Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (26 page)

Of course Caleb, sensible twenty-first-century lad that he was, would nod to placate me while he whipped out his smart phone to download a movie or communicate with someone in Madagascar.

“Aha,”
Trish said, holding up a small carton in triumph. “Let’s get this one on the machine, and you can do a little reading. Find some interesting tidbits, I have no doubt.”

It didn’t take long to find references to the Bowles house, or, as it was known, the Bowles “Folly,” because it was so large and so remote from Nob Hill, where people of wealth and privilege built their homes. But when it came to that, at least, the Bowles family had the last laugh. The 1906 earthquake and fire destroyed most of the buildings on Nob Hill, while the Folly survived with only a few toppled chimneys.

The Folly was also famous for all the innovations Bowles installed: energy-saving devices, a newfangled water heater, a speaking tube. Franklin Bowles spent most of his family money on the construction of the manor, so he put in the waterworks to finance the city’s first maternity hospital. Most women at that time had babies with the help of midwives, or their female relatives. But Bowles tended to the wealthiest citizens of the city, accumulating yet another fortune.

A little shiver went up my spine when I read:

On nights when the coastal fog creeps down over Twin Peaks and the nearby hills with long white fingers, the huge house looms darkly out of the weblike mist. The occasional clops of horses’ hooves on cobblestone streets and the clanking of carriages signal a new arrival to the hospital.

I thought back on the sounds Claire, Stephen, and I had heard when the pizza arrived. With a flash I remembered the strange smile on Mrs. Bernini’s face and her comment that she had heard that sound numerous times. She had not been afraid.

I returned to my reading. Owen Campbell was the neighbor who siphoned off Bowles’s water. Campbell, for his part, accused Bowles of malpractice, and the unhygienic treatment of patients. At one point, Campbell even accused Franklin and Elizabeth Bowles of mistreating their two young children, Ezekiel and Anabelle. Campbell managed to cut off most water to the Bowles house, effectively shutting down the hospital.

When Franklin Bowles filed suit and tried to take his neighbor to court over the water rights, the hotheaded Campbell challenged him to a duel. Bowles refused, calling the practice barbaric.

And then one night the physician’s entire family—Franklin and Elizabeth, Anabelle and Ezekiel—all perished in their beds. Actually, in one single bed.

Angry neighbors suspected foul play, and in two separate articles Campbell was accused of “some sort of foreign witchcraft” and “abominable island customs.”

Campbell, for his part, insisted on his innocence. He noted that Dr. Bowles had been on the verge of losing the house because of financial troubles, even suggesting that he might have poisoned his own family because of those finance woes. And he was quoted as denying “the use and application of any kind of magic, barbaric or otherwise.”

“How’s it going?” Trish asked.

“There’s plenty of information, but it’s pretty depressing. Franklin Bowles said Campbell cut off their water access. Meanwhile Owen Campbell accused Bowles of malpractice, and child abuse.”

“Interesting. Child abuse wasn’t a common accusation back then—‘spare the rod’ and all that. And the man of the family was given free rein when it came to dealing with his wife and children.”

“Is it possible Campbell was trying to intervene in an abusive situation, but none of the other neighbors would support him?”

“Possible,” she said with a nod, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “I imagine most folks would have told him to stay out of it.”

I thanked Trish for all her help and walked back to my car. Even if Campbell had killed the family for some other reason—say, to get full control of the waterworks—that didn’t explain why their ghosts would be hanging around the house. Trying to exact revenge? Their sworn enemy was long gone, had died decades ago. Or maybe they were just a tragic group, not understanding what had happened, and haunting their house forever? My visit to the archives had turned up interesting historical tidbits, but as I left I didn’t feel any closer to discovering what the ghosts wanted from me . . . much less who had wanted to harm Mrs. Bernini.

* * *

I begged off lunch with Graham and asked him to meet me at the Cheshire House jobsite instead, where I was responding to a panicked phone call.

He arrived with doughnuts and coffee for the whole on-site crew.

“Trying to be the popular kid?” I asked.

“Always.” He handed me a paper cup full of strong black French roast. My favorite.

