Crowned and Moldering (A Fixer-Upper Mystery) - Softcover

Carlisle, Kate

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451469216 ISBN 13: 9780451469212

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

Don't miss Concrete Evidence, a Hallmark Movies & Mystery Original starring Jewel, based on Crowned and Moldering—the third novel in the New York Times bestselling Fixer-Upper Mystery series!

When Mac Sullivan—famous thriller writer and Shannon’s new beau—first moved to Lighthouse Cove, California, he bought the historic lighthouse mansion that the town is named after. Mac needs help cleaning up the place, and Shannon is more than happy to get her handywoman hands on the run-down Victorian.

But during demolition, a grisly discovery is made among the debris—the bones of a teenage girl who went missing fifteen years ago. Locals had always assumed Lily Brogan ran away from her difficult life, but it seems her troubles followed her to the grave. If Shannon has any chance of getting her renovation back on track, she’ll need to tackle the cold case. But with new suspects coming out of the woodwork every day, she’ll have to be careful to pry the right secrets and clues from the poor girl’s problematic past...

About this title

About the Author:

A native Californian, New York Times bestselling author Kate Carlisle worked in television for many years before turning to writing. Inspired by the northern seaside towns of her native California, where Victorian mansions grace the craggy cliffs and historic lighthouses warn fishermen and smugglers alike, Kate was drawn to create the Fixer-Upper Mysteries, featuring small-town girl Shannon Hammer, a building contractor specializing in home restoration. Kate also writes the New York Times bestselling Bibliophile Mysteries featuring Brooklyn Wainwright.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

I gazed up at the neglected beauty and tingled with excitement. I was so ready to turn this old eyesore into the grand masterpiece it had once been.

The venerable lighthouse mansion was situated on a large tract of land surrounded by a once-lovely green lawn that had become overgrown and scruffy with crabgrass and brown weeds. A fine layer of sand covered the entire expanse, having been carried by the wind from the dunes that bordered the beach nearby.

The lighthouse tower stood a few yards away to the north of the house. To the west, the rough, rocky breakwater speared into the sea. Waves crashed and a fine mist of salt water was spewed in every direction.

“I love my job,” I murmured as I grabbed the thick roll of blueprints from the narrow backseat of my truck. I slammed the door shut and marched across the sprawling lawn.

The rough March wind gusting off the ocean lifted my mop of wavy red hair and blew it around until I couldn’t see straight. I finally had to stop at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front porch or risk tripping on the steps. I set down the tool chest I was carrying and shoved the hair back off my face. And that’s when I beheld the wondrous sight before me at the top of the stairway.

MacKintyre Sullivan, world-famous, bestselling thriller writer and former Navy SEAL, stood with his arms crossed as he leaned against one of the smooth Doric columns that braced the roof covering the wide porch. The man looked for all the world like some handsome, dashingly entitled lord of the manor—if the lord of the manor happened to be an unrepentant pirate with a wicked smile and a gleam in his dark blue eyes.

Mac had moved to Lighthouse Cove, California, a few months ago and almost immediately looked into buying the famous mansion by the lighthouse. The purchase had to be approved by both the town Planning Commission and the Historical Society. Not only was the mansion a local landmark with a lot of history attached to it, but the new owner of the home would have to be responsible for upkeep of the lighthouse—for which our town was named. Mac was willing to do the work.

“Those are the new blueprints?” Mac asked, pointing at the thick roll of papers in my hands. “So this is it? No more delays?”

“No more delays—I promise you.” I picked up my tool chest and made my way up the eight steps and onto the sturdy wooden porch. Flashing him a determined smile, I added, “And no more red tape from the Planning Commission. No more whining from the Historical Society. And, especially, no more tiny white rats to send me screaming from this house again.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t blame him. It was still a source of deep embarrassment to me that a few weeks ago, I had spotted the little-bitty rodent skittering across the kitchen floor. With a shriek, I had dashed out of Mac’s kitchen and hadn’t stopped until I’d made it all the way across the wide lawn to my truck.

What can I say? Rats creep me out.

“Then we’re finally ready to get started.” He pushed away from the column and strolled toward me. “I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks.”

“Perfect.” Because, to be honest, Mac’s busy schedule had also produced a number of holdups lately. Flying off to New York, meeting with editors, dining with agents, going on book tours. Deadlines. The world-famous writer was a busy man.

I recalled one more unhappy distraction that had occurred recently and prayed there would be no more funerals, please. We didn’t need anyone else dying in Lighthouse Cove. Besides being unbearably sad, the recent suspicious death of a dear friend had indeed thrown a shocking wrench into the schedule, causing yet more delays to Mac’s plans to start the renovation of his new home.

