.

  “Yes,” Mason said finally. “Yes, she is. Same as me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I sat in the car in the garage, pondering what I had learned during my visit to the Tempus, Ltd. headquarters.

  After Mason’s rather cryptic response, I had tried to pursue the topic of Lacey, but he clammed up.

  Probably it was nothing. Clearly there was no love lost between Mason and Lacey. And given what I’d seen of Grandpop George, he seemed to me the type to pit brother against sister in the boardroom as well as on the golf course.

  And what was it George had said, that Andrew had been “obsessed” by Chantelle? That wasn’t the impression Andrew had given me. Hadn’t he said Stephanie had called Chantelle in? Then again, he had seemed quite shaken up by the news of her death. Chantelle was a beautiful woman, and I imagined she had been fascinating.

  So why wouldn’t Andrew have mentioned that she was a client—possibly an investor—in Tempus?

  Was it possible Andrew had been closer to Chantelle than he’d let on? Maybe even having an affair? And if so, could that be the news Chantelle was planning to use to blackmail him?

  I wondered if I should mention this admittedly vague suspicion to Annette Crawford. The inspector had told me, time and again, that people are most often killed by those who were supposed to love them: by parents and siblings, spouses and lovers. It was enough to feed the natural cynicism of a person like me.

  But unless Andrew really had been having an affair with Chantelle, and was so desperately afraid of being blackmailed that he killed her in a fit of rage, there was still no tie that I could see among Tempus, Ltd., the Flynt clan, and Chantelle’s death. No matter how off-putting the Flynts were.

  Unless there was something else in play that I hadn’t discovered yet. What might the other Flynts—George, Mason, Stephanie, or Lacey—have been trying to keep secret that would inspire blackmail?

  There was the sale of Crosswinds. Had Chantelle somehow managed to keep people from buying it? There were twenty-nine million reasons to want her dead right there. But that made no sense. The ghosts were chasing people out of the house long before Chantelle arrived—it was why the Flynts had hired her.

  Of course, there were no doubt a whole lot of corporate secrets hidden behind the heavy doors of Tempus, Ltd. Could Andrew have let something slip to Chantelle, and she used the information to blackmail him, or members of his family? Was that what Mason meant when he said Chantelle was interested in getting involved with Tempus, Ltd.—could it have been more than a mere endorsement deal?

  Then again . . . Chantelle had been stabbed to death. Such an up close and personal attack suggested passion, didn’t it? Or had I watched one too many episodes of Dad’s favorite crime show?

  As I sat there, thinking, George Flynt walked by, deep in discussion with a woman.

  That was odd; he said he was headed to Sausalito, and then to lunch with the mayor.

  Odder still was the woman he was talking to—make that, arguing with. Or so it seemed, from this distance. She wore a bright batik scarf and a pure white dress.

  Egypt Davis.

  I scooted down in my seat so they wouldn’t see me, and tried to listen in on what they were saying, but I couldn’t make out anything but a single word: audit.

  • • •

  I called Annette and left a voice mail saying that maybe Andrew was having an affair with Chantelle but I had no proof, and maybe Egypt Davis was somehow enmeshed with George Flynt but I had no idea what significance it might have. And then I tried to crack some joke about not actually knowing anything, but it fell flat and it occurred to me that there should be a way to erase voice mail messages from afar. Maybe I should ask Landon if there was some sort of app for that.

  Time to get back to work. I returned a few phone calls, and then headed out to Glen Park to go over a few backsplash tile choices with the clients at a residential remodel—an unhaunted remodel that was noticeably corpse-free.

  Late in the afternoon, when I would normally be heading home, I drove instead to Crosswinds to acquaint my lead carpenter, Jeremy, with the house and the unusual job we had been hired to do. I had also arranged to meet Nico, who had collected my salvage yard purchases which we would stage in the home’s three-car garage that was serving as our interim workshop. I felt bad evicting Egypt’s little Ford from its spot, but Andrew had assured me she was happy to oblige.

  When I arrived I went upstairs to speak with Egypt in person, but there was no answer
to my knock on her door. Perhaps she was still convening with George.

  I was beginning to feel a little like Andrew, wondering what was behind her bedroom door and fighting the impulse to break in.

  Jeremy and I did a quick walk-through of the house and came up with a preliminary scope of work. It wasn’t easy describing the situation to him. Normally Turner Construction did jobs right: completing every step of the process from A to Z. Contractors were famous for walking off jobs before they were done—in this business, a general was always looking for the next gig, so it was tempting to start up a new job before the old one was finished. We didn’t do that at Turner Construction. So explaining to Jeremy that we were going to restore Crosswinds only to the extent necessary to appease a ghost . . . well, it was tricky.

  Especially since I was not exactly “out” to my work crew as a ghost buster. The more perceptive among them had put two and two together, but it was a little complicated explaining this sort of thing.

  We stood outside on the sidewalk, looking up at the roofline as I explained about the widow’s walk and the weathervane.

  “Nico’s arriving with a truckload of stuff at five,” I was saying. “I—”

  Once again my words were cut off by the arrival of Landon Demetrius.

  He was limping ever so slightly, but as he always held himself stiffly I couldn’t tell if his ribs were hurting him. Once again I felt guilty that he had taken the brunt of the fall to protect me; my landing on top of him had no doubt made things worse for him.

  “You’re like a bad penny,” I said after introducing him to Jeremy, who went to clear the driveway for the delivery truck. “Turning up in the oddest places.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Landon said. “Andrew Flynt said I was welcome to look around.”

  “Of course. But, why?”

  “I thought it might help me find peace with my . . . situation.”

  “Oh.”

  Again our gaze met and held just a tad too long. Damn. I’d been hoping to see Graham before meeting with Landon again, if only for the much-needed reality check. Graham and I had spoken last night, right before I went to bed; he was excited about today’s meeting in New York, but I thought I detected a slight edge in his voice. I knew he was annoyed with me for not going with him. For never going with him. Last night in my in-box was an article he had forwarded about the importance of taking vacations.