Conversation was a bit stilted as Stan, Dad, Caleb, and I studiously avoided a number of subjects: Graham’s injury, the state of my ghost-ridden job, and Caleb’s arrest. There were moments of long silence—a rare commodity in the Turner household—and while I was enjoying being back home, it was a little awkward.
“Your new client mentioned the Chapel of the Chimes the other day, didn’t he?” Dad said. “I see they’re playing jazz over there on the weekends.”
“We should go. Have you ever been?” I asked Caleb. “It’s an amazing place, not so much a columbarium as a work of art. Full of mosaics and fountains and concrete tracery . . . It was designed by Julia Morgan.”
Caleb barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He may have heard me go on about the underappreciated local architect and builder a time or two.
Dad met Caleb’s eyes and smiled as he peeled a bowl of pearl onions. “Mel may be a little obsessed with Julia Morgan. But with good reason. Morgan was talented, and smart, and kicked ass at a time when most women didn’t see a lot of options other than getting married and having babies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he added with a significant glance at me. “Mel’s mother did pretty well for herself on that score. And they probably made their families very happy.”
I ignored that last bit. And, of course, because it was coming from Dad instead of from me, Caleb actually listened. The teenager nodded.
“You know what would really blow you away is Hearst Castle,” said Dad. “Down the coast. You ever been?”
Caleb shook his head.
“My wife and I took the girls there once, when you were, what, Mel? Eleven or twelve?”
“Something like that.” I nodded. It had been a memorable family vacation. A framed snapshot of the five of us on that trip still stood on the mantel in the living room. We had camped at a state park near the beach, then taken a guided tour of Hearst Castle, which wasn’t a castle so much as a grand estate atop a hill overlooking the ocean. My memories of the interior were vague, but I recalled sumptuous tapestries, Gothic archways, and of course the incredible cobalt-blue-and-gold underground pool, which fed into any number of childhood fantasies.
My sisters and I had played a game we called “Rosebud” for months afterward, in which one of our Barbie dolls always wound up being asked by a mysterious wealthy stranger to come stay as a guest in a castle suspiciously Hearst-like in nature, lounging by the pool. . . .
Wow. I realized I was living out one of my childhood Barbie dreams, living as a guest at Ellis Elrich’s beautiful estate. But like so many dreams fulfilled, the experience was rather different in the adult world from what I had imagined as a child. I didn’t recall anyone dying in our Barbie scenario. And while the Ken doll had endured his share of abuse, he had never wound up in the hospital with panda eyes and a head injury.
“Hearst Castle is an example of what happens when you give a talented woman an unlimited checkbook,” continued Dad. “Like Mel here, on that Marin job.”
“Funny, I’ve been thinking about Hearst a lot lately, too,” I said. “I guess the comparison is inevitable. How many filthy-rich people import entire buildings from Europe?”
“Speaking of Chapel of the Chimes,” said Stan, “did you know Morgan was doing that project around the same time as she was working with Hearst? She used some leftover pieces at the Chapel of the Chimes. I remember the docent saying that one of the staircases was originally intended for Hearst Castle.”
“Just imagine having ‘leftovers’ from a job like that,” I said.
Dad looked thoughtful as he stirred burgundy wine into the stew. Finally, he asked: “You suppose those ghosts would get mixed up?”
I nearly choked on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“Say you had two buildings, each with a resident ghost,” said Dad. “They each hitch a ride on over to America on the steamer, or whatever Hearst used to bring the buildings here. And then Morgan’s crew mixes and matches the buildings to create Hearst Castle, and before you know it, the ghosts don’t know where the heck they are, or who those other ghosts are. Can ghosts from different times and places even see one another?”
Well, color me impressed. This was more than my father had ever deigned to say on the subject of ghosts. He had been aware of my mother’s ability to see spirits but had kept mum—and seemingly embarrassed—about it my entire childhood. When I started showing signs of having inherited her special sight, he had been just as uncomfortable, which he demonstrated by being generally annoyed and cantankerous whenever the subject arose.
Adding to my amazement, Dad had put his finger on something I had been wondering about with regards to Wakefield. Could my ghosts, Donnchadh and the Lady in Red, have separate and distinct origins? Might this be why one group of stones, the ones with the bits of plaster still adhering to them, seemed so different from both the stones from Scotland and the newly quarried pieces from Texas?
“Well, Mel?” asked Caleb.
“Those are all great questions, Dad, to which I have absolutely no answers. I never really thought about it before. I’ll ask Olivier what he thinks when I take Caleb to the city tomorrow.”
Caleb assumed a hangdog expression, and I flashed him a Don’t Even Start with Me look. Dragging my almost-but-not-quite stepson to Golden Gate Park to repair his damage was not high on my list of good times. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do, like check in on Graham or build Wakefield or talk to ghosts or catch a killer. . . .
“Speaking of French fruitcakes,” Dad said, noting the tension, “how’s his shop doing?”
“He seems to be doing well. I’d say he’s not a ‘fruitcake’ as much as a good businessman. There’s a lot of interest in ghost busting and spirits and whatnot in San Francisco.”
Dad snorted.
