Eaves of Destruction

by Kate Carlisle

  He frowned, trying to appear concerned, but I knew he was just here to sniff around, looking for trouble. And if he couldn’t find trouble, he’d make some. Finally he said, “This trench doesn’t look deep enough.”

  “It’s deep enough,” I said mildly. “Needs to be twelve inches and I know for a fact it’s more than that.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Scully pulled a little tape measure out of his pocket and squatted down to measure the depth. When he stood up, he shook his head. “It’s barely eleven inches.”

  I unclipped my own industrial-sized tape measure from my tool belt and measured for myself. I held up the tape for everyone to see. “Sorry, Joe, but you’re wrong. This trench is twelve and a half inches deep.”

  Scully was about to dispute it, but at that moment, Petsy Jorgensen opened the French doors. “Why aren’t you people working?”

  Wade pointed with his thumb toward Scully. “The building inspector is here questioning the trench we dug.”

  She gazed at Joe Scully. “Why?”

  “That’s my job, ma’am.”

  “Well, Mr. Inspector, does it pass inspection or not?” she asked.

  He gritted his teeth, knowing he was cornered. “I suppose I’ll let it go.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said, smiling acerbically.

  “You’re welcome.” Self-conscious now, Scully coughed, then turned to Wade. “I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you got the foundation poured right.” With that, he walked back toward the street.

  Petsy watched him go, then asked, “Does he have to come here every day?”

  “No,” I said. “But he likes to feel important.”

  “And screw with us,” Wade added under his breath.

  But Petsy caught what he’d said. “Are you saying he could hold up the project?”

  “Yes, he could,” I said, having no problem throwing Joe Scully under the bus. “He’s done it in the past.”

  She huffed out a breath and shook her hair back dramatically. “I’m going to call the mayor.” Then she shut the door, leaving me and Wade staring at each other.

  Wade looked a little dazed. “Never figured her for an ally.”

  “Savor the moment,” I warned, gaping at the French doors. “She could turn on you like a rabid dog.”

  Chapter Three

  Later that afternoon I drove out to the Spauldings’ house to check on the kitchen rehab work. The guys had just maneuvered several large, heavy pieces of granite onto both the spacious island and the surrounding countertops. The hard surfaces were a stunning swirl of vibrant gold mixed with blacks and browns and whites. The colors would work perfectly with the backsplash and the new stainless steel appliances and I could tell that everyone in the family was really happy. And that made me happy, too. Nothing better than a satisfied customer to bring you more customers. Word of mouth was still the best possible advertising.

  I drove home the long way, along Old Farm Road, where pastures still stretched for hundreds of acres, broken up only by a barn here or a silo there. It was nice to see cows and horses grazing in the fields, comforting to know that the farms continued to thrive, just as they had when Lighthouse Cove was first settled back in the 1800s.

  The charming old wooden water towers and windmills that still stood in spots around town were even more plentiful out here. A few of the old towers in town had been converted to small shops or offices since we no longer had to worry about getting water pumped into our houses. But it looked as if many of the ones out here along Old Farm Road were still in working order.

  I came to a stop at Queen Anne Hill Road and was about to turn right when something caught my eye. I looked up and saw that the water tower near the southeast corner had been painted a brilliant springtime yellow. Flowers painted in a rainbow of colors covered every possible spot, and the word Marigold was written out in letters at least six feet tall around the tank at the very top.

  “Marigold?”

  Was that some odd sort of “Ode to Spring” created by a local farmer? Or was it a direct reference to my friend Marigold Starling?

  “Interesting,” I murmured. And perfect timing, since I was meeting my girlfriends for dinner that night and Marigold would be there. I couldn’t wait to find out if she was the inspiration for the mysterious water tower redesign.

  Impulsively, I set the emergency brake, jumped out of my truck, and took a few pictures of the yellow marvel. Then I climbed back inside and drove away.

