Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “That’s how cult leaders are: charming, apparently caring, and utterly sure their way is the right way. I think it’s the confidence that attracts people. Just look at Hitler.”

  “I hardly think it’s fair to compare Ellis Elrich with Hitler.”

  Graham shrugged, then winced at the movement.

  “Oh, hey, I do have some good news,” I said as Graham closed his eyes. I noticed that he surreptitiously gave himself another little squeeze of morphine. “I think I’ve got the key to the authentic mortar mix.”

  “What would that be?” he asked, though he seemed not at all interested.

  “Horse manure.”

  “Bull.”

  “No, horse. My source was pretty specific.”

  “And how do you know this? Or should I even ask?”

  “The warrior ghost and I have become pretty good friends. I mean, he still threatens to kill me whenever he sees me, but then he sheaths his sword ’cause, you know, I’m a girl.”

  Graham closed his eyes, and I wondered if he had drifted off. But just in case he was still listening, I kept talking.

  “Yep. I have been consulting on traditional building practices with a centuries-old ghost who was shipped over the ocean with those mossy stones. Just call me the contractoress with the mostess.”

  Graham grunted.

  “You don’t believe me?” I asked.

  “I think you just want to see if I’ll actually put horse manure in the mortar.”

  “And here I thought all good relationships were built on trust.”

  “Mel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Sure thing,” I whispered, and placed the gentlest kiss I could manage on his whiskery cheek, then tiptoed out to let him sleep.

  * * *

  I tried to fight the tears that sprang to my eyes every time I left Graham’s hospital room. There was something so upsetting, so wrong, about seeing a man like that as helpless as a baby.

  I looked up as my father and Caleb walked into the ICU. We hugged.

  “Sorry. I think he just fell asleep,” I said. “He’s grumpy and feels terrible, but it looks like he’s officially on the mend. They’re planning on moving him to a regular room today.”

  “That’s good news,” said Dad. “Well, Caleb, what do you say we find a hamburger somewhere, and come back after and see if he’s awake? Unless you need something from us, Mel?”

  “Caleb, you’ve always been good with puzzles. Do you think you could help me with something?”

  I took out my phone and showed Caleb the pictures I’d taken of the stones with the bits of mural on them. “I think these can be arranged to form a larger image, though some pieces may be missing.”

  “Sure,” Caleb said. “I’ll use Photoshop, see what I can come up with.”

  “I still need my phone, though,” I pointed out.

  “You are such a computerphobe,” Caleb said as he e-mailed the photos to himself, then handed the phone back to me.

  “Yeah, Mel,” my dad chimed in. “Join the ‘now’ generation.”

  “The what generation?” Caleb asked.

  “You’re a groovy dude, Dad,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Oh, one other thing: Could you guys take Dog for a bit? He’s in the car. I’m going to be running around a lot, and it would be easier if I didn’t have to worry about him.”

  “Happy to,” said Dad.

  They escorted me to the parking lot, where Dog was overjoyed to see them.

  “Thanks for this,” I said as we made the transfer. “If things settle down, I’ll come back and get him soon. He’s good company.”

  “Be careful, babe,” said my dad as I climbed into my car and took off. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the parking garage. Stan was right: I hardly recognized myself. I never had been what one might call a particularly “well put-together” person, but now my eyes had a shadowed, harried look.

  I imagined Luz would tell me that seeing one’s boyfriend in the hospital, bailing one’s stepson out of police custody, and stumbling across a murder victim all in one week wasn’t good for one’s mental health.

  I glanced at my watch. I had a million things to do, but I could sneak away for a little while. It would be nice to be free of everything: my worries about Caleb and Graham and ghosts and Elrich and all his minions. The constant requests and questions on the jobsite. The strange living situation and the sparkling pool that was beginning to feel like a reproach, since I still hadn’t managed to swim in it, much less lounge by it.

