Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (15 page)

“Not sure,” I said with a shrug, peeking into what looked like standard offices as we walked past.

“Here at Tempus we’re devoted to halting the aging
process and allowing individuals to look and feel their very best at all times. To accomplish this, we have a multipronged approach: vitamins and supplements, an individualized exercise program, a series of hormone injections . . .”

As Mason rattled off his well-rehearsed promo speech, we walked past giant photographs of what I assumed were cutting-edge scientific procedures decorating the walls of the long hallway. Mason paused outside a room outfitted like a high-tech lab. Inside were a variety of monitors, vaguely scientific-looking equipment, and three people in white lab coats.

“The actual medical interventions are done off-site, of course. These are our offices for the clean work, but we also have research labs in Sausalito and several consulting physicians who work with us out of their offices.”

“I see. But to go back to the first thing you said: You’re dedicated to
halting
the aging process?”

He smiled, eyebrows lifting like a little boy opening a present. “Amazing, right? Think about it: New technologies are leading to the kind of cellular regeneration only dreamed of in the past. It’s like the fountain of youth. It’s incredible.”

“Yes, it, uh, certainly is,” I agreed. The fountain of youth was a work of fiction, of course, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Tempus here might not be selling a fiction, as well. Eternal youth would no doubt command a very high price.

What I had originally thought was a lovely tribute to older people, I realized now was advertisement for the company’s product.
Look how much younger you can look and feel!
proclaimed a series of before-and-after shots adorning the walls. But then what did I know? Perhaps science really had advanced to the point where we could at least slow the aging process, if not halt it.

On the other hand, I thought, watching a pampered
older woman being led out of one of the rooms marked “aesthetician,” the place seemed a lot like a plastic surgeon’s office. Nothing like a nip and a tuck to shave off a few years.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mason said.

“Do you?”

“You think we’re catering to the vanity and unrealistic expectations of the very wealthy.”

“I . . . uh . . . I really don’t know anything about this sort of thing, Mason. The only aging I’m familiar with is with buildings. Even there, there are ways to shore things up and make buildings last, but age always tells eventually, doesn’t it? But that’s part of their beauty. I mean, isn’t that one of the nice parts of life?”

He chuckled. “I felt the same as you do when my grandfather first brought me into the business. But, think of it like ghosts: Once you see, you become a believer.”

“I suppose—” I stopped short in front of a large photo of Chantelle, her ethereal good looks beckoning. Then I turned questioning eyes to Mason.

“Yeah, um . . .” He blushed. “I guess we should probably take that down, given what’s . . . happened.”

“Was Chantelle involved in Tempus?”

“She was interested in the project, of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

Me, for one. Maybe I read
Frankenstein
at an impressionable age, but I was wary of anyone messing around with nature.

“Was Chantelle a client?”

He tilted his head a little to one side in what looked like a cross between a shake of the head and a nod.

“Or maybe a shareholder?” I suggested.

“The company hasn’t gone public yet. We’re preparing for an IPO this spring.” He waved me into a beautifully outfitted office with a view of downtown San Francisco
and the Bay Bridge in the distance. “And this is my office. What do you think?”

“Lovely,” I said with a nod. “So, what was Chantelle’s involvement in Tempus?”

“She was supportive of the idea, and wanted to get involved. Dad was negotiating with her to provide an endorsement. Her celebrity would have been a boon for the business, no doubt. But that’s all a moot point now, of course.”

“And Lacey’s involved in the business as well?”

He paused.

“Yes,” Mason said finally. “Yes, she is. Same as me.”

I
sat in the car in the garage, pondering what I had learned during my visit to the Tempus, Ltd. headquarters.

After Mason’s rather cryptic response, I had tried to pursue the topic of Lacey, but he clammed up.

Probably it was nothing. Clearly there was no love lost between Mason and Lacey. And given what I’d seen of Grandpop George, he seemed to me the type to pit brother against sister in the boardroom as well as on the golf course.

