If Walls Could Talk (2 page)

Matt leaned his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his broad musician’s hands, his thinning sandy hair sprouting between his fingers. Looking over at him—and at the once-elegant mansion falling apart around us—I could feel my resolve melting away.

I had sworn I wouldn’t get involved with Matt’s scheme to flip upscale houses, trading on his celebrity and social connections to market to an exclusive clientele. But I liked Matt, and it wouldn’t take that much for me to help him out. After all, remodeling historic homes is my business.

Still, my relationship to the former rock star was tenuous at best. My stepson, Caleb
—ex
-stepson, actually—went to school with Matt’s son. Matt and I had met a couple of years before over cupcakes at a Parents’ Association meeting, and then last year Matt hired me to remodel his kitchen in Sausalito. A couple of months ago, as a special favor, I had done a thorough inspection of this house before Matt bought it.

As far as I was concerned, that was the extent of our relationship. But a lot of rich and famous people wind up growing abnormally close to their contractors. We camp out in their homes for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. We have no particular stake in their wealth or celebrity—though our rates might spike when we enter the poshest neighborhoods. But aside from obvious budget considerations, ripping the toilet out of a crumbling Victorian in humble West Oakland is essentially the same as ripping one out of the fanciest Pacific Heights Beaux-Arts mansion.

The very banality of this interaction can transform a good general contractor into a client’s trusted confidante. There’s nothing quite like a protracted remodel project to devastate a marriage or threaten family harmony, and since taking over my dad’s construction business two years ago I’ve mediated more than my fair share of domestic disputes. I respond to panicky calls about leaky faucets in the middle of the night and find myself hearing much more than I want to know about unfaithful spouses, shady corporate deals, and murky political alliances. I’m like a confessor to some of these people.

Matt Addax, whose long-haired, blue-jean-jacketed, guitar-playing image had adorned my bedroom wall in my teenage years, was one of those people.

“Anybody else get hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t remember much past the . . .” He held his hand up toward the jagged shards of glass remaining in the smashed window frame and trailed off with a defeated shake of his head. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ya know that remodel show on cable, where they do their own demo?” Matt asked, his voice recovering its familiar upbeat tone. “Like Kenneth said, it always seems like a blast. He arranged to have a photog here from the
Chronicle
to document the whole thing. He thought it’d make a brilliant human interest story.”

“Why am I not surprised that Kenneth was involved?”

“He means well.”

I found that hard to believe. But as my mother used to say, if you can’t say something nice, change the subject.

“I’m pretty sure that on TV they don’t encourage participants to drink while using power tools,” I pointed out, passing the bottle back to Max. “They also have professionals running things.”

“You’re right. I’m an idiot. I should have hired you to supervise.”

“You called and asked me to, remember? I refused, because I’m smart.”

“Right. Now I remember.”

“Besides, Kenneth doesn’t like me.”

“He just doesn’t like your rates.”

“Believe me, he doesn’t like
me
.”

And the feeling was mutual. Kenneth had acted as project manager on Matt’s kitchen renovation in Sausalito, but he kept insisting on cutting corners and fudging on little things like code requirements. I had finally walked off the job after an incident involving threatening words concerning the creative use of a jackhammer.

“I give up on this place,” Matt said with a defeated sigh. “Will you fix it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it. I’m tired of it. I don’t care what Kenneth says. Just take over the remodel. If you cut me a break on your fees up front, I can offer you a share of the sale price. We should still be able to make some good money.”

“You’re one week into a remodel and you’re already tired of it? You might want to reconsider this house-flipping venture.”

“We made a killing on the last place.”

“One lucky sale is no foundation for such a risky line of business.”

“Kenneth got this place cheap, though. Because of the haunting deal.”

I was afraid to ask. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“
Haunting
deal?”

“You don’t know about that? People say this place is haunted. So we got it cheap.”

“Seriously?”

“Previous owner had to disclose it in the sale.”

