Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Me too,” I said, thinking of Donnchadh’s reaction to the Lady in Red. He didn’t seem to feel her sadness or hunger, only her fragility and loveliness.

  “And then, as if she wasn’t bad enough, that warrior chases any men out with his sword. He was the one we knew on the isle, but he’s much worse here than he was back home.”

  In the past few years, I have become very good at using my peripheral vision, since I often see ghosts that way. So without looking at her and cluing Kieran in to what she was doing, I could tell Alicia was working on freeing her hands.

  I had to keep Kieran talking, to give her time.

  “So you were the one who tried to run me off the road? You’ve got some mad driving skills, after all.”

  “Brilliant, if I do say so myself. Harper exchanged cars with me—I told her I needed to drive a group of protesters to a function. We switched them back at the Pelican Inn parking lot, and when I came downstairs and saw you there, I about collapsed. I thought the gig was up—I swear I did. But you didn’t put it together.”

  “No, I didn’t. I guess I’m pretty slow. So why did you attack Graham?”

  “Okay, now, that was another accident. I was hiding in the chapel, and I could hear you talking about the sacred vessel—I guess you really can talk to the ghost? And then Graham came in and I was afraid he was going to ruin everything. I wanted to hear what the ghost told you. And I didn’t think I hit Graham all that hard. Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  “But I don’t understand. . . . I get that you were using Harper for access to the site. But why befriend me?”

  “You say that like I had a plan. I came here searching for the vessel—when they were packing up the stones and shipping everything out, I started listening to the stories from the old-timers. I used to think they were just tall tales, the ramblings of old drunks, but my uncle, his friends, they started telling me about the precious vessel, and I realized I had missed my chance. I wanted access to the site so I could find the stupid thing, but the spirits kept chasing me out.”

  “Thing is, Kieran, there was never a priceless vessel, not in the way you’re thinking. The warrior ghost was guarding a woman. A noblewoman who was considered the vessel holding noble genes, I guess.”

  “You’re lying. Why would he still be here, then? What’s he guarding now? A woman would be long dead.”

  “He seems to be confused. There’s a lot of that going around.”

  Kieran shook his head and said again, “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not, and what’s more, I think you know I’m not. You killed Larry McCall because you thought he knew something about the treasure, right? You thought he had some kind of treasure map on his clipboard?”

  “It was nothing but a copy of a schema for stones, not even these stones, but other stones.”

  “Right. The plan went with a bunch of stones William Randolph Hearst brought over from Spain.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said yourself not to trust Libole. And for good reason. Libole pulled a fast one on Elrich. Elrich never wanted the monastery from the Isle of Inchcolm. He was after a different one, called Wakefield. Didn’t you ever wonder why he called it that?”

  “I thought it was just what he called his retreat.”

  “It isn’t. The name Wakefield comes from some ruins he had seen while in Scotland—an old monastery with a tower, on an island whose name I can’t pronounce. Libole couldn’t get that one for Elrich, and rather than lose the job, he bought this one, gambling that Elrich would never know the difference.”

  “That’s crazy. Who would do something like that?” This from a man holding a woman hostage.

  “But the tower would have given it away,” I continued, “so when Libole learned about the ancient stones in Golden Gate Park, he folded them into the design without telling anyone. McCall figured it out; he was a big Hearst fan, and he knew about the leftover stones from Hearst Castle.”

  “So McCall wasn’t after the treasure?”

  I shook my head. “I keep telling you, there is no treasure.”

  “Then why was McCall so pleased with himself that day?”

  “I imagine he was happy to have uncovered Libole’s scheme. I’m not sure why it mattered so much to him, but he seemed to be a real stickler for this sort of thing.”

  “I can’t believe it. . . .” Kieran started to deflate. “If you’re telling the truth, then it was all for nothing.”

  I nodded. Not much to respond to that.

  Kieran’s eyes went flat. He squinted at me and stood straighter. “Nice try. Go get the chalice, or ciborium, or whatever the treasure is, and bring it out. Otherwise, this nosy bitch is gonna get it. I’m not kidding, Mel. I’m losing my patience.”

  “But—”

  Alicia broke free, grabbed a large rock, and brought it down, hard, on Kieran’s instep. He cried out and started hopping around on his good foot. Alicia leaped up and kicked Kieran in the kneecap. His leg buckled and he crashed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  I ran toward them, launching myself at Kieran when I saw him trying to point his gun. He grunted as I landed on him full force and grabbed for the hand that held the gun. I jammed it into the hard-packed ground, and then Alicia, standing over us, stomped on his wrist.

  He cried out again and let go of the weapon.

  I went for the gun. Alicia went for Kieran.

  She started yelling, swearing, roaring in rage as she kicked him, landing blow after blow. Blood poured from a broken nose, and a kick to his gut made him double over in pain.

  “Help!” Kieran yelped, his voice panicky and high-pitched. “Get her off me!”

  “Alicia,” I said. “Enough. I have the gun.”

  She continued, landing another blow on his already injured knee. He screamed.

  “Alicia.” I took her by the shoulders and physically drew her away from him. “That’s enough.”

