Crowned and Moldering

PRAISE FOR KATE CARLISLE’S FIXER-UPPER MYSTERIES

Crowned and Moldering

“Kate Carlisle uses her trademark clever wit and complex plotting to pen a mystery
that can only be solved by a smart, funny, and courageous heroine such as Shannon
Hammer . . . [an] immensely satisfying page-turner of mystery.”

—Jenn McKinlay,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Library Lover’s, Cupcake Bakery, and Hat Shop Mysteries

“Sleuth Shannon Hammer knows her way around a building site and a murder—I fell for
this feisty take-charge heroine and readers will, too.”

—Leslie Meier,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Lucy Stone Mysteries

This Old Homicide

“Carlisle’s second contractor cozy continues to please with its smart, humorous heroine
and plot. Fans of Sarah Graves’s Home Repair Is Homicide series will appreciate this
title as a solid read-alike.”

—
Library Journal

“Another dynamic series . . . the townspeople are fun and bring a lot to the already-interesting
story. Shannon has her hands full with a mystery that is close to home, not to mention
the two hunky men who are vying for her attention. Another winner from one of the
leaders in the genre!”

—
RT Book Reviews

A High-End Finish

“Light and frothy, this new series launch . . . makes for perfect escapist cozy fare.
Recommended for fans of Susan Wittig Albert and Rosemary Harris.”

—
Library Journal

“With her trademark wit, [Carlisle] will captivate readers. . . . This book will have
readers flipping the pages to find out who the culprit really is. Throw in not one,
but two love interests and
A High-End Finish
is a must read!”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4½ stars)

“Delightfully entertaining. . . . A lovable cast, engaging conversations, and a small-town
setting add to the allure of this charming new series.”

—Dru’s Book Musings

“Highly entertaining . . . quick, clever, and somewhat edgy. . . . Shannon’s not a
stereotype—she’s a person, and an interesting, intelligent, likable one at that, which
makes it easy to become invested in her tale.”

—Smitten by Books

PRAISE FOR KATE CARLISLE’S
NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING BIBLIOPHILE MYSTERIES

“A delicious, twisty tale, it features food, friends, fiends, and a mysterious antique
cookbook that binds them all. Kate Carlisle’s most delectable installment yet. Don’t
miss it!”

—Julie Hyzy,
New York Times
bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries and

the Manor House Mysteries

“A terrific read for those who are interested in the book arts and enjoy a counterculture
foray and ensemble casts. Great fun all around!”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

“Saucy, sassy, and smart—a fun read with a great sense of humor and a soupçon of suspense.
Enjoy!”

—Nancy Atherton,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Aunt Dimity Mysteries

“Well-plotted. . . . Carlisle keeps the suspense high.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A cursed book, a dead mentor, and a snarky rival send book restorer Brooklyn Wainwright
on a chase for clues—and fine food and wine—in Kate Carlisle’s fun and funny delightful
debut.”

—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of

the Booktown Mysteries

“This is an entertaining cozy mystery that weaves the professional cooking process
(and Brooklyn’s amateur attempts) into a good old-fashioned whodunit.”

—Once Upon a Romance

“A fun, fast-paced mystery that is laugh-out-loud funny. Even better, it keeps you
guessing to the very end. Sure to be one of the very best books of the year! Welcome
Kate Carlisle, a fabulous new voice in the mystery market.”

—Susan Mallery,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Evening Stars

“Kate Carlisle weaves an intriguing tale with a fascinating peek into the behind-the-scenes
world of rare books. Great fun, and educational too.”

—
Suspense Magazine

“Kate Carlisle never fails to make me laugh, even as she has me turning the pages
to see what’s going to happen next . . . suspenseful, intelligent mysteries with a
sense of humor.”

—Miranda James,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

“With a wealth of entertaining characters and fascinating facts on bookbinding thrown
in, it’s a winner!”

—
RT Book Reviews

“
A Cookbook Conspiracy
is another superb entry—and this one is succulent as well—in Kate Carlisle’s witty,
wacky, and wonderful bibliophile series . . . highly entertaining.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

“Carlisle’s story is captivating, and she peoples it with a cast of eccentrics. Books
seldom kill, of course, but this one could murder an early bedtime.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Who’d have thought book restoration could be so exciting?”

