Death by Inferior Design Page 18

  A total of twenty people had come, including myself and Sullivan, Debbie and Carl Henderson—sitting at opposite corners of the room—and Jill and Kevin McBride, along with Detectives O’Reilly and Martinez. I much would have preferred my one threadlike connection to the Crestview police—my fellow glassware aficionado—Officer Linda Delgardio. She, at least, was a warm, easy person to talk to.

  I still hadn’t spoken to Sullivan about the Jamesons— our former mutual clients—even though my recent insight into Sullivan’s and my past history had changed the tint of my recollections the way that a sunbeam changes the color of wall paint. I’d merely told him in passing that we needed to talk later, left the service, and headed to my tiny—but very nicely decorated, if I do say so myself—downtown office.

  My office was a one-room, loftlike space; the flight of stairs leads directly into my room, and I’d just begun my bookkeeping when I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Steve Sullivan, who muttered, “Thought I might be able to catch you here.”

  Knowing how much he deserved my apology, my nerves were instantly on edge. “Yeah. Hi. I’m just getting caught up with my paperwork.”

  “You took off kind of fast from the service.” He sat down in the beautiful Sheraton armchair in front of me. My mother and I had refinished that chair ten years ago; she’d done the floral cross-stitching on the cushion and padded seatback, a wonderful Victorian design. “I would have sat next to you, but when I saw how few people were there, I thought it’d look better attended if we spread out a bit.”

  I nodded. “It was a sad situation.”

  “Pathetic, even.”

  “His wife must have been his entire family.”

  “Yeah. And she was almost cheerful. Not a wet eye in the place, in any case.”

  Everyone had at least worn dark clothing. Steve was dressed in a black turtleneck, black jacket, and black jeans. I was wearing a black cable sweater and my brown suede skirt and leather boots. “At least the Hendersons and McBrides came.” Albeit the Hendersons had arrived separately and stayed that way throughout the service.

  “Along with a dozen people from his magazine. I did a bit of networking.” He pulled a half-dozen business cards out of the breast pocket of his black jacket and sorted through them in silence. Watching him, I reminded myself that he wasn’t all that much less at fault over our misunderstanding than I was. Here he’d been trolling for work at a man’s funeral service.

  “And two detectives,” I grumbled. “I recognized them, sitting in the back.”

  “Yeah. I talked to them yesterday.” He glanced again at the business cards in his hand, frowned, shook his head, and tossed them into my trash can. Then he made a derisive noise and grumbled, “Time to get a grip on myself, once and for all. This was what I’ve lowered myself to . . . looking for work at a man’s funeral like some kind of ambulance chaser. Not to mention revealing to the Coopers that Evan had left me high and dry in order to gain their sympathies. And—”

  “Wait. Didn’t you tell the Coopers that Evan had died and you were left . . . bereft?”

  His eyes widened. “Come again?”

  “Mrs. Cooper told me that you were grieving over Evan’s death, so she just couldn’t bear to hire me instead of you.”

  “God, no! I told her the truth . . . that he’d given me the shaft and left town. She must have misunderstood. Or was so embarrassed about changing her mind that she overstated my situation to you. I’m not that desperate for work.”

  A perfect segue. “Speaking of misunderstandings, Sullivan, I owe you an apology . . . long overdue, as it turns out. I didn’t know until yesterday, when I happened to talk to Susan Jameson’s husband, that they were already under contract with you when I accepted my first job with them. Almost two years ago.”

  Obviously perplexed, Steve furrowed his brow and held my gaze. “Yeah, you did, Gilbert. Come on. I told you that myself, when I . . . kind of barged into your office that one time.”

  Kind of? I shook my head. “Actually, I never picked up on what you were talking about. I thought you were just griping at me in general terms. About locating Interiors by Gilbert two blocks away from Sullivan Designs.”

