Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) by juliet blackwell

“The rain stopped. And it’s a full moon. Look—Mrs. Bernini looks almost like a ghost herself.”
    Stephen and I joined her at the window. Mrs. Bernini did, in fact, look like a spirit shuffling down the garden path, illuminated in a soft, silvery light.
    Overhead, there was a loud scraping sound and the rumble of something heavy.
    It stopped. But then it was replaced by the sound of someone singing.
    We all froze and looked at one another.
    “Maybe Josh?” Stephen suggested.
    “The scraping sound, maybe,” Claire said. “But the singing? It sounds like a child.”
    “With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls . . .”
    “It’s Anabelle.”
    I headed for the staircase and was halfway up when I realized I had lost my entourage. Stephen and Claire remained at the base of the stairs, eyes wide and mouths agape.
    “Don’t be scared,” I assured them. “She really was very sweet.”
    Neither moved. I stifled a smile and reminded myself what I was asking of them.
    “Tell you what: Why don’t you two wait for me down here. Just try not to freak out if you see anything, okay?”
    They looked at each other; then Claire started up the stairs. “Don’t know about you, Stephen, but I’m gonna stick with the ghost professional.”
    Stephen was hot on her heels. “No way I’m staying down here by myself. The guy who stays behind is always the first to be eaten.”
    “No one’s going to eat you,” I said as I resumed climbing the stairs. “I’ve never heard of a single case of a carnivorous ghost.”
    “Maybe that’s because no one ever survived to tell the tale,” Stephen said, his voice low.
    We reached the hall at the top of the stairs, and I stopped to listen, a finger to my lips. Claire and Stephen, who were compulsively looking over their shoulders, bumped into me. There was some flailing and swearing.
    I said a quick, fervent prayer that we weren’t all being secretly taped, that this really wasn’t an episode of Punk the Contractor . I wasn’t easily cowed by public ridicule, but our trio’s antics would be pretty tough to overcome. With my luck the footage would go viral on the Web. Even if not, funny stories were passed around—and elaborated upon—endlessly on jobsites. There was nothing construction workers savored more than the opportunity to make fun of others in the business.
    The scraping sound was coming from down the hall. And though Anabelle’s singing had stopped, there was tinkling carousel music emanating from the nursery.
    The previously locked door now stood ajar, spilling light into the hall.
    I paused.
    “Let me do the macho guy thing and go first,” said Stephen, moving to stand between me and the nursery door.
    “In principle I am offended,” Claire said, standing right behind me. “In reality, I am grateful. Knock yourself out, you manly man, you.”
    We huddled together, one big ghost-busting sandwich.
    The floorboards creaked underfoot as we progressed, en masse, down the hall.
    Stephen took a deep breath, reached out very slowly, and pushed open the nursery door.

Chapter Six
    T he carousel music stopped. As did thescraping noise. Silence wrapped around us, leaving only the harsh sounds of our nervous breathing.
    As I looked around, I saw that a rocking horse was moving, as though someone had just alighted. And the toy carousel’s brightly painted horses were still swaying. Marionettes in a puppet theater stirred slightly.
    Plus, it was so cold in the room we could see our own breath.
    Deep shelves held dusty old dolls with corkscrew curls, flouncy dresses, and wide, staring glass eyes. There was a mechanical monkey with cymbals in its paws, scads of lead soldiers, and several antique teddy bears. Not all the toys were old-fashioned: I recognized several Fisher-Price trucks and a garage I remembered Caleb playing with, along with some Star Wars and Power Rangers dolls. A big leather-bound toy chest doubled as a bench under the large sash windows overlooking