Poisoned by Gilt Page 8

the striped beige was a massive improvement in this

  room, and I'd be happy to live with it for the next few

  months--or however long it would be until Audrey was

  motivated to hire a painter.

  My thoughts promptly wandered to Sullivan. He'd

  been highly distracted when he returned from his trip to

  Denver with Jennifer Fairfax this afternoon. He'd said

  only that she'd really liked our presentation board, but

  wanted to be "really hands-on with our final decisions."

  It had taken every ounce of my self-restraint to refrain

  from asking whether or not he was sure that "our final

  decisions" were exclusively where she wanted to be

  "really hands-on."

  Audrey was never much help when it came to

  preparation or cleanup, but she did help me move the

  buffet back into place to hide the one missing stripe

  segment. As we inspected its placement, she said, "I'm

  joking about your dating other men. You and Steve are

  meant for each other. I have a sixth sense about these

  things."

  "Then why have you been married four times?"

  She gave me a dirty look but said evenly, "My powers are only effective when used to match other couples."

  "Ah. Well, I think your powers are a tad out of focus

  this time, I'm afraid. Unless I'm wildly off base, Steve's recently decided that his life is complicated enough as it

  is, and he's going to start dating our glamorous divorcee client who's been chasing him for weeks. And even

  if they don't date, there's always going to be some

  D o m e s t i c B l i s s 7 5

  other single woman or unhappy not-single woman

  chasing after him."

  "Maybe so. But ultimately he's going to make the

  smart choice and choose you. I'm absolutely certain."

  "Well, thanks, Audrey. I'm touched by your loyalty. But

  frankly, your pronouncement would have been more reassuring if you hadn't also insisted you were 'absolutely

  certain' about the beige."

  "In any case, the moral of this particular story is: Trust

  what the experts tell you. And, Erin, you are the expert

  with paint and interior design . . . but I am the expert at

  matchmaking."

  c h a p t e r 7

  On Monday afternoon, Burke rose from his

  seat on a pale green sofa as I entered the

  lobby of the Earth Love headquarters, where we were

  scheduled to meet for his hearing. He gave me a nervous

  smile and pushed his wire-rim glasses into place.

  "Thanks for doing this, Erin." His gaze lingered past my

  shoulder to the doors, and I knew he was hoping that

  Sullivan had come as well. Burke didn't ask me about

  him, so I didn't volunteer the information that I had no

  idea where Sullivan was, but that he would almost surely

  not be joining us. The last time Sullivan and I had spo-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 77

  ken, two hours ago, he was with our hands-on client,

  Jennifer Fairfax, and I'd reiterated that he should let me

  handle this hearing.

  A receptionist escorted us to a small auditorium-style

  room, where Walter Emory and two Earth Love executives were seated at a long table on the stage. Walter spotted us and beckoned for us to grab a seat in the front row.

  We did so and waited, Burke a one-man band of jitters.

  Some fifteen minutes later, Walter said, "Let's get

  started." By then about thirty people were in the audience, and because it was cold outside and yet none of

  them had been wearing coats, I figured they must have

  been Earth Love employees. As best I could tell, there

  was only one newspaper reporter in attendance, although

  there were camera crews from all the local TV stations.

  An environmental engineer at Earth Love led things

  off, sitting witness-style in a chair on the opposite side of

  the stage from Walter and his two de facto judges. She

  spoke about the predicted range of meter readings for the

  types of heating, cooling, and passive solar systems in the

  house. She said that all findings were consistent with her

  expectations.

  Next, Burke was called upon to take his turn on the

  hot seat. He said that he absolutely did not tamper with

  his meters or misrepresent the source of the water for his

  nonpotable water usage. (Apparently Richard had accused Burke of diverting water from a nearby brook to

  water his lawn. Earth Love required that only "gray water"--runoff or recycled water from one's own property--could be used.) Burke went on to say that I was

  here on his behalf and would be happy to testify as well.

  Walter conferred very briefly with his cohorts and

  said that wouldn't be necessary. He then dismissed the

  78 L e s l i e C a i n e

  charges against Burke, pending the discovery of significant evidence to the contrary of his ruling, and announced that the awards banquet would be held a week

  from Saturday, at which time the contest winner would

  be announced.

  That was it for Burke's hearing, which was about as

  undramatic as it could be. The newspaper reporter asked

  Burke for his reaction, and he replied, "I'm glad this formality is behind me. I knew all along that I'd never done

  anything wrong." The reporter nodded, thanked him,

  and headed over to interview Walter Emory. Only one of

  the TV reporters bothered to approach, asking Burke if

  he felt that this hearing had something to do with

  Richard's death. Burke answered simply: "No," and

  walked away. The reporter stammered for a moment, but

  let him go. The rest of the crews packed up quickly, their

  reporters grumbling that this story was too dull to air.