—Parnell Hall, author of the Puzzle Lady mystery series

“Carlisle weaves fascinating history and details of book preservation into a well-crafted
story. For Lorna Barrett fans.”

—
Booklist

“A stellar book from an amazing author . . . another suspenseful and humorous mystery
full of quirky characters that you’ll want to visit again and again.”

—Fresh Fiction

FIXER-UPPER MYSTERIES

A High-End Finish

This Old Homicide

BIBLIOPHILE MYSTERIES

Homicide in Hardcover

If Books Could Kill

The Lies That Bind

Murder Under Cover

Pages of Sin
(novella; e-book only)

One Book in the Grave

Peril in Paperback

The Cookbook Conspiracy

The Book Stops Here

Ripped from the Pages

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

First Printing, November 2015

Copyright © Kathleen Beaver, 2015

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse
voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying
an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing,
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Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

ISBN 978-0-698-15396-7

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

For my father, James Carlisle Beaver Jr., contractor, storyteller, life of the party.

I gazed up at the neglected beauty and tingled with excitement. I was so ready to
turn this old eyesore into the grand masterpiece it had once been.

The venerable lighthouse mansion was situated on a large tract of land surrounded
by a once-lovely green lawn that had become overgrown and scruffy with crabgrass and
brown weeds. A fine layer of sand covered the entire expanse, having been carried
by the wind from the dunes that bordered the beach nearby.

The lighthouse tower stood a few yards away to the north of the house. To the west,
the rough, rocky breakwater speared into the sea. Waves crashed and a fine mist of
salt water was spewed in every direction.

“I love my job,” I murmured as I grabbed the thick roll of blueprints from the narrow
backseat of my truck. I slammed the door shut and marched across the sprawling lawn.

The rough March wind gusting off the ocean lifted my mop of wavy red hair and blew
it around until I couldn’t see straight. I finally had to stop at the bottom of the
stairs leading up to the front porch or risk tripping on the steps. I set down the
tool chest I was carrying and shoved the hair back off my face. And that’s when I
beheld the wondrous sight before me at the top of the stairway.

MacKintyre Sullivan, world-famous, bestselling thriller writer and former Navy SEAL,
stood with his arms crossed as he leaned against one of the smooth Doric columns that
braced the roof covering the wide porch. The man looked for all the world like some
handsome, dashingly entitled lord of the manor—
if
the lord of the manor happened to be an unrepentant pirate with a wicked smile and
a gleam in his dark blue eyes.

Mac had moved to Lighthouse Cove, California, a few months ago and almost immediately
looked into buying the famous mansion by the lighthouse. The purchase had to be approved
by both the town Planning Commission and the Historical Society. Not only was the
mansion a local landmark with a lot of history attached to it, but the new owner of
the home would have to be responsible for upkeep of the lighthouse—for which our town
was named. Mac was willing to do the work.

“Those are the new blueprints?” Mac asked, pointing at the thick roll of papers in
my hands. “So this is it? No more delays?”

“No more delays—I promise you.” I picked up my tool chest and made my way up the eight
steps and onto the sturdy wooden porch. Flashing him a determined smile, I added,
“And no more red tape from the Planning Commission. No more whining from the Historical
Society. And, especially, no more tiny white rats to send me screaming from this house
again.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t blame him. It was still a source of deep embarrassment
to me that a few weeks ago, I had spotted the little-bitty rodent skittering across
the kitchen floor. With a shriek, I had dashed out of Mac’s kitchen and hadn’t stopped
until I’d made it all the way across the wide lawn to my truck.

What can I say? Rats creep me out.

“Then we’re finally ready to get started.” He pushed away from the column and strolled
toward me. “I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks.”

“Perfect.” Because, to be honest, Mac’s busy schedule had also produced a number of
holdups lately. Flying off to New York, meeting with editors, dining with agents,
going on book tours. Deadlines. The world-famous writer was a busy man.

I recalled one more unhappy distraction that had occurred recently and prayed there
would be no more funerals, please. We didn’t need anyone else dying in Lighthouse
Cove. Besides being unbearably sad, the recent suspicious death of a dear friend had
indeed thrown a shocking wrench into the schedule, causing yet more delays to Mac’s
plans to start the renovation of his new home.