I took a sip of wine, then excused myself to do some paperwork in the office and to call the hospital to check up on Graham.
I also spent some time on the Internet, but I’m not great with technology. While I found some boring histories of monasteries in Scotland, I couldn’t find anything about the people who actually lived there, much less if any of them were Spanish women, which was seeming less likely all the time.
I did, however, track down a scandal that Kieran had mentioned to me, which revolved around Libole’s renovation of a castle in Strasbourg. There was fierce public debate over whether all the bones Libole had claimed belonged in the ancestral family catacombs were genuine, or whether they had been pilfered from a village cemetery. It was a fascinating glimpse into Libole’s character, I supposed, but I didn’t see how the kerfuffle was relevant to the Wakefield Retreat Center, much less the death of Larry McCall.
“Do you know any Scottish people?” I asked Stan when he came in to join me.
“I know a lot of folks with Scots blood in them, myself included,” Stan said. “But not Scots as in from Scotland. Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out some of the history behind this monastery I’m working on.”
“I thought you were working with Florian Libole up there? I expected he would know everything and everyone there was to know.”
“Yeah, well, he’s pulled something of a disappearing act.”
“He’s gone missing?”
“I don’t think he’s missing missing,” I said, though I realized there was no way to know. Maybe Libole had stumbled onto the same thing as McCall and had suffered McCall’s fate. But this time the killer got smart and hid the body. What a terrible thought. “I think he’s probably just off somewhere for a few days.”
“Okay,” said Stan after a brief pause. “So you can’t find what you need on the Internet?”
“Some stuff, sure. But I get confused. Everything’s got two spellings—the Gaelic and the English, and they’re both confusing. And there are about a million results here, and my eyes are losing focus.”
“You do look tired.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Stan smiled. “You know I think yo
u’re gorgeous. I’m just sayin’, seems like maybe you’re burning the candle at both ends these days. Caleb’s walk on the wild side isn’t helping, I’m sure, not to mention Graham landing in the hospital in addition to working all the hours God gives you. It’s no wonder you’d be a little tired. How ’bout you go on to bed right after dinner, and let me do a little research on the place for you?”
“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d be happy to. Nothing but reruns on TV tonight anyway.”
“Thanks, Stan. You’re a peach.”
* * *
Just as I was falling asleep, my phone rang: Annette Crawford.
“So, about the clipboard: There’s no record of a clipboard or papers being gathered as evidence at the scene. Could be nothing; could be something. Right?”
“Right. And what about Bernardino? Anything on him?”
“He says you’re a pain in the ass.”
“He said that?”
“No, actually I did. He just agreed.”
“Seriously?”
“Just kidding. Just because you dealt with a shady police inspector once doesn’t mean we should all be tarred with the same brush,” Annette said.
“I don’t think you’re shady.”
A soft chuckle. “Well, there you go. Not sure I can return the compliment, but be that as it may, I asked around, and Bernardino seems okay. Maybe not the swiftest guy, and he might be a little starstruck by Elrich. What’s he like, anyway?”
“Elrich? Impressive. Charming. Capable of making otherwise rational people starstruck.”
“Including you?”
“Me? Nah. You know me. I’m bitter and twisted. A cynic of the highest order, that’s me.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you’re trying to save some poor schmuck from taking the fall for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Right. Oh, here’s one interesting tidbit. You’re right: Alicia Withers didn’t exist six years ago. No sign of a criminal record, but . . .”
“If she didn’t exist, there’s no real way to know.”
“Right. Also, I thought you might be interested to learn that Pete Nolan has been released on bail.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Mel, be careful. If you’re wrong, and Nolan really did kill McCall, and he killed to keep something a secret instead of just in a fit of pique over building permits, he might be someone to worry about.”
“Hey, speaking of that . . . Florian Libole is a designer involved in the historical re-creation. He seems to have disappeared. Maybe.”
“Are you thinking he was involved in the murder? Or that he’s in danger of being murdered?”
“I really don’t know. Maybe neither. It just seems strange.”
“You should report it to Detective Bernardino.”
“Okay. I suppose you’re right. Just in case.”
After a short pause, Annette said: “I take it there are ghosts on this building site?”
“Mmm.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“Neither do I, believe me.”
“Mel, do me a favor and watch your back. Find out what those ghosts want, what they have to do with this murder, and then move on.”
“Yeah, thanks. That’s the general idea.”
“And buy yourself a can of wasp spray.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Shoots twenty feet, capable of taking down bad guys in their tracks. As effective as mace.”
“Oh, um . . .” I decided she wouldn’t want to know about my father’s Glock, which I was carrying. Without a license, of course. “Good safety tip. Hey, Annette? When things settle down a bit, you should come see Wakefield. It’s really something. We could have lunch. Maybe even lounge by the pool.”
“I’d like that. Keep me posted. And buy some wasp spray.”
Chapter Nineteen
The night in my bedroom was surprisingly restful. No flute music, no mysterious lights shining in far-off ruins. I slept like the dead.
In the morning I called Tony on the jobsite and explained that I would be late. He and I went over the schedule for the day, and I asked him to set up a perimeter around the round room and not to allow any of the men to go near it. As long as they weren’t getting chased out of the monastery by Donnchadh, they had plenty to keep them busy without me there.
