“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
