Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page A

for not arriving an hour earlier. Or perhaps even fifteen minutes earlier . . . Whatever it would have taken to avoid this tragedy.”
    Landon’s voice caught in his throat, and his emotions seemed genuine. Unless he was a first-class actor, which, for all I knew, he was. “I’m sorry, Landon. If it helps at all, I . . . I think she’s okay.”
    “Pardon?”
    “I mean, yes, she’s passed on, but she’s okay. What you felt a moment ago, when it got so cold? That was her putting her hands on your face.”
    The expression on Landon’s face said plainly hethought I was nuts. It didn’t surprise me, I was accustomed to it by now, but it still annoyed me. I hadn’t been in touch with the dead long enough to have figured out how to deliver the news—“Your loved one is gone, but not
gone
gone”—in a way that offers comfort instead of inspiring hostility or fear for my sanity. I wasn’t sure it was even possible.
    “Oh. I see. You’re one of
those
.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “A psychic.” His tone was clipped. “As I said, my sister and I had grown apart, but I know she had . . . acquaintances who were as sketchy as her career implied. Is that why you dress in such an absurd fashion?”
    I always wore my steel-toed work boots and carried coveralls in my vehicle for when I needed to crawl through dusty attics or basements, but most days I dressed in my friend Stephen’s designs. His clothes were influenced by his childhood growing up in Las Vegas with a showgirl mother, and featured a lot of fringe and spangles. Usually when first meeting with clients I dressed more conservatively, but this morning’s appointment with Andrew Flynt had been set at the last minute so he had to take me as he could get me. And, as Landon had just pointed out, my fashion sense wasn’t all that disconcerting when I was in “ghost talker” mode; people seemed open to esoteric fashion choices from their supernatural connections.
    “I dress this way because I can, not that it’s any of your business,” I responded. “And no, I’m not a psychic. I sometimes see dead people, that’s all.”
    “That’s . . . all?”
    “It’s not by choice, believe me. It just happens. I saw your sister a moment ago. She was smiling and looked . . . happy. She came out of the apartment, paused and touched your face, and then got on the elevator. Going up.”
    Landon’s face darkened. “I must say, it is in very poortaste to make fun of someone who has just suffered a terrible loss. My sister’s body is still warm, for heaven’s sake.”
    “I’m not making fun,” I protested. “Honest, I’m not. I’m—”
    “Winning friends and influencing people are we, Turner?” Inspector Crawford appeared in the apartment doorway. Without waiting for me to reply, she turned to Landon. “Follow me, please, Mr. Demetrius.”
    They disappeared into the apartment. I remained in the hall and watched the forensics team arrive, loaded down with bags of equipment. A few neighbors stuck their heads out of their apartments to check on the hubbub. I did my best to avoid their curious gazes.
    I wondered if Chantelle would return. Why had she gotten onto the elevator? Where was she going? Had she ridden the lift all the way up, through the roof, and into the sky, Willy Wonka style?
    The most pertinent question at the moment, for me at least, was if Chantelle’s death had anything to do with Crosswinds. A psychic who made enough money to live at the top of Nob Hill might have had plenty of enemies. Certainly Landon had insinuated as much. Not to mention that, at a thousand bucks a pop for a consultation, Chantelle could have had money lying around her apartment that would attract interest. The building had a doorman, but Gabe didn’t seem like a crack security guard. And even if he was, he was only one man and couldn’t be everywhere at once. A determined and skilled thief could easily find a way in. Not to mention a neighbor who needed money