Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (7 page)

“I assure you, I almost never sneak around late at night. So, Mr. Elrich mentioned that I could bring my dog with me. He’s very obedient. . . .” That was a bald-faced lie. Any and all attempts to train Dog had crashed and burned. Still, he slept eighteen hours a day and didn’t bother with much of anything but food and squirrels.

“A dog?” Alicia’s voice scaled upward.

“Mr. Elrich invited him. Personally.”

“Will he need anything?”

I shook my head. “I brought his food, and his bowls, and even a mat to set them on so he doesn’t make a mess. He’s all set. Okay if I bring him in?”

She gave a nod and handed me a piece of heavy-stock paper with a printed itinerary. “Here’s today’s household schedule; the new one will be slipped under your door each morning. I would appreciate it if you would attempt to adhere to the hours posted. I have circled the events at which you are expected.”

The schedule broke the day down into half-hour
increments, with blocks of time marked off for meals, as in a full-service hotel. Ellis Elrich’s meetings were highlighted, during which, an asterisk noted, “household guests shall kindly observe silence.” Sherry hour was indicated prominently, to be held in the front parlor. My first obligation, circled in red, was a meeting with Ellis Elrich, his chief financial officer, Vernon Dunn, and designer Florian Libole, at ten. I felt as if I had been summoned to the Oval Office.

“Okay, thanks.”

She gave me another suspicious glance. “It’s very important for Mr. Elrich to have a harmonious living arrangement. Please respect the household hours.”

I wasn’t sure what it was about me that gave Alicia the impression I would be whooping it up at three in the morning, or sneaking out on sherry hour. The sad truth was that, as a contractor, I usually woke before dawn and put in long, hard hours. I was rarely ambulatory, much less in the mood for drunken revelry, after nine at night.

Clamping down on my irritation, I delved deep, looking for a little compassion. Being Ellis Elrich’s personal assistant could not be an easy job. He was incredibly wealthy and probably expected to have his needs anticipated and met at all times, even while surrounding himself with wild cards like me. That was a lot of responsibility without much authority.

No wonder poor Alicia was wound a little tight.

“I will try my darnedest to comply,” I said. “I see the schedule indicates that breakfast is served at seven—I’m usually on the jobsite by then, and since we’ll need to work twelve-hour shifts to meet Mr. Elrich’s requests, it might even be earlier, around six. I don’t really eat breakfast, but I do need to have some coffee, if possible.”

“Earlier than seven?” Alicia frowned.

“If that’s not possible, I’d be happy to brew my own.” I’m a coffee addict, and like most addicts, don’t want to depend on others for my fix. “I travel with my own French roast, plastic cone, and filters. A little hot water, and I’m good to go.”

“You most certainly will
not
brew your own,” said Alicia, jotting down a note to herself. No doubt some remark about troublemaking sexpots who demanded coffee at ungodly hours.

“Mr. Elrich doesn’t get up early?” This surprised me; most powerful people I knew were early risers.

“He is typically up by five. But he does not drink coffee. He has no need of chemical stimulants.”

“Oh. Well, good for him.” I wasn’t going to ask what might be served at sherry hour. “Well, then, thank you so much for allowing me and Dog to stay in this beautiful room.”

“You’re Mr. Elrich’s guest.”

If Alicia had her way, I’d no doubt be pitching a tent at a KOA somewhere.

“Yes, true. Oh, hey, I do have a question: What’s the deal with the protesters at the gate?”

I would have thought it impossible, but her lips pressed together even tighter in disapproval.

“Malcontents,” she said. “People who are unhappy with one very small aspect of Mr. Elrich’s Elrich Enterprises. He has nothing to do with it directly and has ordered the management to negotiate the matter with the employees, but the worst offenders have decided to bring their argument directly to his doorstep, so to speak.”

She paused and fixed me with a look that indicated I should react.

“Ah,” I said. In truth, I admired the protesters for taking their grievance to the top of the corporate ladder: I
imagined they’d get some results if Ellis Elrich himself picked up the phone and directed his managers to make a deal.

“I suggest you come and go through the construction gate from now on. It is located on the lower level, closer to the building site.” Alicia ducked into the bathroom and flicked on the lights, her dispassionate eyes surveying the scene as though to be sure the toilet paper had been stocked.

“Thanks. I will. So what’s with the costumes? Something about repatriation?”

She turned toward me so fast I took a step back in surprise.

“Costumes? What’s this about costumes?”

