Giveaway & Interview with MURDER ON THE HOUSE'S Author, Juliet Blackwell

I am thrilled to bring you a new-to-me author Ms. Juliet Blackwell. Just like you, this is my very first time getting to know about this fascinating author and her Haunted Homes Renovations Series.  Juliet has dropped by to chat about 10 of her most favorite things and her latest in the series MURDER ON THE HOUSE.  Let's give her a huge Over the Edge welcome.

10 Questions for Author...

Juliet Blackwell

1.     Favorite Books

Ammie, Come Home;  Empire Falls; Mystic River; Pride and Prejudice; Animal Dreams; The Shining; About a Boy; Bastard Out of Carolina; Reservation Blues.

Author’s disclaimer:  I love SO many books, and am sure I’ve left off many obvious favorites…I tend to remember only my most recent reads off the top of my head!

2.     Favorite Author

Elizabeth Peters was writing in the 70s and 80s when I was an avid young reader – so she had a huge effect on me.  She is super smart (holds a PhD in Egyptology) and is a wonderful, humorous, and adventurous writer.  As Barbara Michaels she penned several paranormal mysteries, way back before “paranormal mystery” became its own sub-genre.

3.     Currently Reading

Sherman Alexie’s latest collection of short stories, Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl

4.     Favorite Author Pals

Oh, that one’s hard because there are so many!  But Sophie Littlefield, Rachael Herron, Nicole Peeler and Victoria Laurie are invaluable author pals, ready to lend a shoulder to cry on, drink champagne to celebrate good news, or simply to sit side-by-side writing whenever we get the chance.

5.     Pets

My beloved rescue dog Sam passed away a few years ago.  Because of my travel schedule I haven’t adopted a new one yet, but my neighbor’s five cats are now in my yard more than their own.  One in particular, a black cat named Oscar, keeps me company while I write. I believe he’s decided he is my muse…and in fact, he shares his name with one of my favorite characters in the Witchcraft mysteries J

6.     Hobbies

I paint, garden, walk around nearby Lake Merritt, hike in the redwood forests, have drinks in dive bars with friends, ride on the back of a motorcycle (driven by a handsome fellow I know) along the rugged, northern  California coast….

7.     Biggest Extravaganza

I’d say my biggest extravaganza was the release party for a book from a former series, Brush with Death.  The plot was set in an ornate, historic Oakland columbarium (like a mausoleum for cremated remains) and in the neighboring cemetery.  The staff at the columbarium threw me a big party when the book came out, and we invited the public who might be interested in the history of the building, as well as booklovers.  There were at least 100 people there!  Trust a mystery author to hold a party amongst human remains, right?

8.     What I dream About

You are giving me some tough questions today! I would like to claim that I dream about lofty goals like world peace, but my daydreams usually center around traveling and spending time with friends in beautiful places – this last summer I celebrated my birthday by renting a stone cottage in  the French countryside – several friends came and we ate and hiked and swam in a nearby lake.  That was a dream come true!

9.     I Never Leave the House Without

Whatever book I’m reading, and a notebook to jot down ideas.  

10.     Best Childhood Memory:

I am very fortunate, in that I have a LOT of wonderful childhood memories.  First one off the top of my head:  My dad letting me “help” while he built a cabin in a remote woods north of Mount Shasta.  Now that I look back on photos from the time I can see I was only 5 years old!  But I was determined…and my father trusted me with a hammer, and then a paint roller.  I felt very grown up, a little scared but ultimately capable of the work….and very proud to say I had built the place with my dad.

My Famous Guacamole!

The Aztecs loved avocados-- we get the word from their Nahuatl language: ahuacatl.  In fact, “mole” means sauce in Nahuatl, so guacamole literally means “avocado sauce”.   

