Home for the Haunting(35)

“Are you saying he’s making this up?”

“Nah. Not really. He’s a bit of a character; maybe we just didn’t mesh for some reason. Personality conflict and all that.”

The phone rang, and Stan answered with his practiced “Turner Construction. Stan speaking.” Before he had finished his conversation, Dad yelled that dinner was served.

“Hey, I got a bone to pick with you,” said Dad as he, Stan, Cookie, and I sat down to spaghetti, salad, garlic bread, and cheap Chianti—everything, with the exception of the wine, liberally dosed with garlic. We would all be reeking tonight. “Etta said something about you volunteering me to be . . . what? A neighborhood big brother?”

“Something like that. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

“Look, volunteerism isn’t something you can do once a year and that’s it,” I said as Dog landed heavily on my feet, taking up his position under the table in case any food fell. We hadn’t had to sweep in the kitchen since he’d arrived in our lives. “You have to commit yourself. And this will be fun—you know you can whip that model train set into shape, and you’re good with kids. Besides, you yourself said you’d like to see some further work done on that house. And Etta’s a sweetheart.”

“She’s a nice little old lady, true.”

“She’s not much older than you are, Dad.”

Cookie snickered and passed on the buttery garlic bread, citing her diet. I took her portion.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I don’t see why we can’t do some work over there, strip that woodwork, and fix up the front entry and living room, while you spend a little time working on the railroad.” I laughed. “Get it? Working on the railroad, all the live long daaay . . .”

Cookie and Dad both grimaced—even Dog barked. Only Stan appreciated my musical stylings, and since he was a devoted fan of some truly wretched backwoods Oklahoma bands, I should probably consider the source.

• • •



The next morning, my phone rang way too early. Afraid it was a construction emergency, I answered. Unfortunately, the voice on the other end of the line was one I had been hoping not to hear for a while.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” said Inspector Crawford in a tone that indicated she wasn’t all that sorry when it came right down to it. “I remember you told me you were an early bird. I was hoping you could meet me somewhere before work. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“You want to buy me a cup of coffee?” I croaked.

Annette and I weren’t exactly coffee buddies. We were more along the lines of . . . She thought it was weird that I showed up at crime scenes and talked about ghosts but she wasn’t ready to throw me in the slammer yet and occasionally I was actually able to resolve the situation and even though it seemed suspicious to her she couldn’t pin anything on me. Like that.

“Or tea. Choose your poison.” There was a note of false humor in her voice. What was up with her?

“Um . . . okay,” I said, ignoring the little voice saying noooo. I really didn’t want to get up and showered and dressed to be interrogated once again about something that—really, this time—I had nothing to do with.

But one of the reasons I got involved with volunteer projects, had the dog currently curled up on the little rug next to my bed, and was living at my father’s house and running Turner Construction was that I had a very hard time saying no. That should have been my New Year’s resolution: Grow a backbone.

I agreed to meet Annette at Stephen’s workplace, Caffe Trieste, off Columbus Avenue. Because if you’re going to be roused from your bed by a homicide inspector, the very least you can ask for is some decent coffee and a friend at your back.

After showering and dressing, I tried to sail through the kitchen, hoping my father was too busy cooking for my sister that he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t going to eat or even bother with coffee. But Cookie wasn’t in the kitchen yet. Sleeping in, no doubt. What with her busy schedule of scrapbooking and all.

“Take your sister with you today,” Dad said, drawing me aside and speaking in a loud whisper.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it, please. She has nothing to do all day but sit around moping.”

“She could answer her husband’s phone calls,” I suggested. “That would be something to do. What’s going on with them, anyway?”

Dad shrugged and started breaking eggs one-handed, skillfully letting only the whites fall into the mixing bowl.

“Nobody tells me anything around here. Maybe you can figure it out.”