Page 7

And Winchester House is pretty, too. Or it will be. Eventually. Once I fix approximately four thousand things.

Starting with the plumbing.

And the electrical.

And the roof.

And whatever the hell is making that scratching noise inside the wall of the upstairs bathroom.

I really hope it’s a squirrel.

I really, really hope it’s not a family of squirrels.

“I had a plumber here today,” I inform Rocky.

He’s perched on the stone railing about three feet from my chair, all hunched shoulders and folded wings and a face only a mother could love.

Assuming his mother was also a gargoyle.

“And do you know what he said?”

Silence.

“He said, and I quote, ‘Well, that’s not good.’“

I pause for effect.

“Do you know what you never want to hear from a plumber, Rocky? Those exact words.”

I take another drink.

“Apparently, there’s a problem with the main sewer line. Which is great. Fantastic, really. Because nothing says fresh start like the possibility of raw sewage bubbling up through your bathtub.”

The plumber had quoted me a number that made my stomach drop into my shoes.

Then he’d said he’d need to come back next week with a different piece of equipment.

Next week. As if I have that kind of time. Or money.

Especially the money.

“And then my paint didn’t arrive. Even though the tracking information says it was delivered. So somewhere in this town, somebody is enjoying six gallons of Misty Morning Blue, and I hope they’re very happy together.”

I narrow my eyes at Rocky.

“You’re not being very sympathetic.”

He stares at me.

“Typical man.”

Technically, I don’t know if Rocky is a man. Or male. Or whatever the correct terminology is for a gargoyle.

He looks male.

In a horrifying, demonic sort of way.

He’s got horns, enormous clawed feet, and a face that looks like somebody crossed a bulldog with a bat and then hit the result with an ugly stick.