Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “How much do you know about Libole?”

  “Not much, really. I just met him yesterday. But he’s well-known and respected as an expert on ancient buildings.”

  “He’s well-known, all right. As to respected, that depends very much on who you talk to.”

  “That’s often the case, isn’t it?” said Graham.

  “Are you saying Libole stole this building from the Scottish people?” I asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “He says the monastery had fallen into ruins, and nearby villagers had been plundering the site, and the money went to the village and the government to pay for school and the like. He showed me photos. . . .”

  “You’ve never been to the original site, have you?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never been to Scotland.”

  “I used to play there as a lad, with my brothers. It’s a special place, and we adored it. Everyone from the area loved it. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  “How did you know who Mel was?” asked Graham.

  Kieran placed a newspaper on the table and tapped the lead story. The local Mill Valley paper discussed the travails of the Wakefield project, the death of Larry McCall, and named the new builder on the job: Mel Turner, of Turner Construction.

  “You’re the new leader of this project, right? Or did I get that wrong?”

  “I am.”

  “Elrich’s smart. I’ll give him that. A woman general contractor is sure to curry favor.”

  That stung. “Maybe he hired me because I was the best candidate for the job.”

  “Do you have a lot of experience with rebuilding ancient stone monasteries, then?”

  “No one in the United States has a lot of experience with ancient stone monasteries because we don’t have ancient stone monasteries. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m not perfectly competent to reconstruct one. Now, is there a reason you asked me to come all the way out here to meet you, or did you just want to insult me?”

  Kieran blushed. “Sorry. Good heavens, I didn’t mean any such thing. Listen, allow me to start again. Could I give you a brief history of the place?”

  Graham and I exchanged looks. What the hell—we were here and we had drinks.

  “We’ll give you fifteen minutes,” I said, and took a sip of the tawny port.

  “The monastery was taken from the Isle of Inchcolm, in the Firth of Forth.”

  “The Isle of Inchcolm in the Firth of Forth?”

  “Yes, near a place called the Cairn of the Kerr.”

  I was immediately reminded of an old movie my sisters and I had watched growing up, in which a character played by Danny Kaye is confused by whether it’s the Flagon with the Dragon that holds the Brew that is True, or the Vessel with the Pestle that holds the Pellet with the Poison. I tried not to smile.

  “I believe Ellis Elrich wanted this particular building for a very good reason,” continued Kieran. “I believe it holds a treasure.”

  “A treasure, is there?” I took another sip of port.

  “Aye. Also, there’s a curse.”

  “A treasure and a curse? Do tell.”

  “It’s . . .” He looked around, as though the local bicyclists and hikers were eavesdropping, hoping to get a jump on his treasure. “I believe the curse is protecting an ancient chalice.”

  “The Chalice from the Palace?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind. Do go on.”

  “Or perhaps a ciborium.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like a goblet that holds the hosts—the Communion wafers. Either way, we believe Ellis Elrich has robbed us of a cultural treasure.”

  “So if this place is cursed, why do you love it so?”

  “It’s our curse. We love our curses; we’re Scottish. It shouldn’t be here—it should be where it belongs.”

  “But . . .” I shook my head. “All I’ve seen are solid stones, a few carved decorative items. I can’t think of anywhere a chalice, or anything else for that matter, might be hidden.”

  “Perhaps it’s among all the other pieces?”

  “Other pieces?”

  “Florian Libole has been collecting pieces for several years. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He mentioned he had been collecting some items that he kept in a warehouse, but I haven’t seen them.”

  “They might be worth a look.”

  “Okay, but none of this explains what happened to Larry McCall, which is ostensibly why you asked me to meet you tonight.”

  He nodded and took a long draft on his beer.

  “Pete Nolan isn’t the murderer.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Talk to him. He’s got some insight into what happened.”

  “Okay, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. If Pete wasn’t the killer— Well, this is a job for the police.”

  “But if they’ve got the wrong man, and they stopped looking . . . then the real killer is still out there.”

  “Still . . . why come to me with this?”

  “You have a, um, reputation,” said Kieran, reaching into a bag and placing a copy of Haunted Home Quarterly on the table. “It says right here, you’ve been involved in resolving several murders. Murders associated with haunted buildings.”

  “How did you find this?”

  Kieran looked amused. “I looked you up on the Internet. It wasn’t hard. I was hoping you had access to Ellis Elrich.”

  “Speaking of whom . . . Harper mentioned your name the other day,” I said.

  “Harper?”

  “Harper Elrich. Ring a bell?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. She stopped at the gates the other day after almost running me over with her Suburban. She asked us what we were doing, and why.”

  I nodded, watching him. He wasn’t meeting my eye.

  “Isn’t she a surer access to Ellis Elrich than I am?”

  “I merely explained my side of the story to her and asked her to help explain it to her father.” He took a sip of his beer. “After all, a man’s gotta use whatever he’s got, to get what he’s got to get.”

  A poet, he wasn’t. But I got his meaning.

