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

heard J.D. say as I left, “and we had to break up fisticuffs here in the shop earlier. I swear I don’t know what’s happening to this neighborhood.”
    “Raj,” said George, “take over the cooking for a while. I’m gonna go over there, see what’s up.”
    “Me too,” said a young man at one of the tables as he wrapped up the remnants of a huge slice of pepperoni.
    I rushed back to the car just in time to see Claire bumming a cigarette from a young man dressed in metal-studded black leather pants and matching motorcycle jacket.
    “I thought you quit,” Stephen commented as she and I got back in the car.
    “Extenuating circumstances,” Claire said.
    “Let’s get back to the house,” I said. “Police are on their way.”
    “Mel, you really should consider carrying a gun,” said Stephen, speeding down the residential streets. “In Nevada everybody carries a gun.”
    “You’re right—the only thing that would have improved this evening would have been me shooting at people. And if they shot back, even better.”
    “I’m just saying if you’re going to go around getting involved in murders all the time, you might give some thought to carrying some heat.”
    “I think the term is ‘packing some heat,’” said Claire, lighting up her cigarette and lowering the window to exhale. “Some meanie you are.”
    Stephen glared at Claire’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “I said I was born and raised in Vegas, not that I was with the mob . And just so you know, blowing smoke out the window doesn’t really help.” Stephen waved his hand in front of his face in a theatrical gesture. “Smokers damage their noses so they can’t smell it, but the rest of us know perfectly well when there’s smoke in the air.”
    Claire glowered at him, raised her window, and blew a puff of smoke at the back of his head.
    “I think we all need to calm down,” I said, my dread increasing as we approached the house.
    “ I think we need a freakin’ drink,” muttered Claire.
    “I’m relieved to see that, at the very least, the smut mouth is still on mute,” said Stephen.
    “One habit at a time, as they say,” said Claire, blowing another cloud of smoke toward his sensitive nose.
    Next time, I promised myself, I was so bringing a different ghost-busting crew.

Chapter Eight
    “T his blows,” said Claire, smoking yet another bummed cigarette aswe stood by and watched the gruesome rescue scene.
    “You can say that again,” muttered Stephen.
    I mostly concentrated on breathing.
    The rain had ceased, but clouds hid the moon, making the night black and foreboding. There was an otherworldly feeling enveloping the courtyard, all search lamps focused on that too-black hole of the well. It was late by now, but as Claire would point out, on Saturday night in the Castro the real action didn’t begin until ten at the earliest. Passersby, intrigued by the lights and sounds of the emergency vehicles, had started to peek through the garden gate in ghoulish curiosity. I recognized a few faces: one of Mrs. Bernini’s immediate neighbors, plus George and the other young man from the pizza shop. But I wasn’t feeling social; all I could do was stare at the rescue workers, hoping against hope.
    The paramedics had arrived at the house first, then the hook and ladder and the police. We showed them to the well, and after shouting down but receiving no answer, they sent down a walkie-talkie. When that produced no response, the fire department began setting up a hoisting device over the hole so they could lower a rescue worker down into the pit.
    His boots slipped on the damp, slick stones as he was painstakingly lowered down the well in a safety harness. Once he reached his goal, he radioed up. His tone was unemotional, matter-of-fact:
    “No pulse. Looks like a head injury. Probably dead before she was thrown down here.”
    Though part of me had known it, my heart lurched to my throat. I heard a muffled cry from Claire; Stephen