4 ripe avocados (hint: buy several days early.  If they’re rock hard, put in brown paper bag and set on a sunny windowsill.  It helps them to ripen)

Juice of 1 lemons or 2 limes

¼ onion, finely chopped

Salt, cumin, Mexican chili pepper to taste

1-2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1-2 ripe tomatoes, finely chopped

¼ cup cilantro, finely chopped

1 jalapeno pepper (remove stems and seeds for a milder dip)
1 Serrano pepper (again, remove stems and seeds for less heat.  And be careful not to touch your eyes after handling the chilis—it stings!!!  Coating your hands with cooking oil before touching the chilis helps, then wash with oil-stripping soap like dishwashing detergent)

Squeeze citrus juice into large bowl, add chopped onions and garlic.  Add salt and mix, and let sit for a few minutes while you chop tomatoes and cilantro and cut avocados in half and remove stones (keep one stone for later). 

Add tomatoes to the bowl, then mix in avocado and smoosh it with a fork.  I like it chunky (Mexico City style), but if you prefer smooth you may put the ingredients in a food processor. 

Add cumin and chili powder to taste, more salt if needed.

Add peppers and cilantro, mix thoroughly. 

If you aren’t going to serve immediately, smooth the guacamole in the bowl and place the stone in the middle of the bowl, pressing it into the guacamole.  This keeps the avocado from browning.

Serve with tortilla chips, tacos, or put on a sandwich for an instant thrill!

Author Biography

Juliet Blackwell is the NYT bestselling author of the Haunted Home Renovation mystery series (If Walls Could Talk, Dead Bolt, Murder on the House) and the Witchcraft mystery series (Secondhand Spirits, A Cast-off Coven, Hexes and Hemlines, In a Witch’s Wardrobe). As Hailey Lind, Juliet penned the Art Lover’s Mystery series, including Agatha-nominated Feint of Art. A former anthropologist and social worker, Juliet has worked and studied in Mexico, Spain, Cuba, Italy, the Philippines, and France. She now lives in a happily haunted house in Oakland, California, where she is a muralist and portrait painter. She was a two-term president of Northern California Sisters in Crime.   Visit Juliet at www.julietblackwell.net; http://www.facebook.com/JulietBlackwellAuthor; and Twitter @JulietBlackwell

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780451238849

Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)

Publication date: 12/4/2012

Format: Mass Market Paperback

Pages: 336

Sales rank: 25,107

Series: Haunted Home Renovation Series , #3

Overview

Bed-and-breakfast—with a side of ghosts.

Word has spread that contractor Mel Turner can communicate with the spirits of the dead, and she’s having a hard time maintaining a low profile. She decides to embrace her reputation for the chance to restore a historic house that calls to her. The new owners, who hope to run a haunted bed-and-breakfast, want Mel to encourage the ghosts that supposedly roam the halls to enhance the house’s paranormal charm.

The catch: Mel has to spend one night in the house to win the project. During the spine-chilling sleepover, the estate gains another supernatural occupant when someone doesn’t survive the night. As Mel tries to coax the resident spirits into revealing the identity of the killer, she risks becoming the next casualty of this dangerous renovation.

Murder on the House

Excerpt

What makes a house look haunted?

Is it enough to appear abandoned, run-down, bleak? To creak and groan when the wind blows or the fog creeps down the nearby hills?

Or is it something else? A vague awareness of danger, the whisper of a tragic past, an odd impression that dwelling within is something indescribable—and distinctly not human?

Beats me. I'm a general contractor, with an excellent reputation for renovating historic homes, and an abiding desire to chuck it all and run off to Paris. Reconciling those two imperatives was hard enough, but my life was made even more complicated when the most recent edition of Haunted House Quarterly named me "California's most promising up-and-coming Ghost Buster".

A misleading moniker if ever there was one. When it comes to ghosts, I have very little clue what I'm doing. But I've never been one to let ignorance stop me, and I'm accustomed to flying by the seat of my pants.

At the moment I was standing on the front stoop of a once-grand house in San Francisco's vibrant Castro Valley neighborhood. The home appeared lived-in, what with the cars parked out front, the cluster of red clay pots planted with marigolds on the porch, ecru lace curtains in the front windows, and a folded newspaper on the sisal doormat.

The house, a neoclassical revival-style with Italianate flourishes, had been built around the turn of the last century when San Francisco's population was booming. It was massive, symmetrical, painted the traditional monochromatic cream with no colorful flourishes. The tall, skinny sash windows were plentiful and multi-paned; the roof was supported with ornate corbels that marched along the underside of the eaves with military precision. Where the city's famous Queen Anne Victorians homes were decorated with scads of elaborate gingerbread, the Neoclassical style was more understated, distinguished by the "wedding cake" effect of Corinthian columns supporting a demi-lune roof over the front porch.