  I headed toward nearby Highway One, one of the most beautiful roads in the United States. Car commercials love depicting their shiny new cars negotiating its hairpin twists and turns, the road so challenging in spots that you can’t go much faster than fifteen miles per hour. Careening off the highway into the forest would be bad enough; the real danger was flying off one of the sheer cliffs overlooking the ocean.

  The Northern California coast is often shrouded in fog, but not today. The sun shone in a crystal clear blue sky; the water churned a deep blue-gray. A few fluffy clouds hung on the horizon. Waves crashed over jagged rock outcroppings, seagulls perched on massive boulders, and a half dozen big-billed pelicans flew right along the cliff, so close I felt as though I could touch them.

  I slowed to negotiate a curve and noted in the rearview mirror a gleaming black SUV not far behind. It seemed to be picking up speed. I wasn’t sure what the driver’s hurry was; I was already going five miles an hour over the speed limit, and there was only one lane in each direction. It is impossible to pass on Highway One, so whoever was driving would just have to slow down anyway when he or she caught up to me.

  The first time I drove the coast was on my sixteenth birthday, the day I got my driver’s license. It was a rite of passage where I grew up, a coming-of-age ritual, the sort of thrilling, dangerous challenge teenagers loved. Every so often, someone drove off the cliffs, plunging to their death on the steep rocks below, or drowning in the rough ocean. Ours was a wild, savage coast. It was one reason we Northern California types held ourselves above our southern neighbors; if you swam in these waters, you were lucky if you weren’t dashed to the rocks or eaten by sharks—assuming you didn’t die of hypothermia first. Surfers around here were about as fit and fearless as Navy SEALs, basically.

  It struck me as I drove that it felt good to think about nothing for a while, to just concentrate on the road, the ocean, the forest. It was hard to take in these ocean vistas without pondering the beauty of life. Ellis Elrich no doubt would have a quote at the ready to encapsulate these emotions. I smiled to myself, breathed deeply of the air blowing in off the sea, and felt myself start to relax.

  Until I glanced in my mirror. The SUV had caught up with me and was now edging up to my rear bumper. I didn’t recall there being so many tailgaters in my younger days, and wondered whether the Bay Area was growing so crowded that it encouraged road rage, or whether people today simply hadn’t learned to share.

  I sounded exactly like my father. Sheesh.

  My phone rang. Even though it connected to a Bluetooth, I didn’t answer. The tricky highway demanded every bit of my attention. A few seconds later, the phone beeped. We were on a straight stretch of road, so I risked a glance, in case the text was about Graham.

  The second my attention was diverted, I felt a jolt. Confused, I looked up, fearing I’d hit something.

  Then I saw it: the SUV, looming in the rearview mirror.

  It clipped me again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Another bump, and I had to brake to stay in my lane. I sped up, trying to think. The SUV had been nosing me from behind. Could it have been accidental? The vehicle fell back, and I breathed a sigh of relief . . . but then it started gaining on me again.

  The road took a brief jog inland, and I was coming up to a 180-degree turn in the thick of the forest. I went as fast as I dared, but the SUV wa
s still on my tail. I’m no slouch driving on winding highways—Dad taught all his girls to drive in the mountains, figuring if we could manage a stick on twisty mountain roads, our odds of negotiating city streets were that much better. So I did as I’d been taught, braking before entering the turn, then accelerating out of it. I didn’t understand the physics of it, but somehow the acceleration in the middle of a turn helped the driver maintain control.

  Unfortunately, the SUV driver appeared to have some training, himself. I was assuming it was a him—I suppose it could have been a woman, for all I could see. The windows were tinted, in the way of drug dealers and the sort of people who intended to run a person off the road.

  As I careened through the next turn, it hit me: This person wanted to kill me.

  Adrenaline pumped through me. My heart pounded. While I willed myself to stay focused on the road, I was also trying to think ahead. Where was the nearest town? How could I turn off the highway, or at the very least get away from the deadly coastal cliffs?