And what was it George had said, that Andrew had been “obsessed” by Chantelle? That wasn’t the impression Andrew had given me. Hadn’t he said Stephanie had called Chantelle in? Then again, he had seemed quite shaken up by the news of her death. Chantelle was a beautiful woman, and I imagined she had been fascinating.

So why wouldn’t Andrew have mentioned that she was a client—possibly an investor—in Tempus?

Was it possible Andrew had been closer to Chantelle than he’d let on? Maybe even having an affair? And if so,
could that be the news Chantelle was planning to use to blackmail him?

I wondered if I should mention this admittedly vague suspicion to Annette Crawford. The inspector had told me, time and again, that people are most often killed by those who were supposed to love them: by parents and siblings, spouses and lovers. It was enough to feed the natural cynicism of a person like me.

But unless Andrew really had been having an affair with Chantelle, and was so desperately afraid of being blackmailed that he killed her in a fit of rage, there was still no tie that I could see among Tempus, Ltd., the Flynt clan, and Chantelle’s death. No matter how off-putting the Flynts were.

Unless there was something else in play that I hadn’t discovered yet. What might the other Flynts—George, Mason, Stephanie, or Lacey—have been trying to keep secret that would inspire blackmail?

There was the sale of Crosswinds. Had Chantelle somehow managed to keep people from buying it? There were twenty-nine million reasons to want her dead right there. But that made no sense. The ghosts were chasing people out of the house long before Chantelle arrived—it was why the Flynts had hired her.

Of course, there were no doubt a whole lot of corporate secrets hidden behind the heavy doors of Tempus, Ltd. Could Andrew have let something slip to Chantelle, and she used the information to blackmail him, or members of his family? Was that what Mason meant when he said Chantelle was interested in getting involved with Tempus, Ltd.—could it have been more than a mere endorsement deal?

Then again . . . Chantelle had been stabbed to death. Such an up close and personal attack suggested passion,
didn’t it? Or had I watched one too many episodes of Dad’s favorite crime show?

As I sat there, thinking, George Flynt walked by, deep in discussion with a woman.

That was odd; he said he was headed to Sausalito, and then to lunch with the mayor.

Odder still was the woman he was talking to—make that,
arguing
with. Or so it seemed, from this distance. She wore a bright batik scarf and a pure white dress.

Egypt Davis.

I scooted down in my seat so they wouldn’t see me, and tried to listen in on what they were saying, but I couldn’t make out anything but a single word:
audit
.

•   •   •

I called Annette and left a voice mail saying that maybe Andrew was having an affair with Chantelle but I had no proof, and maybe Egypt Davis was somehow enmeshed with George Flynt but I had no idea what significance it might have. And then I tried to crack some joke about not actually knowing anything, but it fell flat and it occurred to me that there should be a way to erase voice mail messages from afar. Maybe I should ask Landon if there was some sort of app for that.

Time to get back to work. I returned a few phone calls, and then headed out to Glen Park to go over a few backsplash tile choices with the clients at a residential remodel—an
unhaunted
remodel that was noticeably corpse-free.

Late in the afternoon, when I would normally be heading home, I drove instead to Crosswinds to acquaint my lead carpenter, Jeremy, with the house and the unusual job we had been hired to do. I had also arranged to meet Nico, who had collected my salvage yard purchases which we would stage in the home’s three-car garage that was serving as our interim workshop. I felt bad
evicting Egypt’s little Ford from its spot, but Andrew had assured me she was happy to oblige.

When I arrived I went upstairs to speak with Egypt in person, but there was no answer to my knock on her door. Perhaps she was still convening with George.

I was beginning to feel a little like Andrew, wondering what was behind her bedroom door and fighting the impulse to break in.