  * * *

  Graham looked straight ahead, concentrating on his driving as he steered us back to Wakefield. Narrow and windy, the roads in this part of Marin County could be treacherous for drivers unaccustomed to the challenges posed by hairpin turns, migratory deer, occasional mudslides, and sheer cliffs. Graham negotiated the turns with the confidence and ease of someone who’d grown up in the area and had cut his teeth on these roads with his motorcycle.

  I liked the way Graham drove. It was sexy. It made me feel comfortable, like I could let myself relax, and didn’t have to be in charge.

  “What do you think?” I asked with a yawn. Unfortunately, once I got comfortable, I started to fall asleep. Yep, I was a real live wire.

  “I’m sorry to say it, because it means a murderer’s on the loose,” Graham began, “but I think this Kieran character has a point. Charging Pete Nolan hasn’t felt right from the beginning.”

  I nodded.

  “On the other hand,” added Graham, “he didn’t provide us with any information we can actually use. No proof of anything, certainly. If he had anything more than suspicion, he’d be talking to the police, not us.”

  “Which is what makes me think he’s more interested in stopping the construction than in ferreting out McCall’s killer,” I said, struggling to stay awake. “I imagine the more convoluted the search for a killer, the better the chance that the project would be put on hold. Especially, for example, if Elrich himself stood accused of the murder—or some sort of conspiracy to commit murder. Not that I think Elrich is guilty of anything. With his wealth and influence, he could surely find a way to get the permit department to cooperate without resorting to homicide. Just getting McCall fired would do the trick.”

  Graham nodded. “Ellis didn’t
become a very rich man just because he’s a smooth talker—he did it the old-fashioned way, by being an excellent businessman. It’s not good business to choose a complicated and potentially disastrous solution over an easy solution. There would be no reason for Elrich to kill McCall when he could just buy him off or have him fired. Unless . . .”

  “What?”

  “Unless McCall had discovered something that made killing him the better option.”

  “Like a hidden treasure?”

  Graham shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this. Is it just me, or does the notion of a hidden treasure in an ancient monastery sound like something out of an overblown romantic novel?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said loftily. “I don’t buy overblown romantic novels.” I just find them under my bed. . . .

  “And as you pointed out,” Graham continued, “where would you hide a treasure among those stones?”

  “Have you seen this fabled warehouse full of stuff that Libole has collected?”

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe I’ll ask if I can look around.”

  “That sounds like a great idea: an isolated warehouse and a murderer on the loose. What could possibly go wrong?” We pulled to a stop, and Graham fixed me with a stern look. “Mel, promise me, here and now, you won’t go snooping without me.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” I said with a mock salute. “You’re cute when you get all macho and dictatorial; you know that?”

  He grunted.

  We arrived at the Elrich place much too soon for my taste. I had even toyed with the idea of renting a room at the Pelican Inn until I remembered Dog was waiting for me. But I decided to propose a weekend getaway to Graham soon. I kept talking about going to Europe one day, but it wasn’t reasonable to think I could take that much time away from Turner Construction. A weekend at the Pelican Inn, though, was doable. There was no cell phone reception out there, so we could eat our English breakfast in the greenhouse, spend the day hiking along the foggy banks of the ocean, and return for port in the pub and a dinner by the walk-in fireplace, as if we were thousands of miles away from home.

  As enticing as staying at Elrich’s well-appointed estate had sounded, I was rethinking it. Almost everyone I had met so far—Alicia, Vernon, Harper, and even Florian—had been unpleasant. Only Elrich was friendly, and I was still loath to admit how much I liked him. It went against my grain to join what was trendy and popular. Finally, although Graham and I were sleeping under the same roof, the situation wasn’t conducive to romantic interludes. What if we were sharing a roof with McCall’s murderer?

  We pulled in front of Elrich’s mansion, parked, and were set upon by Alicia as soon as we stepped into the tiled foyer.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, her tone urgent. “You’ve nearly missed sherry hour.”

  “I assumed it was canceled,” said Graham. “What with the memorial and all.”

  “No. We just moved it back to accommodate the service. Didn’t you see the updated schedule?”

  “Yes, Graham.” I looked at him with wide eyes and a concerned frown. “Didn’t you see the updated schedule?”

  Graham, showing much more patience and maturity than I, said to Alicia, “I’m afraid I’m not yet in the habit of checking the schedule consistently, Alicia. I apologize. Please, lead the way and allow us to make amends.”

  We trailed her down the hall to the front parlor. A full bar had been set up in one corner, where a bartender in formal attire was shaking a martini mixer with aplomb. All the usual suspects were there, as were Tony, Miguel, Jacek, and a few of the other men from the jobsite, and several faces I didn’t recognize.

  I asked for a martini. I didn’t usually drink that much, but what with Elrich’s sherry hours and assignations with Scotsmen who insulted me in bars, I feared I was on my way to becoming a lush.

  One man introduced himself as a lawyer for Kieran Lachaidh, on behalf of the people of Scotland.

  “I was flabbergasted when I received an invitation to come by for drinks,” he said.

  “Is Elrich willing to talk about the situation, then?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said, sipping a large margarita festooned with a little umbrella. “He hasn’t really talked to me about it. . . .”

