Vince said, “There was another drug raid on the Mirabella property, night before last, out near the Castle.”
Ed swore. “Damn Henry Yost. He’s always after the kids.”
Vince shook his head. “This is not just Henry compensating for the fact that he’s never passed the state trooper test. It’s serious.”
“How can the kids be having parties there?” Ed said. “The Castle has practically fallen in on itself. There’s only three walls still left standing.” He began to pace.
Vince shrugged. “Kids don’t need walls. Yost says he found cocaine, crystal meth. He arrested a couple of kids.”
“Piper Lewis’s kid,” April put in.
Her father frowned. “How do you know?”
April said, “I met a few of Deana’s friends last night. Piper was there and told us her son was out on bail.”
“Anyway,” Vince said, “I told Lyle to go ahead with the demolition this morning. We can’t take the chance that kids will party there again.”
“No, no, no.” Ed’s voice rose with each syllable. “We have to wait for Raico, the code enforcement officer, to give us the permits. Otherwise we’re going to be fined.”
April remembered that Ed had tried to get the code enforcement job. The officer was appointed by the borough council. He was given a nice salary for working part-time, making sure building codes were up to snuff. It was usually a reward for pleasing the council members in some other way. A patronage job, but one with authority behind it. A dangerous combination.
Vince said, “I think we should act now and ask for permission later.”
“Absolutely not,” Ed said.
Vince gave in. “It’s your job. But you’d better tell Lyle. Now.”
Ed dialed his phone, his face glum. April was struck by how much her father’s expression reminded her of the basset hound they’d had when she was little. The same sad eyes, the same forlorn expression.
Worry was his natural state. His parents had settled in northeast Pennsylvania, but they’d never left behind the lingering fears that Depression-era childhoods in the Bronx had fostered. Her grandfather had died before April was born, but her grandmother still lived on the family farm ten miles away. She played bingo seven days a week and cut hair in her one-chair beauty shop in the basement.
Ed said he liked to be prepared for the worst, but to April it seemed as though the worst rarely happened and in the meantime, he’d driven himself into a complete funk and brought down everyone around him.
Vince didn’t seem to be affected by Ed’s gloomy outlook on life. He could often cajole Ed into laughing at himself. It was the way April knew they were perfectly suited to each other. She felt bereft when she realized Ken hadn’t made her laugh in months.
Today Vince’s charms weren’t working on his partner. April felt her stomach tighten. There was more to this job than she’d been told.
Ed shook his head. “Damn voice mail.” His voice got louder as he left a message. “Hold off, Lyle. I’ll talk to the CEO as soon as I’m done with this meeting with Mrs. H. Don’t do anything until I call you back.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Vince said, ringing the door-bell. “I’ve got a half dozen unsupervised men on the Heights job. I need to get up there soon.”
Ed fumbled with his phone, dropping it before getting it clipped on his belt. They joined Vince on the porch.
April felt the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach that a new job always brought. She loved going inside homes, seeing how people decorated and assessing the architecture. Especially in older houses. What nineteenth-century artisans had been able to achieve always humbled her.
April heard the clicking of heels. The door opened.
From the noise, April had expected to see a maid or a dog, but a tiny, elegant woman was behind the door instead.
She gestured impatiently, shaking the miniature wattles on her arms. “Don’t just stand there. Get inside. You’re letting all the cool air out.”
The heavy door closed behind them, blocking out all sound, and presumably, heat.
Judging by the size of the mansion, she was too rich. Judging from the size of her body, Barbara Harcourt had perfected too thin.
Wearing a navy blue skirt with gold chains across the waist, and a beige silk tank, she looked like a woman who was never without makeup. The silk tank gaped open at the neck showing off a sharp-looking collarbone. Even in this heat, she was wearing stockings with her heels. No one in San Francisco wore pantyhose.
She ushered them through a short hall with built-in cabinets into a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since before April was born. The floor was Mexican red tiles, worn thin at the edges, and the appliances were copper. This had been a working kitchen once upon a time.
As they came out of the kitchen, April saw a plastic tarpaulin covering a doorway and relaxed. The construction must be going on in the rest of the house. Her work might be in a bedroom or bath. The mansion had several large wings.
They entered an enormous living room, easily forty feet long. Mrs. H. took a seat on a white linen sofa and indicated that they sit opposite. The lights were dimmed, the shades on the bay windows drawn. April let her eyes adjust to the darkness. After the smoky hot outdoors, the cool air felt good.
Before they sat down, Ed pulled April forward. “Mrs. H, this is the designer I was telling you about. My daughter, April Buchert.”
Mrs. H’s eyebrows would have shot up if they weren’t already penciled in halfway up her forehead. She pursed her lips in a way that pulled every wrinkle into its designated place.
