Sarah Graves - Knockdown: A Home Repair Is Homicide Mystery

BY SARAH GRAVES

The Dead Cat Bounce
Triple Witch
Wicked Fix
Repair to Her Grave
Wreck the Halls
Unhinged
Mallets Aforethought
Tool & Die
Nail Biter
Trap Door
The Book of Old Houses
A Face at the Window
Crawlspace
Knockdown

SARAH GRAVES lives with her husband in Eastport, Maine, in the 1823 Federal-style house that helped inspire her books. This series and the authors real-life experiences have been featured in House & Garden and USA Today. She is currently at work on the newest Home Repair Is Homicide mystery.

H ER NAME WAS JACOBIA TIPTREEJAKE, TO HER FRIENDS and on that bright day in July twelve years after the Manhattan meeting, she was scraping loose paint off the porch steps of her big old house in Eastport, Maine, when the guy on the bike went by again.

Or shed thought the paint would be loose, anyway. But as her son Sam always said, hope springs infernal, and the reality was something else again. Meanwhile:

Pedaling slowly, looking right at her, the guy on the bike frowned as if hed just sniffed a spoiled carton of milk. He was decent enough looking otherwise, clean-shaven and neatly dressed.

But this was his third trip past her home in the last half-hour. And each time he went by, hed been staring at her in that same unpleasant, almost accusing way.

Still holding the scraper, she got up, trying to recall where shed seen his sour expression before. That she had seen it she felt certain, but on somebody elses face.

A similar face. The guy turned the corner, not looking back. She stood there another moment, wondering. But then with a mental shrug she knelt by the steps once more and returned to work.

After all, it was nearly the Fourth of July, and the remote island town of Eastportthree hours from Bangor, light-years from anywhere elsewas full of tourists. No doubt the bicyclist was one of them, and she really had seen him around, somewhere.

As for his riding by so often, maybe he liked the house. She had when, upon finding Eastport over a decade ago, shed fallen instantly in love with the old place. Now from the porch steps she pictured it as shed first seen it:

An 1823 white clapboard Federal with three stories plus an attic, it had three red-brick chimneys and forty-eight windows, each with a pair of green shutters. Among its other selling points were a huge yard, a fireplace in every room, and original hardwood floors.

Unfortunately, it had also been a wreck. Under nearly two hundred years worth of charm lay nearly as many of neglect; shed had to get the wiring redone and the chimneys rebuilt, and it had needed painting.

All of which shed had done, for an amount slightly less than it wouldve cost to bulldoze the place and start over. Back then, shed known no better; nowadays, mostly from necessity, she was a halfway decent home-repair enthusiast.

But it wasnt only about money. Scrape off enough old paint, patch enough plaster, sand the wood floors and rehabilitate half a hundred antique windows plus shutters, and you too could begin feeling that maybejust maybeyoud rehabilitated yourself.

Too bad the half she was any good at was so rarely the half that needed doing. This time, shed decided to paint all the parts of the house that she could reach and farm out the high work. The plan had seemed reasonable as she was formulating it.

But for one thing, the porch was massive. So there was a lot of old paint to scrape off before the new could go on. Also, the peeling bits clung like barnacles. Wielding the tool, she went at them with fresh energy; they hung on for dear life.

Grr, she muttered, but they couldnt hear her, and even if they could it would probably only make them more obstinate.

As she thought this, the guy on the bike appeared again, pedaling along. Dark hair, striped red-and-white polo shirt, blue jeans in his middle twenties, maybe, she thought.

The bike was a balloon-tired Schwinn from the fleet of them that were available for rent downtown, with a wire basket up front, fake-leather saddlebags, and a bell.

Brring! She wouldnt have thought a bike bell could be rung threateningly, but he managed it.

Hey, she began, taking a step toward the street.

Climbing sharply from the waterfront, Key Street featured big antique houses fronted by huge maples lining each side. It was the very picture of a traditional Maine coast towns prosperous old residential area. Scowling, the guy stood on the pedals and pumped, speeding away through it.

Once more she felt she knew him from somewhere. But there wasnt much she could do about it, so when hed gone she returned to removing a ton of porch paint one stubborn chip at a time.

Soon a warm, salt breeze, sunshine like pale champagne, and the faint cries of seagulls over the bay had all but erased her memory of the bike guy until, just when shed really forgotten about him, he came back yet again, half an hour or so later.

Using a belt sander, she was at last making progress on the job. Under the power tools howling attack, the paint came off in clouds of sawdust.

And that was more like it. Shed finished the first step, begun on the second, and shut the sander off to replace a clogged belt when someone behind her cleared his throat meaningfully. On its own, her hand moved to grab the sharp-edged paint scraper.

You wont need that. His voice was New Yorkaccented.

She stood, turned, and took a step toward him, forcing him to move back fast.

Youre on private property. And I want you to leave now.

The fellow smiled at her. Not a pleasant smile.

More like a baring of teeth. Yeah, I guess you would.

Close up, he appeared clean and neat, with a careful shave and a recent haircut. But hey, not everyone gets what they want in this world. The smile slid into a smirk.

Her heart thumped. Youve mistaken me for someone else. She took another step. Youll have to go, or Im going to call the police and let them take care of you.

At this he let out a laugh of genuine amusement. She was gripping the paint scraper very tightly, she realized.

Call the police, he repeated. Thats a good one.

Okay, thats it. I mean it, you need to go.

She searched her mind for an exit strategy, not wanting to turn her back on him. Besides, the screen door at the top of the steps was locked so the dogs wouldnt barge out through it.

Oh, the hell with it. Back in Manhattan, half the pedestrians on the sidewalk were pushier than this guy. Scraper in hand, she advanced on him.

His hands went up in a conciliatory gesture. Okay, I get the idea. You dont want to hash over old times.

She followed him to the end of the sidewalk. He got on the bike, rode it in a tight circle, then braked hard, skidding.

I guess if I were you, I wouldnt want the past coming back to bite me, either. Not if Id done what you did.

Speechless, she could only stare.

But it has, he continued. Whatd it say in that famous guys play? Murder will out?

She found her own voice. Youve got the wrong person. Now please take your nonsense and

His hands gripped the handlebars: smooth skin, pristine fingernails. I know you, though. And what you did. Anyway, youve got until the fourth, he added. When its over, you will be, too. Over, that is.

As he spoke, a little cloud sailed across the sun and the sky darkened suddenly. The breeze stiffened, and all at once the gulls cries sounded hostile.

That play-writing guy had it right, said her unpleasant visitor. Blood shows up again. Murder will out.