Another gust of wind rushed up from the ocean, but before it could whip my hair into a greater tangle of curls, I turned toward the wind and lifted my face to catch the mist.

“Man, I love it out here,” Mac said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker.

“It’s a good day.” Cold, windy, with dark clouds forming out on the horizon; there would be rain within a few hours. Still, it was wonderful to be here, ready to begin the job of rehabbing the most iconic house in Lighthouse Cove for the hunky Mac Sullivan.

I checked my watch, eager to begin. Once my guys and I finished going through the house with Mac, I would work out a schedule and make up a list of supplies and equipment we would need. And within a few days, my crew and I would start restoring this wonderful old Victorian to its former glory.

That was why Mac had hired me, after all. My name is Shannon Hammer, and I’m a building contractor specializing in Victorian-home renovation and rehab. I had taken over my father’s construction business five years ago when Dad suffered a mild heart attack and decided to retire. Since then, I liked to think I’d proven to my clients that the best man for the job is often a woman. Namely, me.

“Wade and the guys should be here any minute,” I said, referring to my foreman, Wade Chambers, and two of my most reliable crew members, Sean Brogan and Johnny Schmidt.

“In that case,” Mac said, “I’ll get this out of the way.” And with that, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

I didn’t protest. I should’ve, but instead I sighed and wrapped my arms around his neck, reveling in the warmth of his touch. This really was not a good idea. And I would put a stop to it any minute now.

A truck horn sounded out on the highway and I jolted and took a quick step backward. It took me a moment to catch my breath. “Uh, that must be the guys.”

Mac was smiling broadly as he let go of me. “Must be.”

I coughed softly, knowing the guys’ truck wouldn’t actually show up in front of Mac’s house for another minute or two. I just needed to give myself a few more seconds to recover from the unexpected kiss. “Hmm.”

He laughed and stroked my hair. “I’m crazy about you, Irish.”

I was kind of crazy about him, too. But since I was afraid of setting myself up for a fall, I gave him a weak smile and said nothing.

Mac and I had grown close over the past few months, since he’d moved to Lighthouse Cove. It helped that he’d rented the guest apartment over my garage and lived only a few yards away from me. We’d had a few late-night adventures while chasing down a killer and, yes, there had been a few kisses. I had hoped that maybe we’d grow closer and, well . . . Anyway, things got complicated the morning I saw him escorting a gorgeous blond supermodel out of his apartment. Ever since then I’d been rethinking the idea of getting involved with one of the most sought-after bachelor millionaires in the world.

I probably should’ve demanded to know what he’d been thinking by flirting with me while seeing some supermodel on the side. But it wasn’t like me to be pushy that way, an obvious flaw in my character. Don’t get me wrong—I could be plenty assertive in other areas, but when it came to men and dating and such, I tended to hold back. Considering my checkered dating history, it made sense. In the past nine years, I’d dated exactly three men. One turned out to be gay, another was a car thief, and the third ended up dead—or, to put it more bluntly, murdered. Was it any wonder that I didn’t want to probe too much? Better to just walk away with my sanity and ego intact.

That was one more reason why I should’ve ended the kiss as soon as it began. Another was that kissing a client on the job probably wasn’t the most professional thing I could’ve been doing right then, especially with my crew guys about to drive up at any second. But did that stop me? Obviously not.

In my defense, Mac was a world-class kisser.

I shook off those thoughts and took the opportunity to study the elegant old porch. It was wide and stretched across most of the front and halfway along the north side of the house, following the curve of the corner tower. Double Doric columns gave the graceful, circular porch a worldly style that belied the mansion’s utilitarian roots. With its incomparable ocean view, the porch could be turned into a wonderful outdoor living/dining space.

Currently, though, it was pretty shabby. The floor planks were dull and a few of the boards around the outer edges were spongy and crumbling after sustaining years of damage from the sun and ocean air. Once those boards were replaced, we could re-sand the surface and add several coats of clear varnish, and all of it would be shiny and new again.

Things wouldn’t go so easy for the beams above our heads. The porch roof had actually begun to sag from water damage, and those rotten headers and crossbeams would need replacing immediately. The sooner we started work on this portion of the house, the better. I figured if I could see the wood decomposing with my own eyes, it had to be even worse beneath the surfaces.

I jotted down more notes on my tablet and then used the device to take some photographs of the decaying beams in order to remind myself how bad the damage was.

Wade’s truck finally came into view and Mac jogged down the steps and over to meet the guys. I took the moment to regroup, breathing in more ocean air and staring at the spectacle of waves tumbling and crashing against the rocky coastline.

