Eaves of Destruction

by Kate Carlisle

  “And you said yes?”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his head sheepishly. “But then, like I said, I left the next morning and totally forgot to tell you. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay. You had vacation on your mind.”

  “I sure did.” He grinned. “So, I’m on my way here tonight and Wade calls to tell me you’ve hired this woman named Amanda and invited her to dinner. And it turns out it’s the same gal. So, anyway, it’s cool that it all worked out.”

  “Very cool.”

  “Well, here’s my truck,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Be careful driving home,” I said.

  “You got it.”

  • • •

  Amanda was waiting for me when I parked my truck on Cranberry Circle the next morning. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a baseball cap. Her clothes looked like the same basic uniform that I was wearing—blue jeans, long-sleeved shirt, vest, tool belt, and boots. I was missing the ball cap, but I did have my long, tangled curly hair pulled back from my face. All that hair could constitute a workplace hazard.

  Wade jogged up the steps to the Derrys’ front porch to join us. Frowning, he stopped and stared back and forth at Amanda and me. Then he grinned. “Wow. This should be interesting.”

  I knew what he was thinking, that Amanda and I were dressed way too much alike, all the way down to our boots. Maybe he was right, but I ignored him and rang the doorbell.

  Joan Derry greeted us as if we were long-lost friends and whisked us into her house, where she offered coffee and bagels. She was dressed in a white tennis outfit and it suited her athletic build and outgoing personality perfectly. She was a completely different species from her dour neighbor and I liked her immediately.

  All three of us shook our heads. “But thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind of you to offer.”

  She smiled. “I appreciate your wanting to get right to work. So follow me.”

  She led us into the spacious laundry room, where a door opened to reveal steps going down to the basement. The subterranean space had been refurbished in the last ten years, so it wasn’t as dank as some old Victorian basements I’d worked in. She snapped a switch and the room filled with light. There was little furniture except along one wall where a large state-of-the-art wine-storage unit stood. Two comfy chairs and a small table faced the unit. The perfect spot for some serious wine tasting, I thought.

  “Wow, that’s a beauty,” Wade said. “Looks like it holds about two hundred bottles.”

  “Yes, that’s about right,” she said, and added fondly, “My husband loves his wine.”

  On a hunch, I headed to the west side of the room and quickly found the dry rot.

  “Found it,” I muttered.

  Wade rushed over. “Oh yeah. Figures it’s the western wall.”

  “Is that significant?” Joan asked.

  “Only because it’s closest to the ocean,” I explained. “But it really doesn’t matter. It can happen anywhere when the air is damp like ours.”

  “But then why is it called dry rot?” she asked.

  I smiled. “That’s a good question and I honestly don’t know for sure. It may be because it occurs after the wood has dried out following some water-related event. A flood or, in our case, constant moisture from the ocean. And also, you can see that the affected wood looks like it’s turning to powder.”

  She sighed heavily. “What do we have to do?”

  I glanced around. “First we’ve got to remove and replace all the affected wood. Then we’ll clean all the nearby surfaces thoroughly and apply a fungicide and a sealant.”

  “Is the fungicide safe? My husband loves spending time down here.”

  “It’s toxic,” Amanda said flatly.

  “That’s right,” I said with a quick look at her. “You’ll want to keep him out of here for several days. We’ll have a portable ventilator going while we work and we’ll all be wearing respirator masks. Once we’re finished, we’ll wash down all the surfaces, including the wine safe and the chairs and table.”

  “And after that,” Wade continued, “you’d be smart to install a dehumidifier. That’ll prevent a new outbreak of dry rot and also guard against mold and termites.”

  “Wow. Okay,” she said, sounding a little shell-shocked. “You guys sure seem to know what you’re doing. How soon can you start?”

  I glanced at Wade, then said, “We’ll have to juggle some schedules around, but we’ll make this a priority because it’s dangerous to let it go. I can have two of my guys start this afternoon.”

  “I really appreciate that.” She walked over to the stairs.

  “Joan,” I said, “would you be willing to show me your orangery? I would love to take a few photographs, if you don’t mind.”

  She grinned for the first time since we’d entered the basement. “I don’t mind at all. That way, you can see what a real orangery looks like.”

  I forced myself to bite my tongue, but Wade laughed out loud. Joan seemed delighted with his reaction. It was pretty obvious—and thoroughly gratifying—that the two neighbors were not exactly the best of friends.

  • • •

  After dragging my tool chest out of the back of my truck, I stood on the sidewalk and gazed around at the homes that lined Cranberry Circle. Several of the houses on this street were near and dear to my heart since my own father had built many of them years ago. In among the newer homes were the original Victorians that had been here for well over a hundred years. Some, like the Jorgensen and Derry homes, had been in the same families for all that time. The lots were big, at least a quarter acre, and all of them were well maintained with lovely trees and green lawns.

  I doubted Petsy Jorgensen would’ve tolerated an unkempt property in her neighborhood.