“Daughter?” She looked from her father to Vince and April and back again. “I didn’t know you had a daughter. Of course, why would I? I’ve been living in Europe for the last twenty years.”
April was grateful that this woman didn’t find her family history interesting. No wonder the Castle meant nothing to her.
The client offered a hand, soft as a cotton ball. She didn’t shake April’s hand as much as lay her hand in her palm. April was gentle, afraid the arm would break off if she was too vigorous.
Ed was still in full-on grovel mode. “Mrs. H. has had the most amazing ideas for this place.”
“Great,” April said. “It’s a wonderful example of Tudor.”
“This house is unique,” Mrs. H. corrected. “It was designed by the finest architect in Italy in the late 1800s. Before Tudor became a craze.”
“We’re doing a total restoration,” Ed said.
Mrs. H. said, “My brother nearly ruined the integral beauty of the place. That horrible Castle was just the start.” Her tiny shoulders shuddered with revulsion. She reminded April of a hairless dog who was unable to keep itself warm without shaking. “There’s flocked wallpaper in the hallway bath,” she whispered as though this truth was too horrible to say out loud.
“We’ll have her back to her original glory,” Ed said with a stiff smile on his face.
“This wing of the house has sixteen rooms. Let’s get started in the dining room,” she said. “I have a dinner party each August. I want this room finished by then.”
Vince and Ed exchanged a look. Was that enough time? April doubted it. Her stomach crawled again.
Mrs. H. led them into an empty formal dining room with paneled wainscoting. The large lead glass windows looked over the expanse of green lawn. April looked again. Not lawn. Fairway. She saw an oval sign that said “Women’s Tee. Three.”
“The paneling must be restored to its original state.” She pointed out places where the wood had been damaged or was missing.
Vince was taking notes. “Don’t worry. We’ve got crafts-men who can duplicate the original molding. You won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Ed circled the room quietly. April saw a change come over him. He seemed so different now that he was faced with the work that needed to be done. Calm, confident, completely engaged. He was rubbing his hands over the walls, his hands as sensitive as a doctor’s, fi
nding flaws and figuring out how to fix them.
The punched tin ceilings were twelve feet high. The moldings were deep and fluted. The proportions of the room were perfect. Despite its large size, the room felt warm. April felt the buzz she got whenever she was in the room of a master architect.
Mrs. H. ripped a piece of wallpaper with a violent gesture. “No more of this hideousness. In here, I want the walls hand-stamped,” Mrs. H said.
Those were the words April was waiting for. “Perfect,” she said. “That’s my specialty. I have some ideas.”
She opened the portfolio and spread her samples on a side table.
Her stamp designs were good. She’d based her designs on woodblock wallpaper with chrysanthemum motifs.
She pictured her design on the walls. The walls looked as though they had been papered and painted over several times. She’d have a lot of prep work to do, but she liked that part of the job. Walls like these were never straight, that was a given, but she could compensate with the size and shape of her stamps.
Lost in mentally measuring the walls and placing her stamps, April didn’t hear at first what the client was saying. The sound of her father’s voice, however, brought her back to the present. “Sure thing, April can do that,” he said. Glancing toward him, April saw that Mrs. H., her father and Vince had moved over to the inside wall. Her portfolio lay open, ignored.
The three of them were studying the wall. April moved behind them, peeking between Ed and Vince to see what it was she could “do.”
The wall was covered in a mural. Floor to ceiling, from the end of the wall to the arch leading to the living room; it had to be eight feet by twelve feet. It depicted the local Sioux chief meeting with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin’s nose had a major chip, and the colors of the campfire were faded to a pale peach.
“This Refregier mural must be returned to its earlier glory,” Mrs. H. said.
“And Retro Reproductions is the right firm for that,” Ed said.
April looked at her father in shock. What was he doing? She didn’t know anything about restoring murals.
April tugged on her father’s elbow and whispered, “Painting? That’s not what—”
“No problem, Mrs. H.,” her father said over her protests.
She fought to regain control of the conversation. She picked up her sample board and tried to waylay Mrs. H. with it.
“Look,” April said, “once my father’s team finishes restoring the floors and the paneling, these other walls are just right for my expertise. You can see my stamps will work perfectly in here. They are reminiscent of the period without being exact replicas . . .”
The older woman gave one disdainful look at April’s work and ignored her pitch as thoroughly as she would a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman. “All in good time, my dear. You don’t have a problem beginning with the mural, do you? Your brochure says you do all kinds of decorative painting.”
Brochure? Mrs. H. patted a bulging loose-leaf notebook that sat on a sideboard. Opening it, April found pages and pages of design ideas, pull sheets of floor coverings, wood choices, paint samples. The woman was a pantheon of organization. Flipping through the neatly bound collection, April soon located her so-called brochure and pulled it out, frowning.