  “But I’d have to be some sort of raving lunatic to . . .” He paused. As if thinking aloud, he said, “That was just the second time you and I had met. I was sure you knew about the Jamesons’ mix-up, but figured you’d just look the other way. I mean, you were being so self-righteous and everything when—”

  “I was being self-righteous? Excuse me?” Livid, I gripped the edge of my desk. “You were the one who came storming into my office like, as you said yourself, a raving lunatic, accusing me—”

  “Hey!” He shot to his feet and stabbed his finger at me. “I wasn’t the one who had clients already under contract with another designer sign a new contract and give a new deposit! I mean, how could the Jamesons possibly not have known you were separate from Sullivan Designs?”

  Unwilling to yield the power position, I stood up, too. “They didn’t know, though. They thought the whole agreement with you was null and void because they’d reneged a year earlier!”

  Sullivan whacked his chest with his palm. “How would I have known that?”

  “I can’t hardly answer for you at this point, now can I? All I know is, yesterday Jameson said that Susan told you that at the time!”

  He threw up his hands in disgust. “Jeez, Gilbert! In other words, you assumed I just flew off the handle and made baseless accusations. Just like you think I would sink so low as to outright lie to the Coopers about someone’s death just so that—”

  He broke off as someone banged open the door and noisily tromped up the stairs. Taylor Duncan entered. He hadn’t come to the funeral and was wearing a bright red T-shirt that sported a cartoon mouse holding its middle finger aloft, a tattered and faded plaid shirt as a jacket, and grungy-looking jeans. At least the cooler weather had inspired him to wear a shirt. There was a slight hitch in his step when he spotted Steve. “Oh, hey. You’re both here. Cool.”

  Considering that Sullivan and I had been on the verge of throttling each other, Taylor’s words struck me as so ironic that I had to smile. I reclaimed my seat, and Sullivan followed suit. “What can I do for you, Taylor?”

  “Came to ask for some work, actually. I was hoping one or both of you could use a carpenter or woodworker for some contract jobs, maybe.”

  Surprised, I replied, “I don’t think I have anything for you right at the moment, but if you leave your card . . .”

  He snorted. “Yeah, like I have business cards.” He folded his impressive—although tattooed beneath the flannel—arms and looked at Steve. “What about you, dude? I’m a little short for Christmas. I’d take just about anything at this point.”

  “Let me make some phone calls, then get back with me tomorrow and we’ll see.”

  To my surprise, Taylor let out a puff of indignation. “Aw, come on, man! At least be honest about it! You have no intention of helping me out . . . neither of you does.” He dragged his palm across his again clean-shaven scalp. “I can’t even get shit jobs now that I’ve got this damn police record hanging over my head.”

  Why, I wondered, was he suddenly so talkative about his arrest record? Could he be intoxicated at two thirty in the afternoon?

  He dropped into the Windsor chair next to Steve. “This is all that asshole’s fault!” Taylor growled. “None of this would have happened in the first place if he’d have just minded his own damn business!”

  “What are you—”

  “Axelrod set me up!” he interrupted. “Oh, sure, I was dealing a few drugs. So what’s the big freakin’ deal? I wasn’t hurting anyone. And it’s not as if I had customers follow me into the neighborhood and traipse across his lawn.”

  “But you were the one who was breaking the law, Taylor, not Randy,” Sullivan interjected.

  “Maybe so, but, like, he was the one who did all that breaking and entering.” He paused. “Okay .
. . so maybe he didn’t break anything, but he sure as hell entered.”

  I remained perplexed as to why Taylor would march into my office asking for work, only to volunteer all this adverse information about himself. But I was also dying to hear anything he was willing to reveal about Randy Axelrod. “Didn’t Randy have a key to the Hendersons’ house?” I asked him.

  “Sure, but nobody gave it to him. Randy just kept hold of it without telling Carl he still had it from when the place was his.”

  “Taylor, I—”

  He cut Sullivan off and snarled, “That son of a bitch turned me in for no reason! Kept bargin’ into the house, checking out what I was doing whenever I wasn’t there.”