“Um . . . I noticed one of the protesters wearing what appeared to be a costume: a kilt and a plaid tartan? Unless that’s what he wears every day. One person’s costume is another’s self-expression. Am I right?” I should know. “I mean, this is the Bay Area, after all.”

Bright little flags of red painted Alicia’s cheeks, and she mumbled under her breath, something about “. . . foreign activists and local press . . .”

“I’m sorry?” I asked for clarification.

“Never mind. Some rabble-rouser from Scotland who is intent on halting the progress of the Wakefield Retreat Center.”

From malcontents to rabble-rousers in just a few seconds? On top of a murder committed by a “hothead” the day before yesterday? Maybe Graham was right; maybe getting involved with this project was a bad idea. Maybe I should turn and flee back to Oakland. Surely if I shook enough trees, I could scare up a project or two in San Francisco, enough to keep my guys employed.

But Elrich’s words rang in my head: What of Pete
Nolan’s men currently working on the project? Would they all be sent packing? Would Elrich bring in a crew from Europe to get this thing done, and would someone else get to work with Florian Libole, historic renovator extraordinaire?

And . . . what was the story behind that weeping woman?

“You’ll notice there are no TVs in the rooms. Mr. Elrich doesn’t believe in people sitting by themselves watching the programming dictated by the whims of Hollywood’s elite. However, there is a well-stocked library full of worthy books in the east wing and a large-screen television in the rec room for gatherings.”

“Thanks. I’m not a big fan of television either.” Still, I hoped I didn’t sound as morally superior as Alicia here.

“The renowned French chef Jean-Claude Villandry is in charge of the kitchen, which is strictly organic and locally sourced to the fullest extent possible. Do you have any special dietary demands? Gluten-free? Vegan? Religious concerns?”

“I’m pretty much an equal-opportunity eater.”

She nodded and made another notation on her clipboard. “If you consult your schedule, you’ll see that you have a meeting with Mr. Elrich in fifteen minutes.”

I consulted my schedule. Yep, there it was: a meeting with Mr. Elrich in fifteen.

“You might want to”—her eyes raked over me—“freshen up.”

So much for good intentions; it was clear I didn’t measure up to whatever it was that Alicia wanted to see in a general contractor. Starting from having the gall to have ovaries. My admittedly weak attempts to win her over were clearly not working.

“I’ll be there. Where’s the, uh”—I consulted the schedule—“Discovery Room?”

“Turn the schedule over.”

I flipped it over and saw a map of the house and grounds, including the retreat center building site and a helipad.

“Ellis has a helicopter?”

“Sometimes he needs to travel quickly. It’s a long drive to the airport.”

“How about that? I’ve never known anyone with his own helicopter.”

“Is there anything else, Ms. Turner?”

“Call me Mel. No, thanks. I’m set.”

“Don’t be late to the meeting.”

“I think I can manage it.”

“I’ll let you settle in, then.” Alicia stalked off down the corridor, leaving me to unpack and “freshen up.”

I sat on the side of the bed and bounced a little, wondering whether to get Dog out of the car now or wait until after the meeting. I had parked in the shade, the windows were rolled down, it was a nice cool day, and he was no doubt sleeping. I decided to wait until after the meeting, so I would have time to help him accommodate to his new surroundings before leaving him alone in the room. With my luck, he would pee on a satin pillow or discover a new fascination with chewing and eat the bed, and how would I explain
that
to the already morose Alicia?

Wakefield was only a little more than an hour’s drive from Oakland, which meant I hadn’t worked up much of a sweat during the early-morning drive, and since my current outfit was the most conventional thing I had to wear, I busied myself by unpacking my suitcase—coveralls, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of inappropriate dresses designed
by my friend Stephen, the only son of a Vegas showgirl. I shifted my underthings into a dark wood dresser and stashed my shoes in the ample closet. I hadn’t brought much: a pair of flip-flops, running shoes for when I wasn’t wearing my work boots, plus the sandals I had on.

I put my toiletries in the bathroom . . . and that was about it.

Despite Alicia’s dubious ministrations, I felt a thrill. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in nice hotels, and just beyond the French doors the pool sparkled, sending ripples of light onto the ceiling. The en suite bathroom was rimmed in cobalt blue glazed tiles, roomy and attractive. It featured a huge “Italian” shower, which meant there was no shower curtain. European style.

It wasn’t the worst place in the world to spend a few weeks.

Unwilling to mar the “done” look of the bedroom, I decided to stash my suitcase under the tall bed. As I pushed it under, I felt it hit something. I knelt down to look and spied not a single dust bunny.
Props to Alicia,
I thought grudgingly. There was, however, a book. I reached as far as I could and was just barely able to grab it with the tips of my fingers.