Another gust of wind rushed up from the ocean, but before it could whip my hair into
a greater tangle of curls, I turned toward the wind and lifted my face to catch the
mist.

“Man, I love it out here,” Mac said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker.

“It’s a good day.” Cold, windy, with dark clouds forming out on the horizon; there
would be rain within a few hours. Still, it was wonderful to be here, ready to begin
the job of rehabbing the most iconic house in Lighthouse Cove for the hunky Mac Sullivan.

I checked my watch, eager to begin. Once my guys and I finished going through the
house with Mac, I would work out a schedule and make up a list of supplies and equipment
we would need. And within a few days, my crew and I would start restoring this wonderful
old Victorian to its former glory.

That was why Mac had hired me, after all. My name is Shannon Hammer, and I’m a building
contractor specializing in Victorian-home renovation and rehab. I had taken over my
father’s construction business five years ago when Dad suffered a mild heart attack
and decided to retire. Since then, I liked to think I’d proven to my clients that
the best man for the job is often a woman. Namely, me.

“Wade and the guys should be here any minute,” I said, referring to my foreman, Wade
Chambers, and two of my most reliable crew members, Sean Brogan and Johnny Schmidt.

“In that case,” Mac said, “I’ll get this out of the way.” And with that, he pulled
me into his arms and kissed me.

I didn’t protest. I should’ve, but instead I sighed and wrapped my arms around his
neck, reveling in the warmth of his touch. This really was not a good idea. And I
would put a stop to it any minute now.

A truck horn sounded out on the highway and I jolted and took a quick step backward.
It took me a moment to catch my breath. “Uh, that must be the guys.”

Mac was smiling broadly as he let go of me. “Must be.”

I coughed softly, knowing the guys’ truck wouldn’t actually show up in front of Mac’s
house for another minute or two. I just needed to give myself a few more seconds to
recover from the unexpected kiss. “Hmm.”

He laughed and stroked my hair. “I’m crazy about you, Irish.”

I was kind of crazy about him, too. But since I was afraid of setting myself up for
a fall, I gave him a weak smile and said nothing.

Mac and I had grown close over the past few months, since he’d moved to Lighthouse
Cove. It helped that he’d rented the guest apartment over my garage and lived only
a few yards away from me. We’d had a few late-night adventures while chasing down
a killer and, yes, there had been a few kisses. I had hoped that maybe we’d grow closer
and, well . . . Anyway, things got complicated the morning I saw him escorting a gorgeous
blond supermodel out of his apartment. Ever since then I’d been rethinking the idea
of getting involved with one of the most sought-after bachelor millionaires in the
world.

I probably should’ve demanded to know what he’d been thinking by flirting with me
while seeing some supermodel on the side. But it wasn’t like me to be pushy that way,
an obvious flaw in my character. Don’t get me wrong—I could be plenty assertive in
other areas, but when it came to men and dating and such, I tended to hold back. Considering
my checkered dating history, it made sense. In the past nine years, I’d dated exactly
three men. One turned out to be gay, another was a car thief, and the third ended
up dead—or, to put it more bluntly, murdered. Was it any wonder that I didn’t want
to probe too much? Better to just walk away with my sanity and ego intact.

That was one more reason why I should’ve ended the kiss as soon as it began. Another
was that kissing a client on the job probably wasn’t the most professional thing I
could’ve been doing right then, especially with my crew guys about to drive up at
any second. But did that stop me? Obviously not.

In my defense, Mac was a world-class kisser.

I shook off those thoughts and took the opportunity to study the elegant old porch.
It was wide and stretched across most of the front and halfway along the north side
of the house, following the curve of the corner tower. Double Doric columns gave the
graceful, circular porch a worldly style that belied the mansion’s utilitarian roots.
With its incomparable ocean view, the porch could be turned into a wonderful outdoor
living/dining space.

Currently, though, it was pretty shabby. The floor planks were dull and a few of the
boards around the outer edges were spongy and crumbling after sustaining years of
damage from the sun and ocean air. Once those boards were replaced, we could re-sand
the surface and add several coats of clear varnish, and all of it would be shiny and
new again.

Things wouldn’t go so easy for the beams above our heads. The porch roof had actually
begun to sag from water damage, and those rotten headers and crossbeams would need
replacing immediately. The sooner we started work on this portion of the house, the
better. I figured if I could see the wood decomposing with my own eyes, it had to
be even worse beneath the surfaces.