Once I’d cleared my head and regained my senses—that kiss really was more potent than I’d realized—I was able to relax and watch Wade’s truck jerk and buck to a stop. There was nothing wrong with his truck; the lurching was due to the timeworn cracks and potholes that pitted Old Lighthouse Road, right up to the edge of Mac’s property. I had a feeling he would want to repave the path eventually, unless he liked replacing tires on his SUV more often than usual.

I waved to my guys, who were unloading their tool chests and ladders, with Mac lending a hand. Since they had things under control, I continued making notes on the exterior repairs needed to make to bring the house back to its former splendor.

For some unknown reason, people in Lighthouse Cove had always called this place the lighthouse mansion. Yes, the house stood within a few yards of the lighthouse, but it was the mansion part of the phrase that had always seemed misleading. That was because our town was famous for its abundance of breathtakingly massive Victorian homes, while Mac’s new place wasn’t all that large. But the home had a quiet, stately presence, unencumbered by the ostentatious gingerbread detailing that Victorians were known for. The term mansion just seemed to suit it.

Despite the lack of decorative clutter, the mansion still had many of the classic Queen Anne features, including the convoluted roof lines, the seemingly random placement and sizes of the windows, the multiple chimneys, and the many different surface textures that changed from floor to floor and gable to gable.

On the second floor, a shingled overhang sheltered a set of arched Palladian windows braced by more Doric columns. I made a note to check those charming old fish-scale shingles for termite damage. A small balcony off the master bedroom on the second floor cried out for a new railing. The copper gutters circling the third-floor tower would have to be replaced. I could see the gaping holes from where I was standing.

I hadn’t seen the basement yet, but according to the blueprints, it ran the entire length and width of the house. You didn’t see that feature in many Victorian homes, and if Mac wanted to, he could probably create the biggest man cave in town. But chances were good that some load-bearing posts and a beam or two would have to be replaced before any other work could occur. Wind and water damage was the price a homeowner paid to have a house this close to the shoreline.

I took a quick walk down the steps and around to the south side of the house, where a jewel-box-sized solarium had been built to connect with the first-floor parlor, or living room. It was a true rarity, made of strong white galvanized wrought iron and tempered-glass panels. I stared through one of the windows and saw the worn brick floor in a room just large enough to contain a few dozen plants and some potted trees, along with a small conversation area made up of a settee and a chair or two. It would be the perfect sunny place to read a book or take a nap.

The presence of a solarium might’ve seemed frivolous at first glance, but I’d read that the navy had built it specifically to grow citrus trees in pots, in order to provide juice for the sailors who were once stationed here. No scurvy for those boys.

Past the solarium was the root cellar with its thick wooden door, detached, deteriorating, and leaning against the side of the house. As I’d noted on my last visit, there were shutters hanging off their frames and several bricks missing from the chimney at the back of the house. The paint on most of the exterior walls was peeling badly, but there was plenty of other work to be done before we could start scraping, sanding, and painting.

Call me perverse, but seeing all the damage just made me more excited to explore the entire house. I took a quick moment to stare up at the spectacular sight of the lighthouse tower standing sentinel over the town and this stretch of the coast. It never failed to impress me with its clean white surface shooting one hundred feet into the sky. I’d climbed its spiral wrought-iron staircase many times over the years and knew the view at the top was sensational. Gazing up at the glass-walled lantern room at the very top, I wondered if Mac had ever been up there. I would have to remember to ask.

I circled back to the front where Sean, Johnny, Wade, and Mac were trudging up to the porch with tool chests, a ladder, and other equipment for the walk-through.

“Hey, boss,” Sean said, laying his eight-foot ladder down at the far end of the porch and out of the way.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “Are we ready to get started?”

“You bet,” Wade said.

Johnny nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Even though I had a key to the front door, I gestured to Mac. “You go ahead. It’s your new home.”

He unlocked the door, walked in, and looked around. I knew he was familiar with the first – and second-floor rooms, but he’d never seen the whole place from attic to basement. Mac had bought the house after barely half an hour of walking through a few rooms and strolling around the property. That was all the time it had taken for him to fall in love and make an offer.

“I had the power and water reconnected a few weeks ago,” Mac said, “so the lights should work.”

“If there are still any bulbs in the fixtures,” Wade said.

Mac grinned. “Right.”

Wade flicked the nearest light switch and the foyer lit up nicely, thanks to the old-fashioned chandelier hanging from the twelve-foot-high ceiling. “Oh, man. This place is awesome. Look at all that mahogany paneling.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ran my hand over the rich wood surface of the stairwell. Unlike some Victorian entryways that were dark and narrow and barely had room to hold an umbrella stand, this one was a large square, well-lit room. On one side of the foyer was a double doorway leading into a paneled living room, and on the other was a...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0451469216
• ISBN 13: 9780451469212
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 336