Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Assuming, that is, that I could get all the interested parties on board. Ellis Elrich had the last word, of course, but I was certain he relied on Florian Libole’s counsel in issues of architectural design. And if Vernon Dunn had much of a say, we were in trouble.

  I tied Dog up to a post of the canopy, so he could choose sun or shade, and put out a bone and his water bowl. I wished I could let him run free, but the truth was that while some construction pups could be counted on not to run into the path of a bulldozer, Dog wasn’t one of them.

  He was sweet and good-looking, and had on occasion saved my life, but he really was not the brightest light in the harbor.

  * * *

  Six of my men showed up for work, and even though it had been only a couple of days, I set upon them like it was old-home week. It was good to have familiar faces on the job, not only as backup, but because I knew what to expect from them. If I asked one of them to set up scaffolding, he took care of it. If I needed wires pulled, it was done.

  Probably if I mentioned I needed the moon, they’d grouse a bit, kick at the dirt, talk it over, and then rig something up to lasso it and bring it on down.

  I had spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out how not to lay these men off. Seeing them now reminded me why I was here, at Wakefield, dealing with ancient stones and peculiar personalities.

  I asked two of them to join existing teams: one with the stonemasons on the scaffolding in the chapel, the other with the guys shoring up the reinforcements to the stone walls in the refectory. In earthquake country, masonry had to be reinforced by inserting rods or providing a metal skeleton, or both.

  The other four men came with me to inspect the systems of plumbing and electrical upgrades. Libole’s drawings had shown much of the heating ductwork being run through soffits. With the plumbing and electrical, however, I thought the more elegant solution would be to run utilities through the stone walls. We would have to pull wires and place pipes by drilling access holes, which is hard, painstaking work. It seemed almost sacrilegious to drill through such ancient stones, so I damned sure wanted to get it right the first time.

  Tommy and Ignacio crawled down into the cellars, while Javier and Brendan stuck with me. Our cell phones were useless within the building, but by shouting and tapping and consulting our drawings, we were able to pinpoint the precise spots to drill. It was a laborious process, but there was no way around it. Medieval buildings had no accommodations for modern conveniences, so we had to do our best.

  Graham showed up around noon and brought me lunch; then he and Tony walked me through the green technologies being installed.

  “Elrich is implementing some cutting-edge techniques, many of which haven’t been applied on this scale before,” said Graham. “He has the money and will to make it happen, and I’m documenting our progress every step of the way. If he pulls it off—and I think he can—Wakefield could become a prototype for this sort of building.”

  There was a lot of talk about “reduce, reuse, recycle.” I lived by that mantra, not just because I believe in conservationism, but because I have always adored old things. Why own an old house if you were just going to rip out the insides and replace everything with contemporary finishes and materials? Might as well buy a new place, with all the modern conveniences.

  To my way of thinking, those who were lucky enough to live in old houses were custodians of history. Which was one reason Elrich’s house jarred me so: Why make a Victorian into a Spanish-style home? It didn’t make any sense.

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a structure located beneath the building.

  “An underground cistern for water collection. The runoff from rain and condensation will be collected and used for all gray-water needs: toilets and irrigation, that sort of thing. And I’m developing solar roof panels in imitation slate tiles to match the originals. Three windmills will supply the electricity for the retreat center, as well as for the existing house. The building is north facing and takes advantage of passive green technologies like sun exposure and the natural insulation of the stone; and we’ll be composting.”

  “Composting?”

  “Big-time composting. Over to the left will be the farm: organic vegetables and free-range animals to supply the kitchens. But that’s stage two. Right now we’re just trying to get this structure up.”

  Clearly, Ellis Elrich wasn’t stinting on his dream. True to his philosophy, the man appeared to be nothing if not motivated.

  The memorial service for Larry McCall was planned for five o’clock, so by four thirty we started shutting things down and cleaning up. The men were invited to the service but not required to attend. Ellis made it clear that they would be paid for a full day’s work either way.

  Graham had to run back up to the house but said he would join me in the chapel.

  I supposed Wakefield’s half-built chapel was a fitting locale for McCall’s memorial, given everything these stones had witnessed through the years. Sunlight streamed in through the gap between the top of the wall and the temporary roof, but it was still dim enough inside that work lamps had been strung on a wire like a workaday string of holiday lights. Several of the cresset lamps Florian had pointed out to me yesterday had been filled with oil and wicks and lit. The combination of lights gave the chapel an odd look: part ancient, part modern.

  The turnout for the memorial was sparse: Ellis Elrich, Vernon Dunn, Florian Libole, Harper Elrich looking as sullen as she had last night, Alicia Withers, and a handful of folks I thought I recognized as housekeeping staff. Maybe a third of the guys who had been on the job remained, tempted by the opportunity to say good-bye to an unpopular building inspector . . . or by the food; it was hard to tell which.

  Wakefield’s French chef had knocked himself out preparing an extensive spread of tempting hors d’oeuvres: finger sandwiches and cheeses and fruit, canapés of pâté and mushrooms, and tiny cupcakes and petits fours. I’d been at Wakefield only a little over twenty-four hours, but it was clear that this place—up at the house, anyway—provided quite the snack symphony.

