“Now what?” Graham asked.
I typed in “Chantelle + Psychic,” and the search engine spat out tens of thousands of hits.
“I guess Luz and Caleb were right. She was a big deal.”
We started scrolling through them, one by one.
“This one is interesting,” said Graham. “You said Chantelle’s brother is named Landon Demetrius? Spelled like it sounds?”
“Yes. He’s a mathematician.”
“He’s more than that: he’s a computer whiz. He invented the Diogenes theorem.”
“Really? That’s quite something.” I pretended I knew what we were talking about.
“Don’t know what the Diogenes theorem is?”
“Um . . . not as such.”
“Stephen Hawking, The Theory of Everything?”
“Him, I’ve heard of. Wasn’t there a movie . . . ?”
“Well, this Demetrius fellow seems to be right up there with Hawking. But he found a practical application for one aspect of his work. The Diogenes theorem led to the Socrates chip. He’s wildly rich from inventions related to it.”
“Merely rich, or rich rich?”
“Think Bill Gates rich.”
“Okay, him I’ve heard of, too. Wow. That explains how Landon was staying at the Claremont for a full week—that place is pricey.” I pondered for a moment. “I guess that means he probably didn’t kill his sister for the inheritance.”
“You suspected he killed his sister? And you still gave him a ride to his hotel?”
“I did. And I don’t. Think he killed his sister, that is. Besides, Annette asked me to give him a lift and she wouldn’t have if she had the slightest suspicions about him. I’m just trying to keep an open mind. You know how bad I am at this.”
He gave me a crooked smile and chucked me lightly on the chin. “Just because you accidentally befriend murderers from time to time doesn’t mean you should start doubting yourself. You ghost buster, you.”
“Ghosts, I can handle.” Not so long ago I would never have imagined myself saying those words. My life had undergone some surprising changes. “It’s the living, breathing murderers I have a hard time with.”
“And did you make contact with any spirits at Crosswinds?”
“Not yet. But there’s something there. I can feel it. Oh, and I heard music.”
“What kind of music?”
“A waltz.”
“Well, at least Crosswinds has classy ghosts.”
“Mmm.”
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to mention something to you.”
I logged off the computer and turned my attention to Graham. “That sounds serious. Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine. A few months ago I received a phone call from an architect at a firm headquartered in New York that specializes in adapting green technology to high-end commercial buildings all around the world.”
“That sounds flattering.”
“It was. Anyhow, this firm has a project under way and wants to talk to me about doing some consulting work on it. It would be quite a feather in my cap—a high-profile project, an international firm, and a hefty consulting fee.”
“That’s great news, Graham. Congratulations.”
“Nothing’s certain yet, but they want to fly me out to meet with them. I don’t suppose you could get a few days off and come with me to New York?”
“I don’t think I can get away just now with so many projects in critical stages. We’re still under the gun at the Wakefield Retreat Center, I’ve got a couple other smaller projects that aren’t completed, and now with Crosswinds . . .”
“I suspected as much.”
“When do you leave?”
“If you’re not coming with me, I’ll fly out right away. Tomorrow.”
“Need a ride to the airport?”
“No, I’ll just leave my car in the lot. It’s all on their dime.”
“If you’re sure.”
“But another time,” Graham said, holding my gaze, “I’d love for you to come with me.”
I nodded. “That would be great.”
• • •
The next morning, I stumbled downstairs to start another workday.
“Mornin’, babe,” Dad called out as he sipped coffee and read the paper at the kitchen table. “Sleep well?”
“I did, actually,” I said, pouring coffee from the pot into my commuter cup. “I was thinking I’d take Dog with me to Crosswinds.”
Dad fixed me with a look. “This is to track down ghosts, right? Not bodies, right?”
“Right. Our pooch is quite the ghost sniffer.”
“Course he is,” Dad said, leaning down and giving the canine a hearty thump. His voice was gentle, and he spoke in a tender tone I had only ever heard him use with animals. “People talk trash, but he’s not without skills, are you, Daw-ugh?”
I smiled. “I think we may have to just go with Dog, Dad. This is getting ridiculous.”
“We’ll figure it out eventually. You sure I can’t tempt you with an omelet before you go? With Cowgirl Creamery cheese and chives straight outta the garden, since you’re so obsessed with organics.”
“I am not ‘obsessed with organics.’ I just think they taste better, and I like supporting local farmers and producers.”
“Never thought a daughter of mine would consider herself too good for Safeway,” he grumped.
I smiled and kissed his whiskery cheek. “Bye, Dad. Say hi to Kobe and Etta for me.”
A while back Dad had met Etta Lee and Kobe Sanders on a Neighbors Together community service project. I managed to volunteer Dad for a bit of extra work, and he’d taken the eleven-year-old Kobe under his wing. I had been hoping a romance might spark between Dad and Etta, but figured that was up to them; I’d done my part by throwing them together.
