Death by Inferior Design (21 page)

“It’s going to be fine, Myra,” Jill said, placing her hand atop Myra’s on the coffee table.

Debbie, too, leaned closer to poor Myra. “Of course it will. Jill’s right. We won’t let the police do anything bad to you.” She grabbed Myra’s glass and refilled it from the half-full blender on the coffee table. “Let’s all drink to your eventual vindication.”

I had to admit that if I were hosting a party prior to my imminent arrest for murder, I, too, could well be serving straight from the bottle, let alone a blender. And my guests would be lucky to get glasses, as opposed to straws for a vat’s worth of mimosa.

Myra blew out a puff of air and wiped her cheeks, though the tears kept falling. “I couldn’t believe the police the first time they spoke to me. I was so sure it was his heart. He was not a perfect man—not even close— but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Who could have done such a horrible thing?”

I glanced longingly at the door. It wasn’t that I was un-caring and couldn’t relate to her pain—quite the opposite. It was just that this scene was not what I had prepared myself for. I’d brought my portfolio, camera, notebook, and tape measure and was deep inside my designer mind-set. This felt like arriving at a party in black tie, only to discover that the event was a Halloween party.

I brushed my hair back from my forehead to sneak a surreptitious glance at my watch. Five o’clock. Steve Sullivan should be arriving anytime now.

Waiting until Myra regained her composure, I asked gently, “Myra? Have I gotten my times wrong? Weren’t we supposed to meet Steve here? I was under the impression that we were going to share some of our thoughts about your interiors.”

“You’re quite correct, as always, my dear,” she replied, clearing her throat. “But after my talk with the detective, I called you both and asked if we could reschedule.”

“I’m sorry. I checked my voice mail just prior to driving here, but I never got the message.”

She touched her forehead with trembling fingers, and her eyes widened. “Oh, dear. That’s right.” She took a couple of gulps of her drink. “After I got off the phone with Steve, I’d told myself that
he
was going to call and tell you I’d canceled, like he offered. But I was in such a tizzy, I forgot that I’d told him
I
would be the one to call you.” She set her drink down but misjudged the distance a little, causing some spillage. She dried the last of her tears. After a moment, she managed a smile and said to me, “That young man is
so
cute. Is he gay?”

“I’m not sure. We don’t know each other very well.”

Debbie let out a bark of laughter. “I
know
he isn’t gay. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at Erin when he thinks no one’s watching? He obviously has a
huge
crush on her.”

Though this was the second time I’d heard that Sullivan ogled me surreptitiously, I hadn’t believed it either time. Even so, Kevin had probably told Jill about catching Sullivan and me together in the basement. I had to hold my tongue.

“Let’s take a quick vote, shall we?” Jill asked. “Who agrees that Steve finds Erin wildly attractive?”

All three women promptly raised their hands.

“There you have it, Erin.” While speaking, Jill rotated in her seat and knelt on her cushion to reach the bottom shelf of a sofa table directly behind her. She emerged with an empty brandy snifter and said, “You’ll drink to that, too, Erin. These daiquiris are wonderful, and you can always pretend it’s a Shirley Timple.” Her eyes flew open wide. She swatted Debbie, who was pouring me the pink liquid and nearly spilled it, and laughed. “Did you hear that? Shirley
Timple.”
Jill took custody of the half-full glass from Debbie and thrust it at me. “Shirley
Temple,
I meant to say.”

My thoughts lingered on what they’d said about Sullivan, but I couldn’t take the matter seriously. The source was three women who were three sheets to the wind. I took a sip of my drink and couldn’t help but cough. This had to be the stiffest drink I’d ever had. I’d assumed that its watery viscosity was due to melted ice, but this concoction was basically white rum with an innuendo of strawberry.

Jill laughed merrily for no apparent reason. “Myra, if you break out the coffee for us later, let’s just be sure that it isn’t almond-flavored, all right?”

For a moment, nobody spoke or moved. Debbie’s face paled. Myra set her glass down and glared at Jill. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“I was just kidding. . . . Isn’t arsenic supposed to taste a bit like almonds?” Jill asked Debbie.