I jotted down more notes on my tablet and then used the device to take some photographs
of the decaying beams in order to remind myself how bad the damage was.

Wade’s truck finally came into view and Mac jogged down the steps and over to meet
the guys. I took the moment to regroup, breathing in more ocean air and staring at
the spectacle of waves tumbling and crashing against the rocky coastline.

Once I’d cleared my head and regained my senses—that kiss really was more potent than
I’d realized—I was able to relax and watch Wade’s truck jerk and buck to a stop. There
was nothing wrong with his truck; the lurching was due to the timeworn cracks and
potholes that pitted Old Lighthouse Road, right up to the edge of Mac’s property.
I had a feeling he would want to repave the path eventually, unless he liked replacing
tires on his SUV more often than usual.

I waved to my guys, who were unloading their tool chests and ladders, with Mac lending
a hand. Since they had things under control, I continued making notes on the exterior
repairs needed to make to bring the house back to its former splendor.

For some unknown reason, people in Lighthouse Cove had always called this place the
lighthouse mansion. Yes, the house stood within a few yards of the lighthouse, but
it was the
mansion
part of the phrase that had always seemed misleading. That was because our town was
famous for its abundance of breathtakingly massive Victorian homes, while Mac’s new
place wasn’t all that large. But the home had a quiet, stately presence, unencumbered
by the ostentatious gingerbread detailing that Victorians were known for. The term
mansion
just seemed to suit it.

Despite the lack of decorative clutter, the mansion still had many of the classic
Queen Anne features, including the convoluted roof lines, the seemingly random placement
and sizes of the windows, the multiple chimneys, and the many different surface textures
that changed from floor to floor and gable to gable.

On the second floor, a shingled overhang sheltered a set of arched Palladian windows
braced by more Doric columns. I made a note to check those charming old fish-scale
shingles for termite damage. A small balcony off the master bedroom on the second
floor cried out for a new railing. The copper gutters circling the third-floor tower
would have to be replaced. I could see the gaping holes from where I was standing.

I hadn’t seen the basement yet, but according to the blueprints, it ran the entire
length and width of the house. You didn’t see that feature in many Victorian homes,
and if Mac wanted to, he could probably create the biggest man cave in town. But chances
were good that some load-bearing posts and a beam or two would have to be replaced
before any other work could occur. Wind and water damage was the price a homeowner
paid to have a house this close to the shoreline.

I took a quick walk down the steps and around to the south side of the house, where
a jewel-box-sized solarium had been built to connect with the first-floor parlor,
or living room. It was a true rarity, made of strong white galvanized wrought iron
and tempered-glass panels. I stared through one of the windows and saw the worn brick
floor in a room just large enough to contain a few dozen plants and some potted trees,
along with a small conversation area made up of a settee and a chair or two. It would
be the perfect sunny place to read a book or take a nap.

The presence of a solarium might’ve seemed frivolous at first glance, but I’d read
that the navy had built it specifically to grow citrus trees in pots, in order to
provide juice for the sailors who were once stationed here. No scurvy for those boys.

Past the solarium was the root cellar with its thick wooden door, detached, deteriorating,
and leaning against the side of the house. As I’d noted on my last visit, there were
shutters hanging off their frames and several bricks missing from the chimney at the
back of the house. The paint on most of the exterior walls was peeling badly, but
there was plenty of other work to be done before we could start scraping, sanding,
and painting.

Call me perverse, but seeing all the damage just made me more excited to explore the
entire house. I took a quick moment to stare up at the spectacular sight of the lighthouse
tower standing sentinel over the town and this stretch of the coast. It never failed
to impress me with its clean white surface shooting one hundred feet into the sky.
I’d climbed its spiral wrought-iron staircase many times over the years and knew the
view at the top was sensational. Gazing up at the glass-walled lantern room at the
very top, I wondered if Mac had ever been up there. I would have to remember to ask.

I circled back to the front where Sean, Johnny, Wade, and Mac were trudging up to
the porch with tool chests, a ladder, and other equipment for the walk-through.

“Hey, boss,” Sean said, laying his eight-foot ladder down at the far end of the porch
and out of the way.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “Are we ready to get started?”

“You bet,” Wade said.