It was gorgeous.

But it did need work. My practiced eye noted a host of problems: one corner of the roof soffit gaped open, inviting vermin. The gutter had detached in a few spots, and the roof had long streaks of bright green moss that encouraged water intrusion. Window sashes sagged, indicating rot. These were obvious signs of neglect, which meant a high likelihood of finding a thousand other problems once the walls were opened.

Yes, the house needed work...but was it haunted?

I looked around for a bell or knocker, but all I found was an ancient intercom system to the right of the front door. I pushed the button, only to be greeted by a burst of static.

My curled fist was about to knock on the door when it opened. I squeaked and jumped in surprise, my hands flailing.

This was another problem for an alleged ghost buster: I'm not what you'd call cool in the face of...well, anything much. And apparently I was at a total loss when faced with a rosy-cheeked little girl, with long chestnut hair and big eyes the soft brown of milk chocolate.

As I tried to pull myself together, the girl giggled.

"Sorry," I said, taking a deep breath and striving to regain my composure. "My mind was somewhere else."

"My mama does that all the time." She said with an understanding little shrug, displaying a pre-adolescent sweetness of child who was oh-so-familiar-and patient with the mysterious ways of adults. Though she held herself with great poise, I pegged her age at ten or eleven. Give her a couple more years, I thought, and she'd be as snarky and sullen as my teenaged stepson.

She stepped back. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm Mel Turner, with Turner Construction. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bernini... Is she your grandmother?"

The girl laughed and shook her head. "No, of course not. I'm Anabelle. Anabelle Bowles. I'll take you to the parlor. Mama says the formal parlor's the place for company."

I stepped into the front foyer and paused, savoring the moment.

Quite aside from the whole ghost-busting thing, I restore historic homes for a living. In the past, all buildings were custom-designed and custom-built, so each was unique. My favorite part of the job, bar none, is stepping into an old building for the first time; one never knew what to expect.

The front entry was airy and open, the intricate woodwork painted a creamy white throughout, a welcome contrast to the dark woods so characteristic of the Victorian style, like the house I was finishing up across town. The walls were lined in high bead board wainscoting, and the woodwork was painted rather than stained or shellacked. The tall sash windows allowed sunlight to pour in, giving the home an airy, sunny feel. A huge fireplace, missing several of its glazed blue-green tiles, was flanked by built-in display cases. On the stairway banister, each newel post was carved in a different pattern: one was a series of different sized balls, another was geometric boxes, yet another sported a face carved into the lintel.

In marked contrast to the home's exquisite bones, the interior design was appalling. A sagging floral sofa sat along one wall, one missing leg replaced with a stack of old magazines, and an overstuffed velvet armchair was covered with a faded Indian cloth. Newspapers were piled in one corner, and fliers from local merchants littered a scarred maple coffee table from the 1960s. Shreds of discarded paper and a pair of scissors suggested someone had been clipping coupons. Rather than strip old wallpaper, someone had simply painted over it; it was pulling away from the walls and hung in crazy quilt patches. Rusty water stains bloomed in several spots on the peeling ceiling, and the broad-planked wood floors were warped and discolored in patches.

Beneath the layers of grime and papers that had settled across everything, I thought I spied a marble-topped antique credenza near the massive fireplace as well as a few light fixtures that appeared to be original hand-blown glass. In general, though, the turn-of-the-twentieth century home's ambience was more early twenty-first-century Frat Boy.

"This way please," said Anabelle as she led the way down the hall to the left.

Several broad corridors spiraled off the central foyer, lined with so many identical closed doors the place felt a little more like a hotel than a private home. Without signs, it would be easy enough to get confused as to which door led to which room.

We passed a formal dining room with two impressive crystal chandeliers, another ornate fireplace, and a coffered ceiling. The historical elegance of the room was compromised by the de-laminating linoleum-topped table surrounded by least a dozen mismatched chairs.

