Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (20 page)

I
remained where I was for another couple of minutes after I heard them leave, before leaving the stall and washing my hands.

I was having a hard time believing they had spoken so openly. Number one rule of espionage: Check to see if anyone else was in the restroom before spilling the beans. Any child playing Spy vs. Spy knows that.

On the other hand . . . what had I actually learned? It wasn’t as though either of them was admitting to being the killer, or even knowing the killer. Their conversation did imply, though, that perhaps Andrew—and even George?—had been much closer to Chantelle than either had admitted.

What bothered me more than anything, though, was the abrupt shift in Stephanie’s tone. I often wondered if people who appear outwardly placid and virtually impervious to emotion might blow up from time to time. Could it all be an act?

I slipped out of the lavatory, looking to the left and the right for any sign of a Flynt, but saw no one. Just in case, I took a circuitous route back to the chapel, descending the
set of stone stairs that were said to have been leftovers from Julia Morgan’s work on Hearst Castle. But by the time I returned to the chapel the crowd had thinned dramatically. I didn’t see Stephanie or Lacey . . . or Landon Demetrius for that matter.

“Have you seen Chantelle’s brother anywhere?” I asked a young man who looked the part of a cub reporter. He had been snapping photos with an actual camera, not his cell phone, and taking notes on a pad of paper.

“I think he took off. Didn’t want to answer questions. You know him?”

“Just barely.”

“Something’s troubling me,” he said, a thoughtful look on his face. “How come such a badass psychic didn’t know she was going to be killed?”

An excellent question, I thought. And one for which I had no answer beyond the frustrating: “I don’t think it works that way.”

“What’s the point of having a sixth sense if it doesn’t work when you need it most?” he asked, then shrugged. “Well, have a nice day.”

“You too.”

•   •   •

I sat in my car and dialed Annette Crawford, then told her about the conversation I overheard.

“That’s it? The whole thing?” she asked.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So it doesn’t actually tell us anything, except that they’re a clannish group.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“That’s okay, it’s not like you were going to trip on a spontaneous confession. And even if you had, that’s not the sort of thing we can use in court so it’s of limited use, except to point us in a direction. I’ll see if any of this
plays out, maybe apply some more pressure to the lovely Mrs. Flynt.”

“Okay. Also, I saw Egypt talking with George Flynt the other day.”

“And?”

“It just seemed strange, because George said he was going to Sausalito, and then I saw him with Egypt, and she denied seeing him, as well.”

“You think they’re having an affair too? And if so, why do I care?”

“I really don’t know. It just struck me as odd. Egypt did say that the family fights a lot about money—”

“Like every other family in the world . . .”

“—and that George essentially disinherited his grandkids, which made Stephanie mad.”

“Lacey and Mason? They don’t seem to be hurting for money. And wouldn’t that be motive to kill George instead of Chantelle?”

“I’m just reporting what I heard.”

“You hear anything about financial impropriety at Tempus?”

“I . . . overheard that they were expecting an audit as part of the preparation for the IPO. And I think maybe Egypt and George were talking about the audit.”

“But no specifics?”

“No, sorry. Oh! I forgot to tell you: Someone might have been trying to kill me the other day.”

“Go on.”

“Or it might have been nothing.”

“Why don’t you let me decide?”

“Yeah, so Landon and I went to a salvage yard in Richmond—”

“Oh, this is the thing where a truck went into the fence? He already told me. So, how come you’re taking Landon to salvage yards?”

“Um . . . he asked me to. He’s trying to figure out what happened. You know, with his sister.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’m not clear on why you took him to Uncle Joe’s.”

“It’s sort of a long story . . .”

“Save it. I gotta go.”

“Okay, so you don’t think anyone was trying to kill me?”

There was a slight pause. “There’s always that possibility. But I’ll leave you with this thought: What makes you think they were trying to kill
you
?”

And with that she hung up.

I stared at the phone for a moment. Why would someone want to kill Landon? If Chantelle really was killed because she was blackmailing someone, did he or she know Chantelle had written to her brother, and fear exposure? Someone cold-blooded enough to knife Chantelle to death wouldn’t hesitate to ram a fence at a salvage yard.

