Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Still grumbling, I released the latches on the skylight and pushed it open.

  One thing I’ll say for modern skylights: they’re easier to operate than the old hand-crank versions. I climbed through, and found myself on the roof of the turret.

  Dog stuck his fool head out of the window below me and started to bark. Like a crazy canine.

  I caught a whiff of something noxious and chemical-smelling, but couldn’t place it and it was soon replaced by the salt air breezes.

  I took a moment to reassure Dog and to get my bearings. At the top of the cupola was a pole where the weather vane should have been, and encircling the turret was a blank space where the widow’s walk had once been. A ladder on the far side of the turret led to the rest of the roof.

  The view was phenomenal, and while I didn’t agree with Flynt’s assessment that it was worth twenty-nine million dollars—was any private residence worth that much?—it was, indeed, impressive. I had a panoramic view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio, Sausalito, the islands in the bay, and all of downtown. As much as I loved Oakland, it was clear why tourists from around the globe sought out San Francisco and why folks were willing to pay so much to live here. It was simply gorgeous.

  Maybe not twenty-nine million dollars’ worth of gorgeous, but still.

  A bit of moisture blew in off the bay and nearby Pacific Ocean. A couple of big black birds glided by as though seeking their erstwhile perch on the widow’s walk, which now probably sat in the corner of some salvage yard or adorned some upscale urban garden, or had long ago been melted down at the scrap yard. Which was a depressing thought.

  The day was sunny and bright, not what one would think of the right weather for a haunting.

  And yet.

  The wind shifted suddenly, and I sensed the weathervane spinning wildly.

  The weathervane that didn’t exist. I felt it as much as heard it, the vibrations of its creaking and squeaking reverberating through the roof tiles. I turned to see where it would have once been.

  A man was glowering at me through the skylight window.

  Chapter Eight

  The person in the window appeared angry. Furious, actually.

  Apoplectic, an old-fashioned word, came to mind next, and it took me a moment to realize why: The man was wearing a waistcoat over a brocade vest, and his florid cheeks sported thick muttonchops.

  And in his eyes was a rage that chilled me to the core.

  Dog went wild. Startled, I reached behind me to grab onto an eave and steady myself.

  When I looked back at the skylight, the angry visage was gone.

  In the old days, before I understood what I was seeing, I would have tried to explain away what I had just witnessed: It must have been a trick of light, strange reflections in the too-shiny glass. Surely it couldn’t have been what it looked like. Surely not an angry man out of time and place. Surely . . . not.

  And yet that was exactly what it was.

  Now that I was more experienced I didn’t waste time in denial. I yelled.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice sounding scratchy and weak. I cleared my throat and tried again, in a stronger voice this time. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. I approached the skylight slowly. I reached up to feel my grandmother’s ring, which hung around my neck, and took a moment to center myself.

  “Is anyone there? Do you want to speak to me? Do you . . . Do you have something to tell me?”

  I had learned through my classes and reading and ghost-busting friend Olivier that ghosts were humans who had passed on. They were no better or worse than anyone else, and they were frightening only because they were dead. Usually.

  Except I was willing to bet this guy had been frightening back when he was alive, too.

  Still, if he was hanging around this house he had a reason. And if he appeared to me here, in broad daylight, then he probably wanted—needed—to tell me what that reason was.

  The wind shifted again. This time the squeaking was so loud I wheeled around to look at the spot where the weathervane should be, wondering if the man would appear there.

  As I twisted I lost my footing on the steep tiles, slick with moisture off the sea, and lunged for the dormer eave.

  “Get back in here!” the man bellowed.

  At least, I thought it was him. I could no longer see him, so I couldn’t be sure. But it was a man’s voice, gruff and low, which certainly seemed to suit him.

  I’m not good at following orders—just ask my dad. But this time I did as I was told.

  If I was going to deal with this ghost, best to do it where I wasn’t in danger of tumbling four stories to a messy death on a Pacific Heights sidewalk.

  The only flaw in this plan was that I had to go back in the way I’d come out: through the skylight, where I’d last seen the man. What if he was still there, brows beetled, furious with me for going out on the roof?

  Or . . . perhaps he was only concerned for my welfare. Could that be?

  Taking another moment to slow my breathing, I rubbed the ring I wore around my neck, and summoned my courage.

  I heard another grumpy old man’s voice, this time in my head: All you can do is get it done.

  My father, Bill Turner, retired general contractor and sage.

  I crawled back toward the skylight. Slowly, looking for the apparition.

  “Hello? I’m getting off the roof, just like you said. Okay? No fair scaring the crap out of me, deal?”

  But as I crawled through the skylight, I felt nothing. I smelled the faint stench of chemicals again, but it dissipated so quickly I might have imagined it. No cold air, no breath on the back of my neck, no outward sign of anything supernatural. Just Dog, whipping his tail wildly, doing that thing where he curls his butt around so far it practically reaches his snout and then whaps himself in the face with his tail in his frenetic display of delight in seeing me.