  Clearly, Burke's fears that he was going to be dragged

  through the mud were not coming to pass.

  He and I had parked on opposite sides of the building,

  which wrapped around a large courtyard. As we parted

  company in the lobby, he said, "It's awful that Thayers

  wound up dying so suddenly. I know that under the circumstances this sounds petty, but I would have liked to at

  least defend myself against whatever evidence he felt he

  had against me. This way it's like . . . having to show your

  grades to the professor to get an A in the class, when you

  already knew you had a perfect score." He shook his head,

  and added, "Or rather, you show 'em to the dean, after the

  professor's died. So you wind up feeling ridiculous and

  selfish for caring that you got an A in the first place."

  "Maybe so, but ultimately what matters is that you

  earned your perfect score."

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 79

  "I guess that's how I have to look at it." He smiled a little, said, "Thanks again, Erin," and headed out a door to

  the side parking lot. I crossed the slate floor, which I

  knew had been built from salvaged roof tiles, and headed

  out toward my van. Today's perfunctory proceedings,

  without so much as a mention of Richard's death, felt

  heartless and empty, as though we were a gaggle of geese

  merely reforming our V formation a few seconds after

  one of our own had been gunned down. On the other

  hand, maybe we were worse than geese. Wasn't there a

  Jack London story about a go
ose staying by its wounded

  mate's side until death claimed them both?

  As I made my weary trek across the parking lot, I decided that neither extreme was correct, as is so often

  the case. Walter should have said a few words about

  Richard's death and how none of us wanted to be there

  under these sad circumstances, yet the underlying principles driving this contest were so important to Richard

  and to the world that I knew he would have wanted us to

  soldier on.

  I was jarred from my reverie by the sight of Sullivan

  emerging from his van a few rows down from my own van.

  I hurried over to him, glad that he couldn't read my mind

  at that moment; I was picturing myself in the role of the

  goose, rushing to her wounded gander's side. "Hi. There's

  no need to go in. They already exonerated Burke."

  "They did?" He sounded disappointed.

  "Of course. There was no evidence. Why? Did you

  find something incriminating?"

  "Not really. But I'm still going to go talk to the judges."

  "Why?"

  "Someone needs to stand up on Richard's behalf. May

  as well be me."

  80 L e s l i e C a i n e

  "No, it shouldn't be you! For one thing, you've got a

  conflict of interest regarding our client. For another

  thing, like I said, it's too late. The decision has already

  been reached." To my immense relief, beyond Sullivan's

  shoulder, I could see the string of news vans heading

  down the access road; the last thing I wanted was for this

  disagreement about the innocence of our client to end

  up on the ten o'clock news.

  "If I don't speak up for him, Richard comes out looking like a crazy old fool," he countered. "Like he drank

  poisonous, metallic paint just so he could freak out his

  class, and he made wild, baseless accusations against a finalist. He deserves better than that."

  "I see your point, Steve. I do. And I feel for your loss.

  With all my heart, I wish things were different. But the

  problem is, you and I are supposed to be supporting our

  paying client right now, not testifying against him . . .

  when you have no proof that he did a single thing

  wrong."

  "That can't be helped. My loyalties are with Richard.

  Nobody else is going to speak for him. He was a good

  man and he deserves to have his side of the story told.

  Furthermore, I'm keeping an eye on our client from here

  on out in order to gather murder evidence, just like you

  would if our positions were reversed."

  "I wouldn't be testifying behind our client's back!"

  "And I wouldn't be buying his sob story. He hired

  Richard to rid his former household of carcinogens. His

  son died anyway. I think he blames Richard and finally

  took his revenge."

  "Some four years later? And on that very same day, he

  tells me that he was wrong for how he treated Richard?"

  Despite my best efforts, my anger was only rising. "You

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 81

  know, Sullivan, maybe we should look at what we actually know instead of speculating. We know that Richard

  went berserk and was making wild, baseless accusations

  toward you when he found out Burke was a finalist in the

  contest. Why is it hard for you to believe that Richard

  also made wild, baseless accusations toward Burke?"

  Sullivan met my gaze, but his expression never softened. We both knew I'd made an excellent point. He

  turned away, calling over his shoulder, "I've got to go say

  my piece before the judges scatter. I'll see you later."

  "When?"

  He ignored me and entered the building.

  Though neither he nor anyone else could hear me, I

  retorted, "You'd make a lousy goose, Sullivan!" If I was

  mortally wounded, he'd desert me to go honk at the

  hunter. Then we'd both get shot and die alone.

