Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Not the same thing.”

  The truth was, Garfield Lumber’s operation was old-school. The nails were kept in the same bins they had been in since 1929; the long wooden counter was scarred and gouged; the slower-selling items on the shelves acquired a thick layer of dust. And if you stepped into Garfield without knowing what you were doing, the staff could be downright rude. There was no Helpful Hardware Man here. “Don’t Waste My Time” was Garfield Lumber’s unofficial motto. If you valued your life and all your body parts, you didn’t mention a certain huge store that catered to the DIY crowd.

  On the other hand, once they got to know you, the folks at Garfield would go the extra distance to make sure you had what you needed to get the job done right. In a rapidly growing and ever-changing region like the Bay Area, Garfield Lumber was untouched by trends and entirely predictable.

  I loved it. Probably because it was a place I always had been—and would always be—“Bill’s girl Mel.”

  “You have to eat,” I continued. “Right?”

  “Stale hot dogs? Oh, yum,” Caleb said in a snarky tone that reminded me a little too much of myself.

  There was no denying the barbecue was no great shakes; at Garfield Lumber, even their hot dogs tasted like they’d been around a while. But no one seemed to mind. It was a rare chance to mill around with folks who were normally in a rush, to chill out and knock back a beer or two while swapping jokes, tales of construction mishaps, and the occasional bits of delicious gossip.

  “Besides,” I said, “it’s important to Dad. He wants to show you off, introduce you to his friends.”

  That got him. Caleb was sullen as all get-out lately, but my dad’s opinion mattered to him.

  It had taken a while, but my dad had finally welcomed Caleb into the Turner clan. I had married Caleb’s father, Daniel, when Caleb was five and had been his proud stepmother for eight years. I adored him, and the hardest thing about leaving Daniel had been accepting that I would no longer have any legal ties to Caleb, who felt like my own son. My heartbreak was lessened when I realized that Caleb was as loath to give me up as I was to let him go. Caleb’s mother and I had always gotten along well, and she was happy to allow Caleb to spend time with me when she had to travel for business, especially because Daniel’s new wife was not enthralled with the idea of being a stepmother. Now that Caleb was seventeen—a difficult age—I was in the peculiar position of being able to speak to him not as a parent but as a trusted adult one step removed.

  We headed over the Bay Bridge, which connected San Francisco to Oakland and the East Bay. The bridge consisted of two spans that met at Yerba Buena Island, and the eastern section was brand-new, the old one having failed in the last serious earthquake to hit the area. Its single tower soared skyward in a dramatic sweep.

  I enjoyed the novelty but held my tongue. The last thing Caleb wanted to talk about was architecture.

  “So we’ll pick up Dad and Stan at the house and then head on over to the barbecue. I’ll take you back after, or your dad says you can spend the night if you want.”

  “Whatever.”

  But his interest was sparked when we turned the corner onto the street where I lived in an old farmhouse with Dad and Stan.

  “Who’s that?” asked Caleb, nodding at a shiny black stretch limousine parked at the curb.

  One didn’t see a lot of limos in my neighborhood. It wasn’t prom season, and unless my dad had become a high-rolling drug dealer while I wasn’t looking . . .

  As we pulled up, I recognized Ellis Elrich—flanked by two muscle-bound, unsmiling men, who could only be bodyguards—on the sidewalk, talking to my father and Stan. Dog was bouncing around, barking wildly and ineffectually while wagging his tail, as was his wont.

  Dammit.

  When Dad had asked me last night how the trip to Marin had gone, I’d kept it vague, and soon enough his attention was captured by trying to figure out his new smartphone, with one eye on a baseball game.

  It wasn’t that I had been keeping Larry McCall’s murder a secret, exactly. But I was a little tired of having to explain why someone died whenever I got near a construction project. It was downright eerie, when I stopped and thought about it.

  And since I hadn’t been planning to sign on to the project anyway, I didn’t see the point.

  I climbed out of my Scion with caution.

