Chapter One The tower reached high into a gray sky. A faint glow-dare I say a ghostly light?-seemed to emanate from the lighthouse''s narrow windows. Probably just a trick of light, the afternoon sun reflecting off curved stone walls. Just looking up at the tower through the cracked bay window made me dizzy. "I''m thinking of calling the inn ''Spirit of the Lighthouse.'' Or maybe ''the Bay Light,''" said Alicia Withers as she checked an item off the list on her clipboard. Alicia was big on lists. And clipboards.

"What do you think, Mel? Too simple?" "I think you need to figure out your plumbing issues before you worry about the name," I replied. That''s me, Mel Turner. General contractor and head of Turner Construction. Also known as Killjoy. Alicia and I stood in the central hallway of the former lighthouse keeper''s home, a charming but dilapidated four-bedroom Victorian adjacent to the lighthouse tower. The structures had been built in 1871 on the small, rather unimaginatively named Lighthouse Island, located in the strait connecting the San Francisco and San Pablo bays. Not far away, the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge loomed, and barely visible to the southwest was the elegant new span that linked Oakland to Treasure Island and on to San Francisco. The nearest shoreline was Richmond, with San Rafael-and San Quentin prison-situated across the normally placid, though occasionally tempestuous, bay waters.

It was a view to die for. Lighthouse Island''s foghorn and lamp had been staffed by full-time keepers and their assistants and families for decades, the flashing light and thunderous horn warning sea captains of the bay''s surprisingly treacherous shallows and rocky shoals. But the humans had long since been replaced by less costly electronics, and the island''s structures had fallen into disrepair. The house itself had once been a beauty, and still boasted gingerbread trim and a cupola painted an appealing (but now peeling) creamy white. Also in the compound were a supply shed, the original foghorn building, and a huge cistern that collected rainwater for the keeper and his family on this otherwise dry rock. The only other structures on the island were the docks and lavatory, located in a small natural harbor to the east, which were still used occasionally by pleasure boats seeking refuge from sudden squalls-and by those interested in exploring Lighthouse Island, of course. "I''m just saying," I continued. "There''s a lot of dry rot to contend with before you start inviting guests to your Lighthouse Inn.

" "Oh, you," Alicia said with a slight smile, which I answered with a big one. I had known Alicia for quite a while before spying an iota of good cheer in her. She was still a serious, hardworking person but had relaxed a lot since I first met her on a historic restoration in Marin. We had bonded late one night over a shared love of potato chips and home renovation television shows. And then we quite literally kicked the butt of a murderer, which had definitely improved her attitude. "I''m sure you know I haven''t lost sight of the all-important infrastructure," continued Alicia. "But I need to register my domain and business names, so no, it''s not too early to think about such things." She whipped out a thick sheaf of lists and flowcharts and handed them over.

I flipped through the papers. There were preliminary schedules for demolition and foundation work, electrical and plumbing and Internet installation, Sheetrock and mudding, overhauls of baths and kitchen, and installations of moldings and flooring and painting and light fixtures. I raised my eyebrows. "Thanks, Alicia, but I usually work up the schedules with Stan, my office manager." "I know you do, but I was up late one night thinking about everything that had to be done, and figured I might as well get the paperwork started. I based these on your schedules for the job in Marin, you see? I can e-mail everything to Stan so you can rearrange it as you need, and plug in the actual dates and the like. I hope you don''t think it was too presumptuous-I couldn''t help myself. Ever since Ellis agreed to back me on this project, I can hardly sleep I''m so excited!" Several months ago Alicia''s boss, Ellis Elrich, had asked me to evaluate "a property" he was considering.