“So, tell me about house-sitting at the haunted scene of a recent murder.”

“Gee, when you say it like that, it sounds so . . . dashing of me.”

“‘Dashing’ wasn’t the first word that came to my mind.”

“
Oh.
I haven’t even told you what last night’s stakeout revealed.” I filled him in on what our nocturnal visitor told us about the events in Daniel’s house, and then the suspicion he cast on Josh. “Right now I have to settle a skirmish between the plumber and the bidet supplier, and then meet with the landscapers, but then I want to go have a little chat with Tom Avery. Dad tracked him down at the Jack London Marina in Oakland.”

“I’ll drive.”

“You can’t just follow me around, you know,” I said. I liked the idea of having Graham with me, but it also made me nervous. And if this was all a wild-goose chase—which was likely—I would feel foolish. “As I was pointing out last night, you have a fledgling business to tend to.”

“Yes, but I have an evil plan. I’ll neglect my own work in favor of protecting you, and then when I go out of business, you’ll feel so guilty you’ll be compelled to sleep with me.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s all your fault, anyway. You’re the one who suggested I give up my lucrative government career. And I had such high prospects for climbing the ladder.”

“The Cal-OSHA ladder? Please.” Graham used to be an inspector for California’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Though worker safety was paramount, we builders had a few snide things to say about the necessity, and especially the efficiency, of OSHA.

He shrugged. “It was a real job with regular hours, and benefits, even. Now I’m just a poor self-employed man, living on a shoestring, trying desperately to keep my business out of receivership. . . .”

I glared at him. He smiled.

Since starting his green building consultancy, Graham had tapped into a very affluent, environmentally conscious elite clientele. They paid scads of money for him to tell them what they could have figured out by reading a book or two: put in solar panels, conserve and reclaim water, insulate, and install double-paned windows. There was no denying Graham was gifted at developing designs, coordinating workers, and liaising with generals like me. But when it came right down to it, he was being handsomely paid to have a lot of nice lunches and assuage the guilt of the Bay Area wealthy.

I got the sense he was having trouble filling his time. I would bet good money he was going to start flipping houses soon, in addition to consulting.

After I settled the bidet dispute, we headed across the Bay Bridge. Just as we were passing through the tunnel at Treasure Island, my cell phone rang.

Wonder of wonders, it was Nacho. He gave an address and a name: Chewy Garay, who lived in the Bayview, and was expecting my visit this afternoon. Nacho begged me to tell “the mean woman with the gun” that he had held up his end of the bargain. I assured him I would.

Ten minutes later we parked on the street near Oakland’s Jack London Square, a waterfront area that had been “redeveloped” several years ago. There were numerous shops, a hotel, a parking garage, and a theater in addition to the marina. I rarely came here, since the eateries seemed like the kinds of pricey restaurants you would take visiting elderly relatives to, each offering similar expensive fish entrées and great views of the estuary. Today hordes of people were milling around at a farmers’ market, and several artists had brought out their wares, setting up their easels and display tables in the sunshine.

We walked past row upon row of yachts and sailing rigs. I noticed a building that advertised showers, laundry, and toilets. A man held a big plastic bucket under a spigot, collecting freshwater. Funny to think that you might
live
on the water, but still be so dependent on access to freshwater.

“Could you see yourself living on a boat?” I asked.

“Seems a little cramped to me. But if you have the sailing bug, I guess it would be great to feel as though you could escape any time you wanted.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Head out for Paris, maybe.”

“I don’t think you could quite sail all the way to Paris.”

“Don’t they call it
Île de Paris
?
Île
means ‘island,’ right?”

“You’re thinking
Île de la Cité
. But even so, it’s not an actual island,” I retorted, noncommittal. Seagulls screeched overhead, and a snowy heron stood solo on the dock, white tendrils of feathers blowing in the wind off the water.

“Speaking of Paris, what’s up with your plan to run away and live in a Left Bank garret?”

“As of now, the idea appears to be on semipermanent hold. The dream is not dead, however.”

“Ah. And this dream depends on what, exactly?”

