False Premises Read online

  “I didn’t say you were. I just think you took a foolish, unnecessary risk.” He tried to put his hand atop mine on the table, but I pulled away.

  So he didn’t think I was a fool, just that I’d done a really, really stupid thing. Yippee! He’d made my ego soar like a neon-colored wind sock.

  “You can’t possibly argue the point, Erin. I mean, look what’s happened. Someone’s tailing you now . . . obviously trying to mess with your head.”

  “Speaking of messing with my head,” I replied evenly, “Mr. Wong said to say hello to you. When I asked how he knew that I knew you, he said you’d mentioned me when you saw him last, which he claimed was clear back in January.”

  “You and I didn’t know each other in January.”

  “Yes, I realize that. That’s my point.” Was it just me, just John, or were men forever pointing out the obvious to women?

  “That was a crazy thing for him to say. I saw him just three, four weeks ago. I must have mentioned your name then. In fact, I’m sure I did. He’d asked me about interior designers in Crestview . . . said it would help him to collect a list of business contacts.”

  “And you gave him my name?”

  “Along with Steve’s. Yeah.”

  “Yet you just said that the guy was ‘bad news.’ ”

  “Well, hey. I wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley. He’s great at what he does, though. You give Wong the dimensions and description of a shelf unit you want built, and he’ll make it to your precise specifications.”

  I paused, trying to form a mental timeline. “When you last saw him, were you ordering furniture for today’s showcase home, by any chance?”

  John froze. Widening his eyes, he answered, “My God, you’re right. I ordered an entertainment center. He shipped it just yesterday. So he knew I’d be there today. In fact, he’s the only person who knew someone connected to Laura would be at that house. Maybe George Wong is the murderer!”

  “But how could Wong have known that you knew Laura?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, blinked, then said, “Good point. He couldn’t have. Even so, I’m going to tell the police about how Wong delivered furniture to that address just yesterday.”

  I mulled over telling John about Wong’s unnerving visit to my home last night, but kept quiet. What good would another I-told-you-so tongue-lashing do for me? But I would tell Linda Delgardio about it.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that someone was trying to frame me,” John said. “First I find the murder weapon and get my fingerprints on the knife in the process. Then suddenly the scarf that Laura was wearing last is lying out in the open, right next to my truck. Not to mention having someone I barely know, George Wong, say ‘tell John I said hello.’ ”

  I averted my eyes, pretending to study my bland linguine. “You have a couple of weird coincidences going against you, all right.”

  “You can say that again.” He chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows at me, leaning closer. “No wonder you’re jumpy. You’re having lunch with a prime suspect in a killing.”

  Offended, I fired back, “Laura was a friend of mine. Or at least, I thought she was. In any case, her death is not a joking matter.”

  His smile promptly faded. “Right. Sorry.”

  Everything I said to him from then on was like using expensive fabric to re-cover a chair that had a defective frame. John paid for our meals and we left, and he seemed lost in thought as he drove us back to the model home, where my van was still parked. He pulled into the driveway, set the parking brake, and asked, “Erin: Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not!”

  He held my gaze, as if trying to gauge my sincerity.

  I sighed. “John, this has all been a nightmare, ever since Laura and I went to Audrey’s presentation on Monday night. The truth is, I’m not feeling very good about anything just now. All I want is for her killer to get arrested so I can stop feeling like I need to be looking over my shoulder. Ironically, if I had been watching through my rearview mirror more diligently today, maybe I’d have spotted the killer.”

  He glowered at me. “What if all of this had happened to Steve Sullivan instead of me? If Steve had found the knife in the table, if Wong had told you to say hello to Sullivan, and you’d found the scarf on the property of one of Steve’s clients? Would you have acted this skittish around him?”

  I hesitated. Then I said firmly, “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. And I’ve got to tell you honestly, Erin, it’s a bit crowded in this relationship.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that, John.”

  He got out of the truck. “Why don’t you just say ‘thanks for lunch’?” He slammed the door and let himself inside the house. I stayed seated for a minute or two, thinking. He might have made an excellent point just now, or he might have put up a subterfuge, deliberately distracting me by waving my unresolved feelings for Sullivan in front of me. Miserable, but unwilling to leave things this way between us, I followed him into the house.

  John was pacing in the chef-style kitchen. In my sour mood, the upscale surroundings struck me as one more example of artifice. All the newer, fancier homes seemed to have these vast, mega-equipped kitchens nowadays, even though supposedly fewer and fewer homeowners were actually cooking. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, John.”

  He shrugged.

  The wisest thing for us to do was probably to cool it for a couple of weeks, but he might only take that to mean I really believed he was guilty of this horrid crime. On the other hand, maybe I did believe that. Gently, I said, “I’m starting to get the feeling that the world is conspiring against us. Know what I mean?”

  “I wish you’d met me first, instead of Steve.” John refused to meet my gaze. “I doubt we’d be having this conversation today if we’d met sooner. Instead, you’d be telling me how suspicious Steve looks, with the woman who broke his heart and destroyed his life suddenly dying the very same night he finds out she’s back in town.”