  He stood up, his eyes widening. “Hey, don’t, like, get me wrong. I didn’t kill him. But no way are the police ever going to believe that. Not after all the bad blood between me ’n’ Axelrod.”

  Sullivan said, “I didn’t even realize you two had any problems. I mean, you decided to set up shop in the man’s backyard.”

  “No shit! Randy practically begged me to set everything up in his backyard, to forget about our ‘past differences.’ Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who spent three months in jail,” Taylor scoffed. “He said it wasn’t personal, that he was just trying to keep the neighborhood free from potheads like me. It was just the one time. I got a little high and forgot to replace the board that covered the opening in the wall. Next thing I know, I’m selling a couple of grams to a narc, and they arrest me.”

  Sullivan leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers behind his neck. “If you’re considering this a job interview, Taylor, I’ve got to tell you that you might want to reconsider your presentation skills.”

  I fought back a smile. “If I have a need for your services, I’ll get your number from Carl,” I told him.

  Taylor said, “Yeah, yeah. I won’t hold my breath. But . . . can I tell my parole officer and social worker that you both gave me job interviews?”

  That explained his bizarre behavior: he needed to prove he was looking for work, but he’d sabotaged his “interview” to prevent his having to start work.

  “Sure,” we answered simultaneously.

  He nodded his thanks and thumped down the stairs. After a moment, I said to Sullivan, “Well. He was just so charming and personable that it killed me to have to break his heart and give him the brush-off like that.”

  “I know,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. “A designer’s lot is not a happy one.”

  I grinned at him. “A modified lyric from Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  He shrugged. “I was the set designer for “Pirates of Penzance” back in high school.” He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “So, Gilbert. Let’s try to let bygones be bygones and bounce around some ideas for Myra Axelrod’s house.”

  Later that day, I arrived at the Hendersons’ home, having changed into jeans and armed myself with a steamer and scraper, along with the necessary Sheetrock-repair accoutrements. Despite Debbie’s admonishes last night not to bother, I couldn’t knowingly leave a design of mine in that state of disrepair. After a long wait for the doorbell to be answered, Carl pulled the door open by twelve inches or so and stuck out his head.

  In an attempt to ignore his odd behavior, I gave him my nicest smile. “Good evening, Carl.”

  Although we’d made this appointment by phone just an hour ago, he stared at me with blank eyes and made no move to let me inside. He was panting a little, and his forehead sported beads of perspiration.

  “I’m here to patch the holes in the drywall,” I reminded him.

  He reseated his wire-frame glasses on his nose. “Right. You called about that.”

  Worry niggled at me. “And you said that this would be a good time, but if—”

  “Right. Right. Come on in.” He stepped back, and I caught sight of his right arm for the first time: it was in a cast from his fingertips to his elbow.

  “Oh, dear. What happened?”

  He said nothing and trudged up the stairs. I followed, noting the half-tucked-in, half-out state of his dress shirt and that he was in his stocking feet; we stepped around both of his black wing tips en route. My nervousness grew, and I sighed with relief when I entered the bedroom and saw that his bed was neatly made and empty; I’d started to suspect that I had interrupted a rendezvous with his ex-wife, Emily.

  “Here it is,” Carl mumbled. He flicked on the light, and I gaped at the condition of the accent wall. Instead of two holes, there were now four—the two I’d seen, plus a large fist-high hole in the wall and a second smaller one. “The cops, uh, put in a couple more holes after you left.”

  “Huh,” I muttered noncommittally. Carl himself had said that the hammer only went clear through the wall twice. Besides, this time the impact had obviously come from the front and not the back of the wall.

  He watched as I filled my steamer and plugged it in. “Truth is, Erin, I kind of lost my composure and put my fist through the wall. Well, technically, I only went clear through the wall once. The second time I hit the stud.”

  “That’s how you broke your hand?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “I can fix it. The wall, that is, not the hand. No problem.”

  His expression swiftly changed to one of unmasked fury. “Well, it sure as hell was a problem for me!”

  Shocked, I took a step back. “Pardon?”

  “You’re a terrible designer! You destroyed my life!”

