Home for the Haunting(34)

Cookie looked shocked. “Don’t be silly! You know I’m not one of those parents who does their kids’ projects for them! Really, Mel. Give me some credit.”

“I give up.”

Cookie pouted. “You didn’t really try.”

“I really did.”

Cookie sighed. “Well, Dad keeps saying how hard you work, so I thought I’d help out. You know I’ve always had a knack for crafty things.”

I nodded. Cookie and Daphne had inherited from our clever mother a full complement of crafty genes. Daphne knitted and sewed and crocheted. Cookie had a huge loom that took up the entire garage, forcing Kyle to rent space in a nearby parking structure for their matching Lexus SUVs.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have a flair for crafts of any kind, other than building houses. I was good at that.

Still, even though I wasn’t particularly inventive or clever with the scrapbooks I created for Turner Construction’s clients, I had modeled them on the ones my mother used to make. They weren’t as good as hers but were reasonably well put-together. I had been rather proud of them, given that I was usually so lame at such things.

But now, Cookie was taking scrapbooking to a whole new level: layering different textures and patterns in a way that somehow worked.

“Doesn’t this look great?”

I had to admit it did. The glitter glue and use of lots of pink and lavender shades wouldn’t have been my choice, yet the proprietor of the Bernini B&B was a Doris Day lookalike who wore a strand of pearls even when cleaning the bathrooms. She was going to love the glitter.

“It really does,” I said, thumbing through the pages. No globs of glue, no ragged edges. She was right—she was better at this than I was. I imagined it sitting on a credenza in the front hall of the B and B, the guests turning the pages, imagining the history of the place as well as visualizing its transformation into the graceful inn it had become. “Um, thanks for doing that. I’m sure they’ll really like it.”

“No prob! Do you have another one you want me to do?”

“I thought I’d put together something for last weekend’s client, Monty. But I don’t have nearly as much stuff—the Bernini B&B was a huge renovation, and we’ve been working there a long time.”

“Well, hand it over and let’s see what we can do!”

Speaking of Monty’s house, I meant to check in with Luz about getting copies of the photos she took on Saturday. And that reminded me to call the Neighbors Together office again. I’d tried twice but had received no callback. I could only imagine that once the big push for the Work Weekend was behind them, the staff took a few well-deserved days off. Still, I needed to speak with the director and let her know what had happened and that I was continuing the project this coming weekend. I hoped. I couldn’t imagine why we couldn’t, but as Inspector Crawford often reminded me, I don’t think like a cop.

I left the scrapbooking to Cookie and met with Stan in our home office. I returned a few phone calls, tried the Neighbors Together number and got the machine again, and then Stan and I went over some paperwork issues that had come up during the day.

“Mel, not to change the subject, but have you noticed anything . . . odd about Monty?” Stan asked.

“Odd like what?”

He stuck out his chin and inclined his head. Stan hailed from Oklahoma and had a calm, folksy way about him that charmed everyone around him. He was a quiet sort who rarely had a bad word to say about anyone.

“I just wondered . . . you say he’s a T-three paraplegic?”

“I think that’s what he said. I don’t remember the details of his injury, though. He’s been in the chair for a few years.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“What is it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Does he have a motorized chair, do you know?”

“I’ve only seen him in the manual one. Why?”

“It’s unusual for someone with that level of injury not to have a motorized chair. It’s also unusual for someone who uses only a manual chair not to have developed more muscle in his chest and arms—that’s why I’m so well built.” He added the last with a smile.

“Huh. I guess I never thought about it.”

“Probably his motorized chair is in the shop. Those things cost an arm and a leg—no pun intended—so probably he’s using his manual one in the interim.”

“Probably. Now tell me the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Come on, Stan, I know when you’re holding back.”

He shrugged again. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just . . . you know how when you get together with builders, y’all talk shop? It’s natural. Well, when I’m with others in chairs, sooner or later we start comparing our chairs, or sharing notes on new products or methods, or recounting our physical ailments. There was none of that with Monty. He didn’t even seem to want to talk about the ramp very much—and let me tell you, when you’re in a chair, a ramp is a very big deal.”