Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Elrich noted my interest.

  “It wasn’t my idea to display those,” he said, sounding rather abashed. “But Vernon and Alicia . . .” He inclined his head slightly. “They convinced me it was good for my image—more importantly, for the image of Elrich Enterprises. And I’m facing a harsh reality, Mel: My corporation employs hundreds of people. What started out as Ellis James Elrich standing onstage, talking about overcoming personal adversity, has somehow morphed into a major employer.”

  “I know how it is to feel responsible for other people’s jobs,” I said, surprised to find anything in common with this billionaire.

  “I thought you might,” he said, intelligent eyes studying me. “That’s why you agreed to come work for me, isn’t it? I have the sense that you wouldn’t have done so if not for the good of your workers.”

  This was how Elrich had made his money, I thought. Whether or not he was sincere, he sure came off as honest and forthcoming . . . and perceptive.

  “Vernon Dunn doesn’t share my vision, I’m sorry to say,” Elrich continued. “Even Florian is only here because I am paying him to be.”

  “To be honest, so am I.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. But I have the sense that once you sink your teeth into a project, it becomes more about the love of the building than about the paycheck. Am I right?”

  True. I did my job to the point of obsession sometimes. “Still, this project is quite different from what I usually work on. . . .”

  “Only in the sense that it’s not yet a building,” said Ellis, sitting forward. His hands were clasped on top of the table, large, surprisingly graceful, unadorned by rings or the heavy watch so common to wealthy men. His skin looked richly tanned against the pure white of his cuffs, his wrists thick. “Once it starts to feel more like a building, I do believe you’ll fall in love with the project, just as I have. And just think: Combining history with the forward-thinking green concepts of Graham Donovan—the possibilities are endless.”

  I nodded.

  “The retreat center will house the followers of the Elrich Method most of the year, but I am setting aside six weeks in the summer to provide a summer camp for underprivileged children from Oakland and San Francisco. They’re only a short drive away, and yet many of them have never had the opportunity to breathe good country air, to see the ocean, and to understand how a farm works.”

  “That’s . . . very generous. I know there’s a lot of need.”

  He smiled and ducked his head. “So what I need from you is help proving the naysayers wrong. When you have a chance to spend some time with the stones, I think you’ll fall in love with them, just as I did when I first came upon them in Scotland. As Helen Keller said, ‘The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.’”

  I was beginning to understand how Ellis Elrich had gotten where he was. He was a motivational speaker, after all, and I was falling under his spell, feeling quite motivated. On the other hand . . .

  “So, about the murder . . .”

  He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. Did you know Larry McCall personally?”

  “I met him just moments before . . . the, um . . . incident.”

  “I’ve arranged for a memorial service to be held in the chapel—such as it is—tomorrow evening.”

  “Really. I didn’t realize you knew him.”

  “I didn’t. Only tangentially. But given the tragedy, I think we could all use a little closure. Saying good-bye allows us to move on.”

  I nodded, wondering whether Elrich knew about my experiences with ghosts. And if he did, whether that had anything to do with his invitation to come take over this enormous, profitable project. I was trying to think of a way to form the question, when he continued.

  “There will be no sherry hour tonight, given the circumstances. I understand Graham’s due back from LA tomorrow?”

  “Yes, probably by lunchtime.”

  “Wonderful.” He clapped his hands together and gave me a broad smile. “I can feel it, Mel. We’re coming together. We’re a team now. You think we should get some T-shirts?”

  Even as I smiled at his joke, I couldn’t help but wonder: Had McCall’s death—and Pete Nolan’s incarceration—cleared the way for this team?

  * * *

  “Ms. Turner!”

  I jumped. After leaving Elrich in his Discovery Room, I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed Florian Libole lurking at the top of the stairs. In addition to his musketeer outfit, he wore a large leather bag, much like a woman’s purse, slung over one shoulder.

  “Please call me Mel. May I help you?”