Jeremy and I did a quick walk-through of the house and came up with a preliminary scope of work. It wasn’t easy describing the situation to him. Normally Turner Construction did jobs right: completing every step of the process from A to Z. Contractors were famous for walking off jobs before they were done—in this business, a general was always looking for the next gig, so it was tempting to start up a new job before the old one was finished. We didn’t do that at Turner Construction. So explaining to Jeremy that we were going to restore Crosswinds only to the extent necessary to appease a ghost . . . well, it was tricky.

Especially since I was not exactly “out” to my work crew as a ghost buster. The more perceptive among them had put two and two together, but it was a little complicated explaining this sort of thing.

We stood outside on the sidewalk, looking up at the roofline as I explained about the widow’s walk and the weathervane.

“Nico’s arriving with a truckload of stuff at five,” I was saying. “I—”

Once again my words were cut off by the arrival of Landon Demetrius.

He was limping ever so slightly, but as he always held himself stiffly I couldn’t tell if his ribs were hurting him. Once again I felt guilty that he had taken the brunt of the fall to protect me; my landing on top of him had no doubt made things worse for him.

“You’re like a bad penny,” I said after introducing him to Jeremy, who went to clear the driveway for the delivery truck. “Turning up in the oddest places.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Landon said. “Andrew Flynt said I was welcome to look around.”

“Of course. But, why?”

“I thought it might help me find peace with my . . . situation.”

“Oh.”

Again our gaze met and held just a tad too long.
Damn.
I’d been hoping to see Graham before meeting with Landon again, if only for the much-needed reality check. Graham and I had spoken last night, right before I went to bed; he was excited about today’s meeting in New York, but I thought I detected a slight edge in his voice. I knew he was annoyed with me for not going with him. For
never
going with him. Last night in my in-box was an article he had forwarded about the importance of taking vacations.

I realized Landon and I were staring at each other, and I suddenly felt horribly self-conscious. My dust-and-grime-encrusted coveralls hung on me like a baggy, dirty jumpsuit and I didn’t even want to think about what my hair looked like.

“Well . . . ,” I said. “I’m just waiting for some of those salvage yard items to be delivered, so I’ll be in the garage. Feel free to look around; it’s a huge house.”

“Yo, General, the truck’s here,” Jeremy called.

“General?” Landon asked.

“My crew call me that sometimes, because I’m the general contractor.” And because I’m bossy. “Like I always say, the G-word beats the B-word any day.” I blushed. “Um . . . would you like to meet Nico?”

Half Italian and half Samoan, Nico was a giant of a man with a large truck and a seemingly endless supply of
muscled nephews. Whenever I needed something moved or demolished, I gave Nico a call. His huge smile and boisterous good humor were always welcome, despite his fondness for cheap cologne.

“General!” Nico enveloped me in a bear hug and lifted me clear off the ground. I am a substantial woman, but Nico was the kind of man who lifted pianos as an afterthought.

“How come you not married yet?” Nico, asked, standing back and looking me over. “A strong, strapping, gorgeous woman like you?”

I smiled. This was our usual greeting.

“Because
you’re
not available,” I said. “What other man can compare?”

“This is true,” Nico said, puffing out his chest.

“Nico, this is Landon Demetrius, a friend. Be nice to him.”

“Of course! How do you do?” Nico shook Landon’s hand with the verve normally reserved for a professional wrestling match. To his credit, Landon appeared to give as well as he got. “You get to work with Mel, here? Lucky man! Hey, listen, my friend, you should marry her!”

“I will take that under consideration,” Landon said.

Nico guffawed, clapped him on the back, then signaled to his nephews who started to unload the truck. They arranged the salvaged items in the garage: assorted fireplace surrounds, three old stained glass windows, lengths of decorative metal and various cabinets, carved moldings, and corbels. There were also half a dozen gold-gilt mirrors, andirons, fireplace backs, and one lovely old crystal chandelier missing a few glass drops.

