Read Online Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online Page A

haunted house fund-raiserwe put on back in middle school. Haven’t heard any rattling chains, though.”
    “So you hear the weathervane squeaking and a man moaning.”
    She nodded. “But like I said, the moaning might have been one of the neighbors or someone on the street, something not in the least bit supernatural.”
    “What else?” I felt like Annette Crawford, saying in her cop voice:
Even small things might be significant. Tell me everything.
To understand the world of spirits beyond the veil, small details that others didn’t find significant often mattered.
    “I guess you’ve heard about the music.”
    “Andrew mentioned that. Have you heard it?”
    “I always sort of assumed it was a car passing by with a loud stereo system. . . .”
    “Blasting a waltz with a thumping three-quarter beat?”
    Egypt shrugged. “Now that you mention it, I guess that seems kind of unlikely. I’m sorry, I guess I’m not the best witness. Chantelle never really believed me, either. What can I say? Crosswinds just doesn’t seem creepy or haunted to me.”
    I smiled. A little obtuseness was a handy quality in a haunted-house sitter. “Do any parts of the house seem unusually cold or drafty? Any lights that go on and off, or doors that open and close for no apparent reason? Maybe the smell of pipe smoke or flowers or perfume—anything unusual?”
    She shook her head.
    “Have you noticed objects being moved around?”
    “It’d be kind of hard to tell—there’s not much in here to move. Andrew won’t pay to stage the house, so Karla and I brought in a few items, but . . .” She waved one hand. I had assumed it was a style choice, but she was right: Thehome was virtually empty. “The only place that’s lived-in is my room on the fourth floor, and the bathroom up there, of course. I don’t cook so I barely use the kitchen. Just the fridge and the microwave. Oh, I do find old photographs from time to time. I’ve got a little collection going.”
    “What kind of old photos?”
    “Very old, sepia. Always of the same young woman, but in different costumes.”
    “Could I see them?”
    “They’re upstairs.”
    “That reminds me, would it be all right if I took a peek in your room?”
    She hesitated.
    “It’s no big deal,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a feel for the place, see if there really is anything to this haunting.”
    I
knew
there was something to it, since I could feel the vibrations, like an alarm clanging so far in the distance it was scarcely perceptible. But for the moment it was best to leave things open-ended.
    “Could we do it another time?” Egypt asked, checking her phone. “Right now I have to run, and I’d like to tidy up first.”
    “Oh Lord, you should see the places I’ve been,” I said, hoping to put her at ease. It didn’t work.
    “Tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”
    I decided Egypt excelled at dealing with difficult clients like Andrew Flynt and family: She was unfailingly pleasant and polite, and yet revealed very little.
    “Sure. If you think of anything else, let me know, okay? And, this is probably going to sound weird, but would you mind if I brought my dog in, and we poked around a little?”
    “Your dog?”
    “He won’t hurt anything, though he might leave a few brown hairs. . . .”
    She smiled, but the humor didn’t reach her troubled eyes. “It’s not a problem. Karla would probably say it would add to the lived-in look.”
    “Until tomorrow, then.”
    She nodded, opened her mouth as though to say something further, then shook her head and slipped out the front door.

Chapter Seven
    D og and I did some quick scouting through the lower floor, where the massive “Pilates studio”—still awaiting exercise equipment—must once have hosted stage-worthy events for the Summerton clan. There was also a Jacuzzi room, sauna, and bedroom with en suite bath. Two equipment rooms felt overheated and stuffy with a mechanical smell; they were full of big gray