Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (14 page)

I
froze at the sight of the ghost.

“Would you please take me home?” she asked.

Her voice was sweet and melodic, yet slightly echoey, as though she was speaking through an old-fashioned speaking tube.

Meanwhile, I was having trouble finding my own voice.

“I must get home,” she continued. “Do you know it?”

“I think I know the way,” I finally said. The security guard was watching me from the sidewalk, arms crossed. Sitting here talking to a ghost would no doubt reinforce his assumption that I posed a danger to the neighborhood. “It’s on Broadway, isn’t it? Crosswinds?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You know it?”

“I do,” I said, pulling out and heading up the hill. I kept the rearview mirror angled so I could watch her while I drove.

She looked so sad. I wanted to ask her what her story was, but it was hard to find the right words.

I have a ghost in my backseat.

“Flora, my name’s Mel. Mel Turner. I’d like to help you get home. All the way home.”

“Thank you. I must get home. Do you know it?”

“Yes. Crosswinds, on Broadway,” I repeated. “I know right where that is.”

“I must get home.”

Her voice was so odd, almost disembodied. I’d interacted with ghosts before, held conversations with them even, but not like this. Once again I was reminded that every ghost was different. I felt shivers run down my spine at the thought of Flora sitting behind me, talking to me from beyond the grave.

“I think . . . Is your father waiting for you at Crosswinds?” I asked.

“Father,” she repeated.

We were about a block from Crosswinds now, and I was so preoccupied watching Flora in my rearview mirror that I nearly missed a stop sign. Talk about distracted driving. I could just imagine trying to explain that one to the cops. “You see, Officer, there was this ghost in my car . . .”

A shiny Jaguar laid on the horn and I slammed on the brakes.

“Sorry about that,” I said to my spectral passenger. “We’re nearly there.”

No answer.

I glanced in the mirror, then turned around to look in the backseat.

Flora was gone.

•   •   •

It was past ten by the time I got home. After Flora disappeared I retraced my steps to California Street but of course my parking spot had been taken, and though I drove up and down the avenue and circled the block for the next half an hour, I caught no glimpse of her.

Back home in Oakland, I hung out with Dog and poked my head into Caleb’s room to say hi. A lot of
people found it unusual that my ex-stepson would be living with me and my dad rather than with either of his biological parents, who both loved him and were active in his life. But it worked for us. Caleb’s mother, Angelica, had a high-powered career in finance and wasn’t home a lot, while his father and new stepmother, Valerie, were expecting a baby. Even before she launched into her high-maintenance pregnancy bliss, Valerie hadn’t been overly fond of having her teenage stepson underfoot. Several months ago, when Caleb got into trouble, teenage-boy style, the adults had held a summit meeting. We all agreed he would benefit from my father’s constant attention and old-fashioned parenting, which mostly consisted of keeping Caleb busy with chores when he acted up. It was a child-rearing style I was very familiar with, and it seemed to have worked wonders with Caleb, probably because he really liked my dad and wanted his respect. The feeling was mutual.

Other than Caleb and Dog, the house was quiet. I slipped into the Turner Construction home office to look up the legend of Flora, but found nothing more informative than Dingo’s story. There were plenty of sightings of her, but she never found her way home. The haunted look in her wide eyes made me feel sad. She seemed caught in one of those dreams where no matter how fast you ran you never got anywhere.

On the other hand, if old cranky-pants from Crosswinds really was her father, why would she
want
to go home?

Next I flipped through the stack of today’s phone messages atop my desk, including one from George Flynt, asking me to stop by the offices of Tempus, Ltd. in the morning. According to what I’d looked up yesterday, Tempus was grandfather Flynt’s most recent pet project. He’d made billions in some Internet start-up years ago,
but now that he was pushing eighty he was funding enterprises “just for fun.”

I had intended to swing by the permit office tomorrow anyway, so it would be easy enough to stop in at Tempus. It was in the Hobart Building, right downtown, not too far from the havoc being wrought by Skip Buhner and his crew.