  • • •

  An hour later, I walked into Bella Rossa, my uncle’s wine bar and restaurant on the town square.

  “Shannon!” Jane Hennessey cried from a table in the adjoining room. “We’re over here.”

  I hurried over to the table and circled around, giving everyone a hug. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Lizzie Logan said. “Hal sends his love.”

  “Tell him I love him, too,” I said, smiling as I took my seat. Lizzie and Hal owned Paper Moon, the bookshop on the town square.

  “So, what’s been going on?” Lizzie asked. “Are you completely buried in work?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, feeling the underside of the table for a hook where I could hang my purse. Early on, Uncle Pete had asked for ways he could improve the room and I had pointed out that women liked to have some way to hang their purses that didn’t involve draping them over the backs of their chairs where they might fall or be stolen. So there were purse hooks under the tables and under the bar.

  “It’s the Home and Garden Tour,” I explained once I got comfortable. “It seems like everyone in town wants something done to improve their chances of winning. And I’ve got to admit, a few of them are hard to deal with.”

  “Like me,” Emily said mournfully.

  “No way,” I insisted, laughing. “I love working on your house.”

  “Ghost and all?” Lizzie asked, with a gleam in her eye.

  I grinned. “Of course.” Last year Emily had bought the old Rawley mansion, a genuine haunted house, complete with swinging chandeliers, creaky noises, and cold spots. But ever since I’d discovered the ghost’s diary while remodeling the place, things had calmed down a bit.

  “The ghost of Mrs. Rawley is pretty tame these days,” Emily said. “She’s happy to have Gus living there.”

  Jane smiled at Emily. “You seem pretty happy yourself.”

  Lizzie giggled. “Who wouldn’t be happy to have Gus Peratti around the house?”

  We all chuckled at that. Gus was a sinfully handsome man, inside and out, and women loved him. Even ghostly women.

  The waiter arrived with more bread and another bottle of wine, and we ordered dinner.

  “So, I have a question,” I said finally, after the waiter left and we’d gone around the table and shared all of our latest news. “What’s with the big yellow water tower outside of town with Marigold’s name splashed across the tank?”

  Pulling my phone out of my purse, I pushed a few buttons and then handed it to Marigold. There was silence for a moment while she focused on my photos. Then she gasped. “Oh no, he didn’t!”

  “Who is he?” I asked, intrigued by her reaction.

  The others were concerned over Marigold’s distress. As for me, I couldn’t tell if she was angry, embarrassed, or both.

  Lizzie grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “What’s going on?” Jane asked me. “What did you see?”

  But I was watching Marigold. She didn’t look distressed at all. She looked annoyed. Okay, then. Angry.

  I leaned over. “What’s up, Marigold?”

  “Oh, that silly man,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

  “Of course it’s all about a silly man,” Emily said, glancing around the table. I noticed her Scottish brogue was growing stronger with the wine.
“It always is, isn’t it?”

  “That . . . that farmer!” Marigold grumbled.

  “Farmer?” Jane said. “What farmer?”

  “Who are you talking about?” Lizzie asked.

  She clenched her teeth. “Raphael Nash.”

  Jane and I exchanged frowns. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s a dolt who won’t take no for an answer,” she snapped, then groaned. “I just can’t believe he would do this.”

  “Okay,” Jane said calmly. “Take a deep breath; drink some wine. Then start at the beginning and tell us everything.”

  Marigold did as Jane said, first taking several deep breaths in and out to calm down. Then she grabbed her glass and took a big sip of wine, set it down, and straightened her shoulders. “He bought the old Jenkins property.”

  I frowned. “The whole thing?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at Jane, who looked right back at me, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: Raphael Nash must have had some money in the family. The old Jenkins farm was at least five hundred acres. There were open meadows and some forested areas. Coral Creek ran across the property, providing some nice spots for fishing. From what I could remember, one part of the farm spread up into the hills and from there you could see the ocean. There was a charming old fixer-upper of a farmhouse and a dilapidated barn. But those could have been refurbished easily. In truth, I’d have loved to get my hands on them.