"I like your dress," said Anabelle, glancing over her shoulder. "You look like you could be in Ringling Brother. We saw them when they came to town. Mama said it was the greatest show on earth."

I have a tendency to wear off-beat clothing. Nothing inappropriate, mind you, just...unexpected. I chalk this up to the years I spent in camouflage as I played the role of respectable faculty wife to a respectable Berkeley professor who turned out to be a not-so-respectable, cheating slimeball. The minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers I yanked every scrap of my expensive Faculty Wife Wardrobe out of my closet, dropped it off at the twenty-four-hour dry cleaner's, then drove the whole kit and caboodle, still in the plastic bags, over to Dress for Success on Sutter. When the delighted volunteer asked if I wanted a receipt for my donation, I almost refused, then changed my mind and mailed it to my ex-husband.

Once freed to dress as I wished, I indulged my fondness for spangles and fringe. It started as a joke, sort of, but soon became a "thing." My friend Stephen—an aspiring costume designer and the much-loved, only son of a Vegas showgirl—was responsible for many of my outfits. My unconventional wardrobe inspires good-natured ribbing on the jobsite, where denim and canvas rule the day, but I'm serious about my profession: I always wear steel-toed work boots and bring along a pair of coveralls so as to be ready for any construction-related contingency.

But today I was meeting a client for the first time, which meant I had left the spangles, feathers, and fringe shut away in my closet in favor of a simple, above-the-knee wine-colored dress topped by a cardigan. Although an odd ensemble for me, to my eyes at least nothing about the outfit screamed "circus." Then I reminded myself that this was the Castro District, famous for its outré fashions. Perhaps Anabelle wasn't accustomed to suburban-uninspired attire in this section of San Francisco.

"I like your dress, as well," I said. "Especially the matching ribbons in your hair."

"It's called robin's egg blue," she said, clutching a bit of the skirt in each hand and holding it up as though ready to curtsy. She gave me a big smile and turned down a corridor to the right.

It was rare to find a house this massive in the Castro, which had been built up in the blah and was studded with relatively simple Victorian row houses built for the Scandinavian and Irish working class families that developed what was then considered to be a remote area. The Bernini house, which dated from before the neighborhood had been incorporated into the city, was rare not only for its square footage, but also for the extensive grounds: it took up half a city block, and included ample gardens and two outbuildings.

I wanted this job so much I could taste it. But there was no guarantee it would be mine.

Avery Builders were breathing down my neck. They were good, I had to admit—almost as good as Turner Construction. Avery and Turner had similar portfolios and track records for keeping on budget and on schedule. When competition for a job was this tight, the decision usually came down to whoever the clients liked more, felt more comfortable having in their homes, day in and day out, for months on end.

Client relations made me nervous. I was a whiz at construction, understood the ins and outs of buildings and architectural history as if they were in my blood. But when it came to dealing with people, well...I was fine. Up to a point. Mostly if they let me do what I wanted. Diplomacy was never my strength.

I did have one advantage over Avery Builders. The new owners of the Bernini estate wanted someone to help them turn the place into a haunted Bed and Breakfast. Apparently ghost tourism was all the rage.

And as far as I knew, Avery Builders didn't have a ghost buster on staff.

Anabelle hummed as she walked, finally breaking out into song: "Wish me a rainbow, wish me a star..."

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, displaying deep dimples. "Do you know that song?"

"I don't. But I'm no good at music."

"You don't play? My mama's teaching me to play the piano."

"I tried my hand at the clarinet in the fifth grade. It wasn't pretty."

Anabelle frowned. Usually I was good with kids, because I didn't take them—or myself—too seriously. My stepson Caleb and I had gotten off to a famously good start because I had immediately grasped why he felt compelled to wear his pirate costume, and remain in character, for more than a year before graduating, in a manner of speaking, to pretending to be the more "grown up" Darth Vader. But I had a flair for sword fights and laser battles—not so much with piano lessons and hair ribbons.

"...These you can give me, wherever you aaarrrrrree..." Anabelle resumed singing, slightly off-tune, and stopped in front of a partially closed door. "Have a seat in the parlor, please, and I'll tell them you're here."

