Free Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by Juliet Blackwell

approached slowly, listening, taking in deep breaths to try to catch any odd odors, trying to “feel” what I was dealing with, if something was off. I kept casting compulsive glances over my shoulders and searching my peripheral vision, where I habitually first saw ghosts.
    Except I didn’t see or sense anything here. But Dog certainly did. And in this area, at least, he was the expert.
    It was bright daylight, but contrary to ghost mythology the time of day was irrelevant to spectral activity. Nighttime made everything spookier, and it was easier for spirits to manifest more fully at night, but in my experience ghosts didn’t care much about the clock. When they wanted to reach out—and were
able
to—they did.
    I reached around Dog and pushed up the sash window. Wonder of wonders, it was an original wood frame, not one of Andrew’s vinyl replacements. I stuck my head out the window and craned my neck, but saw nothing except the roof a few feet away.
    “What is it, Dog? Do you see something?” I asked, sounding like a character from an old Lassie movie. Still, it made me feel better to talk to him. One of the many reasons Dog had become part of our family was because his ability to see ghosts made me feel less like a nut. And because he had saved my life more than once. And because he was just plain adorable.
    “I’m not seeing anything,” I continued. Dog wagged his tail at the sound of my voice, but his hackles were up and he was growling, a deep, rumbling growl that he made only in the presence of ghosts.
    “It’s like that, is it?” I don’t know what Dog was seeing or sensing, but if he said something was there, then something was there. “All righty, then. Looks like it’s the roof for me. Maybe that weathervane is trying to tell me something?”
    At the far end of the hall was a rather rickety-looking set of metal spiral stairs that led to the roof of the turret, accessed through a skylight window.
    “You stay here, okay? Stay.” It wasn’t as though Dog was big on English. But he would understand my tone, and I didn’t want him trying to follow me up those little metal stairs. “I’ll see you on the flip side.”
    Then I mounted the spiral stairs, my boots clanging on the thin metal risers. Why in the world had Skip Buhner left the wooden window in the hall but yanked out the antique stairs to the roof, I wondered. The original spiral had no doubt been substantial, either wrought iron or wood, not cheap and rickety like these.
    Still grumbling, I released the latches on the skylight and pushed it open.
    One thing I’ll say for modern skylights: they’re easier to operate than the old hand-crank versions. I climbed through, and found myself on the roof of the turret.
    Dog stuck his fool head out of the window below me and started to bark. Like a crazy canine.
    I caught a whiff of something noxious and chemical-smelling, but couldn’t place it and it was soon replaced by the salt air breezes.
    I took a moment to reassure Dog and to get my bearings. At the top of the cupola was a pole where the weather vane should have been, and encircling the turret was a blank space where the widow’s walk had once been. A ladder on the far side of the turret led to the rest of the roof.
    The view was phenomenal, and while I didn’t agree with Flynt’s assessment that it was worth twenty-nine million dollars—was
any
private residence worth that much?—it was, indeed, impressive. I had a panoramic view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio, Sausalito, the islands in the bay, and all of downtown. As much asI loved Oakland, it was clear why tourists from around the globe sought out San Francisco and why folks were willing to pay so much to live here. It was simply gorgeous.
    Maybe not twenty-nine million dollars’ worth of gorgeous, but still.
    A bit of moisture blew in off the bay and nearby Pacific Ocean. A couple of big black birds glided by as though seeking their erstwhile perch on the widow’s