False Premises (29 page)

“I’m glad you’re pleased, Henry, but I have to get Robert to sign off on my work. It’s in our contract. If all goes well, we can be out of here in five minutes.”

“Oh, jeez. That’s right. Pembrook’s coming, too.” He glanced behind him. “I guess there’s nothing to do, then, but have you come in. I’m in the middle of an important business meeting right now, and I—”

“Miss Gilbert,” came a voice from deeper inside the house. George Wong stepped behind Henry, towering over the stocky little man. “Good afternoon.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and said, “Why not let Miss Gilbert and her companion join our discussion? I would like to hear her opinion of our business venture.”

Henry hesitated for just a moment, then muttered, “Come on in,” and ushered us inside.

The reason for Henry’s reluctance to invite us into his home was instantly apparent. He’d made the living room—the first room visitors entered after the foyer—into the safari room that Sullivan had envisioned for the den in a
back
room. The décor was every bit as ghastly as I’d expected it to be. The sectional sofa was blood red, a perfect counterpoint to the leopard-skin ottoman and the zebra hide splatted spread-eagle on the wall behind the sofa.

As though his speaking louder could somehow deprive me of my eyesight, Henry said in a near shout, “Mr. Wong here told me about how you know him through his furniture-manufacturing company.” He gestured at Steve. “This is Steve Sullivan, Erin’s right-hand man. Which is better than being her right-
leg
man, now that it’s broken.”

No one joined him in laughter at his joke . . . though I did smile a little at my own silent pun in thinking how
lame
it had been.

“How did your accident happen?” Wong asked.

“A stair to the storage space above the garage had been sabotaged,” Sullivan explained as he sat.

“You broke your leg in Mr. Toben’s house?” Wong was all innocence, but I, for one, was permanently leery in the huge man’s presence.

“I’m afraid so.” Although Sullivan was far too good at exuding charm to make this obvious to anyone else in the room, I could tell that he didn’t like George Wong one bit.

“I shall remember to take great care when climbing your steps,” George said to Henry with a wink.

Still feeling immensely ill at ease, I took a seat near Steve on the garish red sectional and asked, “What’s this business venture you mentioned?”

“Ah, yes. That should be of some interest to you both. Henry and I are going to invest in the home-design retail business. We hope to start one store here in Crestview, but we’ll rapidly expand across the nation.”

“Bulk sales. That’s the name of the game,” Henry interjected. He tapped on his white toupee as if to indicate that he was a deep thinker. “Quantity allows you to undercut other stores.”

“So . . . you envision this as the next Pottery Barn?” I forced my voice to sound pleasant.

“In a manner of speaking,” Wong replied.

Nodding enthusiastically, Henry added, “We’re going to be the Far East version. Pottery
Pagoda,
more like.” Again, he alone laughed at his joke. “We already worked out a plan of one of the storefronts. Show Steve our plans, George. He’s the one I was telling you about, who I was thinking we could hire as a consultant.”

I couldn’t help but flinch, and Henry said, “No offense, honey. You do great work, but I think Steve, being a guy, could better help us to appeal to both sexes. You gals flock to furniture stores like moths to a bonfire, so we already don’t need to worry there.”

Henry’s logic was severely flawed. Maybe he was delusional and heard voices in his head saying:
If you build it,
women will come.

“Erin and I are partners,” Sullivan said firmly, “so you can’t hire just me alone.”

I was surprised by Steve’s reply, but reasoned that he probably felt I’d clobber him for cutting me out of the picture, so I nodded.

Henry furrowed his brow. “Really? You said when we first met that you were her assistant temporarily, but had your own business.”

“We’ve adjusted our plans since then,” I lied, thinking the stakes here were low. If either man had been involved with the murders, it hardly mattered whether they hired Sullivan or me; they’d soon be in jail, and their assets would be seized by the government.

Sullivan’s cell phone rang, and he grabbed it and showed me the number on the display. The caller was at the Crestview police station. My blood pressure went up several notches. Why would the police be calling Steve? Were they checking alibis—seeing if I could have been murdering Jerry Stone in my office the other morning?