Which again raised the question: Why did Nancy send us to Uncle Joe’s?

Determined to try to figure out the connection, I drove to Griega Salvage in Berkeley.

“Oh, I totally screwed that up, didn’t I?” Nancy said when I asked her about it. “That’s why it seemed so weird, even as I said it. It wasn’t Uncle
Joe’s
, it was Uncle J’s, in Walnut Creek. What can I say? Menopause; I forget my own name these days.”

“Uncle J’s?”

“Yeah. In Walnut Creek, do you know it? I mean, it’s weird enough Uncle J’s is having an auction—can you imagine Uncle
Joe’s
? Ha! Sorry if I sent you on a wild-goose chase,” she repeated. “I’ve got to get more help in here.”

The phone rang again, as though to make her point.

I went back out to my car. So if someone really had
been trying to kill—or intimidate?—me or Landon, or both of us, they must have been following us. But why? Skip himself told me to check Griega Salvage. So he might have known I would go there, but he still wouldn’t have known when, exactly, unless he was watching the place. On the other hand, he would have known I was meeting Karla that morning, so could he have tailed me from Mama’s Royal Café?

I checked my phone for the time. If I went out to Walnut Creek first I still might be able to get to the Historical Society before it closed, but with barely enough time to get much reading done.

The phone rang. It was my dad, and there was lots of noise in the background.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’re having a tamale festival with Luz and the students tonight,” said Dad, sounding buoyant.

“That was fast work. When did they move in?”

“Came over an hour ago. We’ve already started cooking. Seems making tamales is a group event.”

“That’s great, Dad,” I said, wondering if he’d kill me if I arrived a little—or a lot—late.

“We need a few more things at the store. We don’t have nearly enough corn husks and
masa
,” he said, and immediately started reading off a list.

“I’m a little busy, Dad.”

“You invited a bunch of kids into my house and now you’re too busy to do a little grocery shopping?”

I sighed. “No, of course not. You’re right. I’ve got to run an errand first, but I’ll swing by Mi Pueblo on the way home.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

“And be careful, babe. You’re not running after a killer, are you?”

“Nope. Just stopping by a salvage yard.”

What could possibly go wrong?

The only problem was that Walnut Creek was in the opposite direction of San Francisco; there was no way I could get both places and get home on time for the tamale festival.

I called Trish at the Historical Society.

“Actually,” Trish said, “I was so intrigued by your questions that I’ve been doing some digging. I came up with some really good stuff.”

“Are you serious? Trish, is there an award for best librarian or research guru or something? Because I’ll nominate you.”

She chuckled. “No worries, this is the sort of thing I live for.”

“So what did you find?”

“Lots of interesting stuff. I made some copies for you. Unfortunately we close at three on Saturdays, so you’re already cutting it close.”

“Darn, I was afraid of that.”

“But if you want, I’ll come to you. No big deal, I could hop on the bridge. I like Oakland. Want to meet somewhere for a drink and I’ll show you what I came up with?”

“I’d love to, but I foisted a bunch of college kids on my dad and they are, even as we speak, in the process of making tamales. He just gave me a shopping list.”

“I love tamales.”

“Really? I don’t suppose you’d like to join us? I have to warn you, it’s a crowded house with students and a dog and my dad. . . .”

“Sounds like a blast,” she said, adding something in Spanish that I didn’t follow.

I gave her the address and she said she’d be over in a couple of hours.

So I headed east through the tunnel, toward Walnut Creek, to Uncle J’s. I had been there only once, many years ago. It wasn’t the kind of salvage yard I frequented, because it was much more antiques shop than junk store. I didn’t often shop at places where the owners knew exactly what they had.

Also, I never shopped on the other side of the tunnel if I could help it. It was an East Bay thing.

Uncle J’s was located in a darling little house with a darling little garden, chock-full of darling little accessories, antiques, and—I was pretty sure—at least a few darling reproductions. There was no dust or grime anywhere, not even on the outdoor garden statuary.

