Decorating Schemes

by Ginny Aiken

  I knew who it was. “He’s the contractor. The one who’s supposed to rebuild whatever he tears down.”

  Alarm widened the man’s large, somewhat bulging eyes. “What you gonna tear?”

  “He’s not going to tear down anything important, Domingo. I told you already. Please believe me.”

  Deedee’s plea bore more strength than her usual feathery fluff. But Domingo wasn’t buying. Interesting. I filed the detail in my mental lock box until I had a chance to talk to the outspoken... what was he, the butler?

  Deedee approached, her smile all sugar-and-spice bright, her inner strength impressive again. “I can’t wait to get started on our project. This place is, like, depressing, you know?”

  Behind me, Dutch gulped. I sent him a sympathetic look.

  Deedee went on. “Let’s go into the living room. It’s got the most windows, so it’s not as dark and dungeony as the rest of the house.”

  Silk drapes in warm rusty red, rich toffee cashmere upholstery, and a spectacular maroon, ivory, and black Turkish Oushak rug don’t read like a dungeon to me. But what do I know? I’m just the hired help.

  Once Dutch, in all his rugged splendor, was seated in a substantial toffee-toned wingback and I in a French bergère accent chair done with the most magnificent cream-colored Chinese brocade, I turned to our client.

  “Aside from the wall in the kitchen that you’d like to remove, are there other structural changes we need to discuss with Dutch?”

  Deedee twinkled at the builder. “That’s such a cute name... Dutch. Do you come from... well, you know. Are you Dutch?”

  The man looked pained. “No. My mother says she just got tired of all the Davids and Stevens and Dannys and Toms, so she said the next thing that caught her eye would be my name.”

  I arched a brow. “Wooden shoes and leaky dikes?”

  The pained look deepened. “No. A tulip catalog.”

  I laughed so hard, my eyes leaked like the little Dutch boy’s dike. “How... how could she?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  “And she said...?”

  Before he could answer, Deedee offered a soulful sigh. “That’s so sweet.”

  Dutch and I looked her way.

  “Huh?” Dutch asked.

  I fared no better. “What’s so sweet?”

  The home owner’s pink-glossed lips curved into a perfectly delightful smile. “She told you that flowers brighten the world and that you came to brighten hers.”

  Dutch winced.

  I snickered.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Deedee asked.

  “Not even close.” Dutch’s cheeks wore a scarlet primer beneath their tan topcoat. “It’s even dumber than that. She said it just sounded good.”

  Hard as it was to control my mirth, I turned back to the matter at hand. “You were about to tell us if you wanted more structural changes than just the back kitchen wall.”

  Deedee stood and smoothed the hem of her pink top over her cerise miniskirt. “I don’t know how anyone can stand so many walls all around. I want them gone. Every last one.”

  Her slender hand pointed to all but the exterior walls. I shot a peek at Dutch. This was going to be a rocky project. Maybe not so much because of our differences, but because the home owner’s tastes had already rubbed him wrong.

  “That wall to your right,” he said, “is load-bearing. If we take it out, then the whole upstairs will come crashing down.”

  Deedee narrowed her eyes. “But it blocks the flow.” She turned to me. “I watch the decorating shows. I know all about flow. I even know feng shui.”

  I winced. “That’s nice, but in this case, there won’t be much flow if the upstairs takes a seat on the downstairs.”

  She tapped the toe of a strappy high-heeled pink sandal. “There’s just got to be a way...”

  With an apologetic look for Dutch, I ventured, “There is something we can consider. How would you feel about columns?”

  “Aren’t columns kind of old-fashioned?” She wrinkled her straight nose. “You know, like those Greek things that crumbled in the ruins.”

  “There are columns,” I answered, “and then there are columns. We can do sleek, round ones without detail at the top or bottom. That way we can use them to define the various spaces, and the upstairs stays where it belongs.”

  Deedee tried the idea on for size. “Sleek?”

  “Yes, smooth, sleek, and uncomplicated. The perfect thing to set off your contemporary furniture. Oh, and artwork. I’m sure you want to incorporate the works of today’s best talent, don’t you?”