  “Here’s my girl,” said Dad in the kind of booming, cheerful voice he reserved for Very Important Clients. My father wasn’t easily impressed, but he did feel that the client was king and took that to its logical extension.

  Dad wasn’t a large man, but even now he retained the muscles of a life lived on a construction site, though he had a prominent beer belly and thinning gray hair. Today he was wearing his usual outfit of worn blue jeans and a formerly white T-shirt.

  Ellis Elrich, for his part, was wearing what I was certain must be a very expensive suit.

  “Ah, the famous Mel Turner.” Elrich turned his attention to me, and I understood why everyone was so gaga over him. Charisma. The man had it in spades. There was an intensity to his gaze, a keen intelligence that was apparent from the start. Or maybe it was just his aura—now that I was in the ghost business, it was easier for me to imagine that we all emitted energy, some more clearly than others, and that the people around us sensed and reacted to that energy. “May I call you Mel?”

  “Of course. But what—”

  “And allow me to introduce my driver, Buzz, and this is Andrew, and Omar.”

  “Hello,” I said. Buzz nodded in reply, but Andrew and Omar remained silent and stoic, flanking Elrich, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

  “And who’s this young man?” Elrich asked.

  “I’m Caleb.”

  Elrich put out his hand, and to my surprise, Caleb shook it, standing up straight and nodding in a sort of “hail-fellow-well-met stance.

  “Nice to meet you, Caleb,” said Elrich. “You look like you play soccer.”

  “Yeah, and baseball.” Caleb nodded. “Too short for basketball.”

  “Ah, well, soccer’s more poetic, anyway. And remember what Satchel Paige said: ‘Never let your head hang down. Never give up and sit down and grieve. Find another way.’ There’s always another way.” Elrich gave Caleb a warm smile before turning back to me. “Mel, it is such a pleasure. I was so disappointed we weren’t able to talk yesterday.”

  “Well . . . it was understandable. Under the circumstances, it would have been awkward to keep the sherry hour going.”

  He held my gaze for a long time, then nodded. “In any case, I know this seems sudden, but in fact, I had spoken with Graham previously about whether Turner Construction might take over the Wakefield job, or even work together with Pete Nolan. Now, with what happened yesterday . . .” He trailed off, his expression somber. “Anyway, we’re in a real race with time, and I hear you’ve done joint projects in the past.”

  “Only one, and it was a highly unusual project.”

  “I think you’ll agree this project is pretty unusual, too,” said Elrich. “Not only will Wakefield serve as a retreat center for the Elrich Method, but it is a pilot project for incorporating green techniques in historical renovations. I understand that’s a particular interest of yours.”

  I nodded. Clearly, Graham had been talking. “Why do you call it ‘Wakefield’? Is that the original name of the monastery?”

  “Yes, it’s a rough translation from the original Gaelic. But it’s perfect for a retreat center—don’t you think? As ‘waking up to the world . . .’ And speaking of history, Graham mentioned you’re an anthropologist, which is ideal for this project. It combines history, culture, and architecture. It’s an archaeologist’s dream.”

  “I’m not really that kind of anthropologist.”

  Elrich smiled. “But you are the best in the business, are you not?”

  “Among the best. There are other talented folks out there.” But would they do as good a job as my crew? And more to the poi
nt, would they be able to cope with spirits on-site?

  “I really need your help, Mel. I can’t just let this project grind to a halt. Nolan’s workers don’t deserve to lose their jobs over this. And combined with your own crew, you can employ all those people and accomplish a great reconstruction. Win-win. Not to mention it’ll give Graham Donovan the chance to work on the most exciting project of his career, and be a prototype for green construction in the future. I don’t have to tell you that this is the kind of building that can make history. Also, and perhaps most importantly, I’ll make sure you have the resources you need to do it right.”