  I turned to Amanda. “Ready?”

  She nodded. “And excited.”

  I checked my watch. Five minutes after eight. I hoped Petsy hadn’t noticed us coming from the Derrys’ house. Would she make a stink because looking at Joan’s orangery had caused us to be five minutes late?

  “Guess we’ll find out,” I muttered, hating this feeling of dread at the thought of dealing with my client. That was no way to run a business. The fact was, I had accepted the job knowing full well that Petsy was a difficult person, so now it was up to me to make it as pleasant as I could for my entire crew.

  I walked up the long walkway to the stairs leading to the front porch. When I turned to say something to Amanda, she wasn’t there. I whipped around and saw her standing back on the sidewalk, staring up at the imposing home as if she was mesmerized. It was a marvelous house, but still.

  “Amanda?” I called. “You okay?”

  She shook off whatever had captured her attention, straightened her baseball cap, and came striding up the walk. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. These houses are pretty amazing, aren’t they?”

  “Beautiful,” she murmured.

  “By the way,” I said when Amanda reached the porch, “your portfolio pictures were really fantastic. I’m still looking at them, so if you don’t mind, I’ll return your tablet tomorrow.”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re really good.”

  Her cheeks were turning pink. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you. I hear you’re, like, the best carpenter in the world.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. Not quite.”

  I knocked on the door, and when nobody answered I circled over to the porch rail and took another moment to appreciate the cloudless blue sky and mild spring weather. From here I could see the surrounding hills and trees and even the very tip-top of our famous lighthouse three miles up the coast. Because of last month’s rains, the new leaves on the trees were bright green and spring flowers bloomed in vibrant shades of pink and yellow and red and pu
rple.

  It couldn’t have been better timing. In three weeks, the array of colors for the Home and Garden Tour would be glorious.

  Wade was crossing the street toward us, carrying his tool chest and a stepladder. He waved and continued along the side of the house, where the orangery kit was waiting to be put together.

  Just then the front door opened and Petsy stood there, making a point of checking her watch.

  “It’s about time,” she said, but made no further comment as she swung the door wide enough for us to enter.

  “I’d like you to meet Amanda Walsh,” I said. “She’ll be working with me on the wood panels. There’s nobody better at woodworking in all of California.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Petsy said, staring at Amanda.

  I turned to Amanda. “This is Petsy Jorgensen.”

  Amanda looked way too solemn as she nodded at the older woman. “Hello.”

  Petsy shook her head, basically ignoring Amanda’s greeting, and I had the strongest urge to slap her. But I didn’t. Instead, Amanda and I followed her through the archway leading into the dining room.

  “I have an important meeting this morning,” Petsy said, “so I won’t be able to stay and supervise.”

  “We know what to do.” I glanced toward the dining room. “My foreman is already here to start building the orangery. Three of my other crew members will join him shortly while Amanda and I work in here.”

  “Fine. My husband and daughter are both home in case you have any questions while I’m out.”

  “Thank you.”

  But she didn’t walk away, just continued to stare at Amanda, who was starting to look uncomfortable. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve only recently moved to town.”

  Petsy squinted to study her for another few seconds. Did she think Amanda was lying? I was about to intercede, but then without another word Petsy turned and left us alone.

  I leaned closer to Amanda and whispered, “I’m sorry about her attitude. I plan to be here as much as possible over the next few days, so I’ll make sure she doesn’t bug you too much.”

  “Oh, she’s not so bad,” Amanda said, waving off the odd moment. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re a better woman than I,” I muttered.

  • • •

  An hour later, Amanda had finished assessing the damage to the wainscoting panels and estimated that she could complete the project in about two weeks.

  “That would be fantastic,” I said. “Petsy was adamant that we wrap it up before the Home and Garden Tour.”

  “No worries.” Amanda wrote out a list of supplies she would need and the two of us drove to the big hardware store out by the highway. In the car, I explained how Mrs. Jorgensen had refused to use any wood onlays, insisting that the work be done by hand.

  “I’ll be doing it by hand,” Amanda assured me. “But does she realize I’ve got to make molds of the patterns? Those may or may not be made of wood, but I promise they’ll look exactly the same as what’s on her walls now. They’ll be beautiful.”

  I’d seen her portfolio and I believed her. “I know they will be. But at this point I’d rather not share that information with her. She’ll just get cranky.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for trusting me. I know she’ll be happy with the results.”

  “I’m not sure Petsy will ever be happy,” I muttered. “But your word is good enough for me.”

  “Is Petsy a nickname? Do you know?”

  “I do, because I looked it up in the town newspaper archives.”

  When she grinned at that, I shrugged. “I was curious—what can I say? Petsy is short for Petronella.”

  “Wow. That’s rough.”

  “I know, right?” I chuckled. “That name was more popular in the forties and fifties, although I wouldn’t say it was ever really popular.”