  “But he . . . he was going to . . .”

  “I know. But look at him now, helpless and whimpering. He’s no match for you.”

  Alicia’s eyes met mine, huge and solemn, as always. But then she smiled.

  “He’s no match for us. We make a good team.”

  I laughed in relief. “Yes. I think you’re right. Let’s tie him up and call the police.”

  “They’re already on their way,” said Alicia. “I called them before I came down—I saw Kieran sneaking around, and I thought you were here, and I was afraid he was up to no good.”

  “So you put it together, that he was the one who killed McCall?”

  “Not really. But I’ve been trying to keep an eye out for you. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. Hey, I have an idea! Let’s drag him into the cloister and let the ghosts terrorize him until the police come!”

  “No!” Kieran sobbed. “No, please . . .”

  “Just until the police come,” said Alicia.

  “It’s not that I don’t see the karmic justice in that, Alicia,” I said. “But we should let the police handle things from here on out.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Two days later, the jobsite was humming along, Graham had been released from the hospital, and Luz was visiting for the weekend.

  Ellis, Alicia, and I were in the Discovery Room. I was trying to explain the Lady in Red and her overzealous protector.

  “She’s been searching for her place for centuries now. And Donnchadh has been trying to protect someone who hasn’t been there for centuries. Let’s let them rest for a while. We’ll build her tower, give her plenty of food, and let Donnchadh protect her.”

  Ellis looked a little discomfited. I rather enjoyed watching him squirm—he always seemed so sure of himself that it was sort of gratifying to see he was as human as the rest of us.

  I continued on with my plan. “With your permission, I’d like to build the tower and piece together the mural. I’ve had some folks working on it, and they’ve come up with this.” I sh
owed them the picture Caleb, my father, and Stan had pieced together. The mural seemed to be a scene of a bucolic paradise, trees full of fruit, a splashing fountain, and frolicking birds. There was no way to know whether it was some sort of homage to the poor woman who had died there, or if it was a simple decoration. But the fresco contained her fired bones and covered the walls she knew as her final resting place.

  “But after we build it, I propose we wall up the access to the tower so no one comes near. Otherwise I’m afraid people will get curious and sneak up there, and one of these days Donnchadh is bound to scare someone enough that they fall down the stairs.”

  “And this way he can feel as though he’s keeping her safe?” asked Ellis.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “And that’s it? They stay like that forever?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. I was thinking that once things are built, I should try communicating with the ghosts again. Maybe I can help them to understand where they are and help them cross over to wherever they should be going. But for now they’ve been through a lot. They need a little time, I think, to rest.”

  “Is that how it works?” asked Alicia.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m no expert. But this is the gist I’m getting, and Olivier Galopin, an official ghost guy, agrees with me. In fact, if you’re amenable to the idea, I’d love to invite Olivier to come for a visit. He and I are hoping to find a way to help the ghosts communicate with each other.”

  “As Martin Luther King Jr. said: ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that,’” Ellis intoned with the little determined nod he gave when he’d made up his mind.

  Alicia noticed it, too, and moved on to the next subject on their agenda.

  I excused myself and slipped out.

  Upstairs, Graham was in the parlor, Luz by his side.

  “How did it go?” asked Luz.

  “Ellis agreed to complete the renovation and let me seal up the tower. We’ll make it look good.”

  “And that’s it? He’s okay with having ghosts at his retreat center?”

  “He seems to be fine with it. He was quoting Martin Luther King Jr. I’m not sure how it applied to this situation, but it was a beautiful sentiment, and it seemed to settle things in his mind.”

  “Knowing Elrich, he’ll make the ghosts a feature of Wakefield,” said Graham, moving slowly. “It will be part of his message to live life to the fullest, embrace the moment, and all that motivational crap.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “Nós ossos que . . . What was that phrase in Portuguese?”

  “I have no idea. I think you’re just trying to get me to speak Portuguese ’cause you think it’s sexy,” said Graham, holding my gaze for a beat.

  “Stick with Spanish,” said Luz. “And that reminds me, I bought the ghosts a present.”

  “Seriously?”

  She refused to meet my eyes, but she held out a Spanish-Gaelic dictionary.

  “Where in the world did you find this?”

  “Internet.”

  “And this is for . . . ?”

  “You said the warrior guy couldn’t understand the woman in red. So maybe he can look up a few words. I don’t know. Does it work like that?”

  “I’m not sure.” In fact, I didn’t even know whether Donnchadh could read, but it was worth a shot. Poor guy had plenty of time on his hands to study.

  “That’s great, Luz. Thank you.”

  “So what now?” Luz asked, changing the subject.

  I wanted to ask her about her reaction to the ghost recordings and my suspicions that there was something in her past she hadn’t told me about. But that could wait.

  “Well, there’s lots of work to be done, obviously,” I said. “This place isn’t going to build itself, you know. And Elrich still wants to have that grand opening by the end of summer.”

  “The pace should pick up now that you know you need to keep the men out of the tower room,” pointed out Graham. “You could stand to take an afternoon off.”