It was a beat-up paperback novel.

The cover showed a shirtless man, his long golden hair blowing in the wind. A red-haired beauty stood beside him, her hands resting on his impressive biceps, her lovely face looking up at him in adoration. In the background, a ruined castle loomed menacingly against the sunset sky.

Keeper of the Castle
had clearly been read many times and, judging by the crinkling around some of the pages, had been dropped in a bathtub at some point. The book’s
spine was cracked and splayed open to one section: a lovingly described sex scene that, without becoming too graphic, involved heaving bosoms and thrusting manhoods.

Oh
, my.

I remembered my sister Cookie used to read romance novels like this when she was a teenager. I had teased her about it, and goaded our youngest sister, Daphne, to follow in my snide footsteps. But one day I discovered Daphne had a stash of similar novels hidden under
her
bed.

Now, upon reading that particular scene, I understood the reason.

The book no doubt belonged to the last guest to stay in this room. But what should I do with it? Put it on the bedside table and let Alicia think it belonged to me? Toss it back under the bed and let the maid or whoever found it assume it belonged to me? Stash it among my things? Sneak it into Elrich’s august library and add it to his collection of “worthy” works of literature? And ultimately, why did I care what Alicia thought of my reading habits? Whether I read a trashy novel or Camus in the original French, she still wouldn’t think much of me.

For the moment I placed it on a small shelf, which, I noticed, held not a single book but instead a classy glass bowl full of shells, a framed decorative tile, and a couple of brightly painted ceramic vases.

I checked the clock: time to meet with Ellis Elrich and his minions.

I consulted the map and located the stairs leading down to the Discovery Room. I pushed through a heavy wooden door off the main foyer and began to descend. Though the door doubled as a fire block, it was well appointed, like everything else in the house, and closed
behind me with a muted
snick
. The house had been well insulated; when the thick doors were closed, hardly any sound escaped.

The basement was as attractive as it could be, given that the only source of natural light was narrow slits near the ceiling. They brightened up the space a bit but did nothing to assuage the discomfort of a claustrophobe.

Discreet brass plaques indicated an exercise room, sauna, and Jacuzzi were to the left and the Discovery Room was to the right.

I turned right, wondering what I would discover.

T
he Discovery Room was apparently named for the hand-painted frescoes that covered the four stucco walls. Each wall depicted a different theme of discovery: one was of Hernán Cortés encountering the Aztecs, another depicted Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, and I thought a third represented Madame Curie. I never did figure out what the fourth was, as my attention was diverted by the handful of men sitting around a gleaming mahogany conference table. In front of each place was a notepad—engraved with
Elrich Method
—and a pen, a glass of water, and a muffin. A beautiful floral centerpiece added freshness to the virtually windowless room.

“Ah, here she is now. Mel, welcome. I’d like you to meet my chief financial officer, Vernon Dunn,” Ellis said as he gestured to a large, constipated-looking man in his sixties. “And I believe you know Florian Libole, at least by reputation.”

Libole’s pencil-thin mustache and long gray hair
reminded me of a musketeer, a connection I had the feeling he played up given his outfit of loose linen shirt and leather boots—not work boots, mind you, or motorcycle boots, but nice leather boots that hadn’t see a day of labor in their lives.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands.

“And these are two of the men you will be working with on-site, Tony Esparza and Jacek Miekisz. Tony has stepped in as foreman, and Jacek is our master stonemason, direct from Poland.”

“How ya doin’?” Tony asked. He looked to be in his early thirties, a big guy with navy blue tribal tattooing not only on his hands and neck, but also on his face. Tony looked ill at ease, which I could understand. His boss had just been arrested for murder, and he’d been saddled with the lead on this project.

Jacek looked dusty, as most stonemasons do, as though he had come to the meeting directly from his workshop. He also looked bored, and though he nodded politely, he said nothing.

The sour Alicia sat in one corner, taking notes. She did not look up.

“I am so thrilled that you’ve joined our team,” continued Elrich in a warm voice. “Now that you’re on the job, I feel confident we will be able to do justice to the reconstruction of Wakefield, keep all these people employed, and make our deadline.”

“Which, uh, deadline is that?” I realized we might have skipped a few of the details when I dove headfirst into this project. I hadn’t made it all the way through the thick sheaf of papers in the manila envelope. Once I saw the size of Elrich’s check, I had been blinded by dollar signs.