  Stan and Dad hung back, following the conversation with avid interest but not chiming in. I appreciated the way they were letting me make this decision, as head of the company. When I had taken over Turner Construction after my father fell apart at the sudden loss of my mother, it had been for only “a few months.” I’d assumed Dad would pull himself together, step back in to run the company he had built, and I would take off for Europe to drown my sorrows or kick up my heels, whichever struck my fancy. But it hadn’t worked out that way. After several years of acting as interim head of Turner Construction, I finally had come to accept that my dad was permanently retired.

  The company was now mine, for better or worse.

  Still, both Dad and Stan had a stake in the health of Turner Construction and were as nervous as I about the lack of work in the pipeline. Here stood a fabulously wealthy client with a project seemingly custom-made for Turner Construction, and I was balking? Since I hadn’t filled them in on the details of what happened yesterday, they were bound to be bewildered by my attitude.

  “I don’t know the first thing about reconstructing an ancient building,” I said. “Our company does historical reconstruction, but that’s in a San Francisco context—we’re talking a hundred years, not six hundred.”

  “Not a problem,” said Elrich with a confident shake of his well-coiffed head. “I have a special consultant on retainer. Florian Libole, have you heard of him?”

  “Of course,” I said. No one in my line of work would fail to recognize the name. Florian Libole was world famous in the historic reconstruction business, the go-to man for the British aristocracy.

  “He’s very anxious to meet you.”

  “To meet me?”

  “There aren’t many firms that specialize in this sort of thing here in California, as you know. If you refuse me, I’m afraid I’ll have to import someone from back east, or worse, from Europe. They would take time getting their bearings, not to mention a job of this magnitude should be handled locally as much as possible—don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. I have several other jobs going, and with the commute to Marin County . . .”

  “You’re welcome to stay at my place,” he said. “It’s huge, built to house plenty of folks. I’ve got several people staying there now, and I’ve invited Graham as well. As a matter of fact . . .”

  Ellis paused, and I noticed he had everyone’s full attention, even Dog’s. This guy was good.

  “According to my assistant, the house could use some sprucing up. It’s a Victorian on the outside, but inside it’s sort of Spanish Revival, Mission style, lots of hand-painted tile—you didn’t get a chance see it yesterday, but I think you’ll like it. Don’t forget your bathing suit; we have a beautiful pool and sauna. And feel free to bring the dog—he’ll love running free on the fenced grounds.”

  Elrich reached down to pet Dog. The canine wagged his tail and leaned his considerable weight against the billionaire’s leg, leaving long brown hairs on the fine suit. Buzz looked annoyed on his boss’s behalf, but Elrich didn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, he seemed determined to make everyone—even the dog—like him, and appeared to be succeeding.

  I looked at Stan’s face, at my dad, at Caleb. They all seemed to be in favor of Ellis Elrich’s proposal. Eccentric clients with more dollars than sense were my specialty. And there was no doubt Turner Construction needed a big job like this.

  But only Dog knew what I’d seen yesterday, and he wasn’t talking.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “I do appreciate the offer, but I need some time to think it through. I hope you didn’t come all the way here just to talk to me.”

  “I had some business in San Francisco anyway, and I rarely take time to explore Oakland. Florian tells me I simply must stop by and see the Chapel of the Chimes while I’m here. He says it’s a hidden gem. Built by Julia Morgan, right? Oakland really is a beautiful city.”

  That was very politic of him. My dad’s house was nowhere near the Chapel of the Chimes; instead, we live in the Fruitvale section of Oakland, a neighborhood once chock-full of orchards but now jammed with small bungalows all in a row, with the exception of the big old farmhouse that was our home. Locals called it “working class”; outsiders referred to it as “gritty.”

  “In case you decide to join us.” Elrich signaled to one of the burly men next to him, who reached into his breast pocket and extracted a plain manila envelope. He handed it to Elrich, who offered it to me. “This contains some documents that will fill you in on a few of the details, and most importantly, a check for the deposit.”

  I peeked at the check and gulped. There were a whole lot of zeroes. It didn’t take an accountant to realize it was enough to keep Turner Construction—and all the people we employed—solvent for a good six months. And this was just the “deposit.”

