by Leslie Caine
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, Miss Gilbert.”
“I doubt Holmes would have cared much for Internet research. Too easy.” Our gazes locked. It was unfortunate that he was such a dynamic, attractive man. It made the struggle of being on opposite sides that much harder. “In any case, I was simply reporting the truth.”
“The ‘truth’ can look very different according to the beholder, Miss Gilbert. You’ve won the first round tonight, but I was expecting that to happen. I haven’t even brought in my corporate-lawyer big guns.”
“When all else fails, throw legalese at ’em.”
He sighed. “There’s always somebody like you, in every town. Somebody who thinks they can play the little Dutch boy and plug the hole in the dike. But you can’t stop us, and you shouldn’t try. BaseMart isn’t a flood, Erin. Nor a hurricane. There’s no feng shui involved. There’s only the march of progress, and the future of American commerce.”
“I can’t tell you how strongly I hope you’re wrong about this country’s future. But good for you to finally have learned how to pronounce feng shui.” If none of its lessons.
With startling intensity, he held my gaze and said calmly, “Like it or not, Miss Gilbert, I always win in the end.”
It isn’t healthy to take one’s diet so seriously as to be made miserable. Chocolate comes from beans, which are vegetables, and wine comes from grapes. That’s two servings of vegetables and fruit right there!
—Audrey Munroe
* * *
DOMESTIC BLISS
Though I felt physically exhausted, I lay awake for well over an hour after we’d returned home from the city council meeting. Below me I could hear Audrey rattling around. It sounded as though she might be moving some furniture. Hildi, who was curled on the pillow beside me, looked at me as I propped myself up on my elbows. We shared a common thought. “Time for some warm milk, isn’t it, sweetie?”
She purred her agreement. I rose and donned my dusty-rose robe and tan slippers. She raced me down the stairs.
Audrey was indeed moving furniture—putting a blockade of the kitchen stools in front of the refrigerator. “Oh, I’m sorry, Erin. Did I wake you?” she asked when she spotted me in the doorway.
“No, my brain seems to be wide awake when the rest of me is exhausted. Which makes you kind of wonder where one’s common sense is supposed to reside.”
She angled a fourth barstool on its side atop the other three stools as I spoke. Audrey was perfectly proportioned, but must have gained a couple of pounds lately. Once or twice a year, Chef Michael made one too many rich entrees on her show, “Domestic Bliss with Audrey Munroe,” and she insisted she either had to lose weight or risk being replaced by someone thinner. “Going on a diet?”
“Yes. And I read in one of your feng shui books that putting furniture in your path to the refrigerator gives your will power a chance to kick into gear.”
“That’s true, but your choice of furniture and placement needs adjusting. Now we have no place to sit at the island, plus Hildi and I need access to the milk.” My kitty, to her credit, had curled up on the moon-and-star patterned rug by the back door and was licking her paws patiently. We’d recently installed a small cat door there, which Hildi had taken to sitting next to, at least, although she almost never actually used the thing.
Audrey examined her arrangement of stools and sighed. “Too extreme?”
“By a factor of four.” I walked to the far side of the kitchen table. “All we need to do is move the table over by two feet and swing it around by a quarter turn. Then we’ll have to round the table every time we want to reach the refrigerator.”
She frowned. “When we’re coming from the main entrance, that’s true. But not when I’m coming home and entering through the back door.”
“We’re moving the captain’s chair to handle that, as well. Grab the other side of the table.”
She hesitated and her frown grew deeper. “But it’ll take no time at all to walk around the table.”
“Moving a piece of furniture into your path isn’t intended to form an obstacle course, Audrey. It’s simply a psychological trick—a mental memory jog. This way, you walk into the kitchen, and you see the table. That gives your will power an extra second to kick in, which is all you need to do the trick, if you really want it to. Better yet, you’ll see the nice, inviting table, and you’ll pull out a chair, sit down, and read the newspaper.”
“I prefer to sit at the kitchen island when I read the paper.”
I gestured at the barstools. “Your seats are currently forming a blockade.”
She sighed, unconvinced.
“Audrey, the point is that we all tend to be drawn to the first thing that we see when we walk into a room. That’s why, when you walk into your office, for example, you want your desk to be the first thing you see, so that you go right over to it and get straight to work.”
