Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by juliet blackwell

me a keen-eyed look. “By ‘history’ I assume you’re curious about what happened over at the Lawrence house.”
    “Is that the house across the street, next to Monty’s?”
    She nodded. “The children call it the Murder House.”
    Once again, I told myself not to ask. The ghosts were none of my affair. I was running a volunteer project, and a dead body entirely unrelated to me was found in a building entirely unrelated to my project. And even if the dead woman had been found on Monty’s property, her death had nothing to do with the ghosts I had seen in the neighbor’s windows, much less the foggy circles on the windowpanes, as though someone were breathing on the glass . . .
    “It was the most interesting thing to happen around here in ages,” Etta said as she stroked more paint onto the engine. She glanced up, wet brush held aloft. “That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I simply mean that tragedy is inherently interesting, far more interesting to outsiders than happiness. That’s why all great literature is tragedy.”
    “I never thought of it that way.”
    “Of course, that pertains to fiction, not to life. When it comes to living a tragic life versus a happy one, I know what we’d all choose. Which is what makes what happened across the street all the more tragic. The Lawrences . . . They always seemed so happy.”
    “What happened, exactly?”
    “Sidney Lawrence killed his oldest daughter, his wife, and then himself.”
    So Kobe and his gang exaggerated the details, but were otherwise on target.
    “I met a few of the neighborhood children yesterday. Do you know Kobe?”
    “Was he bothering you? I’d be happy to talk to him. I know his mother. No father in his life, unfortunately, which is what he really needs. So many of these kids just need their parents to be more involved in their lives, but a lot of their folks are juggling jobs, or addictions, or other problems. I know they can be bratty at times, but after years of working with them, I have concluded that without involved parents, they don’t have much of a chance at life.”
    “Kobe was no bother at all. In fact, he and his friends pitched in on the cleanup at Monty’s house.”
    She looked at me, askance. “What did they get in return?”
    “Snacks and a T-shirt. But they were good-natured about it all. They told me a little about the, um, murders. And they mentioned one of the children escaped?”
    “Two. The middle daughter apparently saw what was going on and helped her little brother to escape through a second-story window. Sidney killed himself instead of chasing after them; thank goodness for that. Can you imagine? Poor little babies. They ran over here, to our house.” There was a catch in her voice, and she cleared her throat before resuming her story. “It was a little after nine on a cold spring night in—
Oh
, I just realized—this Friday will be the twenty-fifth anniversary.”
    The silver anniversary of a double murder-suicide. That isn’t portentous at all, is it?
I thought.
    “That night, the doorbell rang over and over,” Etta continued. “We thought it was some neighborhood children fooling around, so we debated whether to answer. The neighborhood was a little rough in those days, so we hesitated. But then Gerry looked out and saw . . . the poor little babies.”
    “Did you know them well?”
    “Of course, I knew everyone then. Though as a teacher, I wasn’t around much—spent most of the day at school. But the Lawrence family was very sweet, very steady. Or so it seemed.” She set the yellow engine down and picked up a red caboose. “I’m sorry to say I was one of those neighbors you see on the TV, saying, ‘Gee, they always seemed so nice. I never would have expected it.’ But it was true.”
    “You never heard arguments, saw any sign of abuse?”
    She shook her head. “But I’m not sure I would have noticed anything amiss. This is an urban neighborhood, closer than many, but we’re