Keeper of the Castle: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery by Juliet Blackwell

their journeys.”
    Whereas the peasants could shiver in the cold,
I thought.
    I took another look around at the great piles of stones yet to be used. One group appeared different from the others.
    “These . . . these are from the round room?”
    “Perhaps,” said Libole. “Or from a similar part of the structure, yes. From the same era.”
    Out in the sunshine, I could see things more clearly. Much of the plaster was tinted with typical shades forold frescoes: ocher, terra-cotta, the colors of pigments taken from the earth. All were pale, and other than a curl here or a line there, it was impossible to make out what the picture must have been. But I was now sure they had once constituted a mural.
    There were also flecks of something decidedly modern: bits of bright blue chalk here and there, as though the stones had once been marked. The stones reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly.
    “You mentioned that many of the stones have gone missing?”
    “Cretins, Ms. Turner.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “We are surrounded by cretins. Villagers dragged pieces away to build farms and whatnot. I have been forced to search high and low, but finally found an adequate quarry to replace what’s missing. As luck would have it, the quarry was not in the hills of Italy or the mountains of Afghanistan. Oh, no. It was in Texas.”
    “Well, that will save on shipping costs.”
    “We have a veritable legion of stonecutters working with us. We needed so many that we brought them in from several countries. They’re staying at local hotels and motels and bed-and-breakfasts.” Libole let out a long sigh. “As I’m sure you realize by now, much of this process is being invented as we go along. The monastery was too far gone to re-create it exactly as it was, though we can, at the very least, bring authenticity and veracity to the project through proper study and research.”
    Libole was undeniably brilliant, but he was also a pompous priss. He served as a reminder not to be so self-important when I indulged in one of my spiels about reusing old lumber or finding just the right stained glass for a curved stairwell window.
    “I say, isn’t that your dog?” Libole asked.
    I looked over to see an empty leash lying on the ground, then caught a flash of the brown plume of a tail as Dog disappeared into the building.
    Dammit
.

Chapter Seven
     
    H e would probably be okay; construction workers were notoriously canine friendly. But Dog wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He had his charms—chief among them that he saw ghosts, just as I did—but common sense and keeping out of harm’s way weren’t among them.
    “Sorry. I should go after him, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”
    “Certainly.”
    The chapel was empty except for a trio of men on scaffolding, carefully placing a stone corbel at the top of one wall. I hurried through a series of chambers until I emerged at the vestibule where I had seen Larry McCall’s ghost two days ago.
    Dog was sitting attentively, wagging his tail the way he did when someone was offering him food, with the excited pseudo-patience of a hungry dog.
    I searched the dark stone walls, checking out my peripheral vision. Just in case.
    “Hello?” I ventured.
    A slight echo,
“o . . . o . . . o,”
was my only response.
    An eerie light was shining from the next room—the round room. The room that had been empty of everything but bags of mortar only a few minutes ago.
    I crept along and peeked through the vestibule, into the round room.
    The crime scene tape lay limp on the floor. Food had been laid out on a plank supported by bags of mortar. An apple, a sandwich, a bag of ranch-flavored Doritos. A cup of coffee, still steaming. And several small tea candles.
    What in the world?
    “Are you quite all right?” came Florian’s voice from behind me.
    I jumped at the sound, then stood with my hand over my pounding heart. “Sure. Yep, I’m great.”
    “Did