It wasn''t until he told me to meet him at the Point Moro Marina that I realized this would be no ordinary renovation: It was Lighthouse Island, and the Bay Light. I-along with much of the population of the Bay Area-had watched over the years as the historic Victorian-era lighthouse descended into greater and greater decrepitude. Every time my family drove over the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, my father would shake his head and grumble, "It''s a damned shame." Mom would shush Dad for swearing in front of the children-"Little pitchers have big ears, Bill"-but, craning her neck to watch the sad little island as it receded from view, she would add, "You''re right, though. Someone really ought to save that place." Never did I imagine that, decades later, I''d be that person. But historic renovation was my business, and Alicia''s boss was filthy rich. Which was a very good thing, because this lighthouse was in need of a serious infusion of cash.

I already had in hand the architect''s detailed blueprints, as well as the necessary permits and variances from the city and county, which had also promised to fast-track the code inspections. The Bay Light''s renovation would be a highly unusual public-private partnership that cash-strapped local officials had agreed to in the interest of saving the historical structures. I was impressed at the city''s eager participation but didn''t ask too many questions. Ellis Elrich had a way of making things happen. "So, here''s what we''re thinking," Alicia said, making a sweeping gesture around the former front parlor. "We take down this wall, combine the space with the smaller drawing room next door, and make this whole area the bar and restaurant." "It''s not very large," I pointed out, comparing the blueprints in my hand to the existing floor plan. "It doesn''t have to be.

There will be at most ten overnight guests, so only five small tables are required for their meals-or we might just do one big table and serve everything family-style, I haven''t decided yet. And visitors won''t be that frequent-there aren''t that many people who stop in at the yacht harbor, and even with our boat ferrying people over from the mainland, it will still take some planning to come to the island. It''s not as though we have to take into account foot traffic! So I''m thinking we''ll be at capacity with about twenty guests for drinks and dinner. But for those that make it, we''ll be a gorgeous little oasis in the bay." Alicia sighed with happiness. I was pleased for my friend, but experienced enough to be a wee bit jaded. At this point in a renovation, most clients couldn''t see past the stars in their eyes and the longing in their hearts. Starting a historic renovation was a lot like falling in love: a blissful period of soaring romantic hope and infatuation that lasted until the grueling realities of sawdust and noise and confusion and delays-not to mention mounting cost overruns and unwelcome discoveries in the walls-brought a person back to earth with a resounding thud.

"We''ll keep the bare bones of the kitchen, but include updated fixtures and some expansion, of course. But we''ll make the study and part of the pantry into a first-floor suite for the live-in manager-" "That would be you?" "Oh, I dearly hope so, if I can find a replacement to serve as Ellis''s assistant. I can''t leave him high and dry." "But he wants this for you, right? Isn''t that why he''s bankrolling the project?" Alicia blushed. "Yes, he does. Ellis is very ." "Sweet," I said when she trailed off. She nodded but avoided my eyes.

Now that she had loosened up a little and was no longer the tight-lipped martinet I had first met, Alicia was charming. The scar on her upper lip and another by one eye-relics of difficult times at the hands of her abusive (now-ex) husband-only served to make her pretty face more interesting. The wounds on her psyche were another matter altogether, but through therapy and a whole lot of emotional hard work, Alicia had made great strides toward healing. And now, unless I was mistaken, she had developed a serious crush on Ellis Elrich, her boss and savior. Ellis was a good guy, surprisingly down-to-earth for a billionaire. Still, the situation seemed . complicated. Oh, what tangled webs we weave.

"Anyway, that will leave three guest suites upstairs, each with an attached bath. And one in the attic, awaiting renovation. Oh! Did I tell you? The attic is full of old furniture, and there''s a trunk of old books. There are even the original keeper''s logs!" "Still? No one took them after all this time?" "I suppose that''s the advantage of being on an isolated island. Can you imagine? We can put some on display to add to the historic maritime ambiance!" I smiled. "Of course we can. I can''t wait to look through everything. You know me and old books.

" Me and old everything, actually. "We might be able to create one more bedroom in the foghorn building, unless we decide to turn that into a separate office. The problem, though, is the noise." "What noise?" "The foghorn still sounds on foggy days. It''s not the original horn; it''s an electronic version. But still,.