  I reached the little platform at the bottom of the stairs and collapsed on the floor, cradling Dog for a few minutes. Ostensibly this was to reassure him, to show him he was loved and to thank him for his concern. In reality, burying my face in his soft brown fur and hugging his warm wiggly canine body grounded me, and helped to bring me back from the odd sensations of ghosts appearing before me.

  • • •

  Olivier Galopin frequently took me to task when I called a ghost a ghost. He preferred “former humans,” and insisted we were the ones intruding on their peace and quiet, not the other way around.

  In public, I nodded. In private, I disagreed. Vehemently. Ghosts, I explained to Olivier, are creepy precisely because they are “former humans”—the key word being “former.” Their very former-ness weirds me out.

  And yet . . . I felt compelled to help.

  What could old grumpy-pants want? Besides having his house put back in order, of course. Was it that straightforward? Could I assume he was the Peregrine Summerton who had built the house? If so, would he be satisfied if I reinstalled the widow’s walk and weathervane, uncovered a little original paneling, and added some plaster medallions? Voilà, no more ghosts?

  Somehow I didn’t think it was going to be that simple.

  Especially if Chantelle’s untimely demise was somehow connected to the goings-on within these walls. I wondered what Inspector Crawford had uncovered about her murder, if anything.

  Since Olivier was on my mind, I texted him, asking for advice.

  Dog and I took some time to poke around a little more—looking through the ten bedrooms and various “plus” rooms, with the exception of Egypt’s locked chamber—but I heard no more ghostly music, no more squeaky weathervane. I was doubly convinced, however, that this already huge house was even bigger than it appeared. If I was reading the original blueprints correctly—and I was; Dad and Stan had schooled me thoroughly in the art of reading blueprints—then S
kip the remodeler had put up false walls.

  But why? Because it was simpler and faster to block off a space than to reconfigure the entire floor? Or could there be another explanation?

  Only one way to find out. I had gotten an early start today, so I could probably manage to swing downtown before meeting with Luz and the students. I would text her to let her know I might be late.

  It was time for a little chat with Skip Buhner, remodeler to the stars.

  • • •

  It was easy to find the construction site on Sansome and Washington. What was difficult was finding a place to park. The security guard controlling the entrance to the working lot refused to believe I was a contractor, no matter what my business card said. Today probably hadn’t been the best day to wear sparkly attire.

  “I assure you,” I said patiently. “I am Mel Turner, and I’m a general contractor. I need to speak with Skip Buhner.”

  “You know, I might let you in just to give him a good laugh. Construction workers don’t wear dresses.”

  “They do when they’re the ones in charge.”

  He grinned. “Sure ya are, hon.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t you call Skip? Use that little radio there. Otherwise I’ll happily demonstrate that these are steel-toed boots I’m wearing.”

  The security guard winced and waved me in.

  My little Scion nearly disappeared when sandwiched between two full-sized trucks: one dusty white Ford, one gleaming white Chevy.

  I put Dog’s leash on, and we went to find Skip Buhner.

  A bearded man with a clipboard, I assumed, was the man in charge. He did not, in fact, look amused to see me. He looked downright angry.

  “Who the hell let a civilian on-site? And a dog?” he yelled to no one in particular. A few men glanced our way before shaking their heads and getting back to welding or carrying their building supplies. They projected the lackadaisical attitude of workers being paid by the hour by a general they didn’t respect.

  “Skip Buhner?” I asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Mel Turner. I’m working for Andrew Flynt.”

  His eyes looked guarded, but he backed down. “Oh yeah, sure. What do you need? I’m a little busy.”

  “Sorry. I’ll be quick. I—”

  “I don’t know anything about the so-called haunting at Crosswinds. You ask me, it’s that woman making things up.”

  “You mean Chantelle?”

  “No. I mean yes, but she’s probably working in concert with the other one.”

  “Which other one?”

  “That . . . What’s her name? Israel?”

  “Egypt?” According to Egypt, she and Skip had met weekly with Andrew Flynt to discuss the renovation. Yet Skip couldn’t remember her name?

  “Right. That one.”

  “Why would Egypt make up something like that?”

  “She’s got herself a pretty nice setup, doesn’t she? Place is a showcase. Gorgeous. Lives like a queen and doesn’t pay rent. Not a bad gig, especially when she’s got nowhere else to go.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She’s down on her luck, is what I mean. That Mrs. Flynt is a lovely woman, but she’s got too big a heart, it gets her in trouble. I’ve seen it happen lots of times with these wealthy women. They’re gentle souls, don’t realize they’re being taken advantage of.”

  That hadn’t been my experience, I thought. Most of the wealthy women I’d worked for were wealthy for a reason.

  “So you’re saying Egypt was in need of a job, or . . . ?”

  “She’d be homeless, living on the streets, if it weren’t for the Flynts letting her stay in that place. She’s good with computers, or so I hear, but have you seen the rents in the city lately? And it’s not like she contributed much to the renovation. I pretty much took care of everything.”

