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

door to allow them to enter.
    “Hands up! Back away from the body!”
    I peered around the police to watch Landon Demetrius do as he was told, raising his hands in the air and rising smoothly from his kneeling position without tipping or falling over, or even using his hands to steady himself. He would do just fine in yoga class.
    “I called Inspector Crawford,” I said, my hands still in the air. “She’s on her way.”
    “You in the apartment,” one cop barked. “Come out here into the hallway.”
    “And
you
stay right here,” the other police officer said to me. His colleague kneeled by Chantelle and placed two fingers on her neck, checking for signs of life. He shook his head and spoke softly into his radio.
    Landon and I lined up against the wall, like kids waiting to meet with the principal, one officer in particular eyeing us suspiciously. Landon stood ramrod-straight, and I found myself checking my posture.
    He looked at his phone, pursed his lips, and then glanced around the hallway as if to spot whatever was foiling his reception.
    “Old buildings,” Landon muttered, shaking his head.
    “It’s not that told. Probably from the 1970s, at the most.” I dealt with truly old buildings—at least by local standards—and the 1970s didn’t qualify. Besides, the architecture of that decade was so ugly that I didn’t like it lumped in with historic buildings.
    “Old enough not to have decent cell reception,” he snapped.
    “Probably reinforced concrete, or steel beams—earthquake stuff,” said the young cop babysitting us. “And, uh, hands up.”
    A few more moments of silence ensued. I heard the sound of thumping from inside the apartment, as if the cops were searching the premises for evidence. The elevator pinged and opened once again, and another trio of uniformed officers arrived and crowded into the apartment.
    “So, you don’t care for old buildings?” I asked Landon.
    He checked his phone once more, then shoved it into his pocket. “Not as much as I like connectivity.”
    Now that was a phrase I couldn’t imagine uttering. As a contractor I live on the phone, and find it an indispensable tool for running several construction sitessimultaneously. But to prefer connectivity over history?
No, thank you.
    His eyes slewed toward me. They were a light sherry, with a few specks of green.
    “How does this sort of thing usually go?” he asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “This . . .
homicide
investigation
sort of thing.”
    “What makes you think
I
know?” For some reason I didn’t want this man to believe I was the kind of woman who tripped over dead bodies with disturbing frequency. Even though I was.
    “You’re friends with a homicide inspector. I just assumed—”
    Said inspector chose that moment to step off the elevator and fix me with her patented Interrogation 101 look: one raised eyebrow. Annette Crawford was tall for a woman, curvy yet muscular, a dedicated professional with a no-nonsense air. There was never any question as to who was in charge when Inspector Crawford was on the scene. She had climbed the ranks of the police department the old-fashioned way, through sheer hard work and talent, and had had to prove wrong more than a few who assumed a woman of color was not their peer. After working with her on a cold case recently, I knew she also had a wicked sense of humor and the imagination to think outside the box.
    She nodded at the young officer, glanced at Landon, then zeroed in on me as she approached.
    “Put your hands down,” she said. “No one’s under arrest. Yet.”
    “I had nothing to do with it this time,” I said, relieved. Holding one’s hands in the air is surprisingly hard work. “Nothing at all. I had an appointment, and when I arrived found her dead.”
    Landon looked at me. “
This
time?”
    “And you are?” Crawford asked.
    “Landon Demetrius III,” he said. “I’m Chantelle’s brother.”
    “Chantelle is . . . ?”
    “The victim,”