Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by Juliet Blackwell Page A

why should I be worried? I mean, McCall was a building inspector. No one likes building inspectors.”
    Graham, a former building inspector for California Office of Safety and Health, or OSHA, didn’t deign to reply.
    “Seriously, though, maybe it was an accident. McCall seemed like the type to poke his nose into everything. Who’s to say the bag of mortar didn’t slip off that big pile?”
    “That seem logical to you?”
    Not really. “I’m just saying that since we don’t know
what
happened to McCall, there’s no reason to let it affect my business decisions.”
    “Listen, Mel, at least wait until I get back to town. We’ll move into Elrich’s place together.”
    “There’s a meeting tomorrow with Florian Libole, and I don’t want to miss it. It’s just one night, Graham. Even
I
don’t manage to attract problems that quickly. It’s like I was telling Dad and Stan: This place has already experienced one murder, so I figure we’re safe for a while.”
    “I’m beginning to worry about you.”
    “This is why you like me so much, though, right? I keep you guessing.”
    “No, actually, that’s not why. Not even close.”
    I was too smart to take that bait. I thought about telling Graham that I had borrowed my dad’s Glock, but rejected that on the theory that in this case, discretion would be the better part of valor. Somehow I didn’t think knowing I was armed—without a license or carry permit—would make Graham feel better.
    I left my car in the shade, rolled down the windows halfway, and told Dog to be a good boy. I would come back for him after I checked out the scene.
    My suitcase banged as I rolled it up the steps to the porch, the noise mingling with the cheerful splash of the water in the fountain.
    I knocked on the large wooden door, checking out the architecture. Given decorative details like the fan light over the front door and the carved crests and angels along the roofline, I estimated the house was built around the turn of the twentieth century. The house’s aesthetics were well-done, but there were some visible issues: The wood siding was sagging and warped in spots, and there were cracks along the joints of the windowlintels and sills. No big deal, but such issues needed to be addressed before they led to water damage and dry rot. Even with environmental risks like termites and carpenter ants, wood-frame buildings held up well in California’s temperate climate, but all aged structures required maintenance and repair from time to time.
    “Yes?” The woman who opened the door frowned, looking me over as if I were a trick-or-treater on the day after Halloween. She held a massive key ring in one hand, a large notebook in another.
    She was tall, strong-looking, and tanned a rich mocha brown, which was unusual in the SPF-soaked Bay Area. Her auburn hair was cut in an attractive style that brushed the tops of her shoulders with a feminine élan yet still managed to seem businesslike. A small scar under her right eye, and another that split her top lip, somehow highlighted her appearance. Her dress—short, chic, and cocoa brown with bright blue piping—reminded me of a chocolate Easter egg.
    But then again, I’m a little food-fixated. Dog and I have that in common.
    “Hi. I’m Mel Turner.”
    “
You
are Mel Turner?” she demanded, unsmiling.
    I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
    “I’m Alicia Withers, Mr. Elrich’s personal assistant. He informed me you would be arriving and asked me to help you settle in.”
    “Oh, great. Thanks.”
    “I expected you to be a man.”
    “I . . . um . . .” I’m never sure how to respond to this sort of thing. I’m clearly not a man—at least, I hope it’s clear; otherwise I’d best get me to a beauty parlor—but my nickname and the fact that I’m in the trades tend to lead to these kinds of assumptions. However, upon visualconfirmation, I would think people would figure it out without further explanation. “Sorry. I’m . . .