I lifted my end of the table. Audrey was still not budging. Hildi released a plaintive meow. I winked at her to silently signal that it wouldn’t be much longer.
“If we move the table, the pendant light will be off-kilter,” she whined.
“We can attach a ceiling hook temporarily and lengthen the chain. And it beats stacking the barstools. Seriously, Audrey. If this were a segment on your show, would that be the solution you’d recommend?”
“No,” she said forlornly. “But I like the table where it is. And having the captain’s chair in the corner, as well.”
“Audrey. You’re creating more fictitious obstacles than four barstools and all the furniture in this room combined. Plus, I already promised Hildi some milk.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, I can’t remove the stools, or I’ll be standing at the refrigerator, with full access!”
I took a moment to stay calm, then returned the four barstools to their logical places.
As I moved the last stool, Audrey clicked her tongue. “Honestly, Erin. You’re a wizard when it comes to dreaming up creative solutions for your difficult clients. You’re not giving up on me this easily, are you? What about a big potted plant in front of the fridge?”
“There was an article in last month’s ‘Arts and Living’ section of the Sentinel that said red wine was being tested for its powers for negating calories. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right! I do remember that article. See? Now you’re talking.” She gleefully crossed the room and flicked on the light to head downstairs to her wonderful wine cellar. As she descended the stairs, she called after her, “Oh, Erin? Since you’re getting the milk out anyway, would you please get me the brie? And a box of crackers?”
chapter 8
Sullivan and I joined the Youngs at their house the following morning—to be supportive if nothing else—while the fire investigator went to work. Every creaking floorboard above our heads made me flinch, half expecting him to come crashing down. My eyes stung from the lingering odors of yesterday’s fire and Shannon’s cigarette smoke. There was considerable water damage to the drywall in the hallway and the den, but that could easily be replaced. Otherwise, except for the odor, the main level was in remarkably good shape.
We sat in the kitchen and silently nursed cups of take-out coffee, which Sullivan and I had supplied. This was currently my second-favorite room in the house (after the art studio). The stainless-steel appliances and elegant appointments throughout were top of the line. Walnut cabinetry warmed the black granite countertops and backsplashes. The walls were a lovely sage, and the cream-colored ceramic tiles lent this space a timeless, classic character. The built-in kitchen table was hand-planed to look antique, with surprisingly comfortable solid pine benches; the kitchen was relatively small, and by eliminating seatbacks, the owners garnered precious inches from the pathway into the formal dining room.
Yesterday, Sullivan and I had completed the reworked design for Shannon and Michael’s remodel, which was going to bring the entire house up to the graceful beauty of the kitchen and studio
. But the Youngs were too tense and distracted with the fire investigator in the house for any kind of meaningful design discussion right now.
At length, the investigator—a heavyset man with a slight limp and beady eyes—came into the kitchen. Michael rose and offered him a cup of coffee, which he declined. “I determined the cause of the blaze,” he announced. “Faulty wiring.”
“But what caused the faulty wiring?” Michael asked, still standing, his hands jammed into the back pockets of his black chinos. “Was it one of our workmen?”
The investigator peered at him. “Why? Did you have an electrician out here recently?”
“No. But how else could our wiring just suddenly go bad?”
“You’ve obviously had some trouble with critters up there. One of ’em could have gnawed through the shielding on your wires, causing a short.”
“Or it could have been someone deliberately tampering with our wires,” Shannon interjected.
The inspector frowned at her. “No accelerant was used, ma’am. It’s many times more likely that this was an accident.”
Which meant he wasn’t ruling out arson completely.
“That’s a relief,” Michael said.
“We’ll need to get a time estimate on the repairs,” I said, glancing at Sullivan. Plus I need to look for clues about who might have been up there recently. “Is it safe to go into the attic? As long as we only step on the joists?”
“S’pose so. You won’t want to trust the pull-down ladder. Otherwise, the floor is structurally sound. Most of the damage was along the east wall where the blaze started. And the roof itself.”
“Getting back to my point about the wires,” Shannon persisted, “wouldn’t tampering with them without a tell-tale accelerant be the smart way to start a fire and not get caught?”
