Death by Inferior Design (16 page)

“Yes, it was terrible. Just as we were starting to come to grips with everything, the police came by to interview us. At ten o’clock last night.”

Ten o’clock was a couple of hours after I had gone to the station house—when O’Reilly had implied that I was his prime suspect. A chill ran down my spine. “They did?”

She nodded. “There were ‘suspicious circumstances,’ according to one officer, but that’s all he would tell us. They spoke to all three households—us, Myra, Debbie, and Carl. . . . Didn’t anyone mention any of this to you?”

“No.” My pulse and my thoughts, once again, were racing. I’d only exchanged a few words with Myra and Carl this morning, but I’d worked side by side with Debbie Henderson for a good three hours. Why hadn’t she said a word about the police coming to her house just last night, questioning her and her husband about a death that we’d both, essentially, witnessed?

Was she embarrassed? Afraid? Or guilty?

chapter 10

Jill smiled, touched my arm a second time, and said, “I was just about to fix myself some lunch. Would you care to join me?” “No, but thank you for offering.” Now that there had been a poisoning in the neighborhood, it seemed as though everyone was trying to get me to eat or drink something. “Do you think I could interrupt Steve Sullivan’s work for just a minute?”

“He’s not here, I’m afraid. Heaven help him, but he said he had to
discuss
something with Taylor. They must both be over at Myra’s house.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to run a suggestion that Debbie made earlier past you and Steve.”

“I’m intrigued.” She beamed at me. “By all means, run this suggestion past me first. And, while you’re doing so, I’ll give you a peek at the room in progress. You’re undoubtedly curious to see the design of one of your colleagues.”

“I am, actually.”

“Maybe by the time we’re done with your dime tour, Steve will be back,” she added. “You can leave your shoes right by the door there with the others.” She pointed at her own feet, clad in Italian leather pumps. “These are my house shoes, with which I
never
step outside.”

I obediently left my shoes on the edge of the tile and stepped onto the white wool plush carpet, enjoying its cushy softness, and she led the way deeper into her home. Those were real holly boughs at the base of each rail in the banister, I realized; although the carol made decking “the halls with boughs of holly” sound joyful, those nasty, barbed leaves could stab straight through thick gardening gloves.

In the living room, which was graced with a striking cathedral ceiling, I greedily drank in the pine aroma from a ten-foot-high, lavishly decorated tree. Here the carpet had given way to the ochre tones of a maple floor, and the honey-hued walls looked buttery in the light that streamed through the windows. A grand piano stood in regal splendor at the opposite side of the room. I sang my praises, telling Jill in all honesty that this room should be featured in
Architectural Digest.

After she’d thanked me and we’d moved on, I returned to our previous conversation. “Debbie suggested that we switch helpers for the final room installation . . . you would help me, while Debbie helps Steve set up your den.”

“How marvelous!” Jill exclaimed. “When will your room be ready?”

We passed a set of closed French doors that afforded me just a glimpse of the McBrides’ khaki-colored parlor, where I was delighted to see that their built-ins were full of the kind of knickknacks that I love and Sullivan detests. “Anytime, I suppose, although the TV stand won’t have had time to dry properly until tomorrow.”

“That would be perfect. Steve has to practically
sit
on Taylor Duncan to get any work out of him, so Steve doesn’t think our room will be completed until tomorrow either.”

I was briefly distracted at the sight of a stunning formal dining room on the opposite side of the hall, but we’d reached the den. Kevin’s prized new Barcalounger and a Chesterfield sofa in matching bomber-jacket-brown leather were back-to-back in the center of the room, carefully tucked under protective plastic. I could tell at a glance that the room was going to be on a par with the other gorgeous rooms within this glorious home. My eyes were every bit as green with envy as the walls were with Venetian plaster. On the opposite wall, there was a fabulous fireplace made of salvaged redbrick that Sullivan was helping to accentuate with a new hearth and mantelpiece.

“As you can see,” Jill said in museum-curator tones, “the walls and ceiling are finished. However, the custom furniture that Taylor is building hasn’t been completed yet.”

