Dead Bolt by juliet blackwell

designs of those houses dictated the internal design. But Matt’s house was more open, a conglomeration of styles. While I was there I spoke to the faux finishers about coming by Cheshire House with some books and sample portfolios of classic Queen Anne designs. The head finisher, Dallas Finkel, was a hardheaded businessman who brought the work in on time and up to my standards. All his artists were women, because according to Dallas only women could be trusted not to make a mess and to get the job done. I tried not to think in gender terms, but I had to agree with Dallas on this one. The construction site was dominated by testosterone up until the finishing artistic touches, which were often completed by women.
    As I looked around, I sighed in pleasure. The building had reclaimed its original character, in the graceful bones and elegant lines. No wonder Matt wanted to stay here.
    I was just wrapping up with Dallas when Graham Donovan walked in.
    “Graham.” I nodded, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.
    “Mel. Nice to see you.”
    “You, too.
    As usual our gazes held a little too long.
    Matt noted the interaction with interest. Ever since we’d become good friends, Matt had been trying to set me up on dates. I hoped to keep my history with Graham under wraps, but among the workers were a few who had known me and my dad for fifteen years or more. And construction workers were gossips of the highest order.
    I pulled Graham outside, where the narrow passageway between the houses gave us a little privacy.
    Unfortunately, this meant we stood close to each other. I hadn’t been much good at chemistry in high school, but I sure seemed to be experiencing a lot now. Whenever I was within ten feet of Graham my hormones shifted into overdrive. He looked good, and smelled better. But he was cautious in the romance department. Welcome to the club.
    This annoyed me. Or maybe I was just feeling generally jumpy, what with ghosts on my job site and all. Whatever the cause, rather than ask the man out as I’d coached myself while washing dishes last night, I snapped at him instead.
    “Hey, what’s with jumping into the Cheshire House job without consulting me?” I said.
    “Remind me?”
    “You have so many jobs you can’t tell them apart? It’s a fabulous Queen Anne on Union Street. Jim and Katenka Daley are the owners. Surely you remember which of my jobs you’re poaching?”
    “I’m not poaching your jobs.”
    “I’m the general contractor. You go through me.”
    “Whoa, back up, Mel. Jim Daley called me in for a consult. It was only after I arrived that I realized it was your job site.” He smiled down at me. “I planned on speaking with you, as I would with any general, but I assumed I’d see you today. And here you are. Hey, maybe I’m psychic now.”
    “Think so? Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?”
    “Anybody ever tell you you’re cute when you’re mad?”
    “No, because I’m always mad. And I’m rarely cute.”
    “Okay, you’re not cute. You’re very scary. Intimidating. I’m quaking in my work boots.”
    I tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile. “So what’s Jim looking to do? Can you give me the abridged version?”
    “Basic stuff mostly, things you’re no doubt already planning to incorporate: insulation and double-paned windows. That sort of thing . . .”
    I nodded. “And?”
    “And what?”
    “Graham . . . beans. Spill.”
    “He wants solar. He’d prefer wind if we could get the permits, but I don’t imagine his neighbors would go for a windmill in the backyard.”
    I blew out a frustrated breath.
    “It’s not that bad.”
    “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to deal with the decorative shingle patterns on the roof.”
    Some of the most effective green technologies, like solar and wind power, are wonderful ideas in the abstract, but play heck with trying to accomplish historical restoration while maintaining a modicum of aesthetic