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

cleanup, there’s a good lunch in it for you.”
    “Um . . . maybe,” was the only reply.
    I joined Monty up on the porch.
    “I think we should be all clear to resume the work next weekend, Monty, no problem. And if I get a chance, maybe I’ll try to come with some help in the next day or two, to finish up the ramp at least.”
    “Oh, good. Thanks.” He seemed distracted. “Did you, like, see anything in the shed? What were you doing in there? You see any evidence or anything?”
    “Not really.”
    “I guess she was a junkie,” said Monty.
    I didn’t want to spill the beans about the possibility it was Linda Lawrence . . . among other things, I really wasn’t much of a gossip, and I didn’t know anything certain yet.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “She was found with pills. You didn’t hear that?”
    I shook my head. How come everyone else knew so much? I was thinking of my father’s refrain:
Nobody tells me anything
. Or maybe I hadn’t been listening. . . . I remembered hearing a sort of roar in my ears for some time after finding the body, from exhaustion or shock.
    “Did you hear maybe the body was moved?”
    “Nah. I don’t think so. I think she probably just went into the shed, and then that was it. At least it’s not a bad way to go. One final trip.” He made a sort of flapping gesture with his hands. “Floated away for good.”
    It felt unseemly, this sort of speculation over a soul lost. Junkie or no, it was a tragedy. She was once someone’s baby. If she really was Linda Lawrence . . . now that I knew her story, that she had survived the murderous rampage of her father only to succumb to death in such an ugly way, it felt even more wretched.
    “Anyway,” I said to change the subject, “until we can get back in to finish up, I was going to offer to take down the plastic sheeting over your bookshelves.”
    The entire living room was full of bookshelves, all loaded with two rows of books, one in front of the other. It made it hard to see all the titles, but I did the same in my room at home. Too many books, not enough time. I remembered when I first met Monty, he told me, “One of the great things about being at home is I get to do my reading. It’s hard to make the time when you’re working and all.” He made my heart break with how game he was being about his sad lot in life.
    “I already took ’em down. I asked one of the volunteers to help me before they left.”
    “Oh, good. Anything else you need before I go?” I asked, feeling awkward.
    Monty really seemed like he wanted to chat. I had to admit I found him a little annoying, even grasping, but I could only imagine how I would be if I were alone all day, unable to leave my house without help. I was tired and grimy, and a bit off my game after what had just taken place in the shed. But my friends had informed me that three years out of my ugly divorce was plenty of time to heal, and that I no longer received a pass for being in a bad mood. I was trying to be a nicer person.
    “You really do have an impressive collection of books,” I said. “Do you have a favorite author?”
    “Too many to name. I read a lot of nonfiction, biographies and the like. Right now, I’m reading about the early industrialists, real jerks like Rockefeller and Carnegie. But then, you have to hand it to Carnegie—after making all that money off of exploiting workers and the like, he got afraid of what would happen after he died. He was afraid he’d go to hell.”
    “Really?”
    He nodded eagerly, rolling over to one section of the shelves and pulling out a thick tome. He handed me the book. “That’s why he started with his philanthropy.”
    “I know he funded libraries all over the country,” I said. “You have to like that in a person.”
    “Libraries and so much more. A lot of his philanthropic funds are still active today. Whether the money got there through guilt or fear or rivalry, it was still good for