“Everything looks wonderful so far. Do you happen to have a copy of his finished plans?”

“Oh, heavens, yes. That was the first thing I insisted upon seeing once Debbie and I arrived home on Saturday.” She fluffed up her blond hair. “I was looking at them again just a moment ago. I’ll be right back.”

I mentally drew some furniture plans in her absence, knowing that, if this were my project, I would want to soften the somewhat butch colors and lines of the leather sofa and Barcalounger by draping a lilac cashmere throw on the Chesterfield and setting at least one large, dramatic floral arrangement with pinks and purples on a side table. There was zero chance that my vision for accessorizing would match Sullivan’s, but I would be willing to wager my entire salary that he was going to add a spectacular area rug, centered by the fireplace on the west wall, to draw the eye away from the recliner and Chesterfield.

“Frankly, the design is a bit masculine for my taste, but I’m adjusting,” Jill said as she returned and handed me the watercolor renditions of the finished area.

I had to resist the urge to cry “Aha!” The drawings supported my expectations exactly: there was indeed going to be an oriental rug centered lengthwise along the west wall. He’d used a classy, asymmetrical furniture placement. It was the entertainment center for the north wall that he’d sketched out that was truly exceptional, though. The tapered lines were simply exquisite—a gentle flair accentuated the open spaces of the piece, imbuing the work with a grace and lightness. In lesser hands, this would have been a typical shelf unit—box-like and bulky.

“This one room has become Kevin’s den of late,” Jill explained, “and the more that I think about it, the more that I like the idea of its staying that way. Now, he can have his room, and I can have the thirteen others.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured and, alas, meant it, although I’d noticed one puzzling item in Sullivan’s plan. “Is that a mounted fish that Steve’s drawn above the mantel?”

She grimaced. “It’s a blue marlin Kevin managed to hook on some male-bonding fishing expedition he went on years ago. I’ve been hiding it in the attic, with the excuse that I was saving it for the vacation home we’ve yet to purchase.”

I couldn’t help but smile; having to incorporate a mounted fish in his design must have irked Sullivan to no end. He must have selected the nicest area rug imaginable to distract focus from
that
item.

“The coffee table and entertainment center Steve has designed are too bland for my tastes,” Jill announced. I disagreed but said nothing. “But otherwise, I agree that the room is handsome, if not exactly ‘beautiful.’ Steve Sullivan has a fine sense of style, even if he doesn’t quite have that Manhattan panache that I so adore. Excuse me a moment.” She swept out of the room and promptly returned, a Palm Pilot in hand. “Let’s say eleven thirty tomorrow morning then, shall we, for our joint venture in room design?”

“I think I can arrange to be here then.”

“Great. I’ll check with Debbie and Steve, so just be sure to touch base with me today, before you leave, to make certain we’re all on the same page.”

“That sounds . . . very efficient.”

She laughed and brushed her pearl necklace with a manicured fingertip. “Kevin’s always telling me that I missed my calling . . . that I enjoy organizing everyone so much, I should have been secretary of state.”

She ushered me to the door. “I’m sure Debbie will be free—her work schedule is always flexible, since she’s self-employed. As long as Steve doesn’t have a conflict, we’ll be all set for tomorrow at eleven thirty.”

I thanked Jill and left, ruminating about Sullivan’s design as I headed toward the Hendersons’ house. With the exception of the blue marlin, that room had been very nearly perfect; I could quibble with Sullivan’s Spartan accessorizing, but I would like to believe that I’d have made many of the same choices in all other design aspects. The realization, though, that I wouldn’t have been capable of visualizing those furniture designs—the coffee table and entertainment center—nagged at me.

Manhattan was where I had trained, which Jill had probably gleaned from chatting with Debbie, and so Jill had made her remark about the city’s stylishness to flatter me. In all honesty, I couldn’t really claim to be more stylish than Sullivan. When it came to the “wow” factor—the reaction of entering a room that took one’s breath away—Sullivan had me beat, although I was making strides. But I did a better job at getting into my customers’ heads to understand their likes and dislikes. A Sullivan room could impress a guest, but a Gilbert room made the guest say to the host, “This room is so
you.”
Or at least, that’s what I’d been told more than once. I treasured the compliment, for it was really important to me that my finished rooms reflect the people who dwell in them.