I thought back on my discussion with Skip: He had been lying, I was sure of it. I just couldn’t figure out why he’d have any reason to lie to me. Then again, I was at that state in this mystery where I was pretty sure everyone was lying. Even Nancy at Griega Salvage. I looked at Dog, whose big brown head lolled over toward me.

“
You’re
not lying to me, are you, Dog?”

He gave a couple of lazy thumps of his tail and I stroked his soft fur for a while. Then I shut down the computer and went to bed, Flora Summerton’s sorrowful expression haunting my dreams.

•   •   •

The Hobart was a gorgeous old office building designed by Willis Polk in 1914, with a sculptured terra-cotta Baroque neoclassical exterior that was asymmetrical and idiosyncratic. The lobby’s brass details and Italian marble walls retained its early twentieth century elegance. The walls on either side of the elevator were sheathed in solid stone slabs, and the stairs—which no one used—were a matching gray-and-white marble, bordered by elaborate wrought iron and brass rails.

And if all that sumptuousness wasn’t enough: Between the two elevators was a mail slot—the kind lined with glass so you could see your letters fall. That was the sort of thing that had fascinated me as a kid, and I had to admit I still got a kick out of it.

The grace and beauty of buildings like this just tickled me. No doubt about it: I was in the right profession.

I took the elevator to the seventeenth floor.

Unfortunately, like so many older buildings, while the lobby and stairwell retained their original charm the offices had been gutted and updated with the trappings of the modern office suite: drop acoustic tiles, temporary walls and cubicles, and windows that couldn’t be opened. I had the sense Skip Buhner, et al, would approve.

The offices of Tempus, Ltd. were down the hall to the left. A burly security guard at the door checked my name against a list on a clipboard.

Even though I had been summoned here to do the Flynts a favor, I was allowed to cool my heels for five minutes in the plush waiting room, where sage-green walls were covered in artistic black-and-white photos of attractive old people. I used the time to answer phone calls and some text messages, which the receptionist—a blonde, with her hair done up in a do as if she’d stepped off the set of
Mad Men
—seemed to find annoying. But if I was going to be made to wait, I was going to get some work done.

Finally, I was met not by George, but by Lacey Flynt.

She approached with a fake smile, and gave me the once-over, conveying the kind of dismissive disdain she had apparently learned from her father and grandfather.

“Thanks for coming, Mel. My grandfather will be right out. But in the meantime, I have a question of my own for you: This house has already cost us a fortune, and the carrying costs are eating into our profits every month. Whatever you’re planning on doing will add to those costs. Can you guarantee that after you’re done the ghosts will be taken care of?”

“I don’t know that I can guarantee it, no. But I’ll do my best, and I haven’t failed yet.”

I didn’t always rid a haunted house of its ghosts—whether a ghost stays or moves on is really not up to me.
But so far, at least, I had been able to reach satisfying arrangements with all of the spirits I’d encountered on the job. In some cases I had been able to put the ghosts to rest, while others I had negotiated a settlement that allowed the ghosts to coexist peacefully with the living. But I wasn’t going to go into such details with Lacey Flynt.

“I mean, shouldn’t that be sort of assumed in a contract?” Lacey pressed her point. “That construction work would also get rid of any resident ghosts?”

If there was one thing worse than dealing with an overprivileged client, it was dealing with a
group
of overprivileged clients. I didn’t mind dealing with Andrew, or Andrew and Stephanie as a couple. But I was not going to deal with the entire Flynt clan.

“Your father came to me for help, Lacey, not the other way around. If your family decides to work with someone else, that’s your prerogative. But for simplicity’s sake I would prefer to deal directly with your father and mother, as the owners of Crosswinds.”

“Oh, hey, Mel,” Mason said as he walked into the lobby. His gaze shifted to Lacey then back to me. “Oops, Lacey, are you screwing things up again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lacey said. “I’m just trying to get some assurance that she’s going to take care of things so we can off-load that damned house.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Mason said. “But now you want a ghost-free guarantee?”

Lacey glared at her brother. “I just want this whole thing to be done with, once and for all.”

