Home for the Haunting(4)

“So, what did you find?”

“I think . . .” Hugh said, speaking deliberately, “that there was perhaps a leak under the sink, a slow leak . . .”

“I’m Simone,” said the woman, who then proceeded to finish Hugh’s sentence for him. “It’s a leak that’s gone unnoticed, or simply not fixed, for years. Water appears to have gotten into the subfloor.”

That wasn’t good. Drips led to wet wood, which in turn led to dry rot, an oddly named condition that could spread through healthy wood like a cancer. I inspected the subfloor and instructed the volunteers to remove the wood back to the studs. I was relieved to see that the joists were not affected. Once the dry rot had been removed, they could repair the leaky plumbing, replace the framing and floor, and lay down protective laminate over the plywood. Monty’s kitchen would be good as new.

“Sounds just peachy,” said Simone. “Unfortunately, Hugh and I have to leave for another engagement. At least we figured out the extent of the problem, but we won’t be able to stay and help fix it.”

“No . . .” said Hugh, his gaze focused on the on the sink. “We won’t.”

I nodded, my jaw clenched in frustration. We asked volunteers to commit to at least one full day of work, but there really wasn’t anything we could do if they refused.

“I think I can handle it,” Mike said. “I’ll need a couple of helpers, though.”

I thanked him for stepping in and corralled a couple of unskilled but willing volunteers from a local high school’s service club who said they didn’t mind getting dirty. With luck, they would be helpful and learn something about home repair.

From overhead came the sound of loud banging and a crash, but I wasn’t too worried. I knew the leader of the roofing crew. He was a stickler for safety, and he was working with a handful of semiskilled workers from the local fire department. Still, I thought I should probably check, just in case. On my way outside I looked in on the progress being made in the master bedroom by the painting crew. A church group was cleaning the surfaces and taping off edges meticulously. I appreciated the effort, but experienced painters knew better than to sweat using too much blue tape or plastic sheeting. Still, the cardinal rule of directing volunteers was to let them work at their own pace. It was good of them to be here at all, and for many it was their first time on a worksite.

“Mel, do you think someone could get those children to stop singing that little ditty?” asked a middle-aged woman on a ladder. “It’s very . . . disturbing.”

I listened. Through the open window came the notes of a song I remembered from childhood. “Lizzie Borden took an ax . . .”

But although the notes were the same, the lyrics had been changed:

Sidney Lawrence grabbed a knife,

Killed his daughter, then his wife . . .



I glanced out the window and saw a group of tweener kids walking past the big house next door.

“Let me see what I can do,” I said, thinking to punt to Luz, who had a natural authority that young people responded to. But she had her hands full handing out shovels and plastic bags to the frat boys, so, though my time would have been better spent on construction, I headed out to chastise some children.

“Hey, guys,” I said as I found the little gang of mini-hoodlums: slouching, wearing baseball caps and oversized clothing. Four boys and one girl. They couldn’t have been more than eleven, still dewy and plump with youth. “Can it, will ya?”

“What’re you doin’?” demanded the apparent ringleader. He was short and chubby and wore glasses.

“What’s it look like we’re doing?” I responded in the same tone, waggling my head a little. I had helped raise my stepson, so I wasn’t intimidated by this age group. The kids, predictably, responded to my challenge.

“Looks like you makin’ a mess,” the ringleader said.

“Yeah. Big mess,” echoed another.

“Of course we’re making a mess. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.” I winced as another of my father’s favorite expressions left my lips. Did people even say such things anymore? Or was I now the epitome of lame, one of those grown-ups who still used words like “groovy”?

“We’re making our community a nicer place to live. Better than hanging around singing about murder. What’s that about?”

“It’s ’cause of the Murder House,” the ringleader said, as the others looked at me as if to say, “What else?”

“Murder House?”

“That one right there,” he said, gesturing to the large Art Nouveau house next door. It stood silent and menacing, flanked by tall palm trees whose spiky fronds waved serenely in the breeze. Years ago, it was in vogue among California’s wealthy residents to plant palms around their posh homes. Today, a row of mature palm trees often signaled the site of a fine historic building. This house was different from the small bungalows surrounding it, I noted, but that wasn’t unusual. Historic neighborhoods often boasted one fine house among many smaller ones, which were built later when the original owners sold off the original acreage, parcel by parcel.