Read Online Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) by juliet blackwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: juliet blackwell
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home,” said Claire. “It’s Saturday night, after all. Folks go out.”
That’s right. I forgot things like that.
“Listen,” said Stephen. “Now that we’re outside, I’m thinking a little more clearly. How about I jump in the car and run to the Castro? It’s all of five blocks away—there are always lights and people . . . and phones.”
“Good idea.” I turned to Claire. “Want to go with him?”
“Yes. But I think I should stay here with you.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Wait, wait, wait ,” said Stephen. “Geesh, it’s like I couldn’t even think back there. The night air feels good. None of you is staying here! Someone just shoved that sweet old woman down a well! Get in the car. Both of you. Right now. ”
Claire and I shared a look. Stephen was right.
We all hopped in. The closer we got to the lights and action of the Castro, the more the tragic turn of events at the Bernini house seemed less about a haunting and more about a very real crime: Someone had attacked Mrs. Bernini. And the worst part was that we had been somewhere nearby, yet unaware she needed help. Sadness and guilt flowed over me. Dear, sweet woman, who’d raised foster children and loved her husband and who was good to her neighbors.
And for whose death Kim and Marty were waiting eagerly.
“Hey, that’s the pizza place we called earlier,” said Claire as she spied the sign for Sylven’s Pizza, one of the first establishments we saw at the intersection with Castro Street. Stephen pulled up, double-parking on the crowded street.
The restaurant was informal but crowded, with several people eating at the half-dozen green, white, and red linoleum-topped tables, and three in line waiting for slices.
“Excuse me,” I asked the man behind the register, “could I use your phone to call nine-one-one? It’s an emergency.”
“Of course . Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but someone’s been hurt and our phones aren’t working.”
I spoke to the dispatcher and gave her the street address and a very short version of a woman down a well. She told me to go back to the scene and wait for emergency crews. Before handing the phone back, I wondered if there was anyone else I should call. . . . The Propaks? No, I decided I should let the police handle all that.
My hands were shaking as I returned the phone. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. . . . I overheard part of what you were saying.” The fellow behind the counter was a smallish man in his fifties, his gray hair buzzed close to the scalp, but with a prominent salt-and-pepper mustache. “Isn’t that Mrs. Bernini’s address?”
“You know her?”
“ Everybody knows her. My neighbor across the street is cataloging her antiques for her. George!” he yelled over his shoulder, to a muscular man shoving a raw pizza into a wood-fired oven. “George, honey, this woman says something happened to Mrs. Bernini!”
George was a strapping fellow, at least six feet and with a gym rat’s bulky physique. “What’s up?” he said, wiping his hands on his apron as he came over.
“I’m J.D.,” the mustachioed man introduced himself. “And this is my husband, George.”
“As in Clooney.”
“You wish ,” J.D. said with a gentle slap on George’s chest. “But tell us, what’s going on? Can we help?”
“I don’t think so—the paramedics are on their way. I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to the house and see if there’s anything more we can do.”
Just as I turned to leave, Raj walked in through the front doors, carrying an empty thermal bag.
“Something the matter with the pizza?” he asked.
“No, it was great. I . . . um . . .”
“Something’s happened to Mrs. Bernini,” J.D. said, shaking his head. “How awful.”
“ What? What happened?”
“I don’t know, I think she was . . . hurt,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain; we’re going back now to meet the police.”
“Good heavens,” I
That’s right. I forgot things like that.
“Listen,” said Stephen. “Now that we’re outside, I’m thinking a little more clearly. How about I jump in the car and run to the Castro? It’s all of five blocks away—there are always lights and people . . . and phones.”
“Good idea.” I turned to Claire. “Want to go with him?”
“Yes. But I think I should stay here with you.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Wait, wait, wait ,” said Stephen. “Geesh, it’s like I couldn’t even think back there. The night air feels good. None of you is staying here! Someone just shoved that sweet old woman down a well! Get in the car. Both of you. Right now. ”
Claire and I shared a look. Stephen was right.
We all hopped in. The closer we got to the lights and action of the Castro, the more the tragic turn of events at the Bernini house seemed less about a haunting and more about a very real crime: Someone had attacked Mrs. Bernini. And the worst part was that we had been somewhere nearby, yet unaware she needed help. Sadness and guilt flowed over me. Dear, sweet woman, who’d raised foster children and loved her husband and who was good to her neighbors.
And for whose death Kim and Marty were waiting eagerly.
“Hey, that’s the pizza place we called earlier,” said Claire as she spied the sign for Sylven’s Pizza, one of the first establishments we saw at the intersection with Castro Street. Stephen pulled up, double-parking on the crowded street.
The restaurant was informal but crowded, with several people eating at the half-dozen green, white, and red linoleum-topped tables, and three in line waiting for slices.
“Excuse me,” I asked the man behind the register, “could I use your phone to call nine-one-one? It’s an emergency.”
“Of course . Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but someone’s been hurt and our phones aren’t working.”
I spoke to the dispatcher and gave her the street address and a very short version of a woman down a well. She told me to go back to the scene and wait for emergency crews. Before handing the phone back, I wondered if there was anyone else I should call. . . . The Propaks? No, I decided I should let the police handle all that.
My hands were shaking as I returned the phone. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. . . . I overheard part of what you were saying.” The fellow behind the counter was a smallish man in his fifties, his gray hair buzzed close to the scalp, but with a prominent salt-and-pepper mustache. “Isn’t that Mrs. Bernini’s address?”
“You know her?”
“ Everybody knows her. My neighbor across the street is cataloging her antiques for her. George!” he yelled over his shoulder, to a muscular man shoving a raw pizza into a wood-fired oven. “George, honey, this woman says something happened to Mrs. Bernini!”
George was a strapping fellow, at least six feet and with a gym rat’s bulky physique. “What’s up?” he said, wiping his hands on his apron as he came over.
“I’m J.D.,” the mustachioed man introduced himself. “And this is my husband, George.”
“As in Clooney.”
“You wish ,” J.D. said with a gentle slap on George’s chest. “But tell us, what’s going on? Can we help?”
“I don’t think so—the paramedics are on their way. I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to the house and see if there’s anything more we can do.”
Just as I turned to leave, Raj walked in through the front doors, carrying an empty thermal bag.
“Something the matter with the pizza?” he asked.
“No, it was great. I . . . um . . .”
“Something’s happened to Mrs. Bernini,” J.D. said, shaking his head. “How awful.”
“ What? What happened?”
“I don’t know, I think she was . . . hurt,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain; we’re going back now to meet the police.”
“Good heavens,” I
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