  The place had to be worth several million dollars.

  “So, tell us more about Raphael,” I said. “His name sounds Italian.”

  “Or Spanish,” Lizzie added.

  “He’s from San Diego, and he’s worth millions,” Marigold said, answering my unspoken question with a blasé wave of her hand. Rolling her eyes, she added, “And he’s asked me to marry him.”

  The silence was much longer this time.

  “But that’s wonderful news,” Jane said, always the romantic.

  “Wait,” I said, tossing cold water on my friend’s warm heart. “We don’t even know this guy and he’s already proposed?”

  “Yes, he proposed.”

  I said, “But you don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Did you miss the part where I said he was a farmer?”

  “Oh, Marigold,” Lizzie said with a sigh. “Just because he’s a farmer doesn’t mean you’ll be stuck milking cows for the rest of your life.”

  “Ah.” I sat back in my chair. Puzzle solved. Our friend Marigold had been raised back east in a tight-knit, very conservative Pennsylvania Dutch community. She had grown up on a dairy farm, and as soon as she was old enough, she had left home, moving as far away as she could get, to Lighthouse Cove, where she lived with her aunt Daisy. The two of them owned the Crafts and Quilts shop on the town square.

  Happily Marigold had managed in a roundabout way to keep tabs on her Amish family and friends back home and contribute to the community’s prosperity by purchasing their beautiful handcrafted quilts and toys to sell in her popular shop.

  But Marigold had less than zero interest in going back to a farm. Even one complete with a husband and a bucket of money.

  “Do you like him?” Lizzie asked.

  She thought for a brief moment. “He’s stubborn.”

  “And you wouldn’t be able to relate to that,” Jane said, smirking.

  Marigold tried not to smile. “All right, maybe I’m stubborn, too. But honestly, if I never see another cow again, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

  “If he’s as wealthy as you say he is,” Emily reasoned, “I’m sure he doesn’t want you milking cows all day.”

  “That’s what he’ll say at first,” she muttered. “But they always change their minds and then they wear you down.”

  Lizzie gave a knowing sigh. “Yes, they do that.”

  “He’s impulsive and brilliant,” Marigold said. “He’s always inventing something.”

  “He sounds smart,” Lizzie said.

  “I guess he is.”

  “So, are you dating him?” Jane asked.

  Marigold made a face. “I suppose.”

  Jane laughed. “You sound so excited.”

  “Jane, did you see that water tower?” Marigold asked. “The man is incorrigible.”

  “He sounds sweet.”

  “How long have you known him?” I asked, reaching for a breadstick. “How did you meet?”

  “He came into the store about four weeks ago.” She smiled at the memory. “He’s sort of a high-tech entrepreneur. He works with solar power. And he likes gadgets. He was interested in the wooden gyroscope my nephew designed.”

  “I saw that in your store window,” Lizzie said. “I thought I might buy it for Taz. He’s not completely plugged in to the computer yet, thank goodness. He still enjoys gadgets.” Her eleven-year-old son had a birthday coming up soon.

  “Taz would love it,” Marigold said. “It’s beautifully made and it works perfectly.”

  “So, tell us more about Raphael,” Jane said, bringing us back to the subject at hand. “Is he nice? I mean, besides that whole cow-milking issue. Do you like him?”

  Marigold smiled dreamily. “Yes, Rafe is a really nice man. I like him very much. He’s kind and funny. He makes me laugh. He’s tall and he’s so handsome.”

  “He sounds . . . perfect,” Emily said, looking around the table.

  I met her gaze and knew what she was thinking. If this guy was so tall and handsome and perfect, how had none of us ever seen him around town before? And why hadn’t Marigold told us about him?

