Within a day, the gossip around town about Jerry’s murder was eclipsed by the latest buzz concerning the mysterious stranger who’d bought the old lighthouse mansion out on the bluff. I already knew who the stranger was and tried not to get too wrapped up in the gossip. I also tried to forget Lizzie’s threat to introduce me to the stranger, the great MacKintyre Sullivan, but the thought wouldn’t leave my head.
Maybe because I’d always had a tiny bit of a crush on the man. Did I say tiny? The author photograph on the back of Sullivan’s books was positively mesmerizing. There, I said it. Mac Sullivan had to be one of the best-looking men I’d ever seen. And that was only the two-dimensional picture of the man. What would I do if I ran into his real, live, three-dimensional self somewhere in town? Faint? Hyperventilate?
“Get a grip,” I muttered. The photograph was probably a fake, anyway. Didn’t they do that all the time on book covers? If readers knew the author was gorgeous, wouldn’t that make for better book sales? Except that Lizzie had already confirmed that the guy was stunningly handsome, so there went that theory.
As I toasted bagels and set up the coffeepot, I realized that it wouldn’t be a problem for me because the great MacKintyre Sullivan would never even bother to notice me. He was a wealthy new resident. I was a working-class local, a townie. The two sides rarely met. And that was fine with me. So there, I’d worked it all out.
Carla and Wade showed up at ten o’clock for our meeting and we spent an hour going over crew schedules and equipment inventory. Because my pink wrench had been used to kill someone, I was in favor of a new rule of not only locking up our toolboxes but also of putting them all in a safe, secured place after finishing work each day.
“Jeez, boss,” Wade said as he poured more coffee into his mug. “That wrench thing was just a fluke, don’t you think? I’d say as long as we lock up our own toolboxes and lock the main doors to the houses, which we always do, we’ll be all right.”
Carla nodded. “I agree. The chance of anyone using one of our tools like that again is a million to one, so let’s not overreact.”
I thought about it. Was I overreacting? Maybe, but it was my wrench, after all, and it was my sorry butt being scrutinized by the police. So to speak. But Carla and Wade were right. I didn’t have to force everyone else to go to extremes just to solve my problems.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’ll make sure things are locked up when you leave at night, we should be fine.”
Carla licked a bit of cream cheese from her thumb. “So, did you guys hear that they sold the lighthouse mansion?”
“Are you kidding?” Wade said. “That thing’s been empty forever.”
“I heard.” I set down my coffee as something occurred to me. I would’ve thought of it sooner if I hadn’t been so distracted lately. “And I’m guessing they’ll be doing an extensive rehab.”
“Oh, you’ve got to bid on that project, Shannon,” Carla said excitedly. “That place could be so beautiful.”
“I know.” I felt anticipation building. The lighthouse mansion was Victorian in age, of course, but not in the ornate style of the grande dames that were featured on the local Victorian-house tours. No, the mansion had simple, uncluttered lines, but it also had the most wonderful veranda, wide enough to use as another room in the summertime if you filled it with some chairs, a lounge, a dining table, and maybe even a swing. At least that was my vision for it. It faced west, of course, with a dramatic view of crashing waves against the rocky coastline.
As fabulous as the veranda was, there was also a jewel of a solarium, small and classically Victorian, connected to one side of the house. The story went that the navy had constructed it especially to raise citrus trees year-round for the sailors once stationed there.
“I might take a drive out there to get a feel for it.”
“Great idea,” Carla said, gathering up her notebook and purse. “I’d offer to go with you, but Keely has a ballet recital this afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” I said, smiling at the thought of her tiny five-year-old wearing a tutu. “Take pictures.”
“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “Chase bought a brand-new video camera just for this moment.”
We talked about their kids as I walked Carla and Wade outside—and came face-to-face with Wendell’s car, still parked in my driveway.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
“Whose car is that?” Carla asked.
I bared my teeth like a feral cat. “It’s Wendell Jarvick’s and I’ve warned him every day this week that he can’t park there. He’s just too damn special to listen.”
“So tow it,” Wade said. “What the hell?”
“That guy is the biggest jerk,” Carla added in a low voice. “Chase and I were having dinner at Lindy’s on the pier last night and he was there. He made the biggest fuss about some stupid sauce on the fish and disrupted everyone’s dinner.”
“He did something even worse the other night at the pub.” I told them what happened to Whitney. “I think we should banish him forever.”
“That’s a great idea,” Carla said. “I’ll start a petition.”
After another minute, we were laughing about it. The two of them took off and I walked back inside. But now I was frustrated with Wendell all over again, so I decided I would go to the gym and work off my irritation. And afterward, I would drive out to the lighthouse mansion and see what things looked like out there.
I slipped into my sweats and grabbed my gym bag. Before leaving, I stuck a notepad and pen into my purse to jot some notes down once I got out to the mansion. Then I locked up and headed for my truck. But when I turned the ignition, all I heard was a vague clicking sound.
My weekend was complete. The battery was dead.