  “Sure...” she said. “Maybe. But I’m not crazy about a bunch of weird colored paint slapped on canvas. Can we maybe get some pictures made to order? You know, like, to match the décor.”

  With enough money, you can buy just about anything. “I’m sure we can commission some interesting pieces.”

  “Ooh! Custom made just for me! How cool!”

  I wasn’t sure if what I heard was the chair groaning under Dutch’s solid six-foot-plus frame or his heartfelt opinion of the job we were about to undertake.

  I gathered courage to face him. “So, Dutch? What do you think? Is it columns for the Marshalls?”

  “It’s curtains for the classic Georgian architecture,” he said, his jaws tight, “and columns for the Marshalls.”

  I breathed a mental sigh of relief. I wanted the job. Not so much for the chance to turn a magnificent old home into some kind of space-age station, but for the need to find answers to the questions in the back of my mind.

  “Let me show you some of the fabrics I have.” I unzipped my portfolio and withdrew the swatches. I spread them out on a walnut side table that had to be at least 250 years old. Then I held out my color chip fan.

  “Here. Why don’t you show me what colors grab you?”

  She pushed it away. “Oh, I don’t need that. I know exactly what I want. I’ve read that smart women always decorate their home in the colors that best show off their complexion.”

  Suspicion sizzled in my mind as dread dug deep into my gut.

  Dutch leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and laced thick, strong fingers together. “What colors would those be for you, Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Oh, please, Dutch.” She fluttered her fingers. “Call me Deedee. I’m sure we’re going to become good, good buddies.”

  Uh-oh. I saw the look of horror on Dutch’s face. I turned back to Deedee.

  “You were about to tell us what colors you’d like us to focus on.”

  “There’s only one color I care about,” she said. “Pink! I love pink. I want to see nothing but pink, pink, pink.”

  Visions of Bella’s Pepto-pink hair danced in my head. Candy-sweet Deedee was every decorator’s nightmare. But I still wanted access to the patio where we’d found KC.

  “Okay. Pink it is.” I made an effort to avoid Dutch’s gaze. “With splashes of white and black to set it off.”

  “Pink and black sounds so sexy.”

  This time, even I knew the groan had nothing to do with ancient hand-tied springs. I didn’t know what to say.

  Turns out, I didn’t have to say a thing. A bloodcurdling shriek came from somewhere toward the back and left side of the house. All three of us leaped to our feet and ran to investigate. We arrived at a many-windowed sunroom, then screeched to a halt.

  Plastered against the French doors to the yard was a too-familiar feline, each of her long-fuzzed legs splayed in its own separate direction, ready for quartering, her face glued to the glass, fangs gleaming, claws embedded in the wood frame, mouth open and still emitting the inhuman sound.

  “Bella!”

  I should have known she’d follow me. She’d shadowed me ever since she got Dutch to help me last year. I opened the door. “Come scrape your maniac cat off the door.”

  Deedee gasped. “You know that—that thing?”

  “Regrettably.”

  “It’s yours?”

 
; Now came Dutch’s turn to snicker.

  I glared. “No way, no how, nowhere, and not in this lifetime.”

  “Then how’d it get here?”

  “She belongs to a neighbor—” I looked around and bellowed again—“who used to be my friend!”

  Turquoise hair appeared next to the cat still smeared across the lower right-hand pane of the glass door. Bella snatched up her beast, tucked her under her arm, and let herself into the room. Uninvited, of course.

  “No need to turn hostile, Haley girl,” she grumbled. “I only came ’cause I got your back, you know.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You watch way too much TV, Bella.”

  “What do you mean? I only watch Murder, She Wrote, cable news, and late-night movies.”

  “That’s what I mean. Your imagination can’t handle Jessica Fletcher’s escapades, your language sounds like one of the too many convicts they interview on the news, and late-night movies mean you don’t get enough sleep to know what’s what.”

  “I’m an old lady. I don’t need as much sleep as you do.”

