It’s my turn to laugh. “What about you? How was your night? Did you have a ‘gentleman caller’?”

She slyly smiles over the rim of her coffee mug.

“A lady never tells.”

*

For three hours, I’ve been cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. It’s not my best, but it’s better than what I’ve been writing, and now, I can no longer ignore the fact that I’m starving. I close my notebook, go to the kitchen, and make myself a sandwich.

I carry it to the alcove, sit at the table, and stare out at the lake as I contently chew and mentally begin outlining the next chapter. Maybe I could get it in before calling it a day. That would be some serious progre—

… drip … drip …

I stop.

… drip … drip …

“Damnit,” I whisper and stand.

… drip … drip …

I have to find that damn leak. It’s here, in the kitchen. At least, one of them is, because I’ve heard them all over the house. I scan everywhere and inspect every inch of the ceiling, walls, and take everything out of the cabinets, but there’s not a sign of water anywhere, even under the sink.

“Enough,” I say out loud.

It’s time to call the plumber.

I sit at my computer in the Writing Room and pull up Yelp on the computer. I begin scanning the entries for local plumbers and comparing the reviews. I dial the number of the one with the highest rating.

“So, you’re hearing the dripping but you haven’t seen any signs of water damage?” a man with a heavy New England accent asks after I complete my rambling description of the problem.

“Yeah. I’ve searched everywhere.”

“Hmm … That could be a problem. To find it, we may have to rip up some of the walls.”

“Fantastic.” I suddenly feel a migraine coming on.

“Do you know when they’ve done any remodels?”

“I can find out.” I have Stelowski’s phone number here on my desk, somewhere. “You think they may have done a shoddy job?”

“It’s possible. More likely that they haven’t changed all the plumbing in the place. Who knows how many patch jobs they’ve done? Might be something as old as the house.”

This is getting more expensive by the moment.

“Shouldn’t be too hard find out about the remodels. You said the house was old?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“If it’s historic, you can sometimes find some of that stuff online.”

“Give me a second,” I say and began typing.

“Oh, you don’t have to look, now—”

“Hold on. Let me see.”

I’m on a mission. If there’s more damage happening in the walls every moment that I can’t see, I want to take care of it, now.

I enter ‘Nightingale House’ into the search bar.

There are hundreds of hits, mostly real estate listings, and some photos.