If Walls Could Talk

Table of Contents

 

 

“Solid plotting and realistic but odd characters bring a cozy tone to this wonderful debut . . . looking forward to the second.”

 

“Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft Mystery series.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

 

“An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must-read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

 

“The story combines fun and seriousness for an entertaining read.”

 

“It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But, there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”

—The Herald News
(MA)

 

“Lind deftly combines a smart and witty sleuth with entertaining characters who are all engaged in a fascinating new adventure.”

 

“If you enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books, Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series, or Ian Pears’s art history mysteries . . . then you will enjoy
Shooting Gallery
.”

—Gumshoe

 

“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”

—Tim Myers, Agatha Award-nominated author of
A Mold for Murder

 

“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”

—Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries

 

“Annie Kincaid is a wonderful cozy heroine. . . . It’s a rollicking good read.”

ALSO BY JULIET BLACKWELL

OBSIDIAN

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, December 2010

Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2010

eISBN : 978-1-101-47657-4

All rights reserved

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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I would like to especially acknowledge John Sperling, a true patron of the arts, and the first client to suggest I “just take care of” his massive historic home renovation . . . and then the one after that. And thanks to Nic Ehr and his entire construction crew, and to landscape architect Vera Gates at Arterra, and mosaic artist Karen Thompson of Archetile. Thanks also to Peter Simoni, Bruce Nicolai, Gomez Gomez, and the many Bay Area builders and architects I’ve worked with over the years, for answering my incessant questions and helping me learn the ins and outs of historic renovation.

To all my writer friends . . . you are too many to enumerate, but I appreciate you all every single day—especially my grog mates, conference pals, and all the Sisters and Misters in Crime. Remember: What happens at (fill in the blank) stays at (fill in the blank).

Special thanks are due to Steven Strouhal, Bee Enos, Pamela Groves, Jan Strout, Anna Cabrera, Mary Grae, Claudia Escobar, Shay Demetrius, Suzanne Chan, Susan Baker, Kendall Moalem, Chris Logan, Brian Casey, Beth Bruggeman, and Kim Sullivan Green, and all the members of the (extended) Mira Vista Social Club for sticking with me despite my crazy schedule and writing obsessions.

As always, thanks to my wonderful editor, Kerry Donovan, and my great agent, Kristin Lindstrom. Your support means more than I can say.

And finally, thanks to Bob Lawes for inspiring Mel’s dad, to Susan for passing on the dadisms, to Carolyn for her manuscript tweaking, to Jane for being such a loving mom, and to Jace and Sergio for the daily laughter. And to Oscar for being Oscar.

T
his was one pitiful-looking mansion.

As I pushed open the heavy front door, an empty beer can rolled across the dusty oak floor, its metallic rattle echoing off bashed-in walls and broken bookcases. More cans, wine bottles, and an impressive assortment of power tools lay strewn about the floor. Half-filled cups spoiled the once-shiny black lacquer of the grand piano and littered the graceful sweep of the circular stairs leading off the octagonal foyer. A damp, salty bay breeze blew in through a broken casement window. I tried clicking on the overhead chandelier to shed some light on the dim interior, but either the fuse had blown or the electricity had been cut.

My former client lay sprawled on a worn black leather couch, a gash between his eyebrows still oozing blood.

I had warned him.

Long, freckled fingers gripped a half-empty bottle of a local favorite: passion fruit-infused Hangar One vodka, brewed in an abandoned navy airplane hangar just on the other side of the San Francisco Bay. At least the fool had taste, if not sense.

I pried the bottle from his hand.

With a snort, Matt Addax opened red-rimmed bright blue eyes.

“Wha . . . Mel? What’re you doin’ here?” he asked in a British-accented slur.

“Your son called me,” I said. “He was afraid that last night’s ‘Do-It-Yourself’ remodeling party might have gotten out of hand.”

“The lad’s wise beyond his years.”

“Mmm.” I kicked at a stray piece of old molding, lying rusty-nail-side up, with the steel toe of my work boot. “What happened to your face?”

He sat up and raised a hand to probe the cut between his eyes. “Ah,
bloody hell
, I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow. A piece of wood snapped off—the stuff that they used to put old plaster onto. What’s that called?”

“Lath?”

“Yeah. I was prying off some lath and it snapped and beaned me. I loathe lath.” He smiled. “Try saying that five times fast.”

“You promised me you’d wear safety glasses.”

He shrugged, looked me up and down, and lifted his eyebrows. “You always look like you’re on the way to a fancy-dress party. Don’t the boys tease you?”

“Not if they want their paychecks signed, they don’t.”

Provided I wore the proper footwear—my ever-present work boots—and knew my single-bevel miter saws from my random orbital sanders, the construction workers in my employ didn’t much care how I dressed. Today I was wearing a multicolored spangled shift dress under a leather bomber jacket I had borrowed from my dad’s closet as a concession to modesty and the weather. The carnival nature of the dress was a little over-the-top for a woman just a couple years shy of forty, and strangers on the street frequently mistook me for a Madonna groupie, but after years of wearing the “proper” faculty-wife wardrobe, I had sworn never to hold myself back. Besides, even in progressive California, people were so surprised to see a woman running a construction company, I figured the clothes gave us all something tangible to fixate on.

I sank onto the sofa next to Matt, held my hand out for the vodka, and took a little swig. It was barely noon, but the havoc that forty or so drunken amateurs had managed to wreak on this formerly gorgeous, if down-at-the-heels, Pacific Heights mansion was motivation enough for a quick drink an hour or three before happy hour.