  “I should say so,” said Luz. “You just solved a murder and put ghosts to rest, chica. As your own personal mental health professional, I suggest you take a wellness afternoon.”

  I laughed. “What would you suggest?”

  “Hmm, well,” she said, raising one eyebrow and gazing out the French doors at the spectacular view. “There’s this gorgeous swimming pool that no one uses. . . .”

  Read on for a preview of Juliet Blackwell’s next Witchcraft Mystery,

  Spellcasting in Silk

  Available from Obsidian in July 2015.

  “Lily,” Inspector Carlos Romero said with a nod, “a moment in private?” His tone was curt, businesslike.

  “Sure.”

  I gestured to Bronwyn and Maya that I was taking a break and led Carlos through a deep red brocade curtain, which separated Aunt Cora’s Closet’s shop floor from the work area. Here, a jumbo washer and dryer for laundering inventory sat to one side, while a galley kitchen with a dorm-sized fridge, a microwave, and an electric teakettle lined the opposite wall. A pile of black Hefty bags and a couple of blue plastic storage boxes held clothing to be sorted, repaired, and cleaned. In the center of the room was a 1960s dinette set, the table topped with jade green Formica. The set was a replica of the one in my childhood home in the little town of Jarod, West Texas.

  Carlos took his usual seat at the table.

  “May I get you anything?” I asked, mostly out of habit because Carlos never accepted my offers of refreshments. “How about a cup of tea? Bronwyn has a new blend of carob, orange peel, and rose hips, which, I guarantee you, tastes a dang sight better than it sounds. It’s all the rage.”

  “No, thanks,” he said with a quick shake of his head.

  I sat in the chair opposite him and waited. He said nothing.

  “One day,” I said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I would like one day. Just one. When I wasn’t thinking about a suspicious death.”

  Carlos gazed at me for another long moment. He wasn’t much of a talker under the best of circumstances, and in his line of work, the long pauses surely served a purpose. More than a few cagey suspects and reluctant witnesses had no doubt blurted out something incriminating simply to break the oppressive silence. But this time was different: Carlos appeared to be choosing his words with care. And that probably meant he was here because he had come across something he couldn’t explain, something that fell far outside the purview of a routine police investigation.

  That was where I came in: Lily Ivory, unofficial witchy consultant to the SFPD.

  “Today’s not that day,” he finally replied.

  “Yeah, that was my point. I was feeling so happy right before you came in.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up in a reluctant smile. “That’s me, all right. The bringer of bad tidings. So I ruined your day, huh?”

  “Not yet you haven’t. But something tells me you’re about to . . .”

  “I need to talk to you about a curandera’s shop gone haywire, a suspicious suicide, and a missing kid.”

  “. . . aaaand there it is.”

  “I’ll start at the beginning; shall I?”

  I sat back in my chair. “Fire away.”

  “Last week a thirty-seven-year-old woman named Nicky Utley jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “That’s terrible. But . . . where does a witch come in?”

  “She was into a bunch of weird stuff.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Her husband showed us talismans and pentacles, books on everything from Catholic saints to candle magic, medicinal herbs, and such. Things more . . . overtly religious than your stuff.”

  “But how is any of that related to her death?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. According to her family and friends, the woman had been consulting with a curandera named Ursula Moreno, who owns a sho
p called El Pajarito on Mission. What can you tell me about her?”

  “Nothing. I’ve never heard of her.”

  Carlos looked surprised. “I assumed all of your ilk knew one another.”

  “My ilk?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. But I’m still fairly new in town, remember?” And though I wasn’t going to volunteer this to a member of the SFPD—friend or no—I kept my distance from curanderas. They were about as mixed a bag as the one I wore at my waist. Some were talented folk healers, others wise elders; a rare few were natural-born witches like me. Still others—the vast majority—dabbled in herbs and prayers and rituals, and enjoyed importing and creating talismans and amulets and good-luck charms.

  And a few were out-and-out charlatans.

  In the course of my life, I have learned a lot of things, not the least of which is that—witchy intuition aside—I am a wretched judge of character. So I tried to steer clear of such shops and their proprietors. Besides, it was cheaper by far to purchase my supplies at small apothecaries in Chinatown or local farmers’ markets . . . or even the ethnic-food aisle of a large grocery store. For the more esoteric witchy items, Maya had introduced me to the wonder of the Internet. A few clicks of a mouse and a package of freeze-dried bats would appear on my doorstep in just a few days. As if by magic.

  “Anyway,” Carlos continued, “it looks like the herbs and instructions and whatnot she got from the curandera may have aggravated an underlying condition, which led to her suicide.”

  My stomach clenched. One of my biggest fears was that those who neither understood magical systems, nor gave them the proper respect, would end up hurting themselves or others. Amateurs experimenting with magic were like toddlers playing with matches—initially they may cause no harm, but sooner or later someone got hurt.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. As I’m sure you know, curandera means ‘curer’ or ‘healer.’ The herbs and ‘whatnot,’ as you call it, are meant to help. But you have to know what you’re doing.”