“Let me get this straight: The owners have to tell you if they think their house is haunted?”

He nodded. “Real estate law. It’s part of full disclosure and all that.” His red-rimmed eyes scanned the disaster area surrounding us. “Maybe it really
is
haunted. Maybe
that’s
what happened last night.”

I held up the bottle of vodka. “
This
is what happened last night. These are all the spirits you need to screw up a construction project.”

“At least I followed your advice on one thing: I packed up all the glass lampshades, a lot of the door and window hardware, and anything else that looked valuable or historical.”

“You forgot the chandelier.” I gestured toward the obviously homemade monstrosity hanging in the entryway. Colored rocks and murky crystals had been wrapped in copper wire and hung limply amongst amber, flame-shaped electric bulbs. I sort of admired the concept, but the execution left a lot to be desired.

“With good reason.” Matt snorted. “The former owner considered himself an artist, it seems. There are a number of his creations, here and there.”

“I take it the mosaic in the bathroom is his handiwork? And the homemade fireplace in the den?” I asked, recalling the ugly rock-and-shell-studded surround.

“Yup. And the funky garden walks and the homemade pond. Seems he owned his own cement mixer.” Matt dug into the pocket of his faded jeans and brought out a chain with two keys, one small and one large. “The crate’s in the garage. Could you arrange for storage? It’s padlocked—here’s the key.”

“What’s the other key for?”

“The front door. Say you’ll save me.”

“It’ll be a huge job if we do it right.”

“I know that.”

“Pricey.” Just wanted to be clear.

“I’ll make the money back in the long run. This is Pacific Heights, after all. The sky’s the limit. . . . Listen, Mel, I can’t afford to look like an idiot with this one. I’m too high profile. I need to flip it—fast.”

He looked grim. Matt Addax may have started his professional life as a teenage rock god, but as is the case with so many of us, advancing age brought with it certain unavoidable insights. His big blue eyes and adorable British accent took him only so far. For the past several decades his music career had been in free fall, but during a stint in the exclusive New Leaf rehab center up on the Mendocino coast he had befriended an elite array of socialites—the same place he met the well-connected Kenneth Kostow.

Soon Matt became an all-around San Francisco celebrity, one of those people who didn’t actually have to
do
anything—at least anymore—to be famous. Since he wasn’t a skinny young female who could achieve notoriety by forgetting her underwear, he had to use other methods to distinguish himself. House flipping gave him a semiartistic, cutting-edge career; as he explained to me once,
everyone
loves home design. And I had to hand it to Kostow—he and Matt had done surprisingly well so far.

I looked at the living room, the entry, and the dining room beyond. Yes, there was trash everywhere, holes in the walls, cracked and peeling paint and varnish, and signs of dry rot along some of the windows. But I knew from my previous inspection that the all-important foundation was solid and the main wood supports were intact. And, like most historical structures, Matt’s house had been built with more care, better skills, and finer materials that one would find in any modern home.

Indeed, the bones of the place reflected the grace and refinement of an era long past. Ceilings were high, with peaked arches leading from one room to the next. Wide-plank oak floors were dressed up with an inlaid Greek key border design. The crown moldings were intact, boasting intricate fleur-de-lis and acanthus leaves. The living room fireplace mantel, crowded at the moment with plastic cups and beer cans, was elaborately carved limestone complete with spiral columns and frolicking putti.

I could practically feel the people who had once come to this parlor for a cup of tea, hear the rattle of a newspaper, smell the aroma of pipe smoke, and sense the tinkle of laughter through the years.

Who was I kidding? I had fallen under the house’s spell the first moment I walked in to do the inspection two months ago. The signs of its long neglect and recent abuse hurt my heart. I was already itching to get at it.

“All things considered, the damage looks pretty superficial,” I said, patting Matt on the knee and giving in to my inevitable impulse to save the place. “Nothing a big fat check won’t fix. As long as no one broke a water pipe or compromised a load-bearing wall, you’ll be okay.”