“Our grand opening is scheduled in three months.”

“Three
months
?” I asked, unable to keep from squeaking. On some projects, just getting the paperwork through the permit office took that long. Constructing a modern building out of stone was one thing; assembling a bunch of medieval stones into a habitable building that would pass inspection in earthquake country? Quite another. Not to mention introducing wiring and plumbing to meet current standards of safety and convenience. A project on this scale would typically take years, not months. “Do you think such a time frame is, um, realistic?”

Vernon Dunn smiled. “Exactly! I do believe that setting the date that early might be difficult. Perhaps we should push it back, take our time. . . .”

Ellis gave Vernon a look that combined patience with annoyance. “Your objections have been noted. There is no need to repeat them.”

“It’s not an
objection
, per se,” said Vernon with an obsequious smile. “No, not at all. This is a marvelous project, simply
marvelous
. Why, Wakefield will be a wonder to which visitors will flock for generations to come. I merely think, well, as they say, art cannot be rushed. Good things come to those who wait, and all that. Why hurry?”

“The drawings have been worked and reworked, and all supplies are on-site or in the warehouse,” said Florian Libole. “I have conducted meticulous research on Wakefield. The men are in place, including a master stonemason and his Polish crew, and they’re eager to work two shifts: from six in the morning to six at night. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

“Uh . . .” Tony looked like he had been called on in algebra class without his homework. “Yup, that’s true. Two shifts.”

“So, everything is in place,” Libole reiterated with a final nod. “Waiting would be folly.”

Libole and Dunn glared at each other through the spray of flowers in the centerpiece.

The discussion continued along these lines. I spent a lot of time not saying anything, which my mother had long ago taught me was the best way to deal with tense situations stemming from overinflated egos. It occurred to me to wonder whether my host and boss, Ellis Elrich, would think less of me for my silence, but given that the man had driven all the way—actually, had had his driver bring him all the way—to Oakland to persuade me to take over, I figured my position was secure, at least for the moment. Elrich was trying hard not to show it, but I believed the man really was sweating a little.

I would be, too, if my grand opening was scheduled less than three months out. The stone building still looked like ruins rising on the horizon, nothing like a fully functioning retreat center.

Tony managed a few less-than-articulate statements, whereas Jacek just sat and glowered, playing with his crumpled cigarette packet, giving the distinct impression that all he wanted in this world was to slip outside for a smoke. Though I don’t smoke, I would have taken up the habit in a New York minute just to have an excuse to leave the room.

At long last, Elrich said, “That’s settled, then,” and asked everyone to go “with the exception of Ms. Turner.”

I watched the others file out of the room, feeling like a scolded kid told to stay in and talk to the principal. I longed to follow everyone else out to recess.

But I turned back to find an amused expression on Elrich’s face.

“Did that make you nervous?”

“Your problems with your employees aren’t any of my business,” I said.

Now he smiled and inclined his head. “True enough. And as I’m sure you noticed on the way in through the main gates, I’ve got plenty of problems with my employees.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded and looked around the room. My eyes alit on a credenza sporting large framed photos, pictures of a smiling Ellis Elrich handing over huge gifts to charities ranging from the March of Dimes to the Humane Society to the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees.

Elrich noted my interest.

“It wasn’t my idea to display those,” he said, sounding rather abashed. “But Vernon and Alicia . . .” He inclined his head slightly. “They convinced me it was good for my image—more importantly, for the image of Elrich Enterprises. And I’m facing a harsh reality, Mel: My corporation employs hundreds of people. What started out as Ellis James Elrich standing onstage, talking about overcoming personal adversity, has somehow morphed into a major employer.”

“I know how it is to feel responsible for other people’s jobs,” I said, surprised to find anything in common with this billionaire.

“I thought you might,” he said, intelligent eyes studying me. “That’s why you agreed to come work for me, isn’t it? I have the sense that you wouldn’t have done so if not for the good of your workers.”

This was how Elrich had made his money,
I thought. Whether or not he was sincere, he sure came off as honest and forthcoming . . . and perceptive.

“Vernon Dunn doesn’t share my vision, I’m sorry to say,” Elrich continued. “Even Florian is only here because I am paying him to be.”

“To be honest, so am I.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. But I have the sense that once you sink your teeth into a project, it becomes more about the love of the building than about the paycheck. Am I right?”

True. I did my job to the point of obsession sometimes. “Still, this project is quite different from what I usually work on. . . .”