  “But Petsy is kind of cute.”

  “Really?”

  She laughed. “Well, it would be if it belonged to someone a little nicer.”

  Driving back, we were chatting like old friends. When we reached the Jorgensen house, I helped her set up a worktable at one end of the room, using two sawhorses and a thick piece of plywood. We draped drop cloths over the dining room table, the chairs, and the fancy dish cabinet along the side wall.

  To avoid filling the room with sawdust, we agreed that any filing or sawing she needed to do would be done in the side yard where the guys were building the orangery.

  And speaking of the orangery, I was anxious to check up on Wade and the guys. But first, Amanda and I pried off several of the wood panels that were still in good shape and placed them on the plywood. She would carefully remove the cleanest sections of the appliqué scrollwork designs and trace the patterns onto heavy butcher paper. This would create a template that she would use to carve out a new piece, using either wood or plaster, depending on what worked best in any particular spot.

  For some trouble spots, she would actually create plaster molds that would replace the broken panels.

  “Shannon Hammer, is that you?”

  I turned and beamed at the handsome older man who’d just walked into the room. “Hi, Mr. Jorgensen.”

  He gave me a hug, then glanced around. “I’m glad we’re finally getting these old pieces replaced.”

  “This is Amanda Walsh,” I said. “She’ll be doing most of the sculpting and creative stuff for you.”

  “Brilliant. Nice to meet you, Amanda.” He jogged around me to shake her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Jorgensen,” Amanda said.

  “Please call me Matthew, both of you. You’re making me feel like an old man with that ‘Mr. Jorgensen’ nonsense.”

  I had to smile. His temperament seemed the complete opposite of his wife’s and I couldn’t figure out how they could live in the same house together. But then, love and marriage baffled me on a regular basis.

  “Can you tell me how these panels got so damaged?” I asked.

  He winced. “Yeah. It’s probably my fault. I’ve got three siblings and they each have two boys. Petsy hated to have them racing up and down the stairs whenever they visited, so we started turning the dining room over to them. We have a big family table in the kitchen and rarely use this room, so it made sense at the time. Needless to say, the boys pretty much decimated those panels over the years.”

  “Wow.” I had thought Petsy was making up that story, but apparently the damage really had been done by children.

  “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Six boys with hockey sticks and lightsabers and basketballs can be amazingly destructive.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Well.” Amanda adjusted her baseball cap. “In that case, I’d better get to work.”

  “Oh, right,” Matthew said. “I’ll get out of your way. But if either of you need anything, just give a shout-out.”

  “Thanks, Matthew,” I said.

  “Hey, say hi to your dad for me,” he added as he was walking out. “Tell him to call me next time he’s having a poker party.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “He seems really nice,” Amanda said, her tone a little wistful. I figured meeting Matthew had made her miss her father. I could totally relate to that. I still missed my mom at odd times.

  Once Amanda was set up with the supplies and equipment she would need to get started, I walked outside to check on Wade and his crew. The air had grown warm and the guys were working in their T-shirts.

  The ground outside the French doors was already leveled and now the guys were building a trench that would be filled with concrete, providing a base for the brick wall upon which the glass walls and steel frame of the orangery would sit.

  Early in the process, the frame would be bolted to the house and the brick and mortar would be
affixed to the frame.

  Wade saw me coming and grinned. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then leaned his shovel against the outside wall and met me halfway. “You know we can install this thing without your help.”

  I gave him my sad face. “I want to help. I’ve only installed one of these and that was at least five years ago.”

  Billy piped up. “If you like shoveling dirt, we’re happy to let you help.”

  “Who doesn’t like shoveling dirt?” Todd said.

  “How’s Amanda doing?” Wade asked, changing the subject.

  “Great. It’s nice to work with someone who understands exactly what I’m saying and is capable of doing the job without constant supervision.”

  “It’s especially nice because it’ll free you up to supervise the other jobsites.”

  I glanced back at the house. “I hope so, but right now I don’t want to leave her alone in there. Petsy could come back at any minute and freak out over something.”

  He snorted, then frowned. “Oh crap.”

  “What?”

  He leaned closer. “Speaking of horrible people, here comes Scully.”

  “Already? I just pulled the permits last week.” I turned and watched Joe Scully crossing the street and walking toward us. He was the town’s building inspector and a general pain in the butt to everyone in the construction business. Scully was one of those people who enjoyed wielding power over other people and he seemed to think his title gave him that right.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if he were competent, but he barely knew much of anything about construction.

  “I ran into him yesterday at the hardware store,” Wade murmured. “He warned me that he might come by to check on our work today.”

  “But nothing’s been done yet.”

  “The trench is dug and supposedly he needs to sign off on it.” Wade shrugged. “But let’s get real. He just wants to harass us.”

  I rolled my eyes. Last year Scully had delayed one of our projects by three weeks, just to be a jerk.

  I turned and flashed a big smile. “Hi, Joe.”