I passed through the garden and into the main house, where a handsome twentysomething man sat on a high stool behind the counter. Unlike the fellow at Uncle Joe’s, this man looked in charge of things.

“Hello,” I said as I stepped inside.

“Hello, there! Welcome. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course,” he said, slipping off the stool and standing, giving me his full attention. “Could I help you find something special?”

“I’m looking for items from the Crosswinds estate, in San Francisco. Skip Buhner was selling some things. . . .”

He was nodding. “Sure. But that was a while ago. I think all we have left . . .” He started typing into his computer, then scrolling through something, nodding. “Yeah, let’s see. . . . There might be a fireplace surround, and there’s one ceiling medallion over here. . . .” He left the computer and led the way to a smaller room. He gestured to a creamy limestone fireplace surround featuring carved cherubs. Then he started moving aside a few other items to reveal a plaster medallion in a scallop shape, with acanthus leaves and ivy swag.

“These came from Crosswinds?” I asked, feeling almost reverential as I ran my hands over the hand-carved decorations, original to the haunted manse.

“Yep. There was a whole bunch of stuff, but most of it sold at auction.”

“I don’t suppose you know who bought the weathervane, or the widow’s walk?”

He frowned. “I don’t remember either of those items, actually. Are you sure they were in the Crosswinds Collection?”

“Very sure. I heard there was a picture of the weathervane on the brochure.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He went back to the computer and started typing again. “Yes, I do remember that, now that you mention it. . . . Like I say, it was a while ago. Uh-huh . . . unh-huh . . . looks like they decided to keep that piece.”

“‘They’ who?”

“Well, according to the records, Mr. Buhner and Mr. Flynt, it looks like. They were the ones who asked us to curate the auction. We don’t do a lot of that sort of thing, and suggested they go through Clars or Butterfields, but they preferred to do it here.”

“Mr. Flynt? Andrew Flynt?”

“You know . . .” He gave a little laugh and his voice dropped. “I wasn’t actually in charge back then. To tell you the absolute truth, I was mostly driving the delivery truck until a few weeks ago. Mrs. Jennings, the owner, is in Europe right now. She’s going to be sending over an entire container full of European antiques, can you believe that?”

“So, you don’t know which Mr. Flynt it was? Did you ever meet them?”

“I wasn’t working that weekend. I just know Mrs. Jennings was very excited to have the collection. She said it
was very exclusive, and only allowed our private mailing list in the audience.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding and trying to think of what else to ask. “Hey, my office manager Stan Tomassi has been calling around, asking some of these questions. Did he call here?”

“We don’t take phone calls anymore,” he said with a laugh. “It’s something Mrs. Jennings came up with: Everything’s done in person or by e-mail. She doesn’t want anyone to walk in and see us on the phone, or have to leave a customer in order to answer the phone. She’s quirky.”

I thought about Nancy constantly on the phone and thought, quirky or not, maybe Mrs. Jennings had a point.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll take that fireplace surround and medallion—are those the only items you have left?”

“According to the computer, yes.” He was typing something in, then looked up with me and smiled. “That’ll be five six.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Five thousand, six hundred.”

“Five thousand, six hundred
dollars
? For a fireplace surround and a ceiling medallion?”

He nodded.

This was why I didn’t shop in places like Uncle J’s. Good thing Andrew Flynt had more dollars than sense; this was going on his bill. Interior designers usually charged clients a full one hundred percent markup, but I was nicer than most designers. I would only inflate the bill by a small percentage to cover my time. All in all, it was a good day’s work, and I was thrilled to have found at least a few items original to Crosswinds.

While the young man rang up my bill, I wondered which Mr. Flynt had coordinated this Crosswinds
Collection with Skip Buhner. Was Andrew somehow playing both sides of this? But that made no sense—he was eager to lay these ghosts to rest so he could sell Crosswinds. Still, George or Mason seemed just as unlikely. The money involved—while big bucks to mere humans—wouldn’t have meant much to the wealthy Flynts.

“Do you think the Flynt name might have been attached to the Crosswinds Collection just as a courtesy?” I asked.