Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Another cautious glance in Andrew’s direction, then she left through the front entrance, a beautiful paneled door with stained glass panels, topped by an elaborate fanlight, that was clearly original to the house. It had no doubt survived Flynt’s renovation only because of pressure from the city to maintain the historic character of the neighborhood. I imagined if Flynt had had his way, the wood-and-stained-glass door would have been replaced by some sort of steel-and-glass monstrosity.

  “Do you have time for a quick walk-through of the house?” I asked my new client.

  He checked his expensive watch again, sighed, and then gave me a curt nod.

  The home’s owner might not have enjoyed the tour, but I did. Peeking through old homes was one of my favorite things in life. Still, it saddened me to see the renovations perpetrated on the rest of the four-story house. Happily the layout of the upper floors appeared to have been left largely unchanged—unlike on the main floor—though the original moldings, woodwork, and built-in cabinets and bookcases had been torn out, replaced by flat surfaces, hard stone, and vinyl windows.

  As we walked along a sleek white corridor on the third floor I thought I heard music. I listened carefully: a Strauss waltz.

  “Nice,” I said. “Is Egypt a classical music fan?

  Andrew gave me a sour look.

  “What did I say?”

  “That’s ghost music.”

  “Ghost music?”

  He nodded. “It’s one of those things potential buyers always ask about. ‘What pretty music—where’s that coming from?’ they say. I try to act like it’s being piped in, but that doesn’t work because it starts and stops randomly throughout the day. Drives me crazy.”

  “At least it’s nice music.”

  “As if anybody waltzes anymore. Me, I’m a Grateful Dead fan.”

  I laughed.

  “You have something against the Grateful Dead?” he demanded.

  “Not at all,” I said, wondering what Jerry Garcia would make of Andrew Flynt. “‘Every silver lining’s got a touch of gray,’” I said, quoting a Grateful Dead song.

  I have my moments of cool.

  “Jerry’s the man,” Flynt said, nodding.

  Once or twice I thought I heard—or felt—wisps of conversations just out of reach of hearing, but though I searched my peripheral vision no ghosts appeared. Still, I felt certain Chantelle was right: There were spirits in this house. Unhappy spirits. Perhaps they would try to communicate when Andrew Flynt wasn’t by my side. A lot of times it happened that way.

  A modern skylight at the top of the stairs lit the fourth floor. The landing opened onto a hallway with doors leading into several small chambers. These were probably the former servants’ quarters, a little dormitory tucked under the eaves of the sloping roofline.

  At the end of the hall was one closed door.

  “That’s Egypt’s room,” said Flynt, reaching for the doorknob. I opened my mouth to tell him not to bother, not wanting to intrude in her private space, but the door was locked. He rattled the knob. “Dammit! Why would she lock it?”

  Maybe to keep her boundary-challenged employer from walking in on her private space? I thought.

  Flynt looked dumbfounded, as though he couldn’t imagine a door failing to open upon his command.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll ask Egypt if I can take a peek when I see her next. There are plenty of things to do first. We should go—I know you’re a busy man.”

  “So, how soon can you start?” Flynt asked as we descended the stairs. He had offered to take the elevator, but I declined. This was earthquake country, after all. No way was I going to risk getting stuck in an elevator in a haunted house with Andrew Flynt. “The sooner, the better, as far as I’m concerned. Here’s the code for the lockbox, and I’ll let Egypt know you might be here, what? Tomorrow?”

  “I’d like to stop by tomorrow to scope things out, but it will take a while to get started in earnest. Don’t forget I’ll need to pull some permits to renovate the renovations.”

  “Anything you need me to sign, just let me know. I’ve got connections at City Hall who can expedite things if you run into bureaucratic nonsense. The sooner this gets taken care of, the better. Every day this house sits on the market costs me money. If need be I’ll pay you to put your other projects on hold until this one gets done.”