  He, like everyone, seemed in awe of Elrich.

  Tony, who earlier had been on the verge of walking off the job, seemed to be placated, as well.

  Elrich stood in a corner chatting with Harper and Alicia, and it was as though there were an invisible shield around him. He had the strangest way of making everyone think they were welcome and had access to him, while actually holding himself apart.

  I forced myself to chat briefly with Vernon, met the talented chef Jean-Claude Villandry, and was introduced to a structural engineer who had been working with Libole. Florian himself was conspicuous by his absence.

  “I thought the costumes were clever,” I overheard Ellis saying. “It’s always hard to get the press to pay any attention, so he gave them a good photo opportunity.”

  “But he’s a troublemaker, I feel sure,” said Alicia. “I had to call the police again.”

  Ellis shrugged. Harper looked into her drink.

  I was trying to think of a polite way to excuse myself from sherry hour—and dinner afterward—when Alicia approached me.

  “Mr. Elrich suggested I speak to you directly,” she said, handing me a to-do list. “I’d like to have some projects done here at the house while your men are available.”

  “They aren’t exactly available,” I tried to explain. “We’re already running two shifts trying to get ready for the grand opening.”

  Alicia blinked and starting reading items off her list. I gave her points for dogged determination.

  “Sure. Why not?” I said, thinking rather guiltily of the tiles I’d dislodged in my bedroom. “I’ll see about bringing Brendan up from the jobsite tomorrow and put him on these house projects. Maybe Graham could help, as well.”

  Graham shot me a look when he realized he’d been volunteered.

  “And I don’t think we should simply repair things,” continued Alicia, “but take this opportunity to really spruce the place up. I don’t really care for all this . . . white.”

  “White stucco is traditional for the Spanish or Mission style,” I said. “Although clearly the house used to be a Victorian—”

  “Mr. Elrich and I don’t care that much for the Victorian style,” said Alicia. “We prefer Spanish.”

  “I see.”

  “What about something more . . . exciting on the walls?”

  “Naturally, you can paint it any color you’d like. But traditionally, in the Spanish Revival style they would have been decorated with murals and borders.” I thought of the intricate murals in the Discovery Room downstairs. Clearly Elrich was not averse to wall paintings.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” said Alicia, and for the first time I saw her smile.

  I stepped outside for a minute and put in a call to my favorite faux finisher and mural painter. Years ago, Yuri Andropov had done a lot of wall finishes for Turner Construction, but ever since the Tuscan fad passed, I couldn’t give him as much work as before. But whenever we needed wood graining or marbling done in old Victorian homes, Yuri was our go-to guy.

  He asked me to send him some photos of the work sites along with measurements and said he would come up with some designs that were historically appropriate, though he was as dismayed as I at my description of a Victorian envelope for a Spanish interior. We decided on a few full-scale murals for the main rooms and then smaller decorative accents for others.

  In addition, I mentioned that I might have a fresco job coming up for the Wakefield project. Yuri was particularly excited about that: There wasn’t a lot of modern demand for true fresco painting.

  While I had my phone out, I made a call to Raul to see how our San Francisco projects were progressing. There were a few small headaches
, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with over the phone. Then I checked in with Stan, who gave me the office report—he was hard at work figuring out how the accounting was going to make payroll this Friday to all of Nolan’s men as well as our own.

  And finally I called Dad, who didn’t answer the call but texted me: Stop calling and get back to work. LOL.

  I returned to what was left of the sherry-hour crowd secure in the knowledge that there was no way I would make it through a formal dinner with these folks. Much to Alicia’s thoroughly predictable consternation, I begged off the meal and finally managed to slip away. She suggested I grab a ready-made item from the snack bar, but just as I’d prophesied, I had eaten so many of the delectable hors d’oeuvres that I wasn’t hungry.

  “You’re a better man than I am, sitting through dinner with that crowd,” I said as Graham walked me back to my room.

  “I’m still trying to get a handle on all these personalities. Besides . . . if this Scottish character is right, then one of them might be responsible for McCall’s death.”

  “Just promise to tell me what they’re saying behind my back.”

  “Mel, I know I’m sounding like the voice of doom, but if Pete didn’t kill McCall, then we’re talking about something much more serious. Someone who not only set out to kill McCall, but who knew enough about the workings of the jobsite, and all of our movements, to do it in such a way as to implicate Pete Nolan.”

  “Good point,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “No, I don’t think you’re getting my point. My point is that if it wasn’t Pete, then you may be in trouble. As usual.”

  I twisted my mouth a little, trying to think how to respond to that. Of course I knew Graham was right: My being in trouble did seem to be “as usual” lately. I wasn’t sure why I could see ghosts, and why they were so often connected to scenes of violent death. But see them, I could; and connected, they were.

  Still, I was becoming accustomed to my new status quo; it wasn’t freaking me out anymore. I thought of a cartoon that Stan had taped to his computer in Turner Construction’s home office. The first panel showed three people panicking as they fell into a bottomless pit; the second panel showed the same three characters sitting back and relaxing—one had brought out her knitting—after six months of falling into the bottomless pit.