Monkey Wrench by Nancy Martin Page A

“What shall we drink to?”
    â€œMr. Santori—”
    â€œHow about drinking to strong-willed women?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour grandmother, to be specific. She’s a lady I’m learning to respect. I was honestly afraid she might use that knife on me!”
    He was harmless and completely charming, a big man feigning fear of an elderly woman. Susannah felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She lifted her glass, and Joe smoothly wound his arm through hers so their elbows were linked and they faced each other with glasses raised. His liquid brown eyes melted into Susannah’s, and his voice was low and mellow. “To your grandmother. May all her wishes come true.”
    â€œNot all, ” Susannah corrected with a laugh, lifting the glass to her lips as her small arm entwined with his larger, muscled one.
    The Santori Sizzler was a sweet, tangy breakfast drink upon first swallow, but the kick came a few seconds later as the alcohol let its presence be known.
    â€œWow,” Susannah gasped, her eyes watering. “What’s in this thing?”
    He patted her back. “A little orange juice. A little soda. A few things I probably shouldn’t divulge—and Campari. Do you like it?”
    â€œWell, it’s not what I usually have for breakfast.”
    â€œTry it with a muffin.”
    With a bite of one of her grandmother’s banana-and-pecan muffins, the drink was quite delicious.
    â€œDo you like it or not?”
    It was impossible to resist his grin. “Yes,” Susannah admitted, helping herself to another sip. “It’s very good.”
    His gaze was full of pleasure as he absorbed her smile. “Great. Shall we take the drinks with us while we look around the house?”
    â€œAll right,” Susannah said gamely. “If my grandmother comes home and finds we haven’t accomplished anything, she’ll assume the worst.”
    â€œOr the best,” he said, laughing as he led the way out of the kitchen with his glass in one hand and a muffin in the other. “Shall we start in the attic or the basement?”
    â€œAttic.”
    â€œThe attic it is.” Joe got right down to business by asking a string of questions, fired so rapidly at Susannah that she had no time to think about anything else. “Has your grandmother told you anything about leaking ceilings?”
    â€œNo, nothing.”
    â€œHow about squirrels or bats living on the third floor? Termites? Cracked plaster?”
    Susannah answered his questions as honestly and succinctly as she could. Joe pulled a tattered little notebook from his hip pocket, and after passing his empty glass to Susannah, began to make notes about the house.
    She had to admit, he seemed to know his business. And his inspection of the old Atkins house was very thorough. He climbed over assorted junk in the attic to peer into the eaves and under the insulation. He tapped beams and looked for signs of carpenter ants between floor joists with his flashlight. In the bedrooms, he poked at the ceilings and lit matches around all the windows to check for air leaks. Every visible inch of the old plumbing came under his scrutiny, and he even jumped up and down in the hallway to check for squeaky floorboards.
    And Susannah found herself fascinated. She responded tohis questions and listened to him ramble—all for the simple pleasure of hearing Joe’s mellifluent baritone voice. The timbre gave her a surprisingly warm, trembly feeling inside. The tone was both vibrant and mellow.
    â€œWe’ll skip the fireplace for now,” Joe told her when they returned to the first floor. “Judging by how bad the bricks look from outside, I think it’ll need some attention that’s more expert than mine. I have a friend I’ll send over in a few days. He’ll be able to tell us what needs to be done.”
    â€œAll right,” said Susannah, amazed that she was allowing