She saw me pointing, pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Tell you what: You guys check in with that nice lady over there”—I pointed to Luz—“and she’ll give you T-shirts and work gloves. You clean this yard up for me, put all this stuff into that Dumpster. Then you can help yourselves to snacks.”
They looked at one another, and Kobe shrugged. “’Kay.”
“Hey,” I said to their backs as they descended upon a grumpy-looking Luz. “No more Murder House rhyme—you get me?”
“We only sing it when we go past the house,” Kaitlyn said shyly. “It’s so the ghosts of the people who died won’t get us. But that’s not the worst.”
Don’t ask, Mel. Don’t you dare—
“What’s the worst?”
Kaitlyn hesitated, glancing around as if fearful of being overheard. I leaned toward her and she whispered. “The ghost of the dad who did it.”
I blew out a breath. Try to do a good deed and what did I get? A drunken fraternity, a bunch of hoodlums in training, and ghosts next door. I was willing to bet my dad didn’t have ghosts next door to his project house. Of course, if he did he’d never know it. My sensitivity to ghosts came from my late mother.
I walked Kaitlyn over to where the other kids were encircling Luz and donning bright purple T shirts.
“Hel-lo,” Luz said, her gaze meeting mine over their heads. “No one under fourteen, ring a bell?”
“They’ll stay here in front. They’re going to clean up all that stuff; then they get snacks, same as the other volunteers. And then, when they’re fourteen, maybe they’ll come back and help us out, and maybe learn some skills, like building a handicap ramp. Right, guys?”
“Why I want to build a handicap ramp?” Kobe demanded.
“Because it’s better than flipping burgers,” said Luz, still glaring at me. “Watch and learn, you guys. You could do worse than a construction job.”
I noticed a blond frat boy peering through the window of the neighboring house—the Murder House—his hands cupped around his face to block out the light.
“Hey, Peeping Tom, let’s leave the neighbors alone, shall we?” I called out.
“Sorry,” the young man said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to be so nosy, but this place is incredible; it’s like a time capsule. Look at those lines—that’s Art Nouveau. You don’t see a lot of that in this area.”
“Architecture major?”
“How’d you know?”
“Not a lot of people know much about Art Nouveau.”
“It’s one of my favorite styles. I’m Jefferson, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jefferson. I’m Mel Turner, the house captain for this project.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n.”
I had to smile. “I’m fond of the Art Nouveau era, myself. But that’s a topic for another day. Today we’re restoring this fine example of twentieth-century cottage architecture. You guys arrived late, so how about you make up for lost time and get to work?”
“Sure thing. Just tell me what to do.” Jefferson was a good-looking guy, tall and strong, with pearly white, straight teeth. Someone had made sure he took his vitamins. And now that he was shaking off the hangover, he appeared polite and accommodating.
I wondered how he would handle it if, while he was pulling his Peeping Tom act, a ghost had peeped back.
“Check in with Luz over there. She’ll put you to work.”
I looked around for Monty and spied him on the porch. It was his usual perch, overlooking the crowd, except when he hid inside, reading.
One of the things I had immediately liked about Monty were the wall-to-wall bookshelves—stuffed with volumes—lining his living room. Many of the clients I dealt with had adorned their living spaces with nothing but giant flat-screen TVs and sound systems worthy of a professional rock band. Even in the finest homes, entertainment systems had replaced libraries. Book lover that I am, this hurt my feelings.
“Monty?” I called from the side of the house. “What do you know about the house next door?”
“My house used to be its carriage house, or something like that,” said Monty.
“Uh-huh. But it’s unoccupied, right?”
“You could say that.”
Okay . . . I guess I should follow up on the Murder House once I found a little free time. I wasn’t getting involved, though. No way. I would just ask Monty what he knew, and then I would move on.
Our main goal today—besides the roof and now under the kitchen sink—was to build the wheelchair ramp, which would allow Monty easy entry and exit, both for safety and to improve his quality of life. I had asked Stan Tomassi to lead this part of the project. Stan worked for Turner Construction and was himself in a wheelchair as the result of an accident on the job. In typical Stan fashion, he had collected all the materials needed, including “lumber” made of recycled pressed polymers, and early this morning had gathered around him several eager beavers to explain to them what the job required.