If Walls Could Talk Read Online Free Page B

coiffed, and attractive; one tall and lithe, the other petite but with torpedo-style surgically enhanced breasts. Both were dressed in chic pantsuits in understated tones of cream and beige. Both had that well-preserved, polished sheen of people willing and able to spend a considerable chunk of their time and fortunes on personal trainers, masseuses, and nutritional counselors.
    “I’m Celia Hutchins, from next door,” said the taller of the two, the tennis bracelet and solitaires in her ears glittering in the bright afternoon sun. Her voice was husky, her tone refined. “This is my good friend Meredith; she lives across the street. We couldn’t help but notice the ambulance.”
    Time to pull myself together.
    “A man was injured—” I began.
    “I have to say I’m not surprised,” inserted Meredith, neatly plucked eyebrows raised and manicured hand fluttering up to her cheek. She kept rocking up on her tiptoes, then back down. Lots of nervous energy. “The party seemed to be getting out of hand last night. That house . . . It’s just one thing after another. . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head and a shrug of her slim shoulders.
    “I don’t suppose either of you heard gunshots, or anything else out of the ordinary?” I asked.
    “It was loud, lots of music and laughter, but nothing like gunshots, good heavens, no.” Celia shook her head. “Was someone shot?”
    That was a tough one to answer without getting into gruesome details.
    “I’m not sure . . .” I evaded.
    “Is Matt all right?” Celia asked.
    “Yes, he’s fine.”
    “Matt really is a dear; he invited us over, but I must say, it wasn’t really my kind of party. I hire people to do that kind of thing. Speaking of which, is this your car?” She gestured toward my boxy red Scion, which had magnetic TURNER CONSTRUCTION signs attached to the front doors. “You’re . . . a builder?”
    “We specialize in historic homes,” I said with a nod. Celia’s gray-green eyes swept over my colorful, low-cut dress. The men I worked with were accustomed to my wardrobe, but when first meeting with clients I usually took care to wear a conservative outfit consisting of a blazer and tailored slacks. Physically, I was a throwback to the pinup-girl era, with what my father’s cohorts would call a va-va-va-voom body. An extra fifteen pounds or so only intensified this effect. It was an extravagant look largely out of favor these days, most popular with long-haired bikers and truck drivers.
    “How darling that you’re a woman,” Celia continued. “I’ve been wanting to have a room redone for our club meetings. We’re simply desperate for a good contractor.”
    “Are you a lesbian?” piped Meredith.
    “ Meredith . Just because a woman is doing a nontraditional job doesn’t make her a lesbian.” Celia leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice, as though in confidence. “Not that it would be a problem if you were. My niece is gay and she’s a darling girl. An artist. Very creative.”
    The last thing I wanted to do at the moment was to talk about my sex life, much less sweet-talk a client. Still, in my line of work one did not alienate Pacific Heights homeowners. I reached into my jacket and dug for a business card.
    “Could I come back and take a look at your project tomorrow?” I said. “I’d be happy to give you an estimate, but this isn’t really the best time.”
    “Of course,” Celia said, tucking my card into the front pocket of her fine linen slacks. “You know, Meredith and I weren’t at the party last night, but for the sake of appearances I sent my son, Vincent, over in our stead. He only stayed for a short while, but perhaps you’d like to speak with him.”
    “Did he mention seeing anything odd?”
    “He left when things started getting rowdy.” Celia’s gaze flickered down to my left hand. She smiled and met my eyes. “You’re not married?”
    “I . . . uh . . . No, not at the moment.”
    “I like your