  Which reminded me . . .

  “I was hoping to talk to you about arranging for coffee and snacks for the crew,” I said to Ellis, who was munching on a water chestnut wrapped in bacon. “Nothing fancy, just coffee, some juice, maybe a few energy bars. The jobsite is some distance from any stores and restaurants. . . .”

  Elrich looked surprised. “Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before. Alicia?”

  Alicia hurried toward us, looking alarmed.

  “Mel has pointed out that the men at the jobsite need refreshments available to them.”

  “It was my understanding that the work crews brought their own lunches,” she said. “Nolan’s men always did, and he supplied a thermos of water.”

  “I’d love to provide the crew with coffee and some snacks now and then. Nothing fancy—just to help keep them hydrated and to boost morale. A quick snack can make a big difference when you’re working long hours out of doors.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” said Ellis. “Mel, thank you for pointing this out. Alicia, I know you’ll take care of it with your usual élan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the reverend.”

  As soon as he left, Alicia turned her wide-eyed, serious gaze to me.

  “What sort of snacks?”

  “A supply of fresh coffee would be the most important thing. As you mentioned, most of the guys bring their own lunches, but it would be nice to have a few doughnuts in the morning, maybe some energy bars for later in the afternoon when their energy’s flagging. Turner Construction would be happy to defray the costs.” I threw this in, knowing full well the cost would be added to the bill I sent Ellis Elrich and knowing that Alicia was equally aware. It was the cost of doing business.

  “Are there any known allergies to contend with? Religious constraints?”

  “Religious constraints?”

  “I hear Muslims and Orthodox Jews don�
�t eat pork. Isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t think we need anything that complicated,” I said. “Just a few energy bars and doughnuts and coffee. Maybe sports drinks—some of the guys like those. Frankly, you don’t get a lot of complaints about free food and drink on a construction site.”

  Alicia whipped out her book and jotted down a few notes.

  “If you’ll all please gather around,” a woman called out, and the crowd shuffled over.

  There were no pews in the chapel, so we stood in a loose semicircle as the nondenominational reverend climbed onto a makeshift podium and gave a lovely homily for a man she’d never met. While she spoke, I thought about what Florian had said about the monks being roused from their REM cycles to come down the night staircase and into this chapel, to sing and pray and worship, and if they nodded off, a superior would come at them to rouse them with a swinging cresset lamp.

  I imagined the scent of incense, the Gregorian chants, the many shadows that might hold secrets. . . .

  I think I dozed off for a few minutes, but then I jolted myself back to the ceremony.

  Still, my gaze was drawn to the opening that led to the sacristy and the chambers beyond, all the way to the round room. Though the stone arch was dark, I couldn’t help but remember what I’d seen there, what I’d felt. Had I really heard a woman crying? What had been that strange hunger?

  When the reverend finished, Elrich rose and gave a stirring talk about the love of life, coping with loss, and not taking our lives and health for granted. At the end of his speech, there was barely a dry eye in the house. It made me wish the deceased man’s family could have been here; Ellis’s words made the grumpy building inspector one of us.

  I felt someone come up behind me. Assuming it was Graham, I turned around, but then I saw Graham was standing on the other side of the room, near the entrance.

  The man behind me looked vaguely familiar, but it took a moment to realize where I knew him from. The kilt was the giveaway: He had been one of the protesters at the gate. The one in costume, carrying a sign about Scottish history and repatriation.

  “You’re Mel Turner?” He spoke in a low voice, with a soft accent.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “I thought . . . I thought you’d be a man.”

  “Sorry.”

  He glanced around, as though worried about being seen, and held out a folded piece of paper. When I took it, he disappeared into the crowd.

  Seconds later, Buzz-the-driver pushed through the group, apparently following the mystery man.

  I opened the note, hyperaware that Graham was watching me from across the room.

  I have information regarding Larry McCall’s murder. Meet me at the Pelican Inn after the service. It was signed simply, Kieran.

  * * *

  “You’re certifiable; you know that?” said Graham as we walked up the moonlit pathway after the service. Dog trotted after us, veering off every now and then to explore some thrilling new scent.

  “I’m curious, that’s all. Aren’t you curious?”

  “You know that old saw ‘curiosity killed the cat’?”

  “I know it ends ‘and satisfaction brought it back.’ You have to admit it’s intriguing, though, right?”

  “A man was killed here a couple of days ago. Murdered, Mel. You haven’t been able to encounter the ghosts without running, screaming, from the building, but you have no qualms about meeting a stranger in a bar?”

  I had told Graham about my less-than-dignified departure from the building after the incident with the food offering in the round room. I hadn’t actually even seen anything that time, but I’d felt it. And I had run.

  “I’d hardly say I was ‘screaming.’ Whimpering, perhaps. Cringing—now, that I’ll grant you.”

  He smiled.

  “Besides, this man’s not exactly a ‘stranger in a bar.’ He’s a friend of Harper’s.”

  “If he and Harper are such good friends, why wasn’t he welcome at the memorial service?”

