“I seen your car outside,” he said. “You still willing to teach me how to build things?”
“You willing to work hard and not complain?”
He gave me the stinkeye; then, finally, with a twist of his mouth, he held his hand out to shake.
“Tell you what,” I said. “This is a professional job, but this weekend I was going to check on the progress at the youth center. I’ll bet they could use your help down there. My stepson Caleb’s going to be there.”
“Will they have snacks?”
“I’m pretty sure they will,” I said. “Plus, there’s a fraternity there, doing some community service. Maybe you could meet a big brother.”
“Okay. Plus, your dad said something about working on Mrs. Lee’s train set. That would be cool.”
“Look, there they are now.” Across the street Etta and my dad were out in her garden, chatting while my dad secured a rose vine to a trellis. “Let’s go say hi and see if my dad needs some help on that model train.”
Dad looked up from his task as Kobe and I approached. “Ah, there she is now. Etta, did I ever tell you my daughter thought that you might be a murderess?”
I felt my face flame as Etta and Kobe stared at me, surprise in their eyes.
“It was just that . . . Kobe mentioned Duct-Tape Dave sent you money, and I . . .” I trailed off with a shrug of embarrassment. “I was just trying to keep an open mind. Kobe seemed wary, and he’s a smart kid. And you had a gun, and . . . anyway . . . I apologize.”
Etta laughed, her blue eyes crinkling attractively. “Dave once sent me money because a few of his customers trampled one of my prizewinning rosebushes—I told you he was always a good boy down deep. And I believe Kobe’s wary because I know his mother, and he knows better than to act up around me. But please don’t be sorry—I do believe that’s the most interesting thing anyone’s assumed about me in quite some time.”
“Mel?” I heard one of my workers calling me from across the street.
“I’d better get back to work,” I said. “But I believe Kobe wanted to volunteer his services with that train set.”
“Do you, now?” said my dad to Kobe, slapping him on the back. “Well, let’s go to the porch and take a look, shall we?”
“How lovely,” said Etta, trailing them into the house. “This is a dream come true. Two handsome men, working on my train set . . .”
“Smells like cookies in here. Do you have any snacks?” I heard Kobe ask as Etta closed the door behind them.
“Hey, boss lady.” I turned to see Graham had arrived. He pulled something out of the cab of his truck that looked suspiciously like a picnic basket. “Time for lunch?”
“Did you bring poetry?” I asked, raising my eyebrows in doubt.
“Nope. Just sushi. But I could try to come up with a limerick or two, if you like.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Just thought it would be nice to have lunch with my favorite cranky contractor. And besides, I was hoping to convince you to meet with my Marin client. The obscenely rich one. We need you.”
“This is the corporate mogul set on importing an entire building from Scotland, to make it into a hotel?”
He nodded. “It’s several buildings, actually, all from an old monastery. We’re having a few problems with the architect, and the permits, and the building department. . . .”
“Code issues?”
“You know how historic buildings are. Nothing but trouble.”
“Sounds right up my alley. Besides, you had me at ‘obscenely rich.’”
“I thought so.”
I flipped open the top of the picnic basket to see Graham had filled it with enough takeout containers to form a sushi feast, everything from miso soup to dragon rolls. And best of all, there was a thermos of hot coffee.
I opened the thermos and took a deep whiff. Really good coffee.
“You, Mr. Graham Donovan, are a man after my own heart.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I just have to check in with my crew, and then I’m all yours.”
“No fair, making empty promises.”
“Speaking of empty promises, weren’t you supposed to be my boy toy?”
He ducked his head and smiled a slow, sexy smile. “That I was, boss lady. That I was.”
Read on for a preview of Juliet Blackwell’s
A Vision in Velvet
A Witchcraft Mystery
Available from Obsidian in July 2014
Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between an antiques dealer and a hoarder.
Sebastian’s Antiques was a tiny shop on a narrow side street off San Francisco’s Jackson Square. The place was so crammed with furniture, paintings, carvings, mirrors, rugs, dolls, miniatures, and tchotchkes that it was hard to know whether its proprietor, Sebastian Crowley, was the owner of a vast treasure trove or simply the unfortunate overseer of a musty, oversized closetful of junk.