My mother had passed away a few years ago, and although my dad still missed her, and probably always would, he was an active, good-looking, and kind man with a big heart. Gruff, yes, but women brought out the best in him. Women and dogs and kids.
Dog stuck eagerly by my side as we headed out the door. He used to get carsick, but we had doggy Dramamine and our exposure therapy seemed to be helping, and he was always happy to jump in the car, nonetheless. I had given up hope that he’d ever become my construction dog—the kind that rode patiently onto every jobsite and stayed out of the way—but at least he was my ghost dog.
Dog and I spent the morning checking on the ancient monastery Turner Construction was reconstructing in Marin, where, in addition to actual work, I got to visit with Alicia Withers, the assistant to the wildly wealthy man spearheading the Wakefield project. Alicia and I had an inauspicious beginning to our friendship, but before long we had bonded over remodeling and ghosts. We took twenty enjoyable minutes to catch up over coffee.
Afterward, I headed south across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco. Before meeting Luz at noon, I wanted to swing by Crosswinds. My crews were working steadily in Marin and on a house in Glen Park, and we still had a few unfinished tasks for renovations in the Castro and Piedmont, but a client with pockets as deep as Andrew Flynt was nothing to sneeze at. And besides, I was already itching to mitigate a little of the damage done to that once-beautiful Victorian—not that it would be an easy fix, in any sense of the word.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one checking out the manse. There were three gleaming luxury cars crowding the driveway. One straddled the sidewalk so pedestrians would have to go around. Not that anyone who considered themselves anyone walked in this neighborhood.
I had just raised my hand to knock when the door swung open.
Chapter Six
“Mel!” Andrew gushed, as if we were long lost friends.
I had to admit, I had disliked Andrew Flynt on sight. Which was not a nice thing, not the ri
ght thing to do. First impressions can be wrong.
Except this time my first impressions were right. Andrew Flynt didn’t converse, he pontificated. He talked at me instead of to me, and avoided eye contact as though to emphasize I was not of his social rank and therefore not worth acknowledging. I encountered this attitude from some of my more privileged clients, though thankfully, not all of them. It was strangely dehumanizing, and made me wonder how they interacted with those they cared about: Did they find true connection with their equally elite spouses, their pampered children? Or was the inability to connect with someone lower on the social ladder a reflection of a more general inability to find common ground with others? I gave a mental shrug. Andrew Flynt’s emotional problems were none of my concern.
“Ah, Mel, great that you’re here,” said Andrew. “I’d like you to meet my family. We were doing one final walk-through before you got in here and starting tearing things up. Whole family’s lived through this endless renovation.”
“Damned foolish notion,” said an old man in a Greek fishing cap. “We’re going to be late for our tee time.”
“Mel Turner, this is my father, George Flynt. You’ll know the name, of course.”
“Of course,” I lied, for I’d never heard of the man. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“And my wife, Stephanie, and our children Lacey and Mason.”
“How do you do?” I said, and each nodded politely in return.
Stephanie Flynt was a slender woman in her fifties, who wore a long, flowing dress that I was sure cost more than I made in a month. She appeared to be an upscale hippie chick, in the way of wealthy Marin vegans. Stephanie had an airy, barely-there way about her, like someone who spent a lot of time meditating and concentrating on her breathing. Her hand was limp and cold in mine when we shook.
Lacey Flynt, Andrew and Stephanie’s daughter, was very different from her mother. Tanned and athletic-looking, she wore a golf skirt and a pink polo shirt and seemed full of energy, like a young Katharine Hepburn. Her brother Mason was also coiffed and good-looking, though lanky rather than athletic. He had golden hair and a pleasant if bland demeanor. Smiling and Zen-like, he wore natural fibers and Birkenstocks.
“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” I said. “I just wanted to stop in and—”
“No problem at all!” said Andrew. “We were just on our way to the golf course and thought we’d stop for a quick visit with the place, before you started in.”
“Speaking of which, we should get going,” said Lacey, ostentatiously looking her brother over. “Though, honestly, Mason, you know we’re heading to the club the second we’re done here. You couldn’t maybe dress appropriately to play golf?”
“And that would consist of? You forced me to watch the Pebble Beach tournament and I gotta tell you, some of those lime green and plaid pants were pretty nauseating.”
Lacey crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her brother with the look of impatient disdain that siblings excel at. My sister Cookie was a past master, and I must admit I’m no slouch myself. Mason rolled his eyes.
“Oh, please, you two.” Stephanie looked shaken by their bickering. “Let’s enjoy a nice afternoon as a family.”
“Yes, kids,” Andrew said, checking his cell phone messages. “Do as your mother says.”
“No worries, Mom,” Mason said, wrapping one arm around his mother’s petite shoulders. “I’ve got my golf shoes in the car. We’re all good.”
“Did you get a chance to speak with Chantelle?” Andrew asked me.
“I—”
“The woman’s a nut, you ask me,” interrupted George. “She’s a looker, I’ll give her that. But I can’t believe you’re going to start tearing this place up, not after all the money you’ve sunk into it. You’re like Sisyphus, son.”
