Death by Inferior Design Page 8

  The ambulance tore into the driveway. Two paramedics emerged and rapidly unloaded equipment. “Hurry,” I told them. “He’s not breathing.”

  Carl had apparently followed me downstairs and was now sitting on the single step that made the living room sunken and delineated it from the dining room. He said nothing as I ushered the two men upstairs, and after a moment’s hesitation, Debbie told Myra that she thought it would be best to keep out of the way. Leaving Myra with the paramedics, Debbie and I went downstairs to join Carl. The three of us waited in anxious silence in the living room, listening as the paramedics questioned Myra about her husband’s medical history.

  After a minute or two, Taylor thumped down the stairs. There were beads of perspiration on his shaved head. I rose and said to him, “Thank you for your efforts up there. You might have made all the difference.”

  He wiped his brow and grumbled, “Whatever. I’m going home. Don’t nag me about your damned headboard, and tell Steve to lay off, too, or I’ll tell you both where you can stick your furniture.”

  Brusque as he was, he’d earned the right to vent, and I merely replied, “No problem.”

  “We’re not going back to work today, Taylor.” Debbie’s voice and expression conveyed a sense of bone weariness. “I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone to soldier through. Not after what’s happened . . .”

  Taylor ignored her. “Carl, I’ll check in with you in the morning,” he muttered. The door closed behind him.

  The room fell silent once again. Moments later, the doorbell chimed. Almost simultaneously, Jill and Kevin McBride burst inside. “We heard the ambulance,” Jill cried. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  “Randy collapsed,” Debbie answered. “The paramedics are upstairs with him and Myra now.”

  “Must be his heart. Is he still alive?” Kevin asked Carl.

  “I don’t know. We were all in the garage when we heard him collapse. Taylor tried his best to revive him, but . . .” Carl’s voice faded.

  Kevin patted Carl on the back, then sank down in a chair at the dining room table.

  Jill called up the stairs, “Myra? Is Randy doing any better?”

  Grim-faced, Myra came down the stairs. “I’m going to the hospital with them.” She didn’t, I noticed, answer Jill’s question about Randy’s condition.

  “He’ll do great, Myra,” Kevin said, rising. “Randy’s strong as an ox. Remember how he insisted on driving himself to the hospital during his first heart attack? He’ll do great.”

  Myra, face pale and eyes blank with shock, simply nodded.

  The paramedics were carrying Randy out on a stretcher, awkwardly navigating the stairs. At the sight, Myra’s composure shattered. She began to sob. Turning to us, she wailed, “Quit being such hypocrites! I know you’ve always hated him! Well, he’s still my husband, and he’s all I’ve got in this world! You miserable people should have thought of that before you treated him the way you have!”

  Chagrined, confused by her violent outburst, and not knowing what else to do, I held the door for the paramedics and mutely watched as Myra stabbed a finger at Carl and Kevin. “You don’t think we both knew about your cruel side bet? Of seeing who was going to have to be stuck with his company during the Super Bowl? Well, it seems neither of you turds will have to worry about that now.”

  Kevin moved toward her as if to embrace her but froze when she shrank back from him. Gently, he said, “Myra, we’re sorry. If there’s anything we can do . . .”

  Myra took a halting breath and scanned our faces; the McBrides and the Hendersons were staring at her with jaws agape and color rising in their cheeks. “You people put him in this condition in the first place! I’d say you’ve done plenty. Wouldn’t you?”

  She stormed out the door. Through the glass, we watched the ambulance tear away, siren slicing through the Sunday morning quiet.

  Silence reverberated accusingly in her wake. Debbie sank her head into her hands and murmured, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad about myself before.” Her voice was choked with tears. “What have we done?”

  “None of this was your fault,” Carl said, but he made no move to go to her side. “That Super Bowl bet was my idea.”

  “That’s not true, Carl. It was mine,” Kevin said firmly. “I was the one who got just the one ticket on eBay and decided to throw it into the kitty. I’m the one who should feel bad.”

  “Let’s go home,” Jill said quietly to her husband, who nodded. They brushed past me and out the door.