  While tightening my coat collar, I employed my triedand-true calming tricks--I counted to ten and uttered my

  silent confidence-and-optimism mantra. Individually,

  we'd both been through rougher times than this. We

  would survive. With a heavy dose of luck, so would

  Sullivan and Gilbert Designs. But one thing was now

  abundantly clear to me: The aftereffects of Richard's

  death were going to weigh heavily on us until the killer

  was behind bars. Richard's murder needed to be solved as

  quickly as possible. I was in the position to possibly glean

  some insider information, which I could pass along to

  the police. I also had some free time, because Sullivan

  obviously intended to work on the Fairfax assignment

  alone. I could start by speaking with the two other finalists: Margot Troy and Darren Campesio.

  I had some fences to mend with Margot, so I dialed

  her number on my cell phone. She was as brusque as

  82 L e s l i e C a i n e

  ever and gave me the impression that she was surprised it

  took me this long to call and arrange a meeting. (One of

  the hardest parts of running a business that lives and dies

  on referrals is having to eat crow when, if anything, you

  should be the one serving it.)

  I arrived at her place some fifteen minutes later. It was

  a two-story, three-bedroom house, featuring the earthtone-colored stucco that had become very popular for

  Colorado residences built in the last decade. Unlike

  Darren's underground home or Burke's straw-bale structure, Margot's house looked to the unpracticed eye like

  any other home in Crestview. Yet she had maximized

  every inch to harness passive and active solar energy. The

  external walls were two inches thicker than standard

  homes to allow for extra insulation, and the foundation

  and attic used an ingenious system of energy-efficient

  heating and cooling. But truth be told, I found such

  house construction details about as interesting as a

  popcorn-textured ceiling. What really got me excited

  about Margot's house were its furnishings. (Well, that

  and the kitchen, which I'd designed for her two years

  ago.) A visit to her home was like going to a new exhibition at a first-rate museum; there was always something

  delightful to look at, but at the same time, there was also

  that museumlike look-but-don't-touch aura, which always kept me from feeling at ease. Homes have a way of

  taking on the personalities of their owners, and Margot's

  aura was made of barbed wire.

  She invited me inside. We got off to a great start while

  Margot took me on a tour to show me her favorite acquisitions of the past several months. Despite her wealth,

  Margot loved to frequent rummage sales and consignment shops, and she studied the classified section of the

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 83

  newspaper every day with the fervor of a sports-gambling

  addict watching the point spread. Brilliantly, however,

  she'd made a rule for herself: Every time she purchased an

  item for her home, she had to donate a comparable item

  to charity. This policy forced her to avoid clutter--the

  garage-sale aficionado's downfall--and to be extremely

  judicious with her purchases. Her taste wasn't all that similar to mine--she had a fondness for Dan
ish modern that

  I didn't share--but her eye was superb when it came to selecting accent pieces that could make a given room. I

  raved about the yellow-and-sage painted metal chandelier

  in her enclosed back porch. Its lemon-bough motif would

  have looked ridiculous in, say, her formal living room, but

  in this airy, outdoorsy space, it was divine. Likewise, she'd

  hung a delightfully delicate mahogany etagere on one

  wall in her ultraelegant living room and placed three of

  the prettiest teacups on it that I'd ever seen. She'd also

  found a stunning ceramic statue of lovers embracing

  at an antiques store in London, which she'd set on the

  mantel in her parlor. This was the room where, I gathered, my tour ended, because she told me to have a seat.

  I avoided her Danish chaise and opted for the floral

  sofa, which she'd picked up a couple of years ago at an

  estate sale.

  "Margot, I wanted to apologize in person for--"

  "That's the least of anyone's concerns now. How is

  Burke taking Richard's death? With his typical intensity,

  I assume?"

  "You know Burke Stratton personally?"

  "We used to date. About a year ago. But it didn't last

  long. He dumped me once he found out we were cocompetitors in the green home contest."

  This was a surprising and unsettling development. For

  84 L e s l i e C a i n e

  one thing, Margot tended to be guarded about discussing

  her love life, and for another, Burke had never given me

  any indication that he even knew Margot, let alone had

  once dated her. "Why would that bother him?"

  "Oh, it was mostly an excuse. Frankly, his shock at

  finding out I was a fellow contestant seemed staged to

  me. But ostensibly it was because he believed we were

  going to feel too bad if one of us won. What it really came

  down to is that it was obvious to both of us that his architect and I were much better suited for each other."

  "You're dating Jeremy Greene?" I tried not to sound

  quite as surprised as I actually was, both at the news and

  at her willingness to share this intimate information. He

  was some fifteen years younger than she was, though to

  be fair, I wouldn't have given that a second thought if

  their ages had been reversed.

  She beamed at me. "Yes, I am. Ever since Burke set

  me free. Isn't Jeremy wonderful?"

  I didn't know Jeremy well, and yesterday's conversation regarding Richard's lawsuit had left me suspicious of