  “I don’t leave projects half done, Andrew, but I understand your sense of urgency. I’ll get on it as soon as humanly possible, I promise. I’ll have my office manager, Stan Tomassi, fax a contract to your office. And in the meantime, I’d like to speak with Chantelle, and to the remodeler who did the work on Crosswinds. Who was that?”

  “Skip Buhner.”

  “Buhner? Any relation to Karla Buhner, your Realtor?”

  “Her husband.”

  “Ah.”

  It’s not as though I know everybody in the Bay Area housing industry, but ever since I took over Turner Construction “temporarily” from my father a few years ago, I had made a point of meeting the major players—our competition, after all—in the high-end, historic homes business. So either Skip Buhner was brand-new to the area or restoring historic homes wasn’t his primary area of expertise. Then again, I could have guessed that. Based upon what I’d seen at Crosswinds, Buhner was a rip-it-out-and-buy-something-new-at-the-big-box-store type of contractor. He would have lasted no more than five minutes, tops, trying to make a crooked doorframe function before tearing out the hand-carved wood and replacing it with a brand-new fiberglass set.

  “Skip’s moved on to a new project, an office building on Sansome,” Flynt said. “You want to talk headaches? Every time they dig they uncover some old ship—did you know that area’s landfill from back in the Barbary Coast days? And then they have to halt construction and file environmental reports, get some bleeding-heart academic out there to excavate and document the discovery. Like anybody really gives a damn. Waste of time and money, you ask me.”

  Just then I noticed a photograph at my feet. I picked it up: Sepia-toned and crumbling with age, it was of a young woman standing at a window. It was hard to tell, but it may have been the window right here in the hall—the view outside was the same of the Bay and Sausalito, but the iconic Golden Gate Bridge was missing.

  “I hate those things,” said Andrew.

  “What, old photos?”

  “They appear, here and there. It’s like when my daughter Lacey was obsessed with glitter—once it’s in your house you can never get rid of it.”

  “The photos just . . . appear?”

  He nodded. “I think there were a bunch of them behind a wall somewhere, and since we started construction they just turn up now and then. Crummy old things. Just throw it away.”

  “May I keep it?” I asked.

  “Why would you want it?”

  I studied the photo in my hands. The young woman was lovely, with a cupid’s bow mouth, her long hair pinned up in an elaborate bun. But the expression in her eyes was sad, and yearning, and . . . it felt as though she had something to tell me.

  “Not a history buff, I take it?” I finally said to Andrew, when I realized he was awaiting a response.

  “Never have been,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “It’s the future that interests me. The past is gone; irrelevant.”

  Unless, of course, that past is quite literally haunting you, and keeping you from selling your obscenely priced home so you can golf in peace and retire to cocktails in your Bollinger. Whatever that was.

  • • •

  I felt almost triumphant that Andrew and I hadn’t tripped over any bodies while walking through Crosswinds.

  I know, I know, I’m getting stranger by the day. And certainly I worked on many houses where my biggest problem was a plumbing backflow issue or dry rot or earthquake bracing. But by and large, when I’m int
roduced to a house believed to be haunted, I tend to trip over bodies.

  Maybe with this house, I would be able to deal with renovation issues and ancient ghosts, rather than any current homicides. Fingers crossed.

  I lingered outside the property in my Scion, sizing up the home’s beautiful Victorian exterior while I placed a few calls. First things first: I dialed a certain one-named psychic. Chantelle’s husky voice burst into laughter when I mentioned Andrew Flynt and Crosswinds.

  “He hasn’t been able to sell it, has he? I told him so, over a month ago. He’s stubborn. It’ll be a thousand.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I charge one thousand dollars for a drop-in consultation. You’re lucky, I just had a cancellation at three.”

  “But I’m not seeking a reading, or anything like that,” I clarified. “I just wanted to talk to you about what you saw—and felt—at Crosswinds.”