  “John, I’m not comfortable discussing Sullivan like this. It sounds like you’re saying you suspect him. But he’d been with me for hours that night, including the period of time when the building was set on fire.”

  Now he stared into my eyes. “But you don’t know how long Laura’s body was lying there before the fire was set, do you?”

  “No, but . . . Come on, John. This is Steve Sullivan we’re talking about. You and he are good friends!”

  “I’m just saying that it goes both ways. The other day he implied he didn’t trust me when I said I might have touched the knife blade. Now he’s obviously turned you against me.”

  “That’s not true!” Or was it? My head ached. Was there anyone I trusted these days? “I have to go. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “Meeting Steve?”

  “For work. Yes. Later this afternoon. We’ve got a batch of accessories to return. Thanks to Henry Toben’s switcharoos, my living room purchases now clash.”

  My explanation was probably gibberish to him. I hadn’t told him about Henry, but he nodded. “I’ll call you soon.”

  He sounded sad, but then, he had a right to be; I was depressed, too. “Good. I’d like that. Take care, John.” I let myself out. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away, but I didn’t look back.

  Sullivan was supposed to meet me at U-Store. He was late. I separated out the items that needed to be exchanged and stacked them near the door. When Sullivan still hadn’t arrived, I started marking the boxes for delivery to the rooms in Henry’s house according to my floor plan and not Sullivan’s. “You snooze, you lose,” I muttered, working away in an increasingly foul temper.

  Sullivan popped through the door a couple of minutes later. We exchanged frostly hellos, and he examined my work. Knowing he’d squawk any second now, I tried to distract him by saying, “I called my suppliers first thing this morning, and they all assure me that their fur upholstery is actual synthetic. And it’s a good thing,
too, because otherwise, I’d—”

  “Whoa. The zebra-skin wall hanging goes in the den, not the back bedroom.” He snatched the marker out of my hand.

  “Hey! I’m lead designer. You’re just my assistant. Remember?”

  “You’re the one with the faulty memory. We agreed to let Henry decide who designs the rooms.”

  “And we will. After he sees everything arranged my way.”

  “That’s not what we agreed to do, Gilbert. We’ll show him our plans and get his answer. Then we’ll have the installers put everything in place accordingly. As your assistant, I already called and set up a meeting for both him and Pembrook to see the designs. Tomorrow afternoon at two.”

  “On a Saturday?” I protested.

  “The day’s going to be shot to hell, no matter what. Laura’s funeral’s at four.”

  For a minute there, I’d forgotten about Laura and all the misery of her murder. Now it hit me like an ice-cold shower. I couldn’t stop myself from taking my distress out on Sullivan, and griped, “It’s a pretty lousy assistant who doesn’t think to check with his supervisor before he makes a meeting for her.”

  Infuriatingly, Sullivan winked at me. “No problem. I can show Henry both designs by myself.”

  “So I won’t be there to talk up my plan? Yeah, right! Like I’m really going to fall for that.” I held out my hand. “Give me my marker back!”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you what . . . after the meeting tomorrow, I’ll mark the boxes myself.”

  Stretching the truth a little, I exclaimed, “But getting the boxes marked was the major reason we came down here today—to make sure our ducks were in a row and to get the shipment ready for the installers! Now we’ve both wasted a forty-minute round trip!”

  “Seems that our ducks are a bit out of line, then. But don’t worry. Like I said, I’ll waddle on over here after our meeting tomorrow and make up for our lost time.” He gave me a haughty smirk. “ And I’ll accept the shipment on the exchanges at the same time, which was the major reason we had to come down here today. The movers are charging Toben extra to deliver on a Saturday and for having to pick up the new merchandise from multiple stores, but he deserves as much. That’s why I was a little late getting here. I was busy making the arrangements.”

  “Again, without checking with me first.” I wanted to be the one to inspect the final purchases for my design, damn it all! “You’re the world’s worst assistant, Sullivan!” I shoved past him and out the door, wishing I was mean enough to lock him inside.

  He poked his head out an instant later. “Yikes, Gilbert. Who shoved the bee up your bonnet?”

  The question only infuriated me further, but he did at least have the smarts to say bonnet instead of butt, or I might very well have changed my mind about locking him inside. “ You did!”

  He crossed his arms and retorted, “Come again?”

  I stabbed my finger in his direction. “You’re acting like the lead designer and undermining me! And, what’s worse, you’ve been giving me signals that you suspect John of killing Laura. Naturally, today I wind up picking a fight with him. Partly because of your ugly, negative vibes toward him.” I paused. My accusations were a sloppy paint job on the reality of the situation, and even if Sullivan didn’t realize as much, I did. Under my breath, I added, “But mostly because I was so flipped out at finding Laura’s scarf in front of John’s showcase home.”

  Sullivan gaped at me. “You found her scarf ? At the house John’s working on?”

  “He was framed! The killer’s following me, making me scared of my own shadow!” No way was I going to fuel Sullivan’s fire by telling him about George Wong’s remarks regarding John.

  Sullivan came forward and started to reach for me, as though to pull me into a hug. I whirled around to turn my shoulder to him . . . and throw an elbow, if necessary. A sudden wellspring of emotions threatened to make me dissolve into tears. No way; not in front of Sullivan. I cleared my throat and stated, “Everyone’s relationships are getting destroyed. I’m feeling awkward around John now, and both of you are suspicious of each other.”

