Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  The very banality of this interaction can transform a good general contractor into a client’s trusted confidante. There’s nothing quite like a protracted remodel project to devastate a marriage or threaten family harmony, and since taking over my dad’s construction business two years ago, I’ve mediated more than my fair share of domestic disputes. I respond to panicky calls about leaky faucets in the middle of the night and find myself hearing much more than I want to know about unfaithful spouses, shady corporate deals, and murky political alliances. I’m like a confessor to some of these people.

  Matt Addax—whose long-haired, blue-jean-jacketed, guitar-playing image had adorned my bedroom wall in my teenage years—was one of those people.

  “Anybody else get hurt?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember much past the . . .” He held his hand up toward the jagged shards of glass remaining in the smashed window frame and trailed off with a defeated shake of his head. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ya know that remodel show on cable, where they do their own demo?” Matt asked, his voice recovering its familiar upbeat tone. “Like Kenneth said, it always seems like a blast. He arranged to have a photog here from the Chronicle to document the whole thing. He thought it’d make a brilliant human interest story.”

  “Why am I not surprised that Kenneth was involved?”

  “He means well.”

  I found that hard to believe. But as my mother used to say, if you can’t say something nice, change the subject.

  “I’m pretty sure that on TV they don’t encourage participants to drink while using power tools,” I pointed out, passing the bottle back to Max. “They also have professionals running things.”

  “You’re right. I’m an idiot. I should have hired you to supervise.”

  “You called and asked me to, remember? I refused, because I’m smart.”

  “Right. Now I remember.”

  “Besides, Kenneth doesn’t like me.”

  “He just doesn’t like your rates.”

  “Believe me, he doesn’t like me.”

  And the feeling was mutual. Kenneth had acted as project manager on Matt’s kitchen renovation in Sausalito, but he kept insisting on cutting corners and fudging on little things like code requirements. I had finally walked off the job after an incident involving threatening words concerning the creative use of a jackhammer.

  “I give up on this place,” Matt said with a defeated sigh. “Will you fix it?”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. I’m tired of it. I don’t care what Kenneth says. Just take over the remodel. If you cut me a break on your fees up front, I can offer you a share of the sale price. We should still be able to make some good money.”

  “You’re one week into a remodel and you’re already tired of it? You might want to reconsider this houseflipping venture.”

  “We made a killing on the last place.”

  “One lucky sale is no foundation for such a risky line of business.”

  “Kenneth got this place cheap, though. Because of the haunting deal.”

  I was afraid to ask. But I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Haunting deal?”

  “You don’t know about that? People say this place is haunted. So we got it cheap.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Previous owner had to disclose it in the sale.”

  “Let me get this straight: The owners have to tell you if they think their house is haunted?”

  He nodded. “Real estate law. It’s part of full disclosure and all that.” His red-rimmed eyes scanned the disaster area surrounding us. “Maybe it really is haunted. Maybe that’s what happened last night.”

  I held up the bottle of vodka. “This is what happened last night. These are all the spirits you need to screw up a construction project.”

  “At least I followed your advice on one thing: I packed up all the glass lampshades, a lot of the door and window hardware, and anything else that looked valuable or historical.” Matt dug into the pocket of his faded jeans and brought out a chain with two keys, one small and one large. “The crate’s in the garage. Could you arrange for storage? It’s padlocked—here’s the key.”

  “What’s the other key for?”

  “The front door. Say you’ll save me.”

  “It’ll be a huge job if we do it right.”

  “I know that.”

  “Pricey.” Just wanted to be clear.

  “I’ll make the money back in the long run. This is Pacific Heights, after all. The sky’s the limit. . . . Listen, Mel, I can’t afford to look like an idiot with this one. I’m too high profile. I need to flip it—fast.”

  I looked at the living room, the entry, and the dining room beyond. Yes, there was trash everywhere, holes in the walls, cracked and peeling paint and varnish, and signs of dry rot along some of the windows. But I knew from my previous inspection that the all-important foundation was solid and the main wood supports were intact. And, like most historical structures, Matt’s house had been built with more care, better skills, and finer materials than one would find in any modern home.

  Indeed, the bones of the place reflected the grace and refinement of an era long past. Ceilings were high, with peaked arches leading from one room to the next. Wideplank oak floors were dressed up with an inlaid Greek key border design. The crown moldings were intact, boasting intricate fleur-de-lis and acanthus leaves. The living room fireplace mantel, crowded at the moment with plastic cups and beer cans, was elaborately carved limestone complete with spiral columns and frolicking putti.

  I could practically feel the people who had once come to this parlor for a cup of tea, hear the rattle of a newspaper, smell the aroma of pipe smoke, and sense the tinkle of laughter through the years.