None of it was original to Crosswinds, unfortunately, but I could make it look as though it were. I just wished I knew if any of this renovation effort would appease the ghost, or ghosts. Would they appreciate the replicas?
Because at this point if they were insisting on the originals we were all up a creek. Besides, Karla Buhner had made a good point; it was going to look like a hodgepodge of styles unless we did it right.

Stan had put out the equivalent of a contractor’s APB on the weathervane—calling around to antiques stores and collectors—but hadn’t gotten a lead yet. If nothing shook out in the next few days, I would try Skip and Karla Buhner again. They had both seemed embarrassed when I asked them about the historic items from the house.

On the other hand, the salvage yards wouldn’t have paid enough to make it worth Buhner’s while. He was doing remodels—albeit ugly ones—for the likes of Andrew Flynt, and now was heading up a new office building construction in the financial district. The most he could have gotten from the likes of Griega Salvage was a few hundred dollars, maybe a thousand in store credit. Hardly enough to make petty larceny worth it.

Unless Skip was smarter than I thought, and had recognized that he had some valuable items. And held an auction for the Crosswinds Collection? I made a mental note to go back and talk with Nancy at Griega.

Jeremy, Nico and his boys, and I took a few moments checking out the new items, standing around, pointing and throwing out ideas and making bad jokes.

A lot of people who aren’t in the industry might witness us at a moment like this and think construction workers don’t actually
do
anything. But these informal sessions often set the stage for the best, most professional work. Builders need to be able to visualize the end result, to understand the final goal of a project, before diving in. Otherwise they might as well be working anywhere for an hourly wage, tending to what was immediately in front of them and not caring how the pieces fit
together into a whole. Because of wealthy clients like the Flynts, Turner Construction was able to take a little more time and be sure that even the guy whose job it was to sweep up the jobsite understood—and respected—the final goal.

The metal worker arrived shortly after we’d finished unloading everything to examine the decorative metal railing I had purchased and see if it could be converted into a widow’s walk for the turret. I had made some quick sketches last night, and gave him the approximate measurements. Then we went up on the roof to take the exact dimensions of the railing. I was wary as we clanged our way up the spiral stair and crawled through the skylight, and kept my eyes, ears, and sense open to the grumpy old ghost.

Nothing.

Up on the old widow’s walk I couldn’t help but think of my encounter with Flora last night, how it had felt when I first saw her sad eyes looking back at me in the rearview mirror. The strange echoey sound of her voice, which even in retrospect made me shiver.

Why had she disappeared as we neared Crosswinds? What had driven her from her home in the first place, and what was keeping her from getting home now?

Once the metalworker left, I went back to the foyer, where I had heard the music yesterday. According to the discrepancies between my measurements and the blueprints, I was sure there was space behind this wall. But . . . could it be something more? Something that would account for the music and the other noises—whispering, a man yelling—I’d heard? The easiest way to find out was to peek behind one of the sconces—modern, of course, with sleek stainless steel details—mounted to the wall. I unscrewed one, pulled it from the wall, removed the plastic electrical box, and stood on my tiptoes, trying to
shine my flashlight beam in the small hole left in the sheetrock.

“Lose something?” a voice from behind me said.

I squeaked and flailed as I whirled around.

“Sorry,” Landon said with a smile. “Absorbed in thought?”

“Yes, actually,” I stood back and handed him the flashlight. “You’re taller than I am. Look in there and tell me what you see.”

He peeked in.

“There’s something behind here,” he said, rearing back from the wall a little and looking surprised. “It looks like . . . a bookshelf?”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“Who in their right mind would wall over a bookshelf?”

“Good question,” I said, peeking back in the hole. “And get this: It’s still full of books.”

“Well, now, that’s just a travesty. There’s not a book in sight in this house.”

“True.”

“But then, I suppose if a person has his e-reader there’s really no need for actual books anymore.”

I bit my tongue to keep from jumping down his throat. I might feel just a little attached to paper books. And from what I could tell, the books on the shelf looked very old: They were bound in leather, with titles in gold gilt.