  “I understand that, sweetheart. One K, that’s my rate. Don’t you pay it—charge it to Flynt. He’ll pay. The man has more dollars than sense.”

  Luckily for me, clients with more dollars than sense were my specialty.

  And heck, it wouldn’t take the full hour to get Chantelle’s take on Crosswinds. If she was as talented as people seemed to think, maybe I would make use of the rest of the session, since I was paying for it anyway. I wouldn’t mind getting a psychic’s take on what to do about my life.

  It was a good life. But I had a few questions—in particular, I’d love some supernatural guidance on what to do about my boyfriend, Graham Donovan, green consultant to the rich and famous. We’d been seeing each other seriously ever since he was hospitalized at the scene of my last haunting. It was a nice relationship. Very comfortable.

  He was the perfect boyfriend, and yet he wanted more. Though I loved him, I wasn’t sure if we wanted the same things.

  Give me a cracked foundation any day; romantic relationships aren’t my strong suit.

  I made the appointment with Chantelle at three o’clock, then returned several calls and texts from foremen and suppliers. If the sheetrock contractor didn’t get his crew out to the Marin project soon I was pretty sure I was going to have a cardiac episode. I then checked in with my friend and office manager, Stan, and asked him to draw up the contract for Andrew Flynt so we could go over it tonight.

  Next I drove over to the permit offices to harangue and cajole the staff, in equal parts, and to expedite papers for a new project in the Sunset. Andrew Flynt wasn’t the only one with connections. In addition, I let them know I would be doing work on Crosswinds.

  After the permit office it was time to meet Chantelle. I glanced at the address she had given me. Nob Hill wasn’t far, but traffic was a big question mark in San Francisco—like any city with small streets, construction or road repair would cause traffic snarls so bad it could take twenty minutes to go two blocks. And don’t even get me started on parking. Luckily Chantelle had told me to hand my keys to the doorman—her building had valet service.

  At a thousand bucks a pop for consultations, it was little wonder Chantelle could afford a Nob Hill apartment with a doorman.

  Nob Hill was the other San Francisco neighborhood where wealthy robber barons had built their mansions. Unlike in Pacific Heights, though, most of Nob Hill’s original structures had been destroyed in the fire sparked by the 1906 earthquake. The burned-out shells had been replaced by Grace Cathedral and expensive hotels such as the Mark Hopkins and the Scarlet Huntington. Only the Pacific-Union remained, its thick stone walls far too stubborn to succumb to the flames; the exclusive men’s club still hunkered down atop Nob Hill like a sexist, classist outpost.

  Chantelle’s apartment turned out to be in a disappointingly bland 1970s condo building. The doorman, Gabe, was expecting me and buzzed me right in. Gabe wore a formal valet’s monkey suit but didn’t otherwise look the part. Young and tattooed, his eyes were bleary and he had a serious five o’clock shadow. I feared my arrival might have interrupted his nap.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You know how it is—late night. Chantelle’s on the ninth floor. Exit the elevator and down the hall to your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gabe took my keys and left the desk unattended while he went to park my vehicle. I assumed my old Scion would be safe with him but wasn’t overly concerned—one of the perks of driving a slightly banged-up work vehicle. What was one more little scratch or dent?

  The elevator whooshed up to the ninth floor. When the doors opened I exited and turned right. Down the hall I spied the door to nine sixteen, ajar.

  A woman stood in the hall just outside the apartment. She was striking: tall, yet delicate and ethereal, with long honey-blond hair and big beautiful brown eyes. Wow. If this was Chantelle, it was no wonder people spent a thousand bucks to meet with her. Even from a distance she seemed to possess a striking demeanor. Perhaps she really could tell me something.

  “Chantelle?” I asked. “I’m Mel. Mel Turner. We have an appointment at three o’clock.”

  She nodded, and without a word turned and went into the apartment. I followed.

  And found her on the floor, in a pool of bright red blood.

