Read Online Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) by juliet blackwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: juliet blackwell
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that.
Chapter Seven
S omething glinted dully on the path . . . Mrs. Bernini’s aluminum walker. On its side, lying on the wet pavers near the fountain.
And Anabelle stood over the round stone wall of an old well, looking down into the hole. I could hear her high-pitched singing: “With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls, a garden of posies for all little girls, la la la la la . . .”
She threw a flower into the well and walked away, the path lights extinguishing one by one as she passed. Then she faded, and disappeared altogether.
I rushed to the well and leaned over the stone wall, wishing my flashlight still worked. Stephen hurried up next to me, and after him Claire. They shone their lights into the inky black of the well’s interior.
There was a flash of something, some sort of fabric. Orange. Crocheted.
Mrs. Bernini’s shawl.
Our eyes met over the well.
“Mrs. Bernini?” I called into the pit, saying a little prayer under my breath. Part of me harbored a tiny flame of hope that Mrs. Bernini was still alive, perhaps just hurt or unconscious. “Can you hear me? Betty?”
My voice echoed eerily, sending my words back to me: “etty . . . etty . . . etty . . .”
I brought my cell phone out of my pocket to call 911. It was dead.
“Check your cell phones,” I said. “Are they working? We need to call for help!”
Stephen started punching buttons on his phone, then held it up against the night sky as though he could catch an errant sound wave floating along on the soft breeze. Claire held hers to her ear, trying several keys before shaking her head.
“This is so bizarre,” said Claire. “I just charged it this morning.”
“Mrs. Bernini used a landline to call for pizza earlier,” said Stephen.
“You’re right.”
I ran toward the house, Stephen and Claire hot on my heels. There, on a marble-topped sideboard, sat a beige phone, an old-fashioned landline with the handset connected to the base with a coiled cord, the kind my father insisted on keeping in his house in case of earthquake. When the towers go down, these phone lines are underground, he would growl. You mark my words, that cell phone won’t be worth the metal it’s made of.
I picked up the receiver.
No dial tone.
I clicked it several times, the way they did in old movies.
“Okay, let’s not panic,” said Stephen, clearly on the verge of panicking. He grabbed a brown paper bag and held it in one hand, as though warding off hyperventilation just by having it near. “This isn’t a horror movie, and we aren’t stuck out in the woods somewhere. We’re in a crowded urban area. Surely someone has a phone that works, somewhere.”
“ No one goes anywhere alone,” I said.
“That’s what I like about her,” said Claire. “Real leadership qualities. I’m sticking to you two, no matter what.”
“What about Josh?” Stephen said. “Do we leave him here all alone? What if . . . I dunno, what if they go after him?”
“‘They,’ who?” I asked.
“The ghosts? Whoever did that to Mrs. Bernini?”
“What if he was involved in this?” Claire said in a loud stage whisper. “Maybe he threw her down the well!”
“Oh Lord , let’s go find a phone. What if she’s . . . still alive? If she’s hurt, she needs the paramedics.”
“I thought you saw her ghost,” Claire said after me as I rushed toward the front door.
Anxiety seized my heart; what I’d seen tonight jumbled my logic. I didn’t know what to think. All I could concentrate on was getting help.
Out on the street everything was quiet. We raced to the neighbor’s house across the street and rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the next house and the next, but though all had lights on, no one answered their door. Of course, it was late at night in an urban area.
“Doesn’t anybody trust anybody anymore?” I groused, fighting an unreasonable urge to kick the door we stood in front of.
“Maybe they’re just not
Chapter Seven
S omething glinted dully on the path . . . Mrs. Bernini’s aluminum walker. On its side, lying on the wet pavers near the fountain.
And Anabelle stood over the round stone wall of an old well, looking down into the hole. I could hear her high-pitched singing: “With garlands of roses, and whispers of pearls, a garden of posies for all little girls, la la la la la . . .”
She threw a flower into the well and walked away, the path lights extinguishing one by one as she passed. Then she faded, and disappeared altogether.
I rushed to the well and leaned over the stone wall, wishing my flashlight still worked. Stephen hurried up next to me, and after him Claire. They shone their lights into the inky black of the well’s interior.
There was a flash of something, some sort of fabric. Orange. Crocheted.
Mrs. Bernini’s shawl.
Our eyes met over the well.
“Mrs. Bernini?” I called into the pit, saying a little prayer under my breath. Part of me harbored a tiny flame of hope that Mrs. Bernini was still alive, perhaps just hurt or unconscious. “Can you hear me? Betty?”
My voice echoed eerily, sending my words back to me: “etty . . . etty . . . etty . . .”
I brought my cell phone out of my pocket to call 911. It was dead.
“Check your cell phones,” I said. “Are they working? We need to call for help!”
Stephen started punching buttons on his phone, then held it up against the night sky as though he could catch an errant sound wave floating along on the soft breeze. Claire held hers to her ear, trying several keys before shaking her head.
“This is so bizarre,” said Claire. “I just charged it this morning.”
“Mrs. Bernini used a landline to call for pizza earlier,” said Stephen.
“You’re right.”
I ran toward the house, Stephen and Claire hot on my heels. There, on a marble-topped sideboard, sat a beige phone, an old-fashioned landline with the handset connected to the base with a coiled cord, the kind my father insisted on keeping in his house in case of earthquake. When the towers go down, these phone lines are underground, he would growl. You mark my words, that cell phone won’t be worth the metal it’s made of.
I picked up the receiver.
No dial tone.
I clicked it several times, the way they did in old movies.
“Okay, let’s not panic,” said Stephen, clearly on the verge of panicking. He grabbed a brown paper bag and held it in one hand, as though warding off hyperventilation just by having it near. “This isn’t a horror movie, and we aren’t stuck out in the woods somewhere. We’re in a crowded urban area. Surely someone has a phone that works, somewhere.”
“ No one goes anywhere alone,” I said.
“That’s what I like about her,” said Claire. “Real leadership qualities. I’m sticking to you two, no matter what.”
“What about Josh?” Stephen said. “Do we leave him here all alone? What if . . . I dunno, what if they go after him?”
“‘They,’ who?” I asked.
“The ghosts? Whoever did that to Mrs. Bernini?”
“What if he was involved in this?” Claire said in a loud stage whisper. “Maybe he threw her down the well!”
“Oh Lord , let’s go find a phone. What if she’s . . . still alive? If she’s hurt, she needs the paramedics.”
“I thought you saw her ghost,” Claire said after me as I rushed toward the front door.
Anxiety seized my heart; what I’d seen tonight jumbled my logic. I didn’t know what to think. All I could concentrate on was getting help.
Out on the street everything was quiet. We raced to the neighbor’s house across the street and rang the doorbell. No answer. We tried the next house and the next, but though all had lights on, no one answered their door. Of course, it was late at night in an urban area.
“Doesn’t anybody trust anybody anymore?” I groused, fighting an unreasonable urge to kick the door we stood in front of.
“Maybe they’re just not
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