She skipped back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, "Good bye. It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too." I said, watching her go and marveling at the energy of youth. When was the last time I had skipped somewhere?

I pushed open the parlor door.

The room was empty.

Not just empty of people. Vacant. No furniture, no rugs, no lights, no knick-knacks. Nothing but a heavy coating of dust, a few scraps of paper on the floor, and a pair of shredded curtains on the large windows that overlooked a huge courtyard and garden. There, I saw a tall, rotund man was hard at work pruning the roses. He stopped abruptly, and the pruning shears fell to his side as he stared at me. I lifted my hand in greeting, but felt a frisson of...something.

The afternoon sun sifting in through the grimy, wavy glass, illuminated cobwebs in the corners and a single paneled door that I assumed was a closet. I didn't see so much as a footstep in the dust on the floor, and the musty smell indicated the room hadn't been aired out for a very long time.

"Wait, Anabelle! What—"

I peered down the long corridor; the girl was gone.

But I heard something...Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape. Something passed in front of the doorway at the end of the hall.

Someone, I reminded myself. Get a grip, Mel, the child is playing a joke.

"Hello?" I called out as I started down the dim corridor. "Anabelle?"

I heard it again: a slow step, a shuffle, a clank. Like a ghost in chains, I thought with a humorless laugh. But that was an old Hollywood convention, not reality—I'd seen enough to know better.

Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

What was that?

It dawned on me: I had been asked to the Bernini house to help broker a deal with ghosts. So... if this was a ghost, why should I be so surprised?

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. All right, fine. If this was a ghost, so be it. Resolve. That was the way to deal with spirits. You had to maintain your resolve when going up against them. I'd learned that much, at least. It was also important to keep in mind that ghosts, being immaterial, can't physically harm you. I was pretty sure. Actually...maybe I should double-check that little factoid. Despite my alleged "promising ghost buster" status, I'd only encountered two situations involving ghosts, and to be honest they still scared the you-know-what out of me.

Slowly, cautiously, I continued down the hallway to where it ended in a T, the sound growing louder with each step. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape. I screwed up my courage, took a deep breath, and peeked around the corner.

An old woman was hunched over an aluminum walker, slowly making her way down the corridor. An orange-and-yellow crochet afghan was draped over her bent shoulders, and her hair was a blue-grey mass of stiff-set curls. Clank, shuffle, clank, scrape.

"Hello?" I said.

"Oh!" she let out a surprised yelp, one blue-veined hand fluttering up to her chest. "My word, you gave me a fright!"

"I'm so sorry," I said, relieved at the sight of a flesh-and-blood woman instead of a spectral presence. I was still getting used to the ghost busting thing. "I'm Mel Turner, from Turner Construction?"

"Oh yes, of course. How do you do? I'm Betty Bernini."

"It's so nice to meet you. You have an amazing place here."

"Thank you. Come, we've been expecting you. The Propaks are in the front room. She resumed her slow progress, and I fell in step, resisting the urge to offer to help. "I'm afraid I didn't hear the doorbell. Did the gardener let you in?"

"Anabelle answered the door, but she showed me to the parlor—the wrong room, I take it."

The clanking stopped as Mrs. Bernini straightened.

"Anabelle?"

"Yes, she's a sweetheart."

"Anabelle let you in."

I nodded, suddenly feeling guilty. Was she not supposed to answer the door? Had I gotten the girl in trouble?

"I want to show you something." Mrs. Bernini shuffled a little further down the hall and opened the door to a bookshelf-lined study full of cardboard boxes, stacked furniture, and an old couch. She gestured to an oil painting hanging over the fireplace. Done in rich Old Master hues of blue, red, and burnt sienna, it featured a girl and a slightly younger boy. She stood with one hand on the boy's shoulder, while he held a cocker spaniel puppy.

The girl had long chestnut brown curls, tied in robin's egg blue ribbons.

A brass plate on the picture frame read: "Anabelle and Ezekiel Bowles. 1911."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Anabelle doesn't live here anymore," said Mrs. Bernini, eyeing me carefully. "She's been dead for a century."

It seemed a ghost had met me at the door.

I hate that.

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