It really was amazing—if you had the vision to see past its dilapidated exterior.
It was a classic Queen Anne Victorian, but with one eclectic detail that must’ve suited the original owner’s idiosyncratic style. The rounded, three-story tower on the left front side of the house was topped by what they used to call a Hindustani roof. Instead of the typical tower roof that came to a point like a witch’s hat, this one’s undulating profile resembled a large bell. It sat atop a small, round balcony roomy enough for a table and two chairs. Emily said it would be the perfect place to enjoy a cocktail and watch the sunset.
The rest of the home was more traditional, with a deep-shadowed entrance framed by elaborate ornamentation, asymmetrical rooflines, a wraparound porch, fish-scale shingles on the lower half of the house, and four chimneys.
On the downside, a number of the balusters were rotted or simply missing from the porch railing. The stained glass on the door was cracked and faded. Externally, the ravages of time, termites, overgrown plants, and stiff ocean breezes were obvious. Internally, anything was possible. A family of raccoons could’ve taken up residence. Wooden floors could be rotted clean through. Pipes might be fractured. I just prayed I wouldn’t have to rebuild the whole thing from scratch.
I dismissed those thoughts. Why invite trouble? In two weeks when escrow closed and Emily took possession of the house, she and I would conduct a thorough walk-through to determine exactly what the rehab would entail. It all depended on the amount of work, of course, but I estimated that she would be able to move in within three to four months. I had a feeling that that would be cutting it close—like, by a year maybe—but for one of my dearest friends, I was determined to make the timing work. I was already mentally rearranging my crew’s schedules. Emily’s monstrosity was now at the top of my long priority list.
I wanted her new home to be spiffed up, as she put it, in record time.
“Looking on the bright side,” she said with a cheerful grin, “at least there won’t be any dead bodies in the basement. I checked.”
I swallowed uneasily. “That’s good to know.” A few months ago, I had come across that very thing. A man had been murdered in the basement of a home I’d been refurbishing. I was the one who had discovered the body, and our new chief of police had not been amused. For a short while, my name was at the top of his suspect list, until the killer decided to focus on me. I never wanted to go through anything like that again.
“I’d better be getting back to the tea shop,” Emily said with reluctance, her simple dark ponytail swaying as she turned to walk to her car. “I really appreciate your coming out here to take a look with me.”
“I’m glad I did. I can’t wait to get started.” But as I opened the car door, I took one more look at the old Rawley Mansion and shivered.
I had a sinking feeling that raccoons would be the least of her problems.
*
Two weeks later, I arose early, threw on old jeans, a sweatshirt and tennies, and left the house to meet my dad for breakfast. I’d made it as far as the sidewalk before I woke up enough to realize that Lighthouse Cove was enveloped in a gray fog so thick I couldn’t see the house across the street. It was mid-January on the Northern California coast and I should’ve expected fog at the very least. I counted myself lucky that it wasn’t pouring rain. I jogged back inside to grab my quilted vest for an extra layer of warmth, pulled a warm knit cap over my unruly red hair, and set out again for the Cozy Cove Diner.
Anytime Dad and my uncle Pete were in town, they met for breakfast at the Cove to chitchat with friends and neighbors and catch up on town business. Meaning gossip, of course. My dad and uncle, like everyone else in our small town, thrived on gossip. And wouldn’t you know it? I always got the juiciest tidbits from those two men.
I rubbed my arms briskly to chase away the cold as I walked to the town square. Dad and Uncle Pete had just come home from a weeklong fishing trip at the Klamath River. They’d returned last night, dirty, exhausted, and happy to be back. Dad had parked his Winnebago in my driveway and dropped off six large, beautiful Chinook salmon for my freezer. It looked as though we’d be eating fish for the next few months. I wasn’t complaining.