  “Maybe ‘friend’ isn’t the exact right word. Anyway, I don’t think you appreciate the poetry of the situation.”

  He gave me a look.

  “C’mon, the Pelican Inn’s a public place. And they have great food.”

  “You’re still hungry, after that spread?”

  “Have you had their fish and chips? With malt vinegar? Besides, this Kieran fellow is wearing a kilt. How tough could he be?”

  “You ever see Braveheart? Men in kilts are not to be messed with.”

  I whistled to Dog, who ignored me. “Seriously, Graham—you’ve doubted Pete Nolan’s guilt from the beginning. What if this Kieran has something of value to say?”

  “Then why doesn’t he tell it to the police? No offense, Mel, but you’re a contractor, not a cop. Why would he slip you a note at a gathering to which he was not invited? Come to think of it—how does he even know who you are?”

  “I don’t know. But he must have some reason for wanting to talk to me. Which is why I want to meet with him—in public, with a big, strong man at my side. Want to come?”

  “I’m sure as hell not going to let you go alone,” he growled.

  “You’re a prince, Mr. Donovan,” I said, and gave him a kiss. After a long moment, he returned the kiss, deepening it.

  It was a warm, moonlit night, and it took us a remarkably long time to make it all the way back to the house.

  Chapter Ten

  Our mysterious protester had nabbed the corner barrel, the prime seat in the Pelican Inn Pub.

  He sat hunched over a mug of ale, and though he was no longer in costume, he had a romantic, tormented look that made him seem as if from another time. He reminded me of a smuggler in his lair. A romantic, poetry-spewing smuggler in his lair.

  Graham and I perched on low stools at the small oak barrel that served as a table.

  “Thank you so much for joining me,” he said, rather breathless, in a soft Scottish brogue. “I was beginning to despair.”

  “I’ve never been passed a note for a secret assignation at a memorial service before,” I said with a shrug. “It was hard to resist.”

  “Do you want something?” he asked, as though holding a salon in his living room. “They have only beer and wine. But there’s a lovely port. . . .”

  “Sure, I’ll try some port,” I said.

  “IPA for me,” said Graham.

  Kieran gestured to the man behind the bar.

  The Pelican Inn, a small pub sandwiched between Muir Woods and Muir Beach, was crowded, as usual. During the day, dozens of bicycles would be strewn about the large patch of lawn out front, as cyclists weary from riding up Mount Tam or along the hilly coast stopped in for refreshments. There were other bikers, as well, the kind who let their motorcycles tackle the big grades. Hikers dropped in after strolling through nearby Muir Woods, taking in the soaring redwoods and lush fern-strewn creeks. And then there were the regulars from nearby Mill Valley or Sausalito.

  Though it looked like a snug country inn from the British countryside, the pub had actually been built in the seventies, a decade generally noted for its wretched architecture. But the Pelican Inn had been constructed with love and historical accuracy, to the point that the owners had imported pieces directly from English pubs.

  In the way of historic buildings, the doorways were too low, the thresholds too high, the stairs uneven, and I had always wondered how the owners had managed to pull permits for the build.

  The Wakefield project was having difficulty passing code, as well, though Larry McCall’s demise might ease that situation. In that sense, Ellis Elrich would most directly benefit from his death, though I couldn’t imagine Elrich would put everything—his empire, his wealth, his family—at risk just to secure waivers and permits for his imported building. Could McCall’s death have been caused by one of Ellis’s misguided minions? Not Vernon Dunn; he would be happy with any delay. But what of Florian, Alicia, or even Harper? Ellis appeared to have a lot of suspici
ous characters in his life.

  I should probably take a trip to the Marin County Building Department soon to introduce myself, just as a matter of good construction manners—and to help smooth the way for future issues that were sure to arise. Maybe I could ask around about past permit issues, get a sense of the personalities involved. I imagined the police had already asked questions regarding McCall’s death, so a few days’ grace would be adequate.

  “So,” Graham said, rousing me from my thoughts. “Who are you, and what’s this about?”

  “Oh, excuse me!” the man said as he handed us business cards: Kieran Lachaidh, Antiquities.

  “Lack-aid?” I said in a weak attempt to pronounce his last name.

  “Lach-ee,” he corrected me. “Means ‘from the land of lochs.’”

  I nodded, and steeled myself against asking him what he thought of the Loch Ness monster. The discomfiture I’d felt yesterday when doing the walk-through with Florian came back with a vengeance. I really had to brush up on my Scottish history if I was going to do a decent job with these ancient stones. Surely there was more to Scotland than scotch, golf, plaid, and the Loch Ness monster.

  “Antiquities? Is that like an antiques dealer?”

  “Not quite. I track down antiquities that are part of our national heritage.”

  “Ah. So you think Ellis Elrich has something that belongs to Scotland?”

  “Yes. An entire monastery.”

  Graham and I exchanged a look.

  “I’m, uh, not the right person to talk to,” I said. “I really don’t know anything about the building’s origins or the legalities involved. . . . Florian Libole is the designer, and he brokered the deal with the Scottish authorities. He’s who you want to talk to about this.”