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  Also by Leslie Caine

  Death by Inferior Design

  False Premises

  Manor of Death

  Killed by Clutter

  Fatal Feng Shui

  a domestic

  bliss myster y

  POISONED

  BY

  GILT

  Leslie Caine

  A D E L L B O O K

  p o i s o n e d b y g i lt

  A Dell Book / July 2008

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright (c) 2008 by Leslie Caine

  Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon

  is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-440-33785-0

  www.bantamdell.com

  v1.0

  Dedicated with love to Francine Mathews,

  who has been an invaluable resource to me in

  my writing and an even more invaluable friend

  POISONED

  BY

  GILT

  c h a p t e r 1

  steve Sullivan's handsome face grew pale upon answering our office phone. I had no clue who was

  calling, and he seemed to be deliberately avoiding my

  gaze. I tried to distract myself by focusing my attention on

  the cozy sitting area we'd created on the far side of our

  long, rectangular office. The fabric on our luxurious new

  sofa--Thai silk jacquard in a bronze-gold tone, scattered

  with the pale outline of rust-colored leaves--beautifully

  complemented the luscious red-brown hues of the

  exposed-brick wall behind it.

  But as the seconds dragged by and Sullivan remained

  2 L e s l i e C a i n e

  on the phone, my imagination ran wild. Was the landlord of this building suddenly giving Sullivan and Gilbert

  Designs the boot? Had a loved one died? Was the IRS going to audit us?

  In any case, the phone call had come at a particularly

  bad time. I'd just worked up the nerve to tell Sullivan

  something excruciatingly difficult. Now, based on his reaction to the news on the other end of the line, I braced

  myself for news of a different sort.

  He raked his hand through his light brown hair--yet

  another bad sign--and finally said, "Sure, Richard. We'll

  be here for at least the next half hour. See you then." He

  hung up and rose from his red leather office chair. His

  brow was furrowed, and he clenched his jaw tightly as he

  strode over to the Palladian-style window.

  "Was that Richard Thayers calling about the Earth

  Love contest?"

  "Yeah. Bad news."

  "But . . . his appointment as contest judge wasn't even

  official until yesterday. Did he already decide that

  Burke's house didn't win?"

  "It's worse than that." Steve stuffed his hands into the

  pockets of his black jeans. "Richard is withdrawing as

  judge for 'personal reasons.' He's also citing our client for

  possible rule violations. They're going to have to launch a

  full investigation. Might even turn the whole thing over

  to the police."

  "What!? That's ridiculous! You and I have been to

  Burke's house fifty times since we first got the rule book

  from Earth Love! We went over everything with him with

  a fine-toothed comb. His house sailed through all the

  judging for the previous rounds. How could he possibly

  have cheated?"

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 3

  Sullivan remained silent and turned his back to me. I

  couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking, which was

  unusual. In the past two years, we'd gone from bitter rivals to business partners. Along the way, we'd endured

  more than our fair share of trauma, which has a way of revealing a person's true nature very quickly. Fortunately,

  the first six months in the life of our new business had

  been relatively smooth--not silk, maybe, but top-grade

  linen. Our personal relationship, on the other hand, was,

  as ever, about as smooth as jagged glass. We were constantly plagued by bad timing and bad luck. Steve's last

  two phone conversations with his "mentor," Richard

  Thayers, were the perfect example. I'd yet to even meet

  the former teacher whom Sullivan so greatly admired.

  But last night, Richard's call to Sullivan's cell phone had

  interrupted my hopes for the perfect ending to what, until then, had finally, finally been Steve Sullivan's and my

  perfect date. And now, the phone had rung just as I'd

  worked up the courage to suggest to Sullivan that maybe

  tonight we should pick up where we'd left off the night

  before.

  Sullivan continued to stare out the window, fixated on

  its majestic view of the Rockies. I decided to scrap my

  heartfelt but memorized speech. Time for Plan B, which

  was to turn brazen hussy--cute brazen hussy, I hoped--

  and simply blurt out: "So, Sullivan. My bed or yours

  tonight?"

  "So, Sullivan. Are we being investigated, too, or

  what?" (Somewhere a chicken was squawking, just for

  me.)

  "Sure hope not," he mumbled in the window's direction.

  I struggled to string together the meager clues that

  4 L e s l i e C a i n e

  Sullivan had given me to this point. The Earth Love contest for energy-efficient homes meant much more to

  Sullivan than it did to me. He was acting as if this award

  would be his crowning professional achievement,

  whereas I felt that the contest's lucrative cash prize went

  to the homeowner, not the interior designer, for good

  reason. But the finalist judge, Richard Thayers, had been

  Steve Sullivan's favorite professor at the Art Institute of

  Colorado, which he'd attended a dozen years ago.