  Who was I kidding? I had fallen under the house’s spell the first moment I walked in to do the inspection two months ago. The signs of its long neglect and recent abuse hurt my heart. I was already itching to get at it.

  “All things considered, the damage looks pretty superficial,” I said, patting Matt on the knee and giving in to my inevitable impulse to save the place. “Nothing a big fat check won’t fix. As long as no one broke a water pipe or compromised a load-bearing wall, you’ll be okay.”

  Matt’s bloodshot eyes fixed on me. “You’re a peach, Mel. I mean that.”

  “Let’s go survey the damage, shall we?”

  As Matt and I mounted the steps to the second floor, I bit my tongue, trying to keep from commenting on the vodka. It really wasn’t any of my business.

  I made it almost halfway up the flight of stairs.

  “I thought you quit drinking.”

  “I’m in a new program. Booze isn’t strictly forbidden as long as it’s taken in moderation. Besides, my new neighbor brought over a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch. Old enough to vote. What’s a man to do?”

  Sounded more like rationalization than science to me, but who was I to say?

  I had to smile as we stepped into the master bedroom. A sheet of wallboard had been hung both crooked and backward. There were several nails placed, seemingly at random, in one multipaned window frame. And the pièce de résistance: a lacy red bra hung over a closet door.

  If this was Matt’s definition of moderation, I’d hate to witness his version of overindulgence.

  As I stepped over an empty champagne bottle, my boot kicked something that clinked and skittered across the floor. I squatted and picked up a few of the small brass objects.

  “Are those shells?” Matt asked. “Bloody hell.”

  “What exactly went down here last night, Max?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t remember. My ex walked in with her new boy toy, and I started downing that great scotch. I’ll admit, I lost it.”

  “Who was invited to this shindig?”

  “Everybody. The A-list. Rory Abrams—the guy with that hot new restaurant in North Beach?—took care of the catering. Everyone thought the whole do-it-yourself demo idea was a
scream.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, “brandishing Sawzalls and pneumatic drills and handguns while downing tequila shooters is a real hoot.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. The photographer gave me the name of a guy to handle security at the front door, and he brought along a couple of friends to make sure things didn’t get out of hand.”

  “Sounds positively sedate. You guys trashed the place, cut the lights, and someone had a gun?” My eyes scanned the floor for more cartridges. “Tell me, Matt—what would ‘getting out of hand’ look like?”

  “Be kind to the man with a beastly hangover. Besides, those bullets could have been here for years for all we know. Maybe they were behind something, just got knocked about in the hubbub.”

  “Was there anyone at the party that I’d know? Who was the photographer?”

  “A kid—Zachary something. He’s new. Cute. Looks like a young Antonio Banderas, except, ya know, not Spanish.”

  I crossed over to the crooked wallboard and peered into the deep recess beyond. Because of the line of the eaves, there was more than the standard six inches of space behind the wall. A dark niche extended back several feet. The perfect hiding place.

  “Hey, Matt, I think I see something back in here.”

  Matt wrinkled his nose. “I hate that—when they open up the walls. It smells funky.”

  “Are you serious? That’s the fun part.”

  “It’s the anthropologist in you coming out. The love of digging up old bones. I’m telling you, it’s bad juju.”

  “I was a cultural anthropologist, not an archaeologist. I dealt with live people. And anyway, I relinquished my badge when I became a contractor, remember?”

  “Once an anthropologist, always an anthropologist. You guys are like musicians. You can’t shake it.”

  He was more right than he knew.

  To me, old houses might as well be ancient pyramids. They hold secrets and messages from the past; I feel them whispering to me as I walk the hallways. Walls, attics, basements . . . Over the past five years I had found newspapers from the thirties, liquor bottles, old coins, address books, even the occasional stash of money or stocks. I once unearthed a button-up baby’s shoe and a dress pattern book from 1916. I even liked the smell: the distinctive musty aroma of history, reminding me of used bookstores . . . promising the serendipitous discovery of the perfect novel or family relic or beloved treasure.

  I dug through my satchel for my key ring, on which hung a miniflashlight. Holding the light with my teeth, I crouched, grabbed onto a stud with one hand for balance, leaned in through the hole in the wall, and reached.

  It was frustratingly close, but my arm wasn’t quite long enough. I stretched just a little more, managing to knock at the item with my fingertips. Unfortunately that just pushed it farther until it fell into a well between the floor joists. I couldn’t see anything anymore, even with the flashlight.

  “Darn it!” I swore under my breath. “I almost had it. . . .”

  Behind me, Matt screamed.

  ALSO IN THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES

  Secondhand Spirits

  A Cast-off Coven

  THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERY SERIES

  If Walls Could Talk