Matt’s bloodshot eyes fixed on me. “You’re a peach, Mel. I mean that.”

“Let’s go survey the damage, shall we?”

First things first. Matt showed me the loaded crate in the ground-floor garage and I made a quick call to my transport and demo guy, Nico, asking him to rescue the grand piano while he was at it. Half Italian and half Samoan, Nico had a big strong truck and an endless supply of similarly sturdy nephews. I felt confident that together they could lift the entire house, much less a piano.

As Matt and I mounted the steps to the second floor, I bit my tongue, trying to keep from commenting on the vodka. It really wasn’t any of my business.

I made it almost halfway up the flight of stairs.

“I thought you quit drinking.”

“I’m in a new program. Booze isn’t strictly forbidden as long as it’s taken in moderation. Besides, my new neighbor brought over a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch. Old enough to vote. What’s a man to do?”

Sounded more like rationalization than science to me, but who was I to say?

I had to smile as we stepped into the master bedroom. A sheet of wallboard had been hung both crooked
and
backward. There were several nails placed, seemingly at random, in one multipaned window frame. And the pièce de résistance: a lacy red bra hung over a closet door.

If this was Matt’s definition of moderation, I’d hate to witness his version of overindulgence.

As I stepped over an empty champagne bottle, my boot kicked something that clinked and skittered across the floor. I squatted and picked up a few of the small brass objects.

“Are those shells?” Matt asked.
“Bloody hell.”

“No, they’re bullets. Thirty-eight caliber.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Shells are cartridge casings that are expelled upon firing.”

Matt looked bewildered.

“The shells hold the gunpowder,” I explained. “They separate from the slug when the gun is fired. The slug’s the part that kills you. These bullets haven’t been fired.”

“You Americans and your guns. What’s the deal?”

My father was an ex-marine who had grown up hunting in the Adirondacks. His dismay at having sired a pack of three girls was alleviated by taking us all to the firing range when my mother wasn’t looking. My sisters soon bowed out, but I had tried my best to be my father’s son and went as far as to take a hunters’ safety training course before I realized there was no way I’d ever be able to shoot Bambi, or any of his relations or other furry woodland friends.

Assessing the cold weight of the metal cartridges in the palm of my hand, I felt a tingle at the base of my neck.

“What exactly went down here last night, Max?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t remember. My ex walked in with her new boy toy, and I started downing that great scotch. I’ll admit, I lost it.”

“Who was invited to this shindig?”

“Everybody. The A-list. Rory Abrams—the guy with that hot new restaurant in North Beach?—took care of the catering. Everyone thought the whole do-it-yourself demo idea was a scream.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, “brandishing Sawzalls and pneumatic drills and
handguns
while downing tequila shooters is a real hoot.”

“It wasn’t that bad. The photographer gave me the name of a guy to handle security at the front door, and he brought along a couple of friends to make sure things didn’t get out of hand.”

“Sounds positively sedate. You guys trashed the place, cut the lights, and someone had a gun?” My eyes scanned the floor for more cartridges. “Tell me, Matt—what would ‘getting out of hand’ look like?”

“Be kind to the man with a beastly hangover. Besides, those bullets could have been here for years for all we know. Maybe they were behind something, just got knocked about in the hubbub.”

“Was there anyone at the party that I’d know? Who was the photographer?”

“A kid—Zachary something. He’s new. Cute. Looks like a young Antonio Banderas, except, ya know, not Spanish.”

I crossed over to the crooked wallboard and peered into the deep recess beyond. Because of the line of the eaves, there was more than the standard six inches of space behind the wall. A dark niche extended back several feet. The perfect hiding place.

“Hey, Matt, I think I see something back in here.”

Matt wrinkled his nose. “I hate that—when they open up the walls. It smells funky.”

“Are you serious? That’s the fun part.”

“It’s the anthropologist in you coming out. The love of digging up old bones. I’m telling you, it’s bad juju.”