  Chapter Three

  There was also a man in the apartment entryway, down on one knee, leaning over the body.

  Upon seeing me he pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and announced, “She’s . . . gone. I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  He looked pale and was probably suffering from shock. I assumed he wasn’t the reason Chantelle lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood. Or, if he was the murderer, he was so overcome with guilt that he posed no threat to me. Either way, I decided to make a call of my own to Homicide Inspector Annette Crawford of the San Francisco Police Department.

  “The dispatcher says the police are on their way,” the man said, still holding the phone to his ear. There were tears in his eyes. His voice was gruff with emotion, the words clipped. He didn’t have a foreign accent, exactly, but I couldn’t quite place the oddness in his voice. “Who are you calling?”

  “A, er . . . friend. Annette Crawford, homicide inspector.” My eyes lit upon what looked like a butcher knife lying on the floor next to Chantelle. It was covered in blood. My stomach lurched. When I continued my voice dropped to a whisper: “We . . . Annette and I have a history.”

  Just then the inspector picked up.

  “Again, Mel?” Annette answered. Clearly she had Caller ID.

  “’Fraid so,” I said, and gave her Chantelle’s address.

  “What’s the situation? Anybody else there?”

  “Yes.” I turned away from the man, who remained beside the body.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No,” I whispered. “He was in the apartment when I got here.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. He called nine-one-one and he seems . . . stoic, but upset.”

  “Listen to me, Mel. I want you to go out in the hallway and wait until help arrives, do you hear me? No heroics.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not big on heroics.”

  “Allow me to rephrase: nothing stupid, understood?”

  “Okay, good point.”

  “The officers should be there in a few minutes; give me about twenty. Don’t touch anything and stay away from the body.”

  “I know, I know. I’m not that stupid.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  I did as the inspector said and went out to the hallway, but couldn’t help but peer through the open door into the apartment. The man remained balanced on one knee beside Chantelle’s body. The way he held himself reminded me of some of my father’s former Marine buddies, making me wonder if he was in the military. He was handsome, with a trim beard and light brown hair worn long, sweeping his collar, reminding me of photograph
s of soldiers from long ago.

  Aw, crap, I thought with a start. Was he a ghost, too?

  When I’d first learned I could communicate with spirits, I saw them only in my peripheral vision. Recently, I had started to see some of them straight on, as I would anyone else. More than once, in fact, I had assumed a ghost was a living person, as I had with Chantelle a moment ago. Distinguishing between a spirit and a live human can be all the more challenging because ghosts often don’t realize they’re dead. Asking a few questions usually clarified the situation.

  “Soooo,” I said, feeling awkward. “Are you . . . from around here?”

  Lame, Mel. You’re not picking up a man in a bar.

  “Just visiting.”

  Wait a minute—the man had called 911, I reminded myself. There’s an awful lot I still had to learn about the supernatural world, but one thing I did know: Ghosts don’t carry cell phones. Much less use them.

  “Are you a friend of Chantelle’s?”

  “Her brother, Landon Demetrius III,” he said.

  “Oh, I . . . I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes glistened with tears, but his voice showed little emotion. “And might I inquire as to who you are?”

  His formal phrasing piqued my interest. Something about him made me suspect that he might have a mysterious past. Or was he just a theater major a little too committed to Shakespeare’s English?

  “I’m Mel Turner.”

  “How do you do?” Landon said with a nod, then looked toward the sound of distant sirens. “Let us hope those sirens are for us.”

  “Shouldn’t be long now,” I agreed.

  We waited in silence for a few moments as the sirens drew closer.

  “You had an appointment for a reading, then?” Landon asked.

  “No, I was supposed to talk to your sister ab—” I realized with a start that I had not escaped Mel’s Dreaded Curse: I had once again encountered a body associated with a haunted house. Chantelle’s ghost wouldn’t be haunting Crosswinds, but . . . could her death be linked to that haunted mansion, somehow?