Across the street, Myra had been standing in front of her glass door and promptly opened it as I neared. “Erin?” she called. “Have you got a few minutes to talk?”

“I suppose so. Sure.” Truth be told, Myra was the last person I felt like sitting down and chatting with at the moment. My vivid imagination was running a bit amok, making me ask myself: if Myra had sent me away as a baby to protect me from Randy’s abuse, could she have resorted to murder to protect me a second time, all these years later? Then again,
I
seemed to be Detective O’Reilly’s prime suspect. Could the police have specifically told Debbie and Carl not to speak to me? Was that why Carl had all but slammed the door in my face this morning?

Myra led me to her living room, telling me to have a seat. I sat down on the floral brocade sofa, and she eyed me as she perched on the overstuffed chair across from me. “Are you all right, Erin? You look so worried.”

I was
now.
These dark gray walls in such a small space truly were oppressive. “I just . . . learned from Jill that the police were here last night, asking about your husband’s death.”

“They’re just being thorough.”

Her dismissal only raised my warning flags further; the police were “being thorough” because her husband had been poisoned and therefore most likely murdered. Was Myra really unaware of that fact? Last night at the hospital she’d been the one to tell me that he’d died of a heart attack. Had she been misled, or was she trying to mislead
me
?

She leaned toward me, elbows on her knees, and held my gaze. “Erin, tell me something. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and I’ve decided I do indeed want to redecorate my home as soon as possible, from top to bottom. Not to be heartless, but I want this place to finally be able to reflect
my
tastes. And, despite your reluctance, I think you’d be the perfect designer to help me figure out what my tastes are, after thirty years of a stifling marriage.”

Instantly, I was torn. Under vastly different circumstances, hers was precisely the type of challenge I most relished, plus it would be an excellent opportunity to observe the people in Randy’s life and, perhaps, uncover the motive for his murder. On the other hand, I had my father urging me to stay away, I’d sworn to my mother that I wouldn’t try to find my birth parents yet could well be sitting across from my biological mother at this very moment, and the police considered me a murder suspect and would no doubt find me all the more suspicious if I accepted a job redesigning the victim’s house.

That was three reasons for declining and two for accepting. I felt like tearing out my hair in frustration, but answered reluctantly, “I’m going to have to pass. It’s . . . such a big job, and things start getting really hectic for me in January.” That last was something of a fib, but it seemed much kinder than the truth.

Myra pursed her lips and said nothing. If I
was
her daughter, as she’d hinted, my refusing her offer like this was a slap in the face when she most needed support. It felt horrible to hurt her . . . and to know that I was simultaneously turning my back on a terrific career opportunity.

I glanced around at the cluttered room. An ugly black ashtray when neither of the Axelrods were smokers. Ostrich feathers in a copper urn. A table lamp with seashells glued to its base. A faded watercolor of a mallard in flight and an oil painting of a rain-slick street. Did these items have special meaning? Had they been accumulated during vacations? Garage-sale visits? The objects that we choose to keep—to surround ourselves with—reveal our souls. The fibers that formed the tapestry of my biological parents’ lives could very well be right here before my uncomprehending eyes.

I swallowed hard and met Myra’s gray eyes, trying to remember now if Randy’s had been dark brown, like my own. “I’d really love to do your house, Myra, if only I could. There’s nothing I love more than doing a whole house at once, starting over fresh, but . . . the timing’s all wrong. I’m terribly sorry.”

“What if you were to just do half of the rooms? Maybe just the rooms on the main floor? Would you have time to tackle that?”

It felt to me as though I had equally compelling reasons to accept or decline this job. Half the house was a reasonable compromise. I glanced heavenward and asked silently,
Right, Mom?

No answer in my mother’s voice, but no lightning bolts zapping me, either.

To Myra, I replied, “I’ll think about it carefully. And, no matter what I ultimately decide, thank you very much for considering me for this job.”