“You said it’s more accessible by boat…” Alan led.
“Yes. If you take a boat straight across, you will be in the heart of the town.”
“But not something you’ll be able to do this time of the year.”
“No. If I wanted to get to the town, I would have to circle the lake.”
“It seems an inconvenient place to build a home, even in 1915,” Alan commented.
“Not if you like privacy. According to Audrey, who just called - very frustrated by the way – the Atwater family liked to pick and choose who they socialized with.”
“Not Congressman Atwater?”
“Do you know the Atwaters?”
“You can’t live in this state without hearing about Congressman Atwater. He has been a part of the state and country legislation since I was in school. He has to be eighty, ninety…”
“I’m renovating for his nephew’s son, Bridgeton Atwater.”
“Come on, that can’t be a real name,” Alan mused.
“Family name I understand. Bridgeton is his father’s surname. His mother kept the Atwater name in order for her to receive allowances from the Atwater fortune.”
“That’s pretty common in the upper five percent,” Alan said.
“I guess you’d know, being a fancy-schmancy estate lawyer,” Kiki teased.
Alan’s eyes creased at the corners. When the lawyer and lover of Kiki smiled, he smiled with his whole face. He was a sensitive dynamic man, Opie and Brad Pitt. Kiki was tempted to give him a nickname like she did every man in her life but resisted the urge. The names she gave to her contractors were to keep them distant to her, and that was the last thing she wanted to do with Alan.
Kiki’s phone blurted out “A Hard Day’s Night.” She picked it up. “Gut! Did you get her?”
Gut, also known as Carl, was one of the contractors Kiki had hired for this renovation. His rich black voice moved out of the iPhone and into the room as if Kiki put him on speaker, which she had not. “Yes, Sally would be pleased to join our staff. She needs a list of allergies, if any, and a can of pepper spray.”
“Pepper spray? It’s salt we need for the ghosties,” Kiki protested.
“Sally’s like a kid sister to me, and you have three single men on your team,” Carl pointed out.
“All of whom are gentlemen. Sally’s going to room with me, so I’ll keep an eye on her. Email me her stats so I can get her insured.”
“Will do.”
“See you there,” Kiki said and hung up.
“Who’s Sally?” Alan asked.
“Gut’s mother started fostering kids when he left home for college. Sally Wright was one of her first teens. Gut says she’s a remarkable cook. She did a few years in the Army after she aged out of foster care. When I mentioned it was going to be hard to find a full-time cook who could be trusted to A, not run away at the first sign of ghosts and B, keep quiet about it, to Gut, he mentioned Sally.”
“I thought Cid did a lot of the cooking.”
“I’m not going to have one of my best finishing carpenters have to handle two jobs like he did on the last renovation. It’s not fair.”
“You’re softening up on Cid,” Alan observed.
“No, Clark and I butted heads last time. I want to make sure, this time, his head is on carpentry and not on cooking, or ghosts for that matter.”
“So, you’re not intending to investigate the ghosts,” Alan said.
“I was told to get in, finish the place, and get out. The family would handle the paranormal like they have for the last couple of generations.”
“How?”
“Evidently, they ignore them.”
“Them, as in more than one ghost?”
“That’s what has been disclosed to me. I insisted on a secondary insurance policy taken out by the homeowners. They did so without blinking.”
“I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or frightened,” Alan said. “I wish that you would wait until the Martins return from Europe.”
“No ghost hunters. My principal wasn’t pleased that Cid was involved. I stressed that if the house was haunted that I needed contractors who have successfully worked alongside ghosts on my team. Cid Garrett not only works alongside ghosts but lives with one.”
Chapter Two
Jesse helped Cid stow his cooking equipment in the trailer. Murphy watched as there seemed to be a place for everything, with the exception of Cid’s cast-iron skillet. Murphy hated that pan. The pan was old and was made of the highest concentration of iron that could be used. Cid religiously oiled the Griswold thirteen-inch pan to keep it from rusting; still, it would dissolve Murphy instantly if he accidently moved through it when Cid was handling the pan.
“I’ll stow it under my bunk while we’re traveling,” Cid said.
“It weighs enough to give the trailer extra traction,” Jesse teased. “No wonder you’ve kept your muscles while you’ve been on hiatus.”
“I’ve not been on hiatus. I’ve just had a lot of work to finish here along with the other job.”
“Is PEEPs still paying you?”
“Yes, just not enough to live on. I’ve been thinking of opening a furniture refinishing business.”
“Where?”
“Not here. Mia would kill me. I’ve been thinking about the possibility of buying the property overlooking the graveyard. The piece that abuts the state highway. It’s not good for much else.”
“Who owns it now?” Jesse asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve asked Susan Braverman to look into it for me.”
“Do you
