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

to speak low and slow.
    “Oh, hey, Cap’n. No worries,” he said, flipping the gun around and handing it to me, the muzzle pointed toward the floor and the butt toward me, as was proper safety procedure. “I checked; it’s not loaded.”
    Gingerly, I took the gun from him and double-checked. He was right; it was empty. I glanced at Caleb and three other college boys standing in a semicircle.
    “Who brought a gun to the worksite?” I demanded.
    “It’s mine,” said Etta from behind me. “Don’t worry; I know how to use it—I go out to the shooting range at least once a month, up by San Quentin.”
    Dear Ms. Etta Lee, retired schoolteacher, was getting more interesting by the moment.
    As I carefully handed the gun over to her, she explained: “It’s for protection. I told you, this used to be a rough neighborhood. I’m a single woman now. And to tell you the truth, I enjoy the feel of it in my hands.”
    That clinched it: Etta and my father were perfect for each other.
    •   •   •
     
    By four o’clock, we were winding down. Dad was conducting a careful walk-through and checking items off the punch list, while the majority of the volunteers were busy with the final cleanup of the jobsite and the tools, which is no small thing. With our energy flagging, we were digging into the sugary snacks. I was helping myself to what I swore would be my last Krispy Kreme—for the day, at least—when I glanced across the street.
    A shiny silver Lexus was pulling into Monty’s driveway.
    Great
. Our house sponsor, Ray Buckley. I blew out an exhausted breath. I should have called to let him know about what had happened yesterday and that the project was on hold. Between the commotion and chatting with the police, it had completely slipped my mind.
    It was common in the Bay Area, despite—or perhaps because of—its rampant entrepreneurialism, to deride successful capitalists for their greed. Then along came someone like Ray Buckley. Ray had donated a check for Monty’s project that was so generous, the organization had allotted part of it for Ms. Lee’s house. Without the contributions of businesses and businesspeople, Neighbors Together wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half of what it did.
    “Ray, how nice to see you,” I said, hailing him from Etta’s side of the street.
    Ray must have been pushing seventy years old, but in his elegant suits, he still cut a fine figure. With his silver hair and upright posture, he looked like the sort of model you see on vitamins for older people that promise youthful vitality no matter one’s age.
    He gestured to the crime scene tape. “What happened? Was there an accident? Is everyone all right?”
    “Sort of.” I gave him a brief rundown of the previous day’s events. “But it looks as though the shed is actually on the neighboring property, not Monty’s, so it shouldn’t be a problem in terms of the project, long-term.”
    “The woman was found in a shed? That’s terrible. Who was it?”
    “I have no idea. The police think it might have been someone looking for shelter—and there may have been drugs involved.”
    His eyes fixed on me.
    “Did you see her?”
    “Yes, I was there when they found the body. She was in her forties, maybe? Light brown, curly hair. She had a tattoo of a hand on her neck. . . .”
    As I said it, I realized what the tattoo reminded me of: that knocker on the blue door of the haunted house, the hand holding a ball.
    Ray turned white as a sheet. “Not . . .
Linda
?”
    “Linda?”
    “Linda Lawrence? The . . . the girl who escaped the Murder House?”
    •   •   •
     
    When a person goes into shock, there’s nothing quite like fruit juice to set them aright. Or at least that’s what my father always said, and he’d dealt with more shock than I had over the years. So Ray and I sat in the shade, and I urged him to down some Jamba Juice while we waited for Inspector Crawford. Dog, who I had let out of the