  “Quite the opposite, I expect. Mr. Elrich had suggested that I take you on a walk-through of the site, help you to get your bearings. Heaven knows poor Tony isn’t capable of running this motley crew, so I fear the future of this project rests upon your shoulders.” He squinted at me, mustache twitching, as though assessing whether or not my shoulders were up to the task.

  “I’m looking forward to getting started.” There were plenty of aspects to this project that made me nervous, but getting my hands dirty, starting the work, was always exhilarating. My mind was already racing with possibilities.

  I took time to pull on my work boots, then got Dog out of the car and attached his leash. Libole waited for us, literally tapping his foot, at the entrance to the path that led from the house to the jobsite. The top of the walkway was lined with little solar path lights and landscaped with carefully placed boulders and native plants that hugged the rocks.

  “I’m honored to be working with you on this project,” I said when we started down the hill. What began as a paved walk turned to gravel and then to hard-packed dirt.

  “Thank you. I believe it will be a true legacy, if I do say so myself. Indeed, this locale reminds me a bit of Marshcourt, home of the seventh Earl of Hampshire. Do you know it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said with a shake of my head. “But I’m not really familiar with British aristocra—”

  Apparently, I had no need to know anything, as Libole was more than happy to fill me in. He launched into a long and involved description of the myriad ways in which he was connected to British royalty and of the numerous noble manors he’d worked on over the years. I listened politely but felt like telling him that the name-dropping was wasted on me. I don’t give a hoot about the royal family—typical colonial that I am—and knew nothing of the British aristocracy, though Libole’s renovation résumé was undeniably impressive. Unfortunately, he delivered his self-important monologue with such a pompous air I found it hard to enjoy, even though he was talking about one of my favorite subjects. Did I sound like this when I talked about my projects? I wondered.

  “. . . but ah, yes, the bones of Gertrude Jekyll’s design survived, in the exquisite sunken garden, the long begonia path, the rose and vine-covered pergolas, the herringbone redbrick paths, and the boxwood and yew hedges . . .”

  “Gertrude Jekyll?” I interrupted. “Really?”

  “You know her?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t. I just . . . That’s quite a name,” I said with a smile.

  He looked down his nose at me, his mustache aquiver. “She was a very well-respected designer in her day.”

  “I’m sure she was. And she had a heck of a handle. Bet ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ wasn’t her stripper name, eh?” At Libole’s startled expression, I changed the subject. “So tell me, what’s Vernon Dunn’s objection to this project?”

  “The man cares for nothing but money. He has absolutely no poetry within his soul.”

  “Ah. I—”

  “It is a nest of vipers, Ms. Turner. Beware Alicia Withers, as well.”

  “Okay . . .”

  He leaned toward me and dropped his voice. “She’s a snoop.”

  “Oh?”

  “I lock my doors. Still, she has the skeleton key. I’m sure you’ve seen that key ring she carries around.
I can hear it clanking after I retire every night. I fear there is no privacy where she is concerned.”

  As we grew closer to the jobsite, the noise level increased. Between the compressors, the saws, and the banging, we had to raise our voices. The crew was in full swing.

  “I’m surprised the police have already released the scene,” I said.

  “Elrich has friends in high places. The room where the body was found is still off-limits, I’m afraid. But the rest of the building was released yesterday.”

  Just as Elrich had promised.

  Tony greeted us in front of the small trailer that served as the site office. I introduced him to Dog, and he introduced me to his second in command, Miguel, a bear of a man in his forties. I found a shady spot out of the way to tie up Dog, filled his water bowl from the site’s big yellow thermos, and followed Tony to the temporary shed where Jacek was overseeing the stonecutting. As before, the master stonemason remained mute, nodding and smoking while his assistant, Cesar, explained the specialized stonecutting equipment.

  I was beginning to wonder whether Jacek’s apparent surliness was the result of limited English language skills, which did not bode well. I spoke a little construction-site Spanish, but my Polish was pretty rusty.