Debbie set her glass down. Evenly, she said, “Jill, you’ve had too much to drink.”

“No, I haven’t had nearly enough.” Jill laughed again, hysteria edging her voice. “I can still see and think straight.
That
will never do.” She drained her glass. “You have nothing to worry about, Myra.
I’m
the one who’s got cause for ulcers.”

Not knowing what else to say, I said to Debbie, “I take it the police were here this afternoon.”

Jill replied on Debbie’s behalf, “They were taking things as evidence. Someone planted an arsenic bottle in Kevin’s workshop.”

“He had arsenic?” I asked, feigning surprise.

“It wasn’t Kevin’s,” Jill said rashly. “Someone planted it there.”

“How do you know that someone planted it?” Debbie asked.

“Kevin told me.”

“That must make it true, then,” Myra grumbled. “Anyway, Erin, point is, my schedule got all thrown out of whack, along with my day, when the police suddenly appeared.”

Jill reached over and patted Myra’s hand. “Don’t worry. You’re among friends here. We all know what Randy did to you.”

Myra wobbled to her feet. “Randy didn’t do anything to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jill froze. Debbie’s cheeks had grown red and she was staring at her shoes. Jill said, “I think that we should . . .” Her voice faded. “Maybe I
have
had too much to drink. I’ve forgotten my entire train of thought.” She forced a laugh. “Dear me.”

Debbie stood up and said to Jill, “Time to go, don’t you think?”

“Are you going to be all right alone, Myra?” I asked, also rising, only too happy to desert this entire scene and my too-stiff drink.

“Of course I will. Thanks for coming, and I apologize for forgetting to call you.”

The three of us grabbed our coats and departed together. “She probably just wanted to see you again,” Jill said to me the moment the door was shut behind us. “I think you remind her of—”

Grabbing Jill’s elbow, Debbie interrupted. “Let’s both go over to my place, shall we?”

“Myra told me I reminded her of her sister,” I said, testing their reactions.

“Did she?” Debbie’s smile seemed forced. “That’s nice.”

“I didn’t know Myra had a sister,” Jill muttered.

“We’re all full of surprises tonight then, aren’t we?” Debbie said. “Good night, Erin. Nice to see you again.”

I wanted to blurt out that I knew full well that I “reminded” Myra of the daughter she’d given up for adoption, but instead I said only, “Yes, you too. Good night.”

The next morning, I worked on two small assign
ments—one quick floor plan for a referral who simply wanted advice on furniture placement in the family room of her new house, and some guest room accessorizing in preparation for a nervous new wife’s first extended visit from her exacting mother-in-law. At lunchtime, I returned a call to one of my oldest clients in town and reached her husband, who was so like Carl Henderson in terms of his lack of interest in his room design that we’d only met once before, despite this being the fourth time that his wife, Susan, had hired me. He offered to take a message. “Please just tell her that Erin called about your guest room makeover, and I’ll call again later.”

“Oh, right. Erin Sullivan. How are you?”

Sullivan?
“My last name is Gilbert, actually, but I’m great. How are you Mr. Jameson?”

“Got it wrong again.” He chuckled. “I can’t remember that for the life of me. Susan must have told you that whole story, right?”

“What
story?”

“How we’d already signed on with this designer named Sullivan and given him a deposit, but my company’s finances took a turn for the worst, and he was nice enough to let us put a hold on everything for a few months. Only it turned out to be a full year till we got back in the black . . . and then Susan and I got Gilbert confused with Sullivan.”

Alarmed, I sprang to my feet and began to pace.

He went on. “We assumed you were his assistant and that we’d forfeited our deposit after all that time. Took Susan a full month to realize our mistake, and by then, she figured it’d just be easiest to explain the mess to Sullivan.”

“Oh, my God! Nobody ever told me!”

“Ah, like they say, all’s well that ends well. Susan said Sullivan was nice as could be about it and said you were both terrific designers. Anyway, I’ll tell Susan you called.”

I muttered, “Thanks,” and hung up, sick to my stomach.
I
was the bad guy? I
was
the bad guy!

