A High-End Finish(12)
When I was finished, I took pictures and posted them on the town’s Web site with some details and room rates. Each suite had an ocean view out the bay window and was furnished with a small dining table and chairs, a king-sized bed, and two nightstands, plus a love seat and a comfortable lounge chair for reading or watching TV. There was space for a compact desk and matching chair, too, and I threw in free Wi-Fi to attract business travelers.
These days, I was able to keep both spaces rented for five months out of the year. The rent money went into my emergency fund, which I accessed only for emergencies. Duh.
I wasn’t really happy about the tenant who would be arriving the next day, but I’d had no choice in accepting him. Wendell Jarvick showed up for two weeks each fall and did nothing but whine the whole time. Everyone in town knew and hated him because he complained about his meals, his bed, the insects, the sand, the ocean, the crowds, the weather—everything. Some of the townspeople swore he brought the bugs with him.
One of Wendell’s biggest complaints was that he could never get the same hotel room two years in a row. There was a reason for that, but no one was about to explain it to him. The fact was, we had all conspired to spread the pain so no one person or establishment would have to put up with the obnoxious man for two years running.
This year, it was my turn. Wendell would arrive tomorrow and stay for two weeks, much to my dismay. And probably his, too.
I had just finishing polishing the table surfaces when my cell phone rang. It was Stan Boyer, the new owner of a house I was renovating, a once-noble but now broken-down Victorian at South Cove, as we called the southern end of Alisal Cliffs, overlooking the beach.
“I just got a call from the neighbors,” Stan said. “They were out walking their dog and heard water running over at our place. My wife and I are still in San Francisco, so I’m hoping you might have time to drive by and check it out.”
“I’ll go right now.” I didn’t want more water damage on top of everything else that was wrong with that house. There was an old sump pump located in the dilapidated basement. I had a feeling that’s where the problem might be. I glanced at my watch. I still had a few hours of daylight left. “I’ll call and let you know if there’s a problem.”
I took a last look around the guest suite to make sure everything was ready for Wendell’s arrival. Then I ran downstairs and into the house to grab my purse and an emergency tool kit, just in case.
It was getting chilly by the time I reached the Boyers’ historic Victorian home. It had been built in 1870 in classic Second Empire style with its tall, narrow lines and high mansard roof. The style had never been one of my favorites, although I suppose it had its charms. It always reminded me of the Addams Family house or, worse, the house on the hill in the movie Psycho. What can I say? I was an impressionable kid when I first saw that movie.
It didn’t help that the house had been built on a jagged rock cliff away from the other homes in the area, which gave it a dark, desolate feeling. But maybe that was just my imagination.
I climbed the front stairs cautiously, since two of the planks had rotted out. I stood at the front door for a few seconds and listened. Sure enough, water was running somewhere in the house. Maybe it was just a toilet and I could jiggle the handle and leave. But life was rarely that simple.
The basement stairs were accessed through a door off the kitchen. My workers and I kept the door locked because the deteriorating wood stairs were so dangerous. We had run ropes along the sides of the stairwell for the guys to grip when going up or down and we’d fashioned a ramp made of a long row of two-by-fours nailed together. But it was still a precarious descent.
I unlocked the door and heard the water rumble louder. Definitely the sump pump, I thought. I pulled the string that dangled above my head to turn on the light, but nothing happened.
“Damn bulb must’ve burned out,” I muttered, and went out to the truck to get my flashlight. No way was I navigating down there without a light.
The flashlight threw wild shadows onto the walls of the narrow stairwell. I had to aim it downward to make sure I didn’t take a tumble, especially since the ramp was so steep and not bolted down yet. I clung to the rope with one hand and held my breath as I tiptoed the rest of the way down.
The sump pump was at the far end of the cavernous room. I could hear the water gushing now. The drainage basin must’ve become obstructed somehow. I moved carefully across the room, avoiding the low-hanging beams and the heavy columns of wood that held up the house.
Even with my flashlight guiding the way, I almost tripped over something on the floor.
It was an arm.
My heart was pounding in double time and I trembled so hard I almost fell. There was a man lying facedown on the cold, broken foundation, his arms flung out from his body. My flashlight beam was wavering, but I managed to train it directly at the man’s head.
I backed up and almost tripped against one of the new weight-bearing posts. I squeezed my eyes shut but I could still see the blood caked to his temple where someone had bludgeoned him with something like a baseball bat.
Chills crept down my spine as I recognized the face of the man whose blood had pooled on the floor beneath his cheek. It was Jerry Saxton, my blind date from the other night. He was dead.
Chapter Three
I sat at the top of the stairs outside on the front porch and watched the two police cruisers pull up in front of the Boyers’ house. Only minutes ago, I’d raced out of the house and called the police faster than I’d ever done anything in my life.