I reached for the phone, covers still drawn over my head.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Morning, sunshine.”

I sat up. “Graham?”

“Sorry to say this isn’t a social call. Matt’s about to lose it over the tile in his kitchen.”

I sighed. “What’s up?”

“Apparently they’re the wrong height, so the kitchen floor will be higher than the existing wood floors in the hall and dining room.”

“Significantly higher?”

“About three-eighths of an inch.”

I heard Matt’s voice in the background, slightly hysterical, exclaiming, “Whoever heard of height? Width and length, but height? Is that Mel? Tell her to come save me!”

“I’ll be right there.”

So much for a day, much less a weekend, off work.

“Why are you meeting with Matt at this hour?” I asked when Graham opened Matt’s door.

“Green consultation with the architect over breakfast. Apparently I’m now on call twenty-four hours a day. OSHA’s looking better all the time.”

“Mel, thank heavens you’re here,” said Matt as he rushed up to us. “I’m beside myself.”

I checked out the kitchen floor, and the new shipment of tile. Three-eighths of an inch was too much of an elevation shift to bridge with a simple wooden threshold. It would never look right.

“The tile guy should have alerted you, Matt. I apologize on his behalf. I’ll follow up with him, but for now you have a decision to make. You either have to take out the subfloor—which is a pretty big deal—or simply choose a different tile.”

“But I had my heart set on those,” Matt said.

“I’ll go tile shopping with you, if you want. It’ll be fun.” That was an exaggeration. What it would be was a huge time-suck, like all shopping trips with clients. But if Matt’s project fell behind, so would Cheshire House. Since we shared the same workers and subcontractors, one problem led inexorably to another, like toppling dominos.

“Okay, if you’ll come and hold my hand. It’s hard to decide these things.”

“Sure I will.” I checked my BlackBerry. “We can do lunch on Tuesday or Wednesday, if you want.”

“One more thing. I think the ceiling in the library is too low.”

I froze. This wasn’t a three-day tile job fix we were talking about. This was serious.

“You want to redo the roof.”

“I want it done right.”

Was it the effect of the cameras? Was he becoming a prima donna?

“I have to level with you, Matt. It’ll be exorbitantly expensive. Raising the roof means new permits, and requires getting the neighbors’ consent because a raised roof may impact the view of the houses behind you. There’s something called discretionary review here in San Francisco, which means that if the neighbors consider your project ‘exceptional and extraordinary’ they can request a review by the city planning commission, even if the project has already been given approval.”

Matt gave me a blank look.

“Bottom line: If you get approved—and you probably won’t—it means a delay of at least several months, possibly more. Not to mention the additional construction costs, which will be substantial. If you really want to do this, the first people to convince are your neighbors. You’ll also have to talk to the architect to commission new drawings. In the meantime, I suggest we leave the roof as it is.”

“One good thing: If we change the roof we could put solar panels up there. Graham was just explaining their advantages.”

I glared at Graham. He smiled.

“That’s a special permit process, as well,” I said. “But then as my mother always used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“How many pounds?” asked the Brit.

“Many, many pounds.”

Graham walked me to my car.

“Have you heard from Katenka?” he asked.

“No sign of her.”

“Elena’s been trying to get in touch with her about the party, which is coming up.”

“Yes, she called me yesterday.”

“Don’t suppose you know anything new?”

“Actually, I asked someone to look into the club where Katenka used to dance, when she first arrived from Russia. Remember Zach Malinski?”

“Zach, as in that kid from the fiasco at Matt’s house last summer? The photographer?”

“The photographer, yes. But he’s hardly a kid.”

“The man who kidnapped you?”

“It wasn’t a kidnapping, exactly. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Are you insane?”

“I think we’re getting a little off track here; my point is that Katenka didn’t meet Jim the way she claimed. She was here, in San Francisco, working at a club.”

“What kind of club?”

“The sleazy kind.”

“So maybe they were embarrassed about it, and made up the online story to sound more respectable.”

“No one remembers meeting him at the club.”

“All that means is he isn’t that memorable. I could have told you that.”

“But what if she led him to believe she really was in Russia, teaching Sunday school or something, and he found out the truth, and did something to her?”

“Look, I find it hard to believe Jim would do such a thing, but assuming you’re right, why aren’t you talking to the police?”

“I mentioned it, but the inspector didn’t seem to think there was much to it. And Jim’s my client, after all. If I had some sort of proof, anything at all, I wouldn’t hesitate. But how awful would it be to accuse the man if he’s innocent?”

Graham nodded. “It’s a tough one. But listen, as soon as she’s listed as officially ‘missing,’ the police will be looking at Jim long and hard anyway. As sad as it is, it’s often a loved one who does the unspeakable.”

“Somehow that fails to make me feel better.”

“Hey, this is really getting to you, isn’t it?”

“These women just seem so . . . vulnerable. Remember that Russian in Piedmont a few years ago, who was killed by her engineer husband? Her situation was a lot like Katenka’s.”

“Mel, you can’t go around impugning every nerdy guy who marries a Russian. Katenka is probably with a friend, cooling down. I don’t think you can jump to conclusions with something like this.”

“Why wouldn’t Jim file a missing persons report?”

“It hasn’t been that long. And these days . . .” He shrugged. “With homeland security and everything else, you might not want to get someone with a questionable visa involved in the system.”

My phone rang. Caleb.

“I’m in the middle of something, Goose,” I said. “Can I call you back?”

“Bill asked me to call,” he said, and I heard a woman’s high-pitched voice in the background. “We’ve got company.”

“Who is it?”

“The lady from the house you’re working on. The Russian.”