  “If you’re just another old lady, then I’m Christopher Lowell.”

  “Nope,” Bella said with a shake of her teal-blue shrub. “You don’t do a whole lot with FMD—”

  “MDF—medium density fiberboard,” I corrected.

  Bella shrugged. “Whatever. And you’ve got way more hair than Christopher does.”

  “Who,” Deedee asked, “is she?”

  The look on my client’s face was priceless. I can relate. Bella takes some getting used to. “She’s the neighbor—”

  “Who owns the cat who tried to eat Haley.”

  “Thank you, Dutch Merrill. I really needed that.”

  He laughed. “It was one of your better moments.”

  “Ahem!” The polite cough made me want to tear my hair out.

  “Hi, there, Detective Tsu.” Bella’s smile nearly spanned her whole head. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Lila nodded, her eyes glued to the wiggling, wriggling, twisting, turning, and bucking creature in my neighbor’s clutches. “Is that the same cat?”

  I snorted. “Do you really think there could be another?”

  It might have been a stumble as she walked toward the center of the sunroom, but I’m pretty sure it was a shudder that shook Lila. I know the thought of one Bali H’ai sends shocks of fear and trembling through me, never mind two.

  “Hey, you!”

  We all turned toward the door to the inside hall. Domingo’s frown could’ve peeled old wallpaper without a drop of stripper.

  Deedee sighed. “Oh, Domingo, I’ve asked you so many times to please call me Mrs. Marshall. Or you can call me Madame. That’s what proper butlers in England call the ladies of the house.”

  The Latin butler muttered something about flozzies, then added, “You want I bring tea, beer, Scotch, vodka, martini?”

  I blinked. The walnut clock out in the hall hadn’t even reached eleven. Was Deedee in the habit of imbibing alcohol? And at such an early time of day?

  She blushed, but her spine straightened. “That was nasty. I’m not like that, and you know it. But we’ll have to discuss it later. I need a carafe of coffee and a pot of fresh tea now, please.”

  On his way back out, the butler shot his mistress a malevolent glare.

  “I’m so sorry,” Deedee said, her Marilyn Monroe voice somewhat strained. “The man is a menace. Stew is so sweet and sentimental, and he won’t fire the disrespectful creature. Domingo’s been with the family for almost thirty years.”

  That’s when I became an instant psychic: Domingo’s job was toast, and he’d done the toasting himself.

  “But let’s sit down,” the pink-garbed blonde continued. “It’s nice in here. We can have our tea and coffee, talk about my new décor—”

  “Mrs. Marshall,” Lila said, “I’m here on police business.”

  Deedee’s smile melted. She bit her bottom lip, and the sparkle in her eyes took a hike.

  I felt for her.

  “Of course,” she said. “Well, then let’s get on with it so we can get back to happier things, like the redesign.”

  Bella perched at my right on the cast-iron love seat. Bali H’ai took her owner’s momentary distraction to make her escape. I seized the opportunity.

  “Bella, go get your cat.”

  The former model pouted. “She won’t hurt a thing. Bali H’ai’s a shy little kitty. There’s too much commotion and too many strangers here for her. I’ll bet she’s hiding under a bed or in a closet.”

  “Shredding the place is more like it.”

  “Haley girl! My darling wouldn’t do a thing like that. She’s a sweet, gentle baby.”

  “You can discuss the merits of your cat once I’m gone,” the detective said. “I have additional questions for Mrs. Marshall, Haley, and Mr. Merrill, so it’s convenient to find all of you here.”

  Dutch drew in a sharp breath. I slanted a look at him and took in his tight jaw, the muscle twitch in his cheek. I reached across the space between the love seat and his chair, then caught myself.

  Where did that come from?

  Startled by my impulse at Dutch’s distress, I sat back and stole another peek at him.

  Then I caught Lila’s words. “... need to identify the prints.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, a furious blush hot on my face. “I missed that. Could you run it by me again?”

  Karate Chop Cop gave me a puzzled look. “I said we found footprints in the rose bed on the left side of the house. The corpse lay only a few feet away. We need to identify who made those prints.”

