Free If Walls Could Talk by Juliet Blackwell Page A

architect in a project of that scale. I can put some preliminary numbers together for you, but they’ll depend on engineering reports and the final drawings.”
    I had the sense that Celia’s true agenda had more to do with her son’s love life than construction, but I still felt obligated to work up a proposal. We descended into the basement, and I took measurements while we talked further about what she envisioned. I jotted down some notes and sketches on my clipboard, took a series of photos with my small digital camera, and promised to send the estimate soon.
    Vincent saw me to the front door as I left.
    “So, I have to say, I think my mother has good taste. Could I take you out for a proper dinner sometime?”
    “I . . . I’m flattered, but . . .”
    “You don’t date clients?”
    I don’t date anyone .
    “Actually, I don’t. But I appreciate being asked. Thank you.”
    “Consider it an open invitation. And don’t think my mother will give up this easily. She seems sweet, but she has an iron will. You wait—she’ll come up with another scheme soon enough.”
     
    The police were still milling about next door when I emerged from Celia’s house.
    I couldn’t justify hopping in my car and leaving without at least offering to talk to them. Besides, I wanted to ask when I might be allowed to start construction. This being my first crime scene, I had no idea how long it would take to process the place for evidence. A day? A month?
    I waited outside on the sidewalk while a uniformed cop went into Matt’s house to fetch the detective in charge. I was just as glad that I wasn’t invited in. I wasn’t ready to go back inside what I now thought of as Matt’s House of Horrors.
    I hoped my trepidation would die down soon; it would be difficult to give my all to a construction project with that kind of attitude.
    The man who came out of the house to talk to me had the puffy, ruddy look of a heavy drinker. He was a large man, the kind who might once have been attractive but had gone soft over the years: a high school football star heading for his fifties and fighting it the whole way. He seemed right at that pivotal point when he was about to start the dramatic slide down.
    “I’m Inspector Brice Lehner,” he said without preamble. Chewing gum with a vengeance, he fixed me with pale, intense eyes and demanded: “You the Turner Construction on the permit?”
    “On the permit? I’m not—” I began, then hesitated. I didn’t want to get Matt into any more trouble. But how could Turner Construction be named on a permit? Conveniently for me, Inspector Lehner wasn’t waiting on my answer.
    “I’m just sayin’,” he interrupted, “seein’ as how your name’s on the work permit, you could be held liable in this situation if it’s ruled a workplace accident. Hope your insurance is paid up.”
    My heart raced. A homeowner ignoring safety codes could plead ignorance; a contractor deals with fines at best . . . or at worst loses her license and faces a lawsuit. But this was crazy. I hadn’t filed any permits with the city. For the moment, though, I thought discretion the better part of valor.
    “Did you see the statement I gave the responding officer?” I asked. “And get the cartridges I found?”
    “Yeah, I got ’em. But Kostow wasn’t shot with a regular gun. Just nails.”
    Lehner’s eyes kept moving around, looking at just about everything but me. He chewed his gum double time and had a habit of flicking his chin whiskers with his thumb. He was a twitchy guy.
    “Surely this couldn’t have been an accident, though, could it?” I asked.
    “We’re investigating all possibilities, including suicide.”
    “But Kenneth couldn’t have—”
    “Look, lady, we’re looking into it, okay? Just because your ass is on the line doesn’t mean I’m declarin’ it a crime if it wasn’t one, get me? Anything else you want to add to your previous statement?”
    Again I hesitated. I should tell Inspector