Two years ago, I’d done something I truly believed I would never do; I’d stolen Sullivan’s client! Not
knowingly,
certainly, but I
had
ignored the inexplicable change in tenor from Sullivan’s initial friendly joshing over the Gilbert-Sullivan thing to his nasty rancor a couple of months later, when he’d yelled that I needed to rely on my own merits. I’d written him off as an asshole, demanded that he leave my office that instant, and had never stopped to ponder that some misunderstanding had,
of course,
occurred.

How the hell had I been so stupid? Which was not to say that Sullivan had been the innocent party throughout and hadn’t foolishly rushed to his own snap judgments, but bottom line:
I
had cast the first stone, not the other way around.

The sound of imaginary glass walls breaking echoed in my brain.

That afternoon I drove to the Hendersons’ for the
twenty-four-hour follow-up visit that I always make to ensure that my customers are thoroughly pleased. I spotted Carl’s hunched-over figure across the street. Myra appeared to be setting up a substantial garage sale, which was odd timing. Could she perhaps be deliberately getting rid of evidence? Surely the police would object to her selling off Randy’s personal effects during an ongoing investigation. Maybe it was time for me to give Officer Del—Linda Delgardio—a quick call.

I parked on the street and promptly went over to make sure that she wasn’t selling any quality furniture that I might want to encourage her to keep. I glanced around quickly for the umbrella stand, but it was nowhere in sight.

Myra looked up and smiled as I approached. “Erin, you’re just in time. Do you ever collect people’s old furniture and recycle it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I put some of Randy’s things for giveaway in the garage. Carl’s going through everything. I’m afraid he was here first, so he gets first dibs.”

Carl seemed intent on ignoring me, which was a bit strange, considering he knew we had an appointment scheduled to begin right now. “Morning, Carl,” I called.

“Erin,” he replied with a nod. “Debbie sent me over. She wants to put a second desk or a crudoza in her basement office.”

“ ‘Crudoza’?” I repeated. “Do you mean a credenza?”

“Whatever. Got to figure out how to get it across the street by myself, since she ran out of printer toner and had to rush out. Just expects me to hoist the thing on my back and mule-train it home somehow. I don’t suppose you’ve got a dolly, have you, Myra?”

“The two of us can carry it,” I interposed. “I don’t mind.”

Carl glanced at Myra, then gave me a long look. “The cops were just here again. They were asking questions about you. The officers seemed to think we were lying about there not having been a prior connection between you and Debbie and me.”

“Really?” I replied, feigning disinterest although a chill ran through me. I opened a drawer in the credenza as a distraction, surprised to see that it wasn’t empty.

“What were the police talking about?” Carl pressed.

Myra was staring at us with rapt attention. I replied to Carl, “I found an old photograph of me in your house. It had been taped to the back of the paneling that hid the cubbyhole.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “How is that possible? And why would anyone do such a thing?” He sounded sincerely puzzled.

“I don’t know.” I turned my attention to Myra, who was clearly struggling to regain her composure. “Shouldn’t we at least empty out the drawers before taking the desk?”

Carl removed a stationery box from the open drawer. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked, giving the box a shake.

“Oh, that’s just some old stationery,” Myra replied. “It’s Randy’s. If you want anything in the desk, just take it. I’m keeping the computer, but as far as I’m concerned, everything else can go in the trash.”

“This looks strangely familiar,” Carl grumbled under his breath as he examined the stationery. I peered at it and noted that the paper had the same thin, faded lines as did the letters we’d found in Carl’s wall. He pitched the box into the trash can. Then, without so much as a cursory inspection, he removed and dumped the contents of each desk drawer. All the while, however, the muscles in his jaw were working furiously.

We carried the desk across the street, and Myra excused herself to go back inside her home. I kept brooding about how she had nearly fainted at the news that I’d found my own picture in the Hendersons’ paneling.

As we made our way down his driveway, Carl glanced over his shoulder at the Axelrods’ house, then asked, “You’re a designer. You probably know about aging techniques that make things look older than they really are, right?”

“I know some antiquing techniques, yes.”

“You can age paper, right?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“The classic method is to soak the paper in lemon juice and then let it dry in the sun, or sometimes directly on a heater, which can cause the lemon juice to turn slightly brown. Or to use weak tea water.”