The workers smelled of cigarettes and old beer and exhaust and unwashed bodies and perfume. A generator had left clouds of exhaust on the air and electric tools had left their own stink. The port-a-potty nearby contained a reek of worse things. But it was all overridden by the smells of fresh wood, chalk, spackling, and turned earth. Faintly, there was brick and mortar, concrete and cement curing—alkaline, earthy scents.
The new house looked nothing like the old one, being brick and stone with a French country feel. It reminded me of the footprint of vamp HQ. I’d been told it was based on the Chateau de Dampierre, but on a smaller scale. The chateau must be huge, because this place was oversized enough to make security both a nightmare and easier than normal: a nightmare to wire and put cameras on all the doors and windows and make sure they all triggered an alarm when needed. Easier to position cameras to cover the grounds and easier because I could position safe rooms anywhere I wanted. There were several, one on each level, each with escape tunnels leading out to different areas of the grounds or garage or another exit. During the planning stage, I’d had a ball adding in all the security details and watching the eyes of the architect and the engineers as I moved things around—ignoring things like load-bearing walls and pipes and stuff. They tended to freak. But everything was in place now and everyone seemed satisfied, if not happy.
Today there were probably twenty men and women from all areas of construction represented, electricians and plumbers and carpenters, three guys who were wearing stilts on their boots so they could mud wallboard on the twelve-foot ceilings. It looked like a Larry, Curly, and Moe moment waiting to happen. They were all working hard, no loitering on this job site. I had to admit that when it came to getting things done, Leo’s money and favors talked. Unlimited funds and the ability to help heal a sick loved one meant that he got fast and competent service with a smile.
I confiscated a yellow hard hat and plopped it on, my braid dangling behind me. Walking through the place, I looked up through the unfinished stairs and out through the windows in the mansard roof high overhead. This place took the word mansion to new levels.
Inside the kitchen was a guy with a hard hat and a set of plans under his arm, talking to a woman in jeans and a tailored jacket, and Derek. It looked like a high-level meeting while the plumbers adjusted PVC piping and electricians and heating-and-air guys tested the floor-warming system that would soon be covered by tile. It was noisy and energetic, but the activity looked good-natured and easygoing, unlike the frenetic way office workers often looked. These people were having fun; they liked their jobs.
I tucked my hands in my back pockets and moseyed toward the bosses. Derek was talking security. Separated by a wall made only of studs and nails, I stood behind him listening as he discussed the sprinkler system. It had to disperse enough water to put out a major fire, which meant taking water from the Mississippi not so far away. Leo’s previous house had used Mississippi water, grandfathered in under a law that hadn’t been written when the first house’s kitchen was retrofitted with a sprinkler system. Now the MOC wanted the whole house sprinklered, and had discovered that he needed permits from people like the EPA and the Army Corps of Engineers. From Derek’s tone I could tell that Leo wanted fast action but the initial-agencies were balking. Big surprise.
Like all post-active-duty military men, Derek seemed to have a sixth sense when he was being watched. Or he was just paranoid all the time. He turned to scan the surroundings, eyes probably picking out likely spots for snipers, and saw me. His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. I grinned and gave him a little wave. “The Enforcer is here,” he said. “Maybe she can help with the kitchen issue.”
Kitchen issue? Not likely. But I walked over, willing to pretend. Sometimes a cold look and a little Beast in my eyes was all it took to get things done. “Sup, y’all?”
The woman got this look. This “You are not in my league” look. And she was right. She looked chic even in a hard hat, though I’d never have worn three-inch heels to a construction site. I set my hard hat on a counter and slouched against a stud to listen to the problem. The woman was a decorator and her paint colors weren’t matching the tile colors and she wanted something more au courant than beige, white, cream, and snow in the room. She wanted bronzes and coppers and earth tones. Like I cared. But I let her talk and listened with half an ear as I worked out how many cameras we would need to cover the five-car garage. The woman also wanted the two sets of double ovens to be moved across the kitchen from the place where they were in the plans, so she could put a window in the exterior wall. Yada yada.