  I had no idea what to do now. How to react after having someone collapse in the very room that you were in the process of redecorating was not a topic that had been covered in any of my design classes at Parsons.

  Fueled by the disharmony in this neighborhood, a horrible thought now wormed its way into my brain. Was this really a heart attack? Could Randy have been poisoned?

  I felt sick with fear that the paramedics and everyone else’s assumptions could be wrong—that Randy hadn’t fallen ill due to cardiac arrest but rather because of cyanide poisoning. But that was absurd, I told myself, and surely just the insane by-product of my sleep-deprived brain. Even so, a man’s life was at stake, and I couldn’t let my knowledge that there had been a container of potassium cyanide on Randy’s property go unreported.

  No way would I risk possibly fueling a killer’s fire by talking about poison in front of the McBrides and the Hendersons. “I have to use your bathroom,” I muttered. I turned the corner and entered the family room. Giving a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure that my actions weren’t observed, I grabbed the cordless phone and Crestview directory from the open shelf by the fireplace and brought them into the bathroom with me, closing and locking the door behind me. I looked up the number for Crestview Community Hospital and dialed, turning on the fan to drown out my words. Thankfully, the phone was answered by an actual person and not an automatic system. In a half whisper, I said to the woman, “My name is Erin Gilbert. I called nine-one-one a few minutes ago for Randy Axelrod, who appears to have had a heart attack. The ambulance is on its way to the hospital now. I just want to let the emergency room staff know that there was an open bottle of cyanide on his premises earlier this morning.”

  After a brief pause, the woman said, “Let me transfer you to the police, ma’am.”

  “No!” I cried in a harsh whisper. There was no way I could pull off a prolonged phone conversation. “I’ll contact the police myself. I just wanted the emergency room personnel to know that it’s possible Mr. Axelrod was poisoned.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Erin Gilbert,” I replied, and hung up.

  I splashed water on my face; my hands were trembling. I opened the door and peered out. The family room was empty. I tiptoed inside and returned the phone book and phone. If it was poison, Taylor was surely innocent. He wouldn’t have worked so hard to resuscitate Randy if he’d poisoned him himself. Or would he? Had that merely been a show? Had his CPR techniques been intentionally ineffective?

  Debbie and Carl hadn’t changed positions in the living room when I returned. “I’m sorry,” I told them, “but I’m going to go home now, too.”

  “Of course you should, dear,” Debbie said with so much kindness that tears filled my eyes. “You can’t possibly think about decorating at a time like this, and neither can we. Carl and I will make do with our bedroom as is for as long as you need.”

  “As long as it’s ready by bedtime tomorrow,” Carl amended. “Sleeping on the guest bed is killing my back.”

  “Oh, honestly, Carl!”

  “We’ll compare everyone’s schedules tomorrow and try our best to make that happen,” I intervened, before another marital spat could explode.

  “Good,” he replied bluntly. “I’ll take the day off and give you a hand. I’ll call my boss at the agency first thing in the morning and let him know I won’t be in.”

  “You work at an agency?” I asked in surprise. Somehow the image of
the staid, uncongenial Carl Henderson as a real estate agent was utterly incongruous.

  “Insurance agency. I’m an actuary.”

  The thought popped into my head: Carl might know about Randy’s life insurance beneficiaries. I pushed it away; this was, after all, probably natural causes, a heart attack. I said my goodbyes and left.

  To my surprise, Steve Sullivan was pacing on the sidewalk just beyond sight from the Hendersons’ living room window. The collar of his pea coat was pulled up. The wind had tousled his hair even further and brought color to his cheeks. His body English indicated he’d been waiting for me.

  “You heard about Randy, I take it,” I said to him.

  He gave a slight nod. “From the McBrides, when they returned home. Are you all right?”

  “Not really.” I glanced up at the window of the master bedroom and spotted Carl watching us. He must have raced upstairs the moment I’d left. He instantly stepped back out of view, as though I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

  That was the final straw. If I didn’t tell someone soon what was happening to me, I would go crazy.

