“It wasn’t touristy when the gargoyles first went up. And that’s not the only place in France: there’s Mont-Saint-Michel, in Normandy. Or how about Spain? There’s San Juan de los Reyes Monastery in Toledo, and the Palau de la Generalitat de Catalunya in Barcelona. I remember seeing a bunch on the cathedral in Quito, Ecuador, too.”
“I heard they had gargoyles in the Forbidden City, in Beijing,” Oscar said, warming to the theme. “And you don’t even have to go that far. Someone told me there are gargoyles at Princeton University, and that’s in Jersey.”
“See? There must be a million places to check out.”
He deflated again. “That’s sort of my point. A million’s a lot.”
“True enough. But you only need to be right once.”
“But . . .” He shrugged again.
“Now what?” I asked.
“I don’t think I can leave you all alone. You get into a lot of trouble.”
“Well, now. That’s a fact. What if . . . what if we went with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if, after the handfasting, Sailor and I go on a honeymoon and you come with us? And we’ll check out some of those gargoyles together.”
He sat up a little straighter, and a hopeful gleam entered his green eyes.
“Prob’ly a long shot,” he said.
“Maybe. But think about this: Most of what you and I get up to is a long shot. Why don’t we ask Patience to read for you, see if she can give us any hints about where to start searching?”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
“Of course, mistress.”
“Well, there you go. Works both ways.”
“Mistress!” Oscar leapt up, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “Does this mean we can have pain au chocolat for breakfast in Paris?”
“I think that’s practically a requirement,” I said, laughing.
Now I just had to break the news to Sailor that we would have a porcine chaperone on our honeymoon.
And I still had a lot of wedding plans to follow up on.
Not to mention a vintage dress to make perfect. My professional reputation was on the line.
And then we would go on an international search for a stone gargoyle, one among thousands.
After all, it only took one in a million.
Continue reading for a preview of the newest book in Juliet Blackwell’s bestselling Haunted Home Renovation mystery series,
A GHOSTLY LIGHT
The tower reached high into a gray sky. A faint glow—dare I say a ghostly light?—seemed to emanate from the lighthouse’s narrow windows. Probably just a trick of the light, the afternoon sun reflecting off curved stone walls.
Just looking up at the tower through the cracked bay window made me dizzy.
“I’m thinking of calling the inn ‘Spirit of the Lighthouse.’ Or maybe ‘the Bay Light,’” said Alicia Withers as she checked an item off the list on her clipboard. Alicia was big on lists. And clipboards. “What do you think, Mel? Too simple?”
“I think you need to figure out your plumbing issues before you worry about the name,” I replied. That’s me, Mel Turner. General contractor and head of Turner Construction.
Also known as Killjoy.
Alicia and I stood in the central hallway of the former lighthouse keeper’s home, a charming but dilapidated four-bedroom Victorian adjacent to the lighthouse tower. The structures had been built in 1871 on the small, rather unimaginatively named Lighthouse Island, located in the strait connecting the San Francisco and San Pablo bays. Not far away, the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge loomed, and barely visible to the southwest was the elegant new span that linked Oakland to Treasure Island and on to San Francisco. The nearest shoreline was Richmond, with San Rafael—and San Quentin prison—situated across the normally placid, though occasionally tempestuous bay waters.
It was a view to die for.
Lighthouse Island’s foghorn and lamp had been staffed by full-time keepers and their assistants and families for decades, the flashing light and thunderous horn warning sea captains of the bay’s surprisingly treacherous shallows and rocky shoals. But the humans had long since been replaced by less costly electronics, and the island’s structures had fallen into disrepair.
The house itself had once been a beauty, and still boasted gingerbread trim and a cupola painted an appealing (but now peeling) creamy white. Also in the compound were a supply shed, the original foghorn building, and a huge cistern that collected rainwater for the keeper and his family on this otherwise dry rock. The only other structures on the island were the docks and lavatory, located in a small natural harbor to the east, which were still used occasionally by pleasure boats seeking refuge from sudden squalls—and by those interested in exploring Lighthouse Island, of course.
“I’m just saying,” I continued. “There’s a lot of dry rot to contend with before you start inviting guests to your Lighthouse Inn.”
“Oh, you,” Alicia said with a slight smile, which I answered with a big one.
I had known Alicia for quite a while before spying an iota of good cheer in her. She was still a serious, hardworking person but had relaxed a lot since I first met her on a historic restoration in Marin. We had bonded late one night over a shared love of potato chips and home renovation television shows. And then we quite literally kicked the butt of a murderer, which had definitely improved her attitude.
“I’m sure you know I haven’t lost sight of the all-important infrastructure,” continued Alicia. “But I need to register my domain and business names, so no, it’s not too early to think about such things.”
She whipped out a thick sheaf of lists and flowcharts and handed them over. I flipped through the papers. There were preliminary schedules for demolition and foundation work, electrical and plumbing and Internet installation, Sheetrock and mudding, overhauls of baths and kitchen, and installations of moldings and flooring and painting and light fixtures.
I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks, Alicia, but I usually work up the schedules with Stan, my office manager.”
“I know you do, but I was up late one night, thinking about everything that had to be done, and figured I might as well get the paperwork started. I based these on your schedules for the job in Marin, you see? I can e-mail everything to Stan so you can rearrange it as you need, and plug in the actual dates and the like. I hope you don’t think it was too presumptuous—I couldn’t help myself. Ever since Ellis agreed to back me on this project, I can hardly sleep I’m so excited!”
Several months ago Alicia’s boss, Ellis Elrich, had asked me to evaluate “a property” he was considering. It wasn’t until he told me to meet him at the Point Moro Marina that I realized this would be no ordinary renovation: It was Lighthouse Island, and the Bay Light.
I—along with much of the population of the Bay Area—had watched over the years as the historic Victorian-era lighthouse descended into greater and greater decrepitude. Every time my family drove over the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, my father would shake his head and grumble, “It’s a damned shame.” Mom would shush Dad for swearing in front of the children—“Little pitchers have big ears, Bill”—but, craning her neck to watch the sad little island as it receded from view, she would add, “You’re right, though. Someone really ought to save that place.”
Never did I imagine that, decades later, I’d be that person.
But historic renovation was my business, and Alicia’s boss was filthy rich. Which was a very good thing, because this lighthouse was in need of a serious infusion of cash. I already had in hand the architect’s detailed blueprints, as well as the necessary permits and variances from the city and county, which had also promised to fast-track the code inspections. The Bay Light’s renovation would be a highly unusual public-private partnership that cash-strapped local officials had agreed to in the interest of saving the historical structures. I was impressed at the city’s eager participation but didn’t ask too many questions. Ellis Elrich had a way of making things happen.