I sighed. “I don’t think I could leave Caleb. And there’s Dog to consider.”

“Your dad loves dogs.”

“Yeah, but I feel bad. I sort of foisted Dog on the household. Also there’s the business, of course. And Dad.”

“Your dad’s fine, Mel. He’s almost back to his old self.”

“I don’t know. He’s not as young as he used to be. And if anything were to happen to him, what would Stan do?”

“Mel.” Graham put his hand on my arm, stopping me. He smiled down at me with an almost tender expression on his face. “Let’s go over that misanthrope thing again. Tell me how much you dislike people and want to jettison all your baggage.”

“I—” I cut myself off as a man in a wheelchair rolled over to us.

“Hey there, Princess.”

“Stan? Hey, we were just talking about you.” I leaned over to give him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

He looked a bit sheepish, and his eyes flickered toward the docks. I followed his gaze to see my father down on the floating pier, talking to a man on a yacht.

Chapter Twenty-two

“B
ill and I thought we’d come have a chat with Tom Avery,” said Stan. “See what he could tell us about his nephew.”

“Oh, that’s . . .” Sweet, was what it was. But it was also aggravating. First Stephen and Luz decide to investigate, with my stepson no less. And now this? “That’s not Tom he’s talking to now, is it?”

It had been a few years, but the Tom Avery I knew had been short and stout, while this fellow was tall and thin. And from what I could tell at this distance, he had a full head of blond hair. Either retirement had been remarkably good to old Tom, or this wasn’t our guy.

“Nah. His boat’s gone.”

A young woman in Bermuda shorts carrying a big laundry basket set her load down to open the locked gate. Graham hurried forward to give her a hand, then held the metal gate open for me.

After depositing the woman’s basket on her sailboat named
Lettie
, Graham joined me and we headed down toward my dad. The dock floated and wobbled with each step, making me feel off-kilter. Daniel and I once went on a bay dinner cruise, drank too much champagne, and danced until the wee hours, oohing and aahing over the lights of the city as seen from the water. It was a nice memory. Generally speaking, though, I prefer land.

“Hey there, babe, what a surprise,” said Dad as he noticed us walking toward him. He beamed, no doubt because Graham was by my side. Dad excused himself from the man he had been speaking with, who ducked back into his boat. “Graham, good to see you.”

The two men shook hands.

“What brings you two down here?” Dad asked.

“Same thing that brought you, I think. We were looking for Tom Avery. His boat’s gone?”

He nodded. “Looks like he took off.”

“Any idea where to?”

“That’s what I was trying to get from his dock mates, but he didn’t say anything to anyone. Just disappeared one day.”

“And why are you asking around?”

“Old times’ sake. You were wondering about his nephew, so Stan and I thought we’d come on down and take the man out for a beer, see what we could find out.”

“Let’s try the harbormaster’s office,” said Graham. “Maybe they’ve got more information on him.”

The man behind the desk was in his sixties, bald on top but with longish white hair on the sides of his head. He smoked a pipe with flagrant disregard for the
NO SMOKING
signs, and wore a baby blue polo shirt with the logo of Jack London Public Marina on it.

“What can I do you for?”

“We wondered if you could give us any information on Thomas Avery, who’s usually in slip number thirty—”

“—seven,” the harbormaster finished my sentence.

“Right, thirty-seven.”

“Hadn’t moved that boat in, I dunno, years. Then the bastard slipped out the other night, still owes me three months in back moorage fees.”

“Slipped out? Any idea where?”

“Don’t know and don’t care. All’s I want is my moorage fees. People fight over these spaces, you know. There’s a waiting list. Not like I’m gonna wait around for some old man doesn’t pay his fees. And he was living on that boat, too. That’s extra if you’re gonna be using the facilities while living here.”

“Don’t boat operators have to file a sailing plan, or something?” I asked.

“You’re thinking of pilots of small planes, probably. Nope, there’s nothing like that required. ’Course it’s a good idea—in case you get caught in a storm, we can notify the Coast Guard. But one reason why we like sailing,” he said with a significant glance, “is to get away from people asking too damn many questions.”