Free If Walls Could Talk by Juliet Blackwell Page B

Lehner about seeing something behind the wall. But it was probably nothing, some unimportant little bit of the house’s history. There must be some other kind of explanation for what happened to Kenneth. Besides, there was something about the inspector that seemed . . . impatient. Uninterested. Off .
    As that thought crossed my mind, I saw someone standing in a second-story window, gesturing. When I looked up, he disappeared, but when I focused on the inspector in front of me, I could still see him in my peripheral vision.
    It wasn’t a cop or other crime scene investigator.
    It was Kenneth Kostow.

Chapter Six
    I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the apparition.
    “Matt Addax would like me to carry on with the renovation work,” I said. “Is that possible, or is this considered a crime scene?”
    “We’re processing it now. Gotta tell you, place is a mess. We got blood, prints everywhere. Still, it should be released soon. I’ll let you know.” Lehner looked off in the distance. “I gotta be straight with you, Ms. Turner. This is a sensitive investigation.”
    “Sensitive?”
    “Things like this don’t happen in this neighborhood. Bring everybody’s property values down. We don’t want to upset anyone unnecessarily. I’d appreciate you speaking only to me about it, otherwise keeping mum. And that includes talking to the neighbors or anyone else.”
    “Does ‘sensitive’ mean you’re not going to investigate it as a murder?”
    “Look, lady, our shift caught three homicides this week. We held your friend Addax mostly because of the accusation from the deceased, but the investigation is still going on until we press charges or decide to drop the case. Okay?”
    “But if Cal-OSHA is here, does that mean you think it was an accident? Isn’t that what Kenneth told the officer originally?”
    Cold eyes flickered over me. “You know anything more about this whole mess, you tell me—and only me. Otherwise you keep out of it, get me?”
    He didn’t wait for my answer before climbing into his beige Ford sedan and taking off.
    I remained where I was, rooted to the spot.
    My loyalties were at war. If it was an accident, Matt would be off the hook. But if Turner Construction was really listed on the permit papers, that could mean we were in big trouble.
    And on top of everything else, I kept seeing Kenneth’s ghostly visage in the second-story window. Every time I looked at him directly, he disappeared, but when I looked away I could see a wavering visual of him out of the corner of my eye. It was incredibly frustrating—in addition to being creepy. I couldn’t help but think of seeing Kenneth standing in front of me, injured but still alive, in that blood-soaked den yesterday.
    I did the math. According to what Matt’s lawyer had told me, Kenneth had already died at the hospital by the time I had “seen” him here at the house.
    And now he was standing in the window, looking down at me. Gesturing. I could almost feel his yearning, as though he wanted— needed —to tell me something.
    I tried to shake it off, closing my eyes and turning my face to the warm sunshine. Weren’t ghosts supposed to come out at night? They didn’t appear in broad daylight, did they? But assuming I wasn’t seeing Kenneth’s ghost . . . was I having some sort of breakdown?
    “Sorry I’m late.”
    The man approaching looked to be of Indian or Pakistani origin, with dark hair and eyes, but his accent was native Californian. He wore khaki chinos, a pale blue polo shirt, and shiny brown leather loafers.
    It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. I imagined it was the effect of the clipboard still cradled in the crook of my arm. When you hold a clipboard, people tend to assume you’re in charge, or at the very least know what’s going on.
    “I—” I began.
    “Is Kostow inside?”
    “You were supposed to meet Kenneth Kostow?” I asked.
    The man glanced down at a huge, expensive-looking gold watch