  If nothing else, your accusations are something of a non sequitur. I said gently, “I’m sorry you’ve run into some bad times. It really wasn’t my bedroom design that was at fault, though.”

  “Oh, no? I’ve got no wife and a broken hand. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t come onto the scene and torn down the wood paneling!”

  Okay. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for me to be stripping the man’s wallpaper. Afraid to turn my back on him even for an instant, I yanked on the cord to unplug my steamer, hoping it would make a good defensive weapon if Carl was to try to grab me. He was so enraged I really did fear he would attack me. “For what it’s worth, I dearly wish I’d left the paneling in place. This hasn’t been a vacation for me, either.”

  “You don’t seem to have lost your spouse or broken your hand. And you made money on the deal. I had to pay big bucks for the privilege of getting my life trashed!”

  “I’m sorry about the way things turned out for you, Mr. Henderson.”

  “Are you? Is that supposed to make me feel better? My wife’s called a lawyer, and they want me to move out so she can have the house. Want to guess why?” He took a step toward me.

  I shrank back, bracing myself a little to clock him with the wallpaper steamer when he took a swing at me. Quietly, I guessed, “She likes the new bedroom?”

  “Bingo!” He snorted. “You got it right on the first try. She likes the new bedroom. Which you designed. So I’m supposed to move out of my own home. My wife has an affair with my neighbor again, and I am supposed to give her our house because she loves the damn bedroom you made for her. Where’s the justice in that?”

  Again? Debbie been extremely convincing when she’d claimed to me that the letters weren’t hers. Carl might have been allowing his ragged emotions to make his decisions for him. “It’s a difficult situation, all right,” I agreed tersely.

  “You know what? She wants the bedroom, let’s let her have it.” As I watched in horror, he smashed his elbow into the wall. Another hole appeared in the beautiful wallpaper I’d chosen with such care.

  “Carl, this isn’t going to—”

  Carl growled, “By the time I’m through with it, she’ll—” He kicked the wall with his stocking foot and yowled, “Ow! Oh, crap! I hit the damned stud again!” Then he crumpled onto the floor, holding his injured foot aloft.

  Not knowing what to do, I watched him writhe in agony for a moment, then asked, “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

  “No! Not from yo
u! You’re my bad-luck charm. I’d have to sit in the death seat, and you’d probably crash the car!” He grimaced with pain.

  I started making my way to the door. “Carl, this is obviously not a good time for me to be trying to repair the wall. Let’s just go with the flow for a little while here and see where we wind up. Okay?”

  He was yipping and rocking himself as I hurried down the stairs and out the door.

  Early the next morning, I was climbing Myra’s porch steps for our rescheduled appointment just as Sullivan drove up. I waited for him, noting that he was looking especially handsome in his perfectly fitted black suit jacket over a gray mock turtleneck and black slacks. I, too, was dressed to the nines in a cream-colored Armani skirt suit. Being well-dressed was such a solid job requirement that I felt our high-end wardrobe should be tax-deductible. Decorating clients are buying an upgrade in their home’s appearance and deserve the whole package—a designer who knows and cares enough about appearances to dress the part.

  “Ready, Gilbert?” he said without greeting me.

  “Sure, Sullivan.”

  His hand smacked into mine as we simultaneously reached for the doorbell. He gave me a lopsided grin. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “No. By all means, you take the honor.”

  He hesitated, but pushed the button. Some partnership. We couldn’t even agree on who would ring a doorbell.

  Myra was bubbling with enthusiasm as she let us inside. Sullivan and I managed to settle into her living room without stepping on each other’s toes, and the three of us began our discussions. We weren’t—unfortunately—redesigning the kitchen or bathrooms, and we all agreed that Myra’s walnut-colored rosewood dining room set was lovely, so aside from the living room, we needed only to discuss her requirements and vision for the family room, the office, and the two upstairs bedrooms. Steve and I immediately agreed that we’d like to remove the existing wall between the living and dining rooms and replace it with a half wall.