“Only in the sense that it’s not yet a building,” said Ellis, sitting forward. His hands were clasped on top of the table, large, surprisingly graceful, unadorned by rings or the heavy watch so common to wealthy men. His skin looked richly tanned against the pure white of his cuffs, his wrists thick. “Once it starts to feel more like a building, I do believe you’ll fall in love with the project, just as I have. And just think: Combining history with the forward-thinking green concepts of Graham Donovan—the possibilities are endless.”

I nodded.

“The retreat center will house the followers of the Elrich Method most of the year, but I am setting aside six weeks in the summer to provide a summer camp for underprivileged children from Oakland and San Francisco. They’re only a short drive away, and yet many of them have never had the opportunity to breathe good country air, to see the ocean, and to understand how a farm works.”

“That’s . . . very generous. I know there’s a lot of need.”

He smiled and ducked his head. “So what I need from you is help proving the naysayers wrong. When you have a chance to spend some time with the stones, I think you’ll fall in love with them, just as I did when I first came upon them in Scotland. As Helen Keller said, ‘The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.’”

I was beginning to understand how Ellis Elrich had gotten where he was. He was a motivational speaker, after all, and I was falling under his spell, feeling quite motivated. On the other hand . . .

“So, about the murder . . .”

He shook his head. “Such a tragedy. Did you know Larry McCall personally?”

“I met him just moments before . . . the, um . . . incident.”

“I’ve arranged for a memorial service to be held in the chapel—such as it is—tomorrow evening.”

“Really. I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“I didn’t. Only tangentially. But given the tragedy, I think we could all use a little closure. Saying good-bye allows us to move on.”

I nodded, wondering whether Elrich knew about my experiences with ghosts. And if he did, whether that had anything to do with his invitation to come take over this enormous, profitable project. I was trying to think of a way to form the question, when he continued.

“There will be no sherry hour tonight, given the circumstances. I understand Graham’s due back from LA tomorrow?”

“Yes, probably by lunchtime.”

“Wonderful.” He clapped his hands together and gave me a broad smile. “I can feel it, Mel. We’re coming together. We’re a team now. You think we should get some T-shirts?”

Even as I smiled at his joke, I couldn’t help but wonder: Had McCall’s death—and Pete Nolan’s incarceration—cleared the way for this team?

*   *   *

“Ms. Turner!”

I jumped. After leaving Elrich in his Discovery Room,
I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed Florian Libole lurking at the top of the stairs. In addition to his musketeer outfit, he wore a large leather bag, much like a woman’s purse, slung over one shoulder.

“Please call me Mel. May I help you?”

“Quite the opposite, I expect. Mr. Elrich had suggested that I take you on a walk-through of the site, help you to get your bearings. Heaven knows poor Tony isn’t capable of running this motley crew, so I fear the future of this project rests upon your shoulders.” He squinted at me, mustache twitching, as though assessing whether or not my shoulders were up to the task.

“I’m looking forward to getting started.” There were plenty of aspects to this project that made me nervous, but getting my hands dirty, starting the work, was always exhilarating. My mind was already racing with possibilities.

I took time to pull on my work boots, then got Dog out of the car and attached his leash. Libole waited for us, literally tapping his foot, at the entrance to the path that led from the house to the jobsite. The top of the walkway was lined with little solar path lights and landscaped with carefully placed boulders and native plants that hugged the rocks.

“I’m honored to be working with you on this project,” I said when we started down the hill. What began as a paved walk turned to gravel and then to hard-packed dirt.

“Thank you. I believe it will be a true legacy, if I do say so myself. Indeed, this locale reminds me a bit of Marshcourt, home of the seventh Earl of Hampshire. Do you know it?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said with a shake of my head. “But I’m not really familiar with British aristocra—”

Apparently, I had no need to know anything, as Libole was more than happy to fill me in. He launched into a long and involved description of the myriad ways in which he was connected to British royalty and of the numerous noble manors he’d worked on over the years. I listened politely but felt like telling him that the name-dropping was wasted on me. I don’t give a hoot about the royal family—typical colonial that I am—and knew nothing of the British aristocracy, though Libole’s renovation résumé was undeniably impressive. Unfortunately, he delivered his self-important monologue with such a pompous air I found it hard to enjoy, even though he was talking about one of my favorite subjects. Did I sound like this when I talked about my projects? I wondered.

“. . . but ah, yes, the bones of Gertrude Jekyll’s design survived, in the exquisite sunken garden, the long begonia path, the rose and vine-covered pergolas, the herringbone redbrick paths, and the boxwood and yew hedges . . .”