  Jacek, Cesar, and two other assistants were covered in so much gray stone dust that they looked like walking statues, and dozens of cigarette butts littered the ground. Between the smoking and their daily exposure to dust, I couldn’t help but worry about the state of their lungs.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing respirators?” I asked.

  Jacek shrugged, and Cesar rolled his eyes.

  I had also noticed that only about half the men were wearing hard hats, even though they were working on a jobsite featuring masonry.

  Regrettably, a lot of construction guys feel their manliness is challenged by commonsense health and safety guidelines. And if the man in charge was cavalier about the subject, the others fell in step. The only way to get these macho types to do the right thing was to lay down the law and then allow them to grouse and grumble about bureaucrats. At least some of them would be secretly pleased that they could care for their health without losing face.

  I felt a little awkward—I hadn’t been formally presented to these folks as the general in charge yet. But there was no time like the present.

  “Tony, call the guys together, will you, please? There are a few things I need to say.” Tony obligingly summoned the crew, and I climbed onto a large block of stone.

  “Starting tomorrow,” I said, my voice rising to carry over the whine of a compressor, “I’ll be in charge of this worksite. I’m Mel Turner, of Turner Construction. Please call me Mel. And yes, before you even bring it up, I’ll say that I have an odd style of dress. You’ll see tomorrow. Feel free to snicker and make jokes behind my back, but I’ll be signing your paychecks, so get used to it. Several of my men will be joining you tomorrow, and as you know, we’ll be working double shifts in an effort to bring this project in on time. But just so we’re clear, Turner Construction follows basic health and safety guidelines, no exceptions. Stonemasons will wear respirators while cutting, and everyone will wear a hard hat at all times. Anybody has a problem with that, feel free to leave. We’ve got a big job ahead of us, and we don’t need to waste time with accidents.”

  The men shifted on their feet and stared at me with cold, flat eyes. Had I been less experienced with construction crews, I would have thought they hated me. But this was just how it went. They were holding back, evaluating me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tested me a little in the next few days. I was not only the new kid on the block. I was the new girl on the block. They’d put me through my paces.

  Complicating the situation, these men were working on a site plagued by sabotage, spirits were running them out of the building, and their former boss had just been booked on suspicion of homicide. Was it any wonder they were feeling a bit insecure?

  “Any questions?”

  “You heard about these . . . ghosts?” asked one slim young man who didn’t look much older than Caleb.

  There were a few snide exhalations of breath, and his colleagues looked at him askance.

  “Just sayin’,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands covered in heavy leather work gloves.

  “Yes. I have heard about that,” I said. “I’ll be looking into it.”

  “Also, someone’s been stealing food,” said a big fellow.

  “Stealing food?”

  “It’s got to the point where we need someone to watch the lunch boxes. I locked mine in my truck, but this is ridiculous.”

  Others jumped into the discussion. Ghosts were one thing, lunches another. These guys worked hard, they got hungry, and they were out in the middle of nowhere, with no easy access to cafés or stores. I wondered why Pete Nolan hadn’t made arrangements for an on-site canteen, as was common on remote locales. A canteen would not only keep the workers fueled but would contribute to a team mentality, an esprit de corps. If the crew thought they couldn’t trust one another not to steal lunches, the whole project would be affected.

  “I’ll check that out,” I said. “We should at least be able to get some fresh coffee and energy drinks down here for you guys. I’ll see what I can do.”

  It pleased me to see a few heads nodding. Heck, throw in a dozen glazed doughnuts and they’d be eating out of my hand. I wasn’t averse to bribing my way into the hearts of men. Besides, up at the house we had a twenty-four-hour snack bar supplied by a famous French chef. It didn’t seem quite fair.

  I handed out my Turner Construction business card, which included my cell phone number, shook a number of hands, and assured everyone that payroll would be met, as usual, on Friday. I would see to it personally.