  “John suspects me of killing Laura?”

  “No more than you do him.”

  Through clenched teeth, Sullivan said, “Great. That’s just great.”

  “Well? He’s just following your lead, Sullivan.”

  “Yeah? Laura’s scarf didn’t suddenly appear in front of my workplace, now did it! Besides, the difference is, I know I’m not guilty.”

  “Which means, in effect, you think John Norton is capable of murder!”

  He gave me no reply.

  “I hate this!” I stormed past him and locked my storage unit. “Everyone’s suspicious of everyone else. It’s like living in a prison. I’m going home. I’ll see you later, Sullivan.”

  Though I hoped he would stop me—that he would say something wise or encouraging to cast this all in a better light—he remained stone silent.

  Chapter 14

  When shopping for furniture, never settle for something you don’t like. If finances are tight, buy used and fix up the purchase till it’s good as new. After all, your furnishings are not mere furnishings.They’re a statement of who you are, what you value, and how you choose to live your life.

  —Audrey Munroe

  Already discouraged and exhausted when I got home,at the sight of the parlor I longed to curl into the fetal position. Audrey must have hired a moving man to assist her in her newest Domestic Bliss research project,because the large room was crammed wall to wall with eight sofas and eight cocktail tables.

  “Erin?” she called, peering around the doorway to the dining room.“Before you get busy with other things, I need your advice on these sofa and coffee table pairings.”

  I forced a smile. “Sure. My advice is: there are eight times too many sofas and coffee tables in here. Keep the fabulous sage sofa that was in here before, and get rid of the other seven.”

  She released a dramatic sigh. “We’re in that kind of mood, are we?”

  “No, we aren’t. Just me.” I began to shimmy across the room in the hopes of grabbing myself a glass of wine. “There is no dignified way to get through this obstacle course. If there were a fire in the kitchen, we’d both burn to a crisp trying to escape.” My unthinking remark brought the memory of the fire and Laura’s murder to the forefront of my conscience, blackening my spirits even further.

  “If there were a fire in the kitchen,” Audrey replied serenely,“we would act like Hildi and walk over the furniture and straight out the front door.”

  “So this is your attempt to force us all to live like cats?”I gestured at the surroundings that I was knee-deep in.

  “No, simply to consider how to go about matching coffee tables to sofas for an upcoming Dom Bliss segment. I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. However, bear this in mind: the sooner you help me, the sooner I get the movers back over here to remove the excess furniture.”

  “Well, put in those terms, now is the perfect time for a Dom Bliss chat.”

  I regarded all those tables and sofas in the parlor for a moment or two, formulating my answer.“Audrey, I don’t agree with your general premise. Matching a table to a sofa isn’t really the first thing you think about when you select one or the other item. Granted, I do typically start with the sofa when I’m designing a room, simply because that’s a large, front-and-center type of item. But tons of things go into choosing the coffee table. I don’t concentrate on pairing it with the sofa, but rather with the homeowners . . . how sturdy it needs to be; how this room and this table will be utilized; ages of their children; pets, if any; do they eat on this sofa; do the kids race around the room and wrestle; and so forth. Then you look at all the other lines and shapes in the room, not just at the sofa.

  “In fact, it’s the exact reverse of a sofa being the first furnishing I select. The coffee table tends to be the very last piece, just because it is so central to any design; it’s directly in fron
t of what’s arguably the most important piece of furniture in the room. There’s almost an art to the process. I tend to look at a hundred or more different coffee tables and mentally picture them in the room, until I almost magically know that, out of the immense selection, this one table is the perfect choice.”

  Audrey was staring at me with a peculiar expression on her face when I turned and met her eyes. She said, “Goodness, Erin. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you string so many words together in so short a time.” While I was still formulating a response, she added, “And the most extraordinary thing is, nary a one of your words was of any help to me whatsoever.”

  I had to resist the temptation to roll my eyes. She continued firmly, “Like it or not, Erin, my show segment is about matching coffee tables with sofas. Period.”

  She stood there, arms akimbo, blocking my path to the kitchen. She was smaller and older than I was. Odds were, I could take her. But, of course, that was the very last of my intentions. I massaged my neck and looked once again at the wall-to-wall rows of sofas and tables. I glanced behind Audrey at the dining room and saw that it, and no doubt the den and the living room, had acquired the overflow of the original parlor furnishings. “Does this mean you’ll be keeping the house like it is now till you’ve got your segment planned?”

  She spread her arms.“What choice do I have?”

  I bit back a snide answer and, instead, took a calming breath and ran through a couple of silent confidence-and-optimism mantra repetitions for good measure. Come to think of it, there actually was plenty to consider when strictly focusing on pairing a coffee table with a particular sofa—the hues of the sofa fabric compared to the table material, the size of each item, the height and bulk of each, their shapes . . .

  “Okay, Audrey.” I gave her a wan smile. “You win. Let’s break out the booze, and I’ll tell you all about how to match coffee tables with sofas.”