  “I never stepped off the patio,” I said.

  “I don’t do dirt,” Deedee offered.

  “I wasn’t here,” Bella added.

  Silence followed.

  “Well, Mr. Merrill?” Lila prompted. “You’re the only one present who hasn’t denied ownership of the prints.”

  The anger on Dutch’s face took me by surprise. Sure, he’d been mad at me last year when the police delayed the sale of the mansion where Marge was killed. He thought I’d killed her, and he’d wanted—needed—the remodeling contract. But I hadn’t seen any emotion so strong, so heated, so dangerous twist his handsome features.

  “That, Detective Tsu,” he said, his words precise, “is because I can’t. The prints are probably mine.”

  He stood. “And you know it.”

  Lila tipped her head in silent acknowledgement. “Then could you explain how they got there? Especially since the designer, the home owner, and the butler all say you reached the patio the conventional way.”

  He stood, paced. “I came for a look at the property, to get an idea how the house sits on the land, the general condition of the structure as it stands. I like to know what I’m getting into when I consider a new job.”

  Lila’s notebook and pen came out. “And when was that?”

  “In the morning. Right after I got Noreen’s call.”

  “After the rain?”

  “After the morning’s shower.”

  “What were you doing in the rose bed?”

  “I wanted to check out the foundation of the house close to the patio. Noreen told me the Marshalls want to remove the back wall of the house, and I wanted to see if I would need to rip out the slab to do it right.”

  Lila’s expression didn’t give away a hint. “Why didn’t you come to the front door? It would seem the logical thing to do.”

  Dutch sighed and jammed his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans. “I did go to the front door. I even banged that heavy brass knocker about ten times—you probably already lifted my fingerprints from there.” One hand left a pocket to make a helpless gesture. “But nobody answered, and I figured since I’d taken the time to come, I might as well look at the foundation and the patio.”

  “And there was no teen here at that time.”

  He gave Lila a hard look. “When I returned in the evening, the pool of blood was
fresh and wet. I bet the body was pretty warm too. So no. There was no one on the patio that morning.”

  “You didn’t touch the corpse?”

  “I never got close to the body. I walked out, saw what had happened, called the PD, and then you showed up—as fast as always. No one touched the girl while I was here.”

  Having found myself at the end of Lila’s questions once too often, I took pity on Dutch. “He’s right, Ms. Tsu. None of us got near her. You were the first to touch her. At least, the first I know of.”

  The silver pen danced over the page again. Then Lila pinned Dutch with one of her keen looks. “When was the last time you had contact with KC’s father?”

  Dutch closed his eyes.

  I winced. His answer wasn’t going to help him.

  “During my trial.”

  “That ended only early last year.”

  “January.”

  “That’s not as long ago as you first said.”

  He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “It’s not as if we resumed a friendship, much less a partnership, Detective. The same subcontractor affected us both. The home owner sued me, while Ron was a witness.

  “And was that contact amicable?”

  “I’m sure you’ve read the reports by now. You know we had a shouting match in the hall outside the courtroom.”

  She acknowledged his words with a nod. “So you parted again on bad terms.”

  “You could say that.”

  “For the second time you came off worse after a confrontation with Mr. Richardson.”

  “That’s right, but it doesn’t mean I hatched a plan to hurt Ron, especially not through KC. It takes a lot of time and effort to try to restore a career and reputation that were raked through the mud—unfairly, I might add. I’ve been busy.”

  “Care to tell me what you argued about?”

  Dutch’s expression grew stormy. “Are you trying to tell me you haven’t read any of the tabloid tales? They had a field day with everything we said.”

  “I don’t read tabloids, Mr. Merrill. Please do me the favor and tell me what went on.”

  “Sure.” The derision in his voice made clear he’d caught her nonanswer. “Ron made a crack that questioned my integrity. I reminded him that lawyers can and often do paint a picture of respectability that deceives. Anyone can hide behind that and still be crooked as a twelve-foot snake.”