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Book: Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by Juliet Blackwell
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Authors: Juliet Blackwell
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the schedule—“Discovery Room?”
“Turn the schedule over.”
I flipped it over and saw a map of the house and grounds, including the retreat center building site and a helipad.
“Ellis has a helicopter?”
“Sometimes he needs to travel quickly. It’s a long drive to the airport.”
“How about that? I’ve never known anyone with his own helicopter.”
“Is there anything else, Ms. Turner?”
“Call me Mel. No, thanks. I’m set.”
“Don’t be late to the meeting.”
“I think I can manage it.”
“I’ll let you settle in, then.” Alicia stalked off down the corridor, leaving me to unpack and “freshen up.”
I sat on the side of the bed and bounced a little, wondering whether to get Dog out of the car now or wait until after the meeting. I had parked in the shade, the windows were rolled down, it was a nice cool day, and he was no doubt sleeping. I decided to wait until after the meeting, so I would have time to help him accommodate to his new surroundings before leaving him alone in the room. With my luck, he would pee on a satin pillow or discover a new fascination with chewing and eat the bed, and how would I explain
that
to the already morose Alicia?
Wakefield was only a little more than an hour’s drive from Oakland, which meant I hadn’t worked up much of a sweat during the early-morning drive, and since my current outfit was the most conventional thing I had to wear, I busied myself by unpacking my suitcase—coveralls, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of inappropriate dresses designedby my friend Stephen, the only son of a Vegas showgirl. I shifted my underthings into a dark wood dresser and stashed my shoes in the ample closet. I hadn’t brought much: a pair of flip-flops, running shoes for when I wasn’t wearing my work boots, plus the sandals I had on.
I put my toiletries in the bathroom . . . and that was about it.
Despite Alicia’s dubious ministrations, I felt a thrill. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in nice hotels, and just beyond the French doors the pool sparkled, sending ripples of light onto the ceiling. The en suite bathroom was rimmed in cobalt blue glazed tiles, roomy and attractive. It featured a huge “Italian” shower, which meant there was no shower curtain. European style.
It wasn’t the worst place in the world to spend a few weeks.
Unwilling to mar the “done” look of the bedroom, I decided to stash my suitcase under the tall bed. As I pushed it under, I felt it hit something. I knelt down to look and spied not a single dust bunny.
Props to Alicia,
I thought grudgingly. There was, however, a book. I reached as far as I could and was just barely able to grab it with the tips of my fingers.
It was a beat-up paperback novel.
The cover showed a shirtless man, his long golden hair blowing in the wind. A red-haired beauty stood beside him, her hands resting on his impressive biceps, her lovely face looking up at him in adoration. In the background, a ruined castle loomed menacingly against the sunset sky.
Keeper of the Castle
had clearly been read many times and, judging by the crinkling around some of the pages, had been dropped in a bathtub at some point. The book’sspine was cracked and splayed open to one section: a lovingly described sex scene that, without becoming too graphic, involved heaving bosoms and thrusting manhoods.
Oh
, my.
I remembered my sister Cookie used to read romance novels like this when she was a teenager. I had teased her about it, and goaded our youngest sister, Daphne, to follow in my snide footsteps. But one day I discovered Daphne had a stash of similar novels hidden under
her
bed.
Now, upon reading that particular scene, I understood the reason.
The book no doubt belonged to the last guest to stay in this room. But what should I do with it? Put it on the bedside table and let Alicia think it belonged to me? Toss it back under the bed and let the maid or whoever found it assume it belonged to me? Stash it among my things?
“Turn the schedule over.”
I flipped it over and saw a map of the house and grounds, including the retreat center building site and a helipad.
“Ellis has a helicopter?”
“Sometimes he needs to travel quickly. It’s a long drive to the airport.”
“How about that? I’ve never known anyone with his own helicopter.”
“Is there anything else, Ms. Turner?”
“Call me Mel. No, thanks. I’m set.”
“Don’t be late to the meeting.”
“I think I can manage it.”
“I’ll let you settle in, then.” Alicia stalked off down the corridor, leaving me to unpack and “freshen up.”
I sat on the side of the bed and bounced a little, wondering whether to get Dog out of the car now or wait until after the meeting. I had parked in the shade, the windows were rolled down, it was a nice cool day, and he was no doubt sleeping. I decided to wait until after the meeting, so I would have time to help him accommodate to his new surroundings before leaving him alone in the room. With my luck, he would pee on a satin pillow or discover a new fascination with chewing and eat the bed, and how would I explain
that
to the already morose Alicia?
Wakefield was only a little more than an hour’s drive from Oakland, which meant I hadn’t worked up much of a sweat during the early-morning drive, and since my current outfit was the most conventional thing I had to wear, I busied myself by unpacking my suitcase—coveralls, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of inappropriate dresses designedby my friend Stephen, the only son of a Vegas showgirl. I shifted my underthings into a dark wood dresser and stashed my shoes in the ample closet. I hadn’t brought much: a pair of flip-flops, running shoes for when I wasn’t wearing my work boots, plus the sandals I had on.
I put my toiletries in the bathroom . . . and that was about it.
Despite Alicia’s dubious ministrations, I felt a thrill. I hadn’t spent a lot of time in nice hotels, and just beyond the French doors the pool sparkled, sending ripples of light onto the ceiling. The en suite bathroom was rimmed in cobalt blue glazed tiles, roomy and attractive. It featured a huge “Italian” shower, which meant there was no shower curtain. European style.
It wasn’t the worst place in the world to spend a few weeks.
Unwilling to mar the “done” look of the bedroom, I decided to stash my suitcase under the tall bed. As I pushed it under, I felt it hit something. I knelt down to look and spied not a single dust bunny.
Props to Alicia,
I thought grudgingly. There was, however, a book. I reached as far as I could and was just barely able to grab it with the tips of my fingers.
It was a beat-up paperback novel.
The cover showed a shirtless man, his long golden hair blowing in the wind. A red-haired beauty stood beside him, her hands resting on his impressive biceps, her lovely face looking up at him in adoration. In the background, a ruined castle loomed menacingly against the sunset sky.
Keeper of the Castle
had clearly been read many times and, judging by the crinkling around some of the pages, had been dropped in a bathtub at some point. The book’sspine was cracked and splayed open to one section: a lovingly described sex scene that, without becoming too graphic, involved heaving bosoms and thrusting manhoods.
Oh
, my.
I remembered my sister Cookie used to read romance novels like this when she was a teenager. I had teased her about it, and goaded our youngest sister, Daphne, to follow in my snide footsteps. But one day I discovered Daphne had a stash of similar novels hidden under
her
bed.
Now, upon reading that particular scene, I understood the reason.
The book no doubt belonged to the last guest to stay in this room. But what should I do with it? Put it on the bedside table and let Alicia think it belonged to me? Toss it back under the bed and let the maid or whoever found it assume it belonged to me? Stash it among my things?
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