“Don’t we all,” said George as he joined us. He had a blue blazer draped over one arm, and a manila envelope in his hand. “Your father’s been obsessed with redoing that place, and with that ridiculous psychic.” He seemed to realize he was being rude, and flashed an apologetic
look at me. “May she rest in peace, of course. But it’s high time to move on and get some damned work done. Mel, thank you for stopping by. Andrew was on his way out of town and asked me to give you the contract in person.” He handed the manila envelope to me. “All signed, plus a check for your retainer. I had my lawyers look it over and they made a few small alterations. I trust there will be no problem.”

I slipped the papers out of the envelope and skimmed them. The changes the lawyers had made were minor, so I nodded.

“Looks fine. Thank you. Will Andrew be out of town for long?”

George snorted.

“A few days, a week at most,” said Mason, with an ingratiating smile. “Dad asked me to answer any questions you might have in the interim, but I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing much better than I.”

I had the sense that Mason, as family peacekeeper, had cultivated that smile and his negotiating tactics. It could not be easy to navigate the stormy seas of the Flynt Family, what with all that money at stake. Not for the first time I felt grateful for my far more modest upbringing. The members of the Turner Clan got on one another’s nerves from time to time, but money, at least, was never an issue.

“And your mother, Stephanie?” I asked. “I assume she and your father are the legal owners of the property?”

George snorted again. I was beginning to feel sorry for Andrew, growing up with that sort of attitude from Daddy.

“Mom’s busy,” said Lacey. “She has her own work to do.”

“I see.” Given that Stephanie had turned over her
responsibilities in the original renovation to Egypt, I supposed it wasn’t surprising she would opt out now that ghosts were involved. Still, I disliked getting handed off from one family member to another. This job was almost certain to be a headache, and if I weren’t already so embroiled, I may well have torn that contract up and walked away.

“Well, I have a business to run,” said George. “Thanks again for stopping by, Mel, and I hope you can whip that place into shape quickly so we can all move on.” He turned to the receptionist. “I’m off to Sausalito, and then I have lunch with the mayor at Garibaldi’s. Should be back early afternoon to meet the auditors.”

“They’re coming today?” Lacey asked.

George nodded. “Part of the IPO prep. Nothing for you to worry about; it’s an independent agency and your brother put everything in order.”

Another nod to our trio, and he left.

All of us—Lacey, Mason, the receptionist, and I—fell silent for a moment, watching the door swing shut behind the elderly magnate. Whatever else one might say about George Flynt, he commanded attention.

“Well,” I said, as my phone beeped. More texts—I was hoping one was from the sheetrock guy I was waiting on. “Nice to see you both again. I’d best be getting back to work.”

“You’re not going to give her the tour?” asked the receptionist, holding up a special visitor’s badge.

“Good point,” said Mason, passing the badge to me. “Would you like a tour?”

Lacey rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would she want a tour? She, like, builds houses and chases
ghosts
. I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in our business.”

“Of course I’m interested,” I said, feeling contrary. “Why wouldn’t I be interested? I mean, it’s Tempus, Ltd., am I right?”

“You don’t have any idea what we do here, do you?” Lacey demanded. She might be rude, but she was also shrewd.

“I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m fuzzy on the details.”

Lacey snorted in an exact imitation of her grandfather. “Besides, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to give her a tour. We need to think about industrial espionage.”

“Good point,” I said. “There’s always a chance I orchestrated everything having to do with the ghosts at Crosswinds in order to perpetrate industrial espionage at a company I’ve never even heard of.”

Mason laughed out loud.

“Calm down, Lacey,” he said. “Mel’s not an industrial spy, and even if she were, just going on the tour wouldn’t do her any good. It’s not that exciting.”

Lacey threw up her hands and disappeared down the hall, presumably to her office.

“Allow me to show you around,” said Mason, still chuckling, and I followed him to a closed door, where he put his thumb on a screen. A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. We passed a conference room featuring a gleaming twelve-foot acrylic table and a huge TV screen.

“Are you really concerned about industrial espionage?” I asked.

“It probably sounds paranoid, but there’s nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come. Who said that? Victor Hugo, I think?”