  Finally, I joined Florian Libole, who had been lounging on a stone bench by the entrance to the chapel, watching.

  “Are you quite ready to speak about architecture now, Norma Rae?” he asked, mustache aquiver.

  “‘Norma Rae’? Because I think the guys should have coffee? Or follow basic safety procedures?”

  He gave me a scathing look. So much for my plan to win over the distinguished Florian Libole. I was beginning to feel discouraged. Ellis Elrich might like me, but so far his entourage appeared less than impressed. I looked forward to the arrival of my guys on-site tomorrow, not to mention Graham. Murderer on the loose or not, I needed some friends at my back.

  “Shall we begin?” Florian asked.

  I handed him a hard hat and put on my own.

  “After you,” I said, and watched him duck into the main entrance to the chapel.

  I hesitated for a moment, thinking about my less-than-dignified departure from this building yesterday. The vision of Larry McCall’s ghost, then seeing his body on the floor; the weeping; that strange Lady in Red. The sensations of despondency and nauseating hunger.

  But as I had assured the men in my life just yesterday: Surely this place was now pre-disastered, and I could go about figuring out what the ghosts were trying to tell me and get this job done. Right?

  Besides, workers were scuttling in and out of the building, pushing wheelbarrows and mixing mortar. Men swarmed across scaffolding like honeybees on a hive, soldering and sawing and laying stone.

  I paused in the archway and stroked the ring around my neck before stepping inside.

  Chapter Six

  Florian launched into full-blown tour-guide mode, pointing to a wall here, a section of ceiling there.

  “The building was abandoned centuries ago, and half of it had long since been dragged off by the surrounding villagers, who used the stones to lay the foundation for their own homes or in landscaping and walls.”

  “I saw someone demonstrating at the gate,” I said as I trailed Libole through one stone chamber after another, in varying degrees of completion. “I take it there have been issues of repatriation?”

  He grunted and waved one large hand in the air. “Stuff and nonsense. This is the clas
sic case of wanting something only after someone else has invested in its salvation. No one wanted this monastery; it had been falling apart for aeons. Elrich paid the village and the Scottish government handsomely for it. They can do much more with the money than they could ever have hoped to do with the building. It’s different over there, you know: They have more ruins than you can shake a shillelagh at. Worse, the monastery was on a small island off the coast; nothing there but rocks and sheep.”

  He handed me a manila envelope containing photos of the ruins in their original location on an island off the bleak, forbidding coast of Scotland. The monastery did, indeed, look like an abandoned ruin, consisting primarily of haphazard piles of tumbled stones scattered about the rocky ground. Only one tower and a few exterior walls remained standing.

  “Why is Elrich so intent on this building in particular?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to build something new, or to renovate an existing historic building in the area? There’s the old mill in Mill Valley. . . .”

  “Ellis Elrich doesn’t believe in taking the easy path. He took a trip to Scotland long ago and apparently had what he refers to as a ‘spiritual awakening.’ I believe he fell in love with the place at that time.” Libole shrugged and pointed out an area of stone joinery where the walls met the ceiling. “You can see that this part of the building, here in the back, featured thick, bulky walls and small, rounded windows that didn’t let in much light.”

  “Was that on purpose or due to the engineering of the time?”

  “Excellent question! Windows and other openings had to be small and narrow to support the weight of the building. But with advances in engineering, building methods changed. The front of the chapel, which was built more than a century after the rear portion, is Gothic; the walls are taller and thinner, with large openings to allow in light through pointed arches. Graceful, isn’t it?”

  I nodded as I took it all in. Gothic architecture was revered for a reason: The arches seemed to soar into the heavens. Perfect for a house of worship.

  “Also within the cloisters are a chapter house, a warming house, and a refectory. Claustral buildings include a night stair, the sacristy, latrines, cellars, and a piscine.”