  Sullivan claimed that Thayers taught him everything he

  knew, and he was both anxious and ecstatic at the

  thought that Thayers might choose our design from the

  three finalists for "Best Green Home in Crestview,

  Colorado."

  Still trying to pry some answers out of Sullivan, I

  asked, "By 'stepping down for personal reasons,' does

  Richard mean the fact that he's your mentor? Didn't he

  tell you earlier that the contest sponsors were fine with

  that?"

  "Look, Gilbert." He turned and glowered at me.

  "You'll have to grill him, all right? I already told you what

  little I know."

  My heart sank. Wasn't it only last night that his

  dreamy hazel eyes were staring into mine with loving

  tenderness? He could never keep things in perspective,

  and minor problems often turned us into adversaries. But

&nbs
p; all I said was: "You're obviously only giving me part of

  Richard's message, though. What exactly did he say?"

  "I wasn't recording him, Gilbert."

  "That's a pity, Sullivan," I snapped. "Because if you

  had been using a tape recorder, you could hit the rewind

  button. Clear back to our date last night. When you were

  calling me 'Erin' as if you liked me."

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 5

  "You're the one who made the rule that we were to

  stick with 'Gilbert' and 'Sullivan' when we're at work!"

  "I'm objecting to your tone of voice when you say my

  name! Call me . . . Princess Dagweeb, for all I care! Last

  night, when you took my hand and asked me if I minded

  if we skip dessert, I thought . . ." Damn! My throat was

  getting tight with emotion. No way was I going to start

  crying.

  "That is what I meant," he said gently. He crossed the

  room, but stopped short of rounding my desk. "And, believe me, I was sure it was going to be a two-second

  phone conversation when Richard interrupted us last

  night, or I'd have let it keep ringing. But he was acting

  weird. The first thing he said was: 'Why the hell didn't

  you tell me Burke Stratton was your damned client?'

  Then he accused me of teaming up against him with his

  'worst enemy.' "

  That caught my attention. "Why would he have a

  problem with Burke?"

  "That's just it." He spread his arms and grumbled, "I

  still don't know. Richard wouldn't tell me. Just claims the

  guy wrecked his life . . . says if I'm smart, I'll stay the hell

  away from Burke before he finds a way to wipe out

  Sullivan and Gilbert Designs."

  I nodded, starting to understand. The thought of having his life ruined in a business arrangement would have

  been a painful deja vu for Sullivan; a few years ago he'd

  been conned by a corrupt business partner and had lost

  nearly everything he owned.

  "Having Richard freak out at me was the very last

  thing I wanted to happen last night," he continued. "By

  the time he calmed down and I got off the phone, it was

  too late for me to call Burke and get the story from him."

  6 L e s l i e C a i n e

  He scowled at me. "And you were acting so crushed that

  I didn't know--"

  "You left the table, Sullivan! One second you're holding my hand, smiling at me, happy because your longlost friend, Richard Thayers, is on the phone, and the

  next you're striding out the door!"

  "One of the men I admire most was yelling in my ear,

  accusing me of betraying him!"

  "I didn't know that! All you had to do was whisper to

  me, 'Something's wrong,' or 'He's upset.' Or you could

  have explained when you returned to the table. Instead,

  you were distracted and abrupt, and you completely gave

  me the brush-off when I asked what Richard had said."

  "Yeah." Sullivan sighed and ran his fingers through his

  hair a second time. "Guess that wasn't one of my better

  moments." He added with a charming smile, "Although,

  again, you made the rule about not talking business after

  hours."

  "Again, I couldn't read your mind," I explained gently.

  "All I knew was, you chose to take a phone call during

  our date, and then you were in a funk. Put yourself in my

  shoes."

  He gave me an exaggerated wince. "I would, but high

  heels make my calves look too big."

  "Don't try to joke your way out of this," I said, though

  I was already having a hard time keeping a straight face.

  "Erin." The man had a gift for saying my name in a

  way that could instantly make me melt. He finally came

  around my desk and leaned toward me, filling me with

  relief at the thought that, for once, we were going to avert

  a potentially disastrous argument. "I promise you that--"

  The door burst open. In walked a man in smudgy gray

  pants and a ratty forest green sweater that I'm pretty sure

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 7

  was on backwards. He had a sizable bald spot amidst his

  wild, unkempt hair, and a large red nose that hinted at a

  drinking problem. But at that moment, he could have

  been Santa Claus himself and I still would have hated

  him, as well as each and every one of his reindeer. To

  make matters much worse, Steve's eyes had just lit up as

  though the man were Santa.

  "Good to see you, Richard," Sullivan said, striding

  toward him.