“Is that the one who flew too near the sun?” Andrew asked.
George rolled his eyes and snorted. “Damned public school education. The one who flew too near the sun was Icarus, son of Daedalus. Sisyphus has to roll the boulder up the hill every day, over and over again. Get the metaphor?”
Andrew blushed clear to the roots of his hair, which just went to show that even a pompous ass was vulnerable to a parent’s scorn. Our adolescent selves ran deep.
“You might want to keep an open mind where Chantelle’s concerned,” said Mason. “She’s really pretty amazing.”
“You’re saying you believe in ghosts, now?” George demanded in a loud voice. “I think she must be in cahoots with that Realtor and her husband, the contractor. Somebody’s making money off this mess. It’s like the damned Winchester Mystery House, never ending. Wasn’t that because some crooked contractor had a gypsy fortune-teller convince a crazy old lady to keep building? It’s a scam, I tell you.”
“That’s a beautiful place,” Stephanie said.
“Which one’s that?” Lacey asked.
“The Winchester Mystery House, in San Jose. You remember—I took you and your brother there when you were young.”
“I would have thought that had been torn down by now. You mean it’s still standing?” Andrew asked.
“As far as I know,” Stephanie said.
“What does the Winchester place have to do with the price of eggs in Montreal?” George demanded. “We’re talking about that psychic you hired.”
“You brought it up, Grandpop,” Mason pointed out.
“Time’s a-wastin’,” Lacey chimed in. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
I stood quietly, waiting for the right moment to extricate myself. It wasn’t unusual for a family to involve the contractor in its squabbles since we were necessarily at the eye of the hurricane that was being visited upon their home. I’d learned long ago to never take sides and, once an argument had blown over, never to refer to it again. That didn’t keep family members from trying to recruit me to their point of view, but I was good at remaining noncommittal.
Still, I didn’t relish the idea of ol’ Grandpop turning those beady eyes on me.
“As I was saying,” continued Mason, apparently the only one not intimidated by George. “Chantelle . . . She knows things. I don’t understand it, but I think if you take the time to get to know her—”
“I’m not wasting my precious time with any damned witch.”
“Psychic,” Mason corrected.
“Whatever. You mark my words, Andrew, it’s a scam of some sort.” George gestured toward me with his head. “Probably this one here’s in on it, too.”
“I guess you haven’t heard,” I said, both to stop him from saying something I would have to respond to—which might result in me getting myself fired—and to avoid the awkwardness of speaking ill of the dead, who might very well be eavesdropping on us right now. Chantelle seemed more than capable of such. “It’s really dreadful, actually. I went to meet with Chantelle yesterday to discuss what she sensed here—”
George snorted.
“And when I got to her apartment she was . . . dead.”
Stephanie gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth.
“Dead?” Andrew said, looking up from his cell phone.
“No way,” said Lacey in a derisive tone.
“What . . . What happened?” asked Mason, his arm still wrapped protectively around his mother.
George opened and closed his mouth without making a sound, his bluster at least momentarily gone. He looked a little green around the gills.
“She was killed. Stabbed to death, I think.”
The family stared at me, dumbstruck.
“I . . . That’s stunning,” Andrew said. “What a terrible thing. You found her?”
I nodded. “Sort of. Her brother arrived right before me.”
“What a shame. That must have been quite a shock for you both.”
“It was, yes.” No need to go into my history with dead
bodies. Any time it happened was still shocking and sad, but as I’d told Landon last night, a person could become accustomed to most things given enough exposure. I had come to realize that the deaths I encountered signaled a beginning, like a starting pistol firing to signal the race to find the murderer had begun.
“Grandpop, we have a tee time at eleven,” said Lacey, recovering from the news.
“Oh, yes, quite right,” said George. He nodded at me. “Well then, sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Thank you, but I’d actually never met her,” I clarified.
“Oh, I just assumed . . . since you’re in the same line of work.”
“I’m not a psychic. I see spirits from time to time, that’s all. It may sound related but is quite different.”
“But that’s wonderful,” Stephanie murmured. “Why don’t you talk to your friendly spirits and see if you can find out who did that to her?”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Be nice if it did, wouldn’t it? In my experience, ghosts don’t remember their deaths. There’s a kind of amnesia that sets in. It’s a little frustrating, as you can imagine.”
The extended Flynt family was staring at me, their expressions a mixture of awe and incredulity.
“But . . .” Andrew trailed off, blew out a breath. “I can’t believe this. I spoke to her just the other day. Who would have done such a thing? And why? Have the police been called?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“I suppose they’ll be visiting us soon, then.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Stephanie to her husband. “You feel it, don’t you?”
He cleared his throat.
“Well, well,” said Stephanie, looking around as though summoning strength from the cosmos. “I imagine Chantelle’s on a better plane of existence, now.”
George harrumphed and rolled his eyes.
Stephanie ignored him. “Perhaps—perhaps she’ll communicate with you now, Ms. Turner. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Page 5