Vince shot her father a told-you-so look. Ed shrugged.
Her father had used predesigned paper and his computer to make the marketing material. The front read “April Buchert Interiors.” The address was the barn’s and the phone number, her cell. There was something about seeing her name in print like this. She was touched and pissed at the same time.
She started to open her mouth to deny authorship, but her father’s pleading look stopped her.
“We need this job,” he mouthed. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a crude gesture that meant money.
Her indignation faded. Who was she kidding? She needed this job if she wanted to eat. She shrugged and tried to remember what she’d learned in art school about touching up paintings.
“I’m thinking I would also like painted built-ins,” Mrs. H. said.
“No one is touching any furniture I make,” a new voice said. His tone was firm but slightly teasing. Mrs. H.’s eyes widened in anticipation.
“We’re in here, darling boy,” Mrs. H. trilled.
“Must be Mitch,” her father said.
April turned to see the speaker, a tall sandy-haired guy wearing a red baseball cap that read “Winchester Wood-working.” He gave Mrs. H. a stern look, but a smile danced on his lips as he leaned in to hug her. She petted his cheek.
“My brother’s crowning achievement,” she said.
Ed snorted.
“Come on, Ed, you know you love me,” Mitch said. He pumped Ed’s hand and bumped knuckles with Vince.
“I love you as long as you don’t get in my way,” Ed said. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” he said cheerily. He turned to April. “Mitch Winchester, carpenter.” He held out his hand. So this was Rocky’s brother, the table maker.
His forearms were well developed. He smelled of wood and coffee. She fancied she could see shavings clinging to his blue jeans and vintage adidas sneakers. Someone must have told him he looked good with a two-day-old beard. They were right.
April was always attracted to men who worked with their hands. They seemed so competent. And then there was the idea that they’d be good with their hands at other things. Her stomach tingled. She took in a breath to calm down. She was not interested in men. Those that worked with their hands or any other kind.
“I’m April Buchert,” she said. “Of April Buchert Interiors. Evidently.”
She shot a look at her father to let him know that they’d talk about her new job title, and the scope of her work, later. He shrugged.
Mitch said, “Oh, Ed’s daughter, the girl that makes things pretty. I’m the guy who builds the shelves.” He picked up her sample board. “Nice detail. You’ve really nailed the sensibility.”
Vince spoke. “April is a restoration expert, Mitch. Paint and stamps.”
“Mostly stamps,” she corrected, but she smiled at Vince to let him know she appreciated his plug.
Mitch held up his hands in mock horror. “No stamps on my furniture. No paint, no inks, no faux finishes.”
“I do not faux,” April said haughtily.
He smiled at her.
Mrs. H. interrupted. “We’ll discuss all that later, Mitchell. I have Ed’s assurances that April will do whatever we need. For now, I want to show Ed and Vince the drawing room. I’m sure, April, you’ll want to study the mural.”
The trio walked into the hallway. Immediately, their voices got loud and the tone contentious. April heard them discussing the Castle.
Mrs. H. detailed her difficulties. “Do you know what an attractive nuisance is? Not my nude sunbathing neighbor, no. My lawyer says it’s the Castle. A ruin of a building that entices young people to go there. And hang out, playing loud music and doing drugs.”
Mrs. H. had never hung out in her life.
Ed murmured something conciliatory.
“Since it’s on my property, I’m responsible. I’m the one who will have to pay if someone gets hurt. I could get sued.”
Now Mitch was listening, too. He twitched his eyebrows at April.
Most of Ed’s words were lost, but April heard him finish. “It’s a challenge, Mrs. H. The road to it is completely overgrown. I can’t get the bulldozer back there without knocking out trees. And the town tree committee is on me—”
“Not good enough. I can’t be responsible if kids get hurt back there. I don’t want them to have a place to party here anymore. The Castle is just too much of a lure. Take it down. Immediately.”
Mitch had lost interest in the conversation and was looking intensely at April, his gaze as focused as a laser. A scratchy feeling settled in her belly.
“We’ve met.” He tapped his front teeth with a pen. “I
’m sure of it. Did you grow up around here?”
She nodded.
“Belong to the club?” Mitch asked.
She shook her head and put a finger to her lips. She should be paying attention to her father’s discussion in case he volunteered her for some other chore.
“Go to the club pool?” he persisted.
April nodded. As the daughter of an employee, she had had pool privileges.
The conversation in the other room was just murmurs now. The contentious tone was gone. Vince’s deep voice carried, reassuring Mrs. H. that the Castle would be cleared out by the end of the week.
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