So many readers told me they enjoyed the “Sneak Peek” of the first chapter of Snowed Under, I posted earlier this month that we’re going back to the beginning today with an excerpt from the first book, Address to Die For. Read to the end to see architectural drawings that I (mostly) followed in describing the house.

“Awesome! I bet it has bats!” David exploded from the car and mounted the steps of the old house three at a time. He peered through the grubby porch windows. 

“Is it haunted?” Brian leaned into my side as we stood in the front yard. I eyed the dust motes cavorting in a light beam that had escaped the shrubs and overgrown trees surrounding the 100-year-old house. I put a reassuring hand on Brian’s curly mop of hair, “I doubt it, honey.” I hoped it was true. 

I swallowed hard and watched my husband Max ease his long legs out of his Prius. Like my minivan, Max’s car was overloaded. We’d packed both cars with everything too fragile to transport in the moving van. In amongst breakables, kids, golden retriever and two cats, we tucked picnic food, cleaning supplies and sleeping bags. 

Today was Thursday. The plan was simple. The movers would arrive tomorrow. Since Monday was Labor Day we’d have four days to get settled. The kids would start school on Tuesday, and Max would begin his first full day at the new job the same day. I was giving myself a month to focus solely on house and family, but after that, I was determined to restart my career as a Professional Organizer, specializing in helping families, teens, and adults with Attention Deficit Disorder and Asperger’s Syndrome. 

Two minutes into the plan, it was unraveling. 

“Max, didn’t Aunt Kay’s lawyer say the house was in turn-key condition?” I stared at the weedy front yard, dusty porch, and drooping gutters and wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into. 

Max’s feet crunched dead leaves that covered ruts in the gravel drive. Belle, our two-year-old golden retriever, bounded to him. 

“Hmmm.” Max tilted his head and squinted at the house. “His exact words were ‘Shines like a showpiece.’” He scratched his head. “A handyman was supposed to be coming a couple of times a week to fix things. The house looked perfect when I saw it in April.” 

Max picked up a dead branch from the front walkway and swiped at a weedy flowerbed, beheading some wild carrots. “Needs a little work doesn’t it?” He took my hand and squeezed it gently. 

“A little work? I’m not sure it’s safe.” I looked at the house again in professional terms, calculating how big a team I’d need to whip it into shape. At first glance, I could tell it wouldn’t be easy. A film of silt covered everything, but that was normal for a dry August day in Northern California – nothing a hose, broom, and some window cleaner couldn’t fix. But I counted three broken windows. 

David poked his battered sneaker at a gaping hole in the floor of the porch—a hole that begged to break the leg of an absent-minded new homeowner. I wanted to gather the kids, jump in the car, and hightail it back to our plain vanilla Central Valley split-level. I was scared. Afraid of spiders, bats, and the huge “to-do” list this ancient house presented, I was even more terrified that Max and I had made a terrible decision and were in way over our heads. 

Max put his hand on my shoulder – his calming gesture. “Maybe it’s better on the inside and the problems are superficial? Let’s wait, take a breath, and check things out before we panic.” 

That was Max. Always confident that things would work out. My approach was the opposite of his. I tried to anticipate problems and organize my way out of them. 

I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. I should have checked the house out myself. We'd peeked in the windows in February before we had the keys, and Max had done a walkthrough in April. Both times, the house looked fine. After that, wrapping up Max’s work, my business and everything else had consumed every spare minute. Pressed for time, we assumed our earlier examinations of the property would suffice. We’d been wrong. Very wrong. 

To read more, request Address to Die For from your local library or buy it from your favorite source for books. Here is a link to order it from Amazon. mybook.to/AddressToDieFor