Death by Inferior Design Page 12

  “Pardon?”

  “Aren’t you allergic to sawdust? That’s what Carl told me.”

  She shook her head, her features hardening. “That’s Emily. His first wife. Any kind of dust or fine particles makes her sneeze. Supposedly. She’s quite the princess.”

  Debbie had such rancor in her voice that it felt as though I’d just let a cat out of the bag, and I automatically did my best to stuff kitty back into place. “I’m sure Carl simply made up the story about your having allergies to explain to me why the workshop was being set up at a neutral site. The men didn’t want Steve and me to know until after we arrived that we were in a competition. Kevin probably gave the same excuse to Steve Sullivan about Jill.”

  The sparkle returned to her blue eyes and she chuckled a little. “In Jill’s case it would have been accurate. She’s allergic to dirt and messiness. I love her like a sister, but how that woman ever got through the child-rearing years, let alone childbirth, is beyond me.”

  “She and Kevin have children?”

  “Twins. They’re both college freshmen. They’ll be coming home for winter break soon.”

  I smiled and nodded, but shrank a little inside. The nagging questions about my lineage had returned. I tried to stave them off by saying cheerfully, “Let’s take a look at the stand that Taylor built. He said he put it in your garage.”

  While we headed toward the garage, she said, “We won’t have any trouble getting another person to set up the room with you. Myra sincerely wants to help. And there’s . . .” She paused, and her eyes lit up. “You know what would be great fun? If I go help Steve Sullivan complete Jill’s room, and she helps you with mine.”

  “I’m game. We can see if that works for them.” I flipped on the light and was impressed to see that Taylor—or perhaps Carl—had brought down one of the iceboxes that would form the bottom half of the TV stand. The unfinished piece had been put into place on top. The curved lines of the top ledges matched perfectly, and after the shelf unit was stained to match the icebox, the two pieces would look as though they had always been one complete stand. Remarkable. Once again, despite Taylor’s apparent thickheadedness, his craftsmanship had been superb. The man seemed to be something of a carpentry idiot savant.

  Something in the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I took a couple of steps closer to investigate. A paintbrush was sticking out of the open can of polyurethane. Next to that container, the can of stain had also been left open. I grabbed the brush handle, and the can of polyurethane came with it, having hardened around the gray foam brush. My second, smaller brush, intended for touchup work, was ruined, too. “Someone must have forgotten to put this away last night.”

  Debbie clicked her tongue. “That was Carl. I reminded him, just before I went to bed.” She stomped her foot. “What the hell is wrong with that man? He’s been in a fog ever since I got back from the spa!”

  “I’m in no position to complain. I know better than anyone to put away my supplies, and yet I took off yesterday without giving the work in progress in your garage a second thought.”

  “Yes, but Carl and Taylor have been in the garage off and on since dawn today. They had to have noticed this, yet nobody said a word to me. I haven’t been out here myself today until just now.”

  “I’m afraid this does change my schedule somewhat. I’ll have to run to the store and replace the supplies, then the oak needs to be stained, dry for at least four hours, then sealed.”

  “I’ll have Carl run out and get the supplies during his lunch hour, to make up for his ignoring the matter last night. We can always stain the wood then, and seal it this afternoon.”

  Debbie and I installed the crown molding and remade the two pieces that Taylor had cut at a reverse angle. The job took all morning, but I had to admit, doing so much of the work myself as opposed to having it done by allied professionals added an extra element of pride to this project. However, it was wreaking havoc on my schedule. I was beginning to suspect that it would be tomorrow, after all, before the job was complete.

  Carl came home for lunch while Debbie and I were stitching shut the openings in the pillow seams. He had brought the new can of wood stain with him, but had forgotten the polyurethane. He and Debbie squabbled about whether she’d told him to clean everything up or had told him that she would take care of it. I decided to take this opportunity to go see how Sullivan felt about trading homeowners for the finishing touches.

  Sullivan’s van was now parked in the McBrides’ driveway. Yesterday he’d bought me a drink and listened to my problems. Today I was worried sick that the police considered me a murder suspect. I so dearly wished that I could trust at least one person. The truth of the matter, though, was that I was in this alone and could trust no one.

  A gong resounded when I pressed the McBrides’ doorbell. Moments later, the door was opened by Jill, dressed in black wool slacks and a gray cashmere sweater, a string of pearls gleaming lustrous against the ensemble. Suddenly the khakis and black V-neck sweater under my leather jacket seemed especially shabby.

  She ushered me inside with a gracious smile. As I stepped onto her stunning travertine tile, I took in the understated elegance of her foyer—its succulent, honey-hued walls, how the circular mahogany table captured the high sheen of the staircase banister ahead, and that the crystal bowl on the table seemed to lovingly echo the curves of the pendant ceiling fixture.

  Jill touched my arm. “You look so tired, Erin. You poor dear. You, too, must have been too rattled by yesterday’s events to sleep last night.”

  Normally, being told that I looked tired made me bristle. But this time it was so true that I appreciated the note of sympathy. “It must have been much worse for you and your husband.”

  “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 sof
tness, 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.