I then called to check on Graham. I knew the nurses’ voices by now and was happy when I got one of the nice ones. She told me there was no change, which was good, and that Dr. Petralis was considering bringing Graham out of the medically induced coma within the next day or two.
Caleb was due at the Park Police substation at eleven. I planned to drop him off, then go by Olivier’s place and have a little ghost chat.
As I was having my morning coffee and fending off Dad’s offers of breakfast—which Caleb was shoveling down with gusto, even while grumbling at the early hour—Stan came into the kitchen.
“I printed out a few articles for you,” he said, handing them to me as he poured himself coffee.
I glanced through them: a few general histories of the area, a long history of the monastery and its rulers, the Scottish Reformation. A lot of information, a lot of names and dates.
“Anything particularly interesting?” I asked.
“Not really, sad to say. No fun ghost stories, gruesome murders, anything like that. But as you said, there were a lot of potential references. I only made it through a few. Here’s one thing I found, though: There’s a Scottish paraphernalia shop right here in Jack London Square.”
“What’s a Scottish paraphernalia shop?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Dad said. “It’s a shop that sells paraphernalia.” He glanced at Caleb, and the two of them said in unison: “From Scotland!” and started laughing.
Good Lord, what have I done? I thought to myself. They weren’t even related. How could they be so much alike?
Stan grinned. “Makes a person wonder, right? I’m imagining a lot of plaid, but what do I know? But I thought maybe the owner would be Scottish, and indeed she is. So I called her. She seemed to have a lot of information about folklore, that sort of thing. Said she’d heard of the monastery in question, that there might be a ghost story associated with it, and she was going to look it up.”
“Stan, you’re amazing. It’s like you’ve been hiding your snoopy light under a bushel. I’m using you on all my murder investigations from now on.”
Dad and Caleb gave me the same scathing look.
“Not that I’m getting involved in any more murder investigations,” I clarified. “Nope, not me. Ghosts or no ghosts. Maybe I should start building new tract houses—what do you think?”
“You’d probably build it on an ancient burial ground,” said Caleb, “like in that old movie Poltergeist.”
He and my dad exchanged glances, grunted, and returned to their respective breakfasts, hunkering down over their plates.
“So this Scottish store?” I asked. “Hard to imagine there’s a whole lot of demand for plaid in downtown Oakland.”
Stan shrugged. “You know how hard it’s been to get merchants into those spaces. Maybe they gave her a good deal. Anyway, she opens at ten, but she said she’d be there a little after nine, if you wanted to stop by.”
“What’s this article about Hearst?” I asked, flipping through the pages.
“We were talking about him last night, so I thought I’d see what I could find about him importing buildings. Turns out Hearst bought a whole Spanish monastery in 1925, dismantled it, and had it shipped over and put in storage in Brooklyn, where it remained essentially abandoned. In 1952 two wealthy historians bought it and rebuilt it in North Miami Beach. Now they say it’s the oldest building in the western hemisphere, originally built in Segovia in the twelfth century.”
“That story sounds fishy to me,” said Dad. “Since when have historians been wealthy?”
“My point was that Hearst br
ought over other buildings and then abandoned them. So maybe there are other such stones floating around, or even entire buildings.”
I was staring at one of the photos that went with the article about the Hearst monastery. It was a pile of lichen-covered golden gray stones, with bright blue numbers and letters marked on them. They were from Spain.
“Those look a lot like the stones behind the Japanese Tea Garden,” said Dad, peering over my shoulder. “Remember those? That’s when I had to go pick you up in disgrace from Golden Gate Park. Guess it runs in the family.”
The Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park was the hub of many a school field trip. When I was a kid, I had adored running around koi ponds and scamming almond cookies, but I had been banished after Chris Marriott and I split off from the rest of the class and clambered around a pile of old stones that sat in a clearing behind the garden.
That was what had been bothering me since the first time I saw those stones in a pile at Wakefield: They reminded me of the stones in the park.
* * *
“Now I have to go to a Scottish store? Seriously?” whined Caleb. Apparently, his chagrin had worn off overnight.
“Yep. I’m your ride to Golden Gate Park, so you’re stuck with me. You can stay in the car and read if you want. There are some architectural magazines behind the seat, plus the latest Haunted Home Quarterly featuring yours truly.”
Since I had confiscated his iPod and his cell phone, Caleb’s entertainment options were limited. Apparently, Haunted Home Quarterly wasn’t enough of a draw, so he trailed behind me as I headed into the World of Scotland.
There was a lot of paraphernalia crammed onto the store shelves. Tams, wool fisherman sweaters, aprons referencing scotch, golf, and the Loch Ness monster. There were hankies, bagpipes, bumper stickers, sporrans, golf balls, and shortbread cookies. And overriding everything was plaid: plaid scarves, plaid wall hangings and pillows, and plaid doggy raincoats. Behind the register hung a sign advertising genealogical research services. I couldn’t help thinking a shop with a focus on all things Scottish was a long shot in this town, but then I tended toward the pessimistic.
Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Page 21