  Marigold nodded. “He’s been wonderful. But then the other day he told me he’d bought a farm and was going to buy some cows and a horse and . . . well . . .” She gazed around the table, making eye contact with each of us. “I’ve never really talked much about my life on the farm, because it wasn’t a happy time for me. So, now I finally meet this lovely man who seems so normal and nice, if unconventional. And he turns out to be a farmer. Life is so unfair.”

  “So, why have you kept him a big secret from us?” I watched her and saw the quick intake of breath.

  “I just,” she said, “was keeping it to myself for a while. It was so new, you know?” She frowned. “Now, though, the whole town will be talking, won’t they? My name on a water tower!”

  I grinned. “If you want us to get some paint and cover it up, we’re here for you.”

  “Not a bad idea.” She took a stiff gulp of wine. “Let’s please change the subject. Someone else talk. Or tell a joke. Anything.”

  There was silence for a split second and then we all began to talk at once. Lizzie told a joke and we were laughing again. Emily mentioned that her brother might visit one of these days. And I asked Jane how the Festival Committee was holding up without me.

  “I wish you were there,” she said, “but I know you’re too busy. We’ve done so many of these events, so I know it’ll be fabulous. But right now it’s the usual nervous rush to complete everything.”

  Jane and I had run the town’s Festival Committee for several years with a few other ladies. The events had been so popular that our town was becoming famous for its parades and festivals. Last year our Festival Committee had taken over the running of the Home and Garden Tour and this year’s tour promised to be even bigger and better than ever.

  But because I was involved in refurbishing some of the houses that would be included in the tour, I’d felt it was only right to step down from my committee job for this event. Even though the general public voted for the winner of the tour, we didn’t want anyone to think that my houses might somehow receive special treatment.

  Jane reached for a chunk of bread. “We’ve commissioned six horse-drawn trolleys to take people around on the tour.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Lizzie said. “Can I sponsor a trolley?”

&n
bsp; “What a great idea,” Emily said. “Count me in.”

  “I’m writing that down,” Jane said, reaching for a pen from her purse. “We can have banners made up with your store names and hang them off the sides of the trolleys.” She jotted down the idea. “Anyway, we’ll have the usual booths set up in the town square, and because it’s the garden tour, we’ve got three different booths selling plants and flowers.”

  “That’s smart,” I said. “I wish I could say I contributed an idea or two myself, but I’m a complete piker.”

  Jane flashed me a coy smile. “Well, actually, next year I was thinking we could have a DIY project booth. You could be in charge, demonstrating how to do simple construction projects. Maybe you could team up with the hardware store and give away little tool sets. We’re still throwing ideas around, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

  “I love that idea. Maybe I’ll get Carla to help me. And Amanda if she’s still here.”

  “Who’s Amanda?” Emily asked.

  “She’s the new carpenter I hired. I think you’ll all like her.”

  “I met her a few days ago,” Lizzie said. “She came in to buy some books. Seems really nice.”

  “I’d love to meet her,” Jane said.

  I nodded. “I’ll bring her around.”

  “Good.” Jane slathered butter on her bread. “And Marigold has offered to officiate at our very first quilt show. It’s going to take place at the Campbell house, which is the last house on the tour. They have a gorgeous ballroom we’re using. And we’ll also serve refreshments there.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out.” I turned to Marigold. “And you’re the perfect person to handle a quilt show.”

  “I hope so,” she said, swirling her wine. “We’ve already got thirty entries and they’re all beautiful. I’m kind of a wimp, though. I don’t want anyone going away mad, so I’ll probably give participation ribbons to everyone who enters.”

  We all laughed because it was true. Marigold had such a kind heart.

  As dinner arrived, I made a mental note to drive out to the old Jenkins farm in the next day or two. I wanted to meet Raphael Nash and find out what a supposedly wealthy high-tech entrepreneur was doing up here, buying a five-hundred-acre farm outside of Lighthouse Cove. Did he really want to be a farmer?