“I’d better take this in private,” Sullivan said with a wan smile. Henry gestured to the doorway to the kitchen, and Sullivan said, “Thanks,” then answered the phone as he left the room.

Henry turned to George and said quietly, “We may as well show Erin our plans for the store, since we’re in for the package deal with the both of them.”

The remark made me feel like the throwaway gift that patrons at banks were given for starting up a new savings account. The doorbell rang before they could unfurl the plans. Henry gave a quick glance at his Swiss Army watch. “This has got to be Pembrook.” He shook his head as he rose for the door. “Crap! It never occurred to me when I first got to thinking I needed an image consultant that I’d be hiring a light-in-the-loafers Jewish mother to nag me to death.”

It was remarkable how Henry had such a way with words as to insult diverse groups of people all at once.

Robert swept into the room and was instantly taken aback by our safari surroundings. He caught his breath and began to turn toward Henry, obviously on the verge of giving him a tongue-lashing, but then he spotted George Wong in the recliner and froze.

“Robert Pembrook,” Wong said with a chuckle. “Of course you’re here. Only
you
could be behind two sudden murders in this sleepy little town near my home.”

Robert had recovered from his initial surprise and was now pretending to be nonchalant. “My, my, Georgie.” Robert took his act so far as to study his cuticles. “Still carrying a grudge, are we?”

Henry had been listening in silence, standing beside Robert. Now, as the hostile conversation paused, Henry said, “I take it you two know each other,” with no hint of sarcasm.

Wong nodded to Henry and, with that chillingly serene smile of his, stated, “We are old friends. We were once roommates.”

“
Roommates?
That’s what we’re calling it these days?” Robert sneered at George. “How very P.C. of you. Of course, that was before you let yourself go. Too much fast food, American style, Wong.”

Wong maintained his smile and patted his sizable stomach. “Too much pampering, from too many lady friends, Pembrook.”

Robert fidgeted with his glasses. “Ah. Well, good for you. You always were a switch-hitter.”

“So, what’s new with you, Robert? Are you still cheating nice people out of their savings in the garment business?”

Robert fixed a magnanimous smile on him. “My business is still going strong, if that’s what you mean, though I’m now a consultant.”

“Ah, that’s right. I heard about your being an image consultant and working with a decorator.” Wong glanced at me. “So, you two have been working together for three or four years now, yes?”

I shook my head. “No, this—”

“You’re thinking of my previous designer, Evan Collins,” Robert interrupted. He hesitated and corrected, “
Cambridge
, rather. How about you? Are you still passing off cheap imitations as ancient Chinese treasures?”

Wong maintained his smile. “My business is going strong. Thank you.”

“Speaking of Chinese treasures . . .” Robert looked at me. “You should ask George to tell you how he was transported to the country when he was ten or eleven. His parents hid him inside a drawer in a chest that they shipped to the United States. A harrowing journey, to say the least.”

I widened my eyes, thinking such a journey must have been much more than “harrowing.” Wong, however, showed absolutely no emotion at the memory. It hit me then that this entire inscrutable-Asian-man routine of his was a put-on; George Wong had lived in the United States since he was a child. He was simply playing on that stereotype to serve his own purposes—to control others through intimidation.

In what I realized was a ludicrous attempt to make my intense curiosity seem casual, I asked Robert, “How long ago was it that you knew George?”

“Clear back in college at the University of Chicago. More than thirty years ago.”

“Quite a coincidence,” Henry mused aloud. “Here I hook up with a new partner out of the blue, and he turns out to be your former significant other.”

I very much doubted that it was pure coincidence.

Sullivan returned to the room. Either his conversation with the police had been of little consequence or he was masking his reaction well. He greeted Robert and reclaimed his seat.

“George and Robert are old friends, as it turns out,” I told him.

“Small world,” Sullivan replied mildly.

“It sure is. They haven’t seen each other in thirty years.

Yet they know about each other’s business ventures.” I tried to make the remark sound like a bland comment. Sullivan eyed me, obviously picking up on the significance.