  The occasional turnoffs were just dirt pathways. I was going to have to assume that if the SUV’s driver was willing to push me off a cliff, she or he might also be carrying a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to blow me away if I got stuck up a dirt road. My gun—Dad’s Glock—was in the farthest reaches of the closet in my room back at the Elrich mansion, of course, where it would be of no use whatsoever, unless I was threatened while hiding in the closet. This wasn’t the time to examine my actions, but it occurred to me that if I wanted a gun for protection, I really should get used to carrying it.

  I sped through a series of sharp curves, and then another, the SUV on my tail. Up ahead was a bad one: a 180-degree curve on a narrow stretch of road right above the ocean, with only a yard or so leeway on the edge of the road.

  Tires screeched and I fought to retain control. The big vehicle raced up behind me again, but this time I was ready and accelerated just as it started to tap my bumper, causing the SUV to fishtail. I felt a moment of fierce joy at the thought of my tormentor flying off the cliff and smashing against the rocks below, but the driver regained control. The vehicle spun and sprayed gravel, but came to rest pointing in the right direction.

  But at least I had gained a few seconds of breathing space.

  Finally a sight I thought I’d never be happy to see: traffic. A long line of cars ahead was crawling behind a slow-moving flatbed tow truck carrying a bulldozer.

  This could be my salvation, I thought. That, or it would be a disaster.

  I didn’t know what to do if the SUV was ruthless enough to try to take out a whole line of cars. But when I glanced in the mirror, I saw the menacing vehicle falling back, before finally disappearing from my sight behind a curve in the road.

  I was trembling and felt nauseated, but before stopping, I wanted to put some space between me and that homicidal SUV. And I wanted to find someplace crowded with people, who could either help me if needed or at least testify at the trial of my murderer. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Pelican Inn. I was shaking but relieved at the beautiful sight of folks lolling on the grass, bicyclists and hikers and just plain folks out enjoying a sunny Bay Area day.

  The parking lot attendant pointed me to an empty space at the back of the building, out of sight of the road. As I pulled in, I scanned the parking lot, irrationally fearful that the SUV somehow had gotten here first.

  I got out and checked my bumper: There were several new scrapes and dings, scrapings of black paint.

  As I made my way toward the inn, I asked the attendant if he knew whether Kieran was here.

  He checked his clipboard.

  “Lessee, he’s in room six,” he said, then looked to the empty spot marked with a 6. “Nope.”

  I walked straight past the front desk and into the bathroom. The nausea had passed, but I was still shaking. I splashed water on my face and checked myself out in the mirror: I was pale, my eyes wide and dazed.

  “You okay, honey?” asked a woman who was flipping her bountiful blond hair to give it more body.

  “Thanks, yes. I . . . had a close call in the car.”

  “Poor thing. You should sit for a while, have something to drink. They have great fish and chips here.”

  “Thanks. That’s not a bad idea.”

  It was the adrenaline crash. I didn’t think I could drive safely at the moment. Maybe she was right. I needed a drink. Or food. Or both.

  The tiny pub area was as crowded as ever. A long line at the bar dashed my hopes for food and drink; I didn’t think I could stand that long. But I was able to snag a seat on the window bench next to a burly man with a motorcycle helmet.

  “You all right?” he asked solicitously. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Despite myself, I had to smile. “Yes, thank you . . . I um . . . almost hit a deer, almost ran off the road.”

  He nodded. “That’ll shake you up, all right. Lot of deer ’round here; my wife and I ride Highway One all the time. I’m Roger, go by Rog. Delia’s in the restroom trying to fix her helmet hair.”

  I nodded. “I think we met.”

  “You want me to order something for you?”

  His solicitousness surprised me, and for a crazy moment I wondered if old Rog here might be trying to kill me. But the bench where we were sitting was right next to the bar, so I could watch to be sure he wasn’t slipping something into my drink.

  Relax, Mel, I told myself. The man is just being kind.

  “Thank you. I would really appreciate it.” I asked for a hard cider and some fish and chips. It dawned on me I hadn’t eaten in a while—another rarity for me and a clear example that I wasn’t coping all that well.