  “I see.”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong—I got no problem with Egypt. If she can get someone else to pay her bills, more power to her, you know what I’m saying? But I think she might have put ideas into Mrs. Flynt’s head. Funny noises here, spooky music there, and next thing you know nobody’ll buy the place and she don’t have to move out. For someone from the wrong side of the tracks, she never had it so good.”

  “Uh-huh. Where would that side of the tracks be, do you know?”

  “Oakland.”

  His tone told me all I needed to know. To me Oakland was home, a diverse town of working people and taco trucks and Vietnamese restaurants and famous jazz clubs and the elegant Lake Merritt. We were also home to the Black Panthers and the Oakland Raiders and the Hell’s Angels and Jack London and Gertrude Stein and rap legend Tupac Shakur. It was anything but boring.

  But a lot of San Franciscans were afraid of Oakland, as were the folks from the bedroom communities over the hills. There was no denying that my hometown had a vivid reputation.

  “Other than the fact that she wasn’t born to money, anything else make you suspicious about Egypt?”

  He shrugged. “I never heard anything in that house.”

  “Nothing at all?” According to Egypt, Skip said he heard something and got scared. Which one of them was lying?

  He shook his head. “That about it?”

  “Actually, I was just starting.”

  “Look, I’d like nothing better than to stand here all day and chat, but I’ve got work to do. Good luck with your ghost hunting.”

  “Just a minute there, Skippy.” I had tried being nice, and was out of patience. Time to speak the language men like Skip understood best. I reached into my bag for my cell phone. “Andrew Flynt said you’d be happy to answer any questions I had about Crosswinds. Shall I give him a call to confirm?”

  Skip swore softly, caught himself, and slapped a fake smile on his face. “No need. Ask away.”

  “Did you take before-and-after pictures of the renovation?”

  He shrugged. “Some. I can send you digital copies. Karla has more, took them to show clients all the work that was done.”

  “This is your wife, Karla, the Realtor? Could you give me her contact info?”

  He did so and I dutifully wrote it down.

  “Thank you. Now, what happened to the historic items you removed from Crosswinds?”

  His eyes shifted, looking around at the jobsite, following workers. He’s about to lie, I realized, again feeling like Annette Crawford. Good heavens, was I beginning to take cues from Annette? The image of Inspector Crawford as some sort of justice-wielding Johnny Appleseed made me smile.

  “What’s funny?” Skip demanded.

  “Nothing. Sorry. Thinking about something else. So where’s the stuff from Crosswinds?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Let’s see, I have a list in my bag. . . . Let’s start with the weathervane.”

  “The one that’s supposed to be haunted?” He sneered.

  “The very one. Mr. Flynt wants me to put it back.”

  “How you going to do that?”

  “That would be why I’m asking you about it. What did you do with it?”

  “Prob’ly threw it away.”

  My stomach clenched.

  “In the trash?”

  He shrugged.

  “You threw what was no doubt a pure copper antique weathervane in the trash?”

  “What about it?”

  He was lying to me again. I don’t care how out of touch the man might be with the beauty and glory of historic architectural features, nobody who works in construction doesn’t know how valuable copper is, in any form.

  “Any chance it found its way to a salvage yard or eBay?”

  Right above the bushy hair on Skip’s cheeks I saw the pink of a blush. He was still looking anywhere but at me.

  “’Fess up, Skip. Andrew F
lynt doesn’t care about whatever you got for it, he just wants me to put it back. I can probably track it down with a few phone calls, but if you save me the time Flynt will never hear about it.”

  He mumbled something.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Urban Ore, or Griega Salvage, maybe.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember, honest. But I’m telling you, that stuff won’t still be there. That was, like, months ago.”

  “When, exactly?”

  Another shrug. “I guess, about . . . five months ago. Everything was sitting in the garage, and then Flynt told me to clean the place out, so I cleaned it out. Hey, at least I didn’t just take it to the dump! I, uh, recycled it.”

  Sure he did. Right into his pocket. “Okay, let’s move on to the actual remodel: Did you use all the available space?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I was looking over the blueprints and taking some measurements, and it looks like there are some voids in the walls, things like that.”

  He gave me an odd look. “That house is over thirteen thousand square feet. What, do they need more closets?”

  “What homeowners do with their square footage is none of my business. What is my business is why the blueprints and the measurements don’t match up. Did you frame off portions of the house, or maybe seal up entire rooms . . . ?”

  He looked uncomfortable and yelled at a young man carrying welding equipment.

  “Skip?” I continued, channeling Inspector Crawford. “We haven’t known each other very long, but trust me when I say: I’ll figure it out. And you can either be my friend and help me figure it out, or you can not be my friend and make things more difficult for me, in which case I will find a way to make your life unpleasant.”

  His look of anger was tinged with respect. “Nobody else even noticed that.”

  “What can I say? I was taught by the best in the business. So what’s the story?”

  “There were a coupla old closets, old servants’ halls or stairs, it would have taken days to take everything out and redo it, moving walls and everything, and all Flynt cared about was keeping on schedule and on budget. He was pretty unreasonable. The pressure . . . It got to be too much.”