“Yes.” Wong again gave me his Cheshire cat grin. “As I advised you before, Miss Gilbert, it is best to know many people.”

“As proof of that theory, George once saved my life,” Robert contributed. “That was how we met. I’m indebted to him forever.”

“An exaggeration.” Wong made a dismissive gesture. “Those men were probably not going to kill you. Merely beat you and maybe leave you with some very bad scars.”

“I was at the wrong type of bar in the wrong section of Chicago,” Robert explained to Sullivan and me, “the type of place where macho patrons take personal offense to men of my persuasion. Three beer-drinking men saw fit to try to convince me to change my sexual orientation by beating the crap out of me. George, however, happened onto the scene in the nick of time.”

“You fought off three men . . . single-handedly?” Henry asked, his eyes widening in obvious newfound admiration for his would-be business partner.

Robert smirked at George as he replied, “Our Mr. Wong is very skillful with a knife.”

Chapter 20

At that remark, George Wong finally lost his smile. A palpable tension filled the wretched room. It grew so quiet that I could hear the grandfather clock in the hallway tick. Unlike the furnishings in my current setting, that clock was a thing of beauty—Windsor cherry cabinet with holly-and-ebony inlays, beveled glass, every inch classic and top of the line. Henry began to nervously jingle the coins in his pockets.

Robert rubbed his hands and said, “Erin, Steve, I have a second appointment this afternoon that’s clear down in Denver.” Grimacing at the zebra skin behind us, he continued, “I’m suitably familiar with your floor plans and have already seen enough to know you’re not responsible for the final results of my client’s home. You did a fine job, under the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” I said, which was echoed a moment later by Sullivan.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime. Next time I’m working in the Denver region; I promise you’ll be the first designer I call, Erin. And you’ll be the second, Steve, if Erin declines.”

Despite the tension, I felt cheered by the compliment as I rose to say goodbye. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Robert.”

“You, too, darling. A pleasure. A pleasure indeed.” He spread his arms. “Come, come. Give us a hug.” He squeezed me in a bear hug, then held out his hand toward Sullivan, who was attempting to rise on his one good leg. “Don’t get up, you poor thing.” They shook hands, then Robert turned to the two other men. “Henry, we still have one more session, so I’ll see you here on Monday at three.” He hesitated, then looked at me. “Erin, you or Steve should stop in then, too. Have your revised bill ready, and we’ll go over everything, and I’ll pay you before I leave town.”

Mentally checking my calendar and realizing my Monday schedule was light, I answered, “All right. See you then.”

“Wonderful.” Robert gave George Wong a long, appraising look. “George, do stay out of trouble, won’t you?”

“I always do, Pemmie.”

Robert smirked, then replied, “Not really.” He let himself out, and a second awkward silence fell over us.

George Wong’s proximity still made me uneasy. If ever there was a person who struck me as being capable of a double murder, this was the guy. I had a disturbing urge to huddle closer to Sullivan for protection.

Henry started noisily rifling through the papers in a rectangular safari basket that had been converted into a coffee table. Stupidly, a sleek, smoked-glass oval table that I’d purchased on his behalf had been swapped for this basket, which had an uneven surface, unsuitable for supporting cups or drinking glasses. The basket gave him extra storage space, however.
Large enough to hide a body,
I thought anxiously.

“Let me show you my ideas for the showroom,” Henry said, looking at Steve and then me.

“
Our
ideas,” Wong corrected.

“Right, right,” Henry replied, a trifle nervously. He unrolled a large blue-line plan, and I moved a seat cushion closer to Sullivan as we surveyed the drawings together.

“The furniture placement needs to be rethought,” I blurted out. “It looks like you’ve got your chairs in one section, your case furniture—cabinets, et cetera—in another, tables in yet another, and so forth.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Henry asked.

“Furniture showrooms should be set up to resemble rooms in the house whenever possible,” I replied.

Sullivan translated, “You need to give your customers ideas for how each piece might go together.”

“That way they can visualize, say, the store’s sofa in their own living room. That’s infinitely more appealing than simply comparing this new sofa to that new sofa.”