  Then I caught something out of the corner of my eye, and this time it wasn’t a ghost.

  It was Buzz. In the front hall.

  Buzz, the professional driver. One of Elrich’s devoted minions. His hazel eyes, which I’d once thought of as easygoing and friendly, now appeared flat and emotionless as a snake’s.

  My already addled mind flailed around, trying to think what to do. Enlist the help of Rog and Delia? Would Buzz be willing to hurt innocent bystanders just to get to me?

  I remembered there was a hard-to-see door next to the dartboard that led to a room called “the Snuggery.” Just beyond that was a back door that opened onto the parking lot.

  Could I get to it in time? Did Buzz have an accomplice waiting at the exit? I’d have to chance it.

  I started to stand, but got only about halfway up when Ellis walked in, flanked by his ever-present bodyguards.

  “You sure she’s okay?” I heard Delia ask Rog behind me.

  Ellis took in the room, his face brightening when he saw me.

  “Mel?” he asked, coming over to where I sat. “What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”

  I sank back down onto the bench. “I was . . . just having a bite.”

  “I hear the fish and chips are excellent,” he said with his signature smile and a duck of the head.

  “Best in Northern California,” Delia said, and Rog nodded.

  “What are . . . ?” I had to clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I took your advice and agreed to meet with Kieran Lachaidh.”

  “Oh.” I was having a very hard time breathing.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding concerned. “You look pale.”

  “She had a run-in with a deer on the road,” said Rog. “Bad scare.”

  “Well, no wonder, then,” Ellis said. Turning to Rog, he held out his hand. “I’m Ellis Elrich.”

  “No kidding? I thought that was you!”

  “We took one of your seminars!” exclaimed Delia.

  “I gotta tell you, Mr. Elrich,” said Rog, “I wouldn’t own my own garage today if it wasn’t for you and your program.”

  “It’s true,” said Delia. “You changed our lives.”

  The fandom went on for several minutes, with Ellis graciously accepting
the compliments while assuring Delia and Rog that they had done the hard work of changing their lives themselves and that they should always remember that. The bodyguards, Andrew and Omar, subtly but effectively placed themselves in the way of any further adoration from the crowd. Meanwhile Buzz, far from trying to kill me, had ordered a round of beers and was vying for the prime table, the corner bench.

  I used these few minutes to pull myself together. Escaping a near-death experience on the road, then nearly scaring myself to bits, had taken the starch out of me. I started wondering if I hadn’t exaggerated the whole terrifying episode, then remembered the fresh scratches on my rear bumper.

  It really had happened. Someone had tried to push me off the road. And they’d damned near succeeded.

  Just then Kieran came down the stairs.

  “Mel? You came with Ellis to negotiate? That’s really lovely of you.”

  “I thought you weren’t here,” I said.

  “Got here a few minutes ago. Is everything all right? You don’t look well.”

  “Bad deer encounter,” Rog explained.

  “Just needs a bit of a pick-me-up,” Delia added.

  “She’ll be fine,” Ellis said.

  I smiled weakly, by now sure everyone in the pub knew I’d had a run-in with a deer and no doubt thought I was milking it for all it was worth.

  “I’m glad you’re speaking with Ellis,” I said. “I hope it goes well.”

  My food was up. I sat on the window bench, ate the delicious fish and chips, and listened to Delia and Rog extol the virtues of the Elrich Method. From time to time I cast a glance at the men in the corner huddled over the barrel that doubled as their table. Their discussion seemed heated but civilized.

  After a little food and rest, I felt almost like myself again. I thanked Rog and Delia and wished them well. Not wanting to interrupt the negotiations between Kieran and Ellis, I slipped out without saying good-bye and checked the parking lot. Kieran’s Prius was in slot number six, and the stretch limo at the rear of the lot, I assumed, belonged to Ellis Elrich. The parking lot was jammed with cars, but nary a black SUV in sight.