  I searched Sullivan’s eyes, hoping to discover some kindness there. “Can we please bury the hatchet . . . preferably not in anyone’s back?”

  “Of course. You look like you need to talk. Can I take you out for lunch?”

  I was stunned: Sullivan seemed to have read my mind. “Okay. Thanks,” I said lamely.

  “My pleasure. McDonald’s or Burger King?”

  “Can’t respond to jokes right now. Sorry.”

  In a somber voice, he replied, “There’s a decent Mexican restaurant just a mile or two from here. Let’s take my van. We’ll come back for yours afterward.”

  I moved my van out of the driveway, checked that the damned cyanide was still in the back, then locked the doors. We drove to the restaurant in silence. At eleven thirty on a Sunday, we had the place almost to ourselves. Cumin and chili spiced the warm air inside, which, despite the morning’s trauma, I couldn’t help noting was decorated in a predictable southwestern style—maroon, tan, and forest-green upholstery over lodgepole pine.

  The waitress came over with a basket of chips, salsa, and two ice waters in red plastic glasses. I declined a menu and told Sullivan, “I’m not really hungry. I think I need to break my usual rules and have a liquid lunch.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I ordered a margarita, and Sullivan ordered a Michelob. To his credit, Steve didn’t rush me. Imbibing some alcohol seemed to take the edge off my shattered nerves.

  I watched him take a sip of his beer and teased, “Figures you’d get a macho drink.”

  He gave me a small smile. “Beer? Macho?”

  “Sure. According to the TV ads, all you guys have to do is get a bottle of suds, and gorgeous women throw themselves at you. Presumably to get at the beer.”

  “Is that right?” He peered at his bottle. “Huh.” He gave me a slow, sexy grin, and to my astonishment, I felt myself blush. “Are you trying to hint at something? Making a personal suggestion?”

  “Not at all. Just idle conversation.” Although, I admit it, I was idly curious about his sexual orientation. Sullivan had told the Coopers he was gay, yet in a crowded bar six months ago, I’d spotted him with a leggy brunette draped over him like a chintz slipcover. Either way, I needed to find myself intrigued by my soulless archrival like I needed to go color-blind. I licked a small clump of salt off the rim of my drink, took a sip, and added, “You’re not my type.”

  Maintaining eye contact, he leaned across the table. “So, what exactly is your type, Gilbert?”

  “Men who don’t say that the name of my business should have my last name spelled with a lowercase g,” I snapped, without thinking.

  He lost his smile and straightened up again. “So much for our truce.”

  “Sorry. It was unfair of me to bring that up right after I’d asked you to bury the hatchet. It’s just that this has been one of the worst days of my life. And I’ve had some real doozies.”

  “Seems to me you need to talk, right? So go ahead and vent.”

  I took a healthy sip of my drink, then set the glass down. “I’ll just start at the beginning. I was adopted, and I don’t know anything about my birth parents.”

  “Wow. That is the beginning. This could take a while. Are you sure I shouldn’t order us some lunch?”

  Despite myself, I chuckled. “Skipping forward twenty-plus years, yesterday I found my own baby picture carefully framed inside a slat of the tongue-and-groove paneling in the Hendersons’ master bedroom. It was directly over a hole that someone had carved out from the drywall.”

  His brow furrowed. “Could you have been mistaken? It’s probably not PC to say this, but all babies look alike, especially in those hospital photos.”

  My age at the time of my adoption was my Achilles’ heel, and it was excruciating to have to reveal that weakness to him—a professional rival who resented my having set up shop in his town. “It wasn’t a birth photo. The picture was from when I was eighteen months old. Shortly before I was adopted. My mother . . . my adoptive mother, I mean . . . took the photograph herself.” I reached into my back pocket. “Here. I’ll show you.”

  Sullivan smiled as he took the picture from me and studied it. “Cute. But what’s that blue-and-green checkered thing in the background? A flowerpot? A waste-basket?”

  “I think it’s an umbrella stand. It’s quite a monstrosity, whatever it is.”