  "Likewise, S.S.," he returned, giving him a bear hug.

  "Ridiculous that we live in the same town now," he said

  in a raspy voice, "yet we hardly ever see each other. And I

  feel terrible about the circumstances."

  "No kidding." There was an awkward pause, then

  Sullivan said, "You got here pretty quick."

  "I was just around the corner when we hung up, and I

  found a space right away. Before I forget . . . did you get

  my e-mail about my night class?"

  "Tonight at CU, right? Okay if I drop in?"

  "Absolutely. That's a great idea! It's in room one-ten of

  the history building. We can go hit a pub afterwards . . .

  grab a sandwich and a brewski."

  "Sounds good."

  Richard and Sullivan continued to make arrangements, but all I could think was: So much for our picking

  up where we left off last night. How had the two men gone

  from face-paling angst and accusations of betrayal to

  chatting about night classes and beers?

  Remembering belatedly that I was still in the room,

  Steve clapped his mentor on the back and turned toward

  me. "Richard Thayers, this is Erin Gilbert. Erin, Richard."

  I rose for a moment, and we exchanged "Nice to meet

  you's" and shook hands over my desk. I hoped that his

  8 L e s l i e C a i n e

  pleasantry was less insincere than mine. I hadn't set the

  bar especially high.

  "Have a seat," Sullivan suggested, giving Richard a pat

  on the back. The three of us moved from our desks to the

  cozy nook near the window. We always allowed our visitors to sit first, and then, if it was available, Sullivan would

  grab the leather smoking chair and I would grab the yellow slipper chair. Today I strode directly to Sullivan's

  smoking chair and plopped myself down before our guest

  could. I hated to act so petulant, but it was the best I

  could do. At least I was keeping my mouth shut. Part of

  me wanted to scream at Thayers: Do you realize you're

  wrecking my love life?!

  Sullivan took my usual seat. Once Richard had settled

  into place on the sofa, I said, "Steve tells me that you're

  stepping down as Earth Love's finalist judge."

  He nodded grimly. "It's the responsible thing to do."

  He sighed. "Too bad. I read the reports from the initialrounds' judges and saw the photographs. Burke Stratton's

  interior was by far the best. Not surprisingly." He winked

  at Sullivan.

  "Thanks," Sullivan said. "Got to say that I agree with

  you. Though I'm far from impartial. But I also have to admit, Darren Campesio's architectural design is interesting and really energy-efficient."

  "That's the one
that's partially built into the hillside,

  right? So that the place is part cave? A la Batman?"

  He was mocking the house, sight unseen. Annoyed, I

  chimed in, "The design compensates for the windowless

  portion fairly well. The space makes great use of skylights

  and mirrors."

  Richard looked at me with wide eyes, then blinked a

  couple of times, as if puzzled. "Ah. Glad to hear it."

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 9

  "And the interior for the third finalist has a lot to be

  said for it, too," I added.

  "She means Margot Troy's place," Sullivan explained

  unnecessarily--assuming Richard could subtract two

  from three. "But Erin's biased. She designed Margot's

  kitchen a couple years back."

  "Did she?" Richard asked, again raising his bushy eyebrows. "Too bad you guys didn't just stick to working on

  Margot's house." He shook his head. "When I agreed to

  judge, I didn't know Burke Stratton was even in the competition, let alone a finalist."

  Sullivan was nodding as though he was following

  Richard's thread, but I remained on the outskirts. "And

  you're biased against Burke, so you recused yourself?" I

  prompted.

  Richard nodded and, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of

  Sullivan's, dragged a hand through his messy, patchy

  hair. "The two of us have a problematic relationship. I

  can't begin to be impartial toward that pompous peacock." Shifting his gaze to Sullivan, he said, "If I were

  you, I'd disassociate with Stratton A.S.A.P."

  "Because you think he cheated somehow?" I asked.

  "Oh, he most definitely cheated," Richard said with a

  snort. "There's no doubt about that."

  "How so?"

  "Evidence, my dear. Evidence." He chuckled. I battled the urge to fire off a sarcastic reply. Before I could

  ask: What evidence? he continued, "Sorry to be so vague.

  But when word of what Burke is really up to gets out, no

  one will want to have their names associated with him or

  his residence."

  Sullivan and I exchanged glances. Why was Richard

  paying us a personal visit if he wasn't going to pass along

  10 L e s l i e C a i n e

  any helpful information? And why was Sullivan now giving me the evil eye if he'd just told me that I would have

  to "grill Richard" myself? "I'm sorry, Richard," I said,

  "but I'm confused. You didn't know till last night Burke

  was in the contest. His house passed the inspections for

  the previous rounds with flying colors. Yet this afternoon,