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

hugged her to his chest.
    Meanwhile, a group of officers crouched down near the central fountain. They called for a floodlight and the photographer, and started setting out evidence tags. Mrs. Bernini’s aluminum walker was still lying on its side on the stone path. And there was something else that looked like a splash of dark paint on the edge of the fountain. Was that . . . blood?
    I didn’t have a chance to find out. The uniformed officer who had been first on the scene escorted us out of the garden and into the front yard, where all the emergency vehicles were crowded in the drive and along the street. He called in a suspicious death on his police radio, then started taking down our stories. I gave him the contact info for Kim and Marty Propak at the Lincoln Inn down the street.
    As I listened to Claire’s and Stephen’s versions of events, I realized it was too bad we hadn’t come to some agreement as to what we were going to tell of ghostly goings-on. It was clear from the man’s eyes that he thought we were high, or crazy, or both.
    More onlookers gathered around the emergency vehicles, standing with umbrellas and rain jackets, a few in bathrobes. After the police officer took our statements, Claire, Stephen, and I sat silently, huddled together under a blue blanket provided by the paramedics. Since they couldn’t help Mrs. Bernini, they had nothing to do but make sure we weren’t in shock.
    After a long wait—I think I fell asleep at some point, suffering from an adrenaline crash—I was awakened by a hand on my shoulder. It was the responding officer.
    “Inspector needs to speak with you,” he said. “You two wait here for your turns,” he said to Claire and Stephen.
    I followed him to the driveway, where I was both relieved and disturbed to realize I knew the lead homicide inspector who had caught the call: Annette Crawford.
    “Inspector,” I said with a nod. “It’s, um . . .” It seemed odd to say “nice to see you again,” under the circumstances. “Hello.”
    “Ms. . . . ?”
    “Turner. Mel Turner.”
    “Right. Union Street homicide, upholstery shop.”
    I nodded. Curious to think that Crawford’s world was organized as a series of murder scenes. It made me wonder how a person remained mentally stable as a homicide inspector in a busy urban area. I’d been exposed to just a taste, and was already doubting my sanity.
    But those thoughts were soon taken over by other, more self-serving ones: Unless things had changed dramatically since last we spoke, Inspector Crawford did not hold with any of this “ghost stuff.” Which might make it difficult to describe to her the night we’d just experienced at the Bernini house.
    “You want to tell me what you’re doing on another one of my crime scenes?”
    “I was spending the night here. I had a rather unusual arrangement with the soon-to-be owners, Kim and Marty Propak.”
    “They were going to buy the place?”
    I nodded. “They had signed a purchase agreement with Mrs. Bernini.”
    “So they’re the new owners of the house?”
    “As far as I—”
    There was a rustle in the crowd of onlookers.
    “But there must be some mistake. She left this house to me!”
    A woman had broken through the imaginary line everyone else was observing. She wore a polo shirt and khaki pants, but no coat, and she hugged herself against the wintry chill. She looked like she was in her late thirties or early forties but took great care of herself: a French manicure, an expensive haircut, perfect makeup despite the late hour. She reminded me of my ex-husband’s new wife: a beautiful, high-maintenance woman.
    A man ran up beside her. He was about her height, and with broad workingman features. Not unattractive, just rather ordinary. He placed a coat over her shoulders, then left his hands resting there.
    A police officer tried to shoo them back.
    “It’s important I speak to the officer in charge,” the woman said. “Mrs. Bernini left this