  “Maybe you were predestined to become a designer . . . to protect future clients from such eyesores.”

  “Maybe so.” In a way, that was the nicest thing Sullivan had ever said to me. He must really have been taking pity on me. He handed the picture back, and I tucked it into my pocket and forced myself to continue. “My adoptive mother died two years ago. In our last conversation, she made me promise never to look for my birth parents, no matter what happened.”

  “Did she say why?”

  I shook my head and slowly swirled the contents of my glass to keep my hands occupied. “It doesn’t really matter why, or if she even had a reason. In any case, it was my mother’s dying wish. I can’t go back on my promise.”

  “How about your adoptive father? Were you able to discuss this with him?”

  “My parents got divorced some fifteen years ago, and my father remarried and moved away. I was always a lot closer to my mother anyway. He did come back for her funeral, though. And I see him once a year or so.”

  “Did you ever tell him what your mother said about not looking for your birth parents?”

  “No. Frankly, the whole issue just . . . didn’t seem that important. Till now.” I rolled my eyes, thinking that just two days ago I never could have guessed how important my ignorance regarding my birth parents was destined to become. “I guess I always figured that my mother knew some reason for me to feel bad about my gene pool . . . so I was in no hurry to discover whatever that was.” I frowned. “Now, of course, I feel as though I’ve been forcibly dunked into the whole putrid mess. There isn’t a single person we’ve come into contact with this entire weekend who anyone would especially want to be related to.”

  Sullivan snorted. “Yeah, I’m with you there. Debbie seems pretty nice, though. Jill and Kevin have nothing but good things to say about her.”

  “Debbie is nice, but she and I don’t have a single physical trait in common.” That wasn’t entirely true; although my auburn hair was much darker than hers, we both had red hues. “Anyway, there’s more.” I sighed. “I have a poison bottle in my van, and this—”

  “Come again?”

  “I happen to have a container of potassium cyanide. It was unopened.” I added under my breath, “Or at least it was, until today.”

  “Why would you be driving around with a bottle of poison? Is it rat poison or something? Working some seedy jobs lately?”

  That stung. We both knew Sullivan got the better clientele. “No, my ex-boyfriend gave it t
o me, actually.”

  He regarded me solemnly over the edge of his glass. “Your ex-boyfriend gave you poison. Well. I can see why he’s your ex. Was this a you-broke-up-with-me-so-now-I-WANT-you-dead-you-bitch present?”

  I fought back a smile. “Not exactly, though I hear Hallmark is starting a line of greeting cards for just that occasion. He’s a chemistry student at CU, and he was always searching for various get-rich schemes. We’d been out looking at antiques, and—”

  “If this guy’s an undergrad at CU, I suppose I would qualify as an antique myself.”

  “He’s a Ph.D. candidate. Anyway, we saw this cast-iron bear-claw bathtub with chipped paint, and he asked me how much it would cost to restore it.” I took another sip of my margarita, and my sip became a couple of gulps. I was going into way more detail than necessary and, if I gave myself permission, would prefer describing that antique-hunting trip to Lyons to this talk of poison and shattered loves. “The long and short of it is, he thought we might be able to invent some sort of metal plating, using cyanide as a hardening agent, and go into business together. So he got me the cyanide as a birthday present . . . this symbolic gesture of our venturing off together in pursuit of the lucrative and fascinating world of bathtub repair, or something. Shortly afterward, we wound up getting into a fight and breaking up.”

  He mulled my explanation over and tried to hide his smile, which I appreciated, even if his effort was largely unsuccessful. “Pity you let that one get away, Gilbert. It’s not every guy who’d give his girlfriend a bottle of poison for her birthday.” He clicked his tongue. “And they say romance is dead.”

  “The point is, this morning I discovered my bottle had been taken out of its packaging and had migrated into Taylor’s work area. Taylor claims he grabbed the poison when he unloaded my materials yesterday afternoon, and that he opened the bottle because he was curious.”

  “A man’s in the hospital. He may be dying. And you’re worried that someone could have siphoned off your arsenic.”