  “Give it some thought,” said Elrich. “And let me know by tomorrow? I’m sorry to rush you like this, but we don’t have any time to lose. Even with yesterday’s tragedy, it’s essential we keep on schedule to the extent possible.”

  “Do you have the go-ahead from the police to start construction again?”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I repeated. I wasn’t promising anything, but I hadn’t seen a check that big since . . . well, since never, actually.

  Ellis thanked us, patted Dog, and climbed into the limo with his entourage. We watched the huge car glide down the street. The sight of the luxury vehicle had coaxed several of our neighbors out onto their porches, and a trio of laughing kids chased it for a block before giving up.

  “A limo like that’s even more exciting than when the garbage truck fell into the sinkhole right there. Remember that?” observed Stan. He explained to Caleb: “It took three industrial tow trucks to pull the lumbering truck out of the hole, and it forced the city to finally fix the problem.”

  “Seriously?” said Caleb. His two homes in San Francisco were in fancy neighborhoods; he still found Oakland’s less-than-posh approach to urban life to be intriguing.

  We waved at the neighbors, and when the limo turned the corner and zoomed out of sight, Dad turned to me.

  “I thought you said the site meeting in Marin yesterday didn’t result in anything.”

  “I wasn’t planning on taking the job.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “It’s sort of a good-news, bad-news situation,” I explained.

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” he said, and I imagined he was mentally rolling his eyes.

  “The good news is, someone died at the Wakefield jobsite yesterday. Was killed, actually.”

  Dad, Stan, and Caleb looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Dog looked at me as though waiting for me to drop some food, but that was his typical stare.

  “Someone died?” asked Caleb. “Who?”

  “No one you know,” I said. “A building inspector.”

  “Well, no one likes building inspectors,” Dad observed with a grunt.

  “Even so,” said Stan, “I would have thought a murder would count as the bad news.”

  “Yes, well, obviously, if you were the one killed. Or his family, or . . . Okay, clearly it’s tragic. Horrible. All I’m saying is that in terms of me, at least the place is now pre-disastered.”

  They weren’t following my logic. I tried again.


  “You know how, lately, I have a tendency to stumble across dead bodies on my jobsites? Well, this jobsite already has a dead body. What are the chances I’ll come across another one?”

  “That’s . . . random,” said Caleb.

  “We sure could use the work, babe,” said Dad with a shake of his head. “But I don’t want you on yet another job with yet another murderer running around.”

  “That’s more good news, actually—the killer’s in custody. He was the general on the job: Pete Nolan. Graham said you know him?”

  “Sure, I know Pete,” said Dad. “They say Pete’s the one who killed this guy?”

  “He’s a loose cannon, all right,” said Stan. “That SOB sucker-punched me once when he didn’t like what I said about the Oakland Raiders’ chances for the Super Bowl. Remember that?”

  “That was when Pete was a drunk,” said my dad. “He hasn’t had any problems like that for years now.”

  Stan shrugged, unconvinced.

  “Anyway, he’s in custody,” I continued. “So I guess that’s the end of that. That’s what I mean about the place being pre-disastered.”

  “So if a dead guy on-site is the good news,” said Caleb. “What’s the bad news?”

  Ghosts, I thought to myself, but did not say aloud. I remembered the sensation I had felt in the presence of the Lady in Red. It gave me a knot in the pit of my stomach, just thinking of it. On the other hand, maybe I needed to help her. Maybe that was my special role: to find buildings full of miserable ghosts and either banish them, or help them cross over, or negotiate a settlement between them and the living.

  “The bad news is, it’s too far for me to commute. Raul could step in on the day to day finishing up our current projects, but I’d have to take Elrich up on his offer to stay up there for a while. At least until we get things running smoothly.”

  The truth was, I could use some time away. I adored my father, and his friend Stan, and this old farmhouse. But Elrich was offering me the chance to have some time to myself as his guest at a beautiful estate complete with pool and a view of the ocean? Yes, please.