“You’d have to have a solid base of knowledge about electricity and electrical fires. Ma’am, I can tell for a fact there was a short between a hot wire and a ground wire, which can only happen when the shielding between ’em is missing. That eventually created a hot spot and a fire.”
“So that’s the end of that,” Michael stated, casting a stern glance in his wife’s direction. Shannon curled her lip and grumbled unintelligibly into her coffee cup. After thanking him again, Michael ushered the investigator to the door.
In a low voice, Shannon informed me, “The police made the same noises about your brother’s death…that it was most likely an accident. But the shielding could have been deliberately stripped off. I can’t buy that we coincidentally had two freak accidents within three days of each other. Obviously, someone out there will stop at nothing to drive me out of my home. And I just know it’s that damned Pate Hamlin!”
I said gently, “Maybe so, but I’ve got to say that Pate made a good point when he told the police about his having too much to lose.”
“Erin!” She banged her fist on the table. “Pate’s a ruthless son of a bitch who doesn’t care about anybody but himself! As far as he’s concerned, we either get out of his way or he’ll run right over us!”
I held my tongue and felt the heat of both her and Sullivan’s glares. I couldn’t argue with her statement—especially not after experiencing Pate’s veiled threats at the council meeting last night—but I was certain that the man wasn’t just a heartless, egocentric jerk. And yet, among my mental list of people with the opportunity to have taken my brother’s life, Pate Hamlin was the wealthiest and had the most public exposure. That surely meant he would fall the hardest if Taylor had somehow collected evidence that could ruin him.
No sooner had Michael reclaimed his seat than someone knocked on the door. He promptly went to answer and, a moment later, brought David Lewis into the kitchen. Michael was saying to him, “The arson investigator was just here. The fire was an accident. Bad wiring.”
“Thank God. So there’s no chance one of my men loused up the wiring and started the fire?”
“The investigator seemed to think it was an animal gnawing on the wires.”
“Good.”
“Why were you worried it was one of your men?” Shannon wanted to know.
David looked at her, then cast a guilty glance in my direction. “Well, um, Taylor went up there a couple days back. Must’ve been Friday morning. Said a fuse had blown, and he wanted to double-check everything.”
“This is the first time you’ve mentioned that.” Michael’s tone was skeptical.
“Yeah, I know. But…if the expert thinks it was accidental, it must be. I don’t see how fiddling with wires on a Friday could’ve started a fire on Tuesday.”
Nor would my poor, hapless brother have had the slightest motive to start one.
Sullivan said, “We brought the updated plans for the remodel, David. After we develop an action plan for repairing the roof and the attic, let’s go over them.”
“Sure thing.”
Sullivan left to fetch the designs. I rose and threw out my styrofoam cup. “I need to take a look at your attic. To see how much work needs to be done. Can I borrow a ladder?”
Shannon got to her feet. “There’s one in the garage. Michael can get it for you.” Michael had only just now reclaimed his seat and took a slurp of coffee. Shannon clicked her tongue, then said, “Hon? Did you hear me?”
“Oh, right. I’ll go get the ladder.” He started to rise.
“Nah. Stay put, Michael,” David said, heading for the door. “I’ll just get mine off my truck. That’ll be faster.”
“Thanks, but let me come give you a hand.”
Shannon winced as the door banged shut behind the men.
A split second later, Michael called, “Sorry, sweetie.” My hunch was that his door slams were a pet peeve of hers.
“I’m sure our Christmas decorations and old clothes upstairs are history,” Shannon told me glumly.
“Probably so,” I muttered, distracted. With David and Michael fetching a ladder, they’d be intent upon climbing into the attic immediately. That would prevent me from searching up there first.
All three men returned and quickly set up the ladder.
“I’m the lightest and should inspect the area first,” I interposed hastily.
David dismissed my suggestion with the groaner “Age before beauty,” and climbed the rungs.
“Go ahead,” Sullivan said to me with a mischievous wink.
Luckily, I’d anticipated having to climb a ladder today and was wearing slacks. Even so, I said, “No, you go first. We might as well stick with our macho-before-magnificent battle plan.”
Michael chuckled. Sullivan merely smirked. I gave him a quick signal with my eyes and hoped he understood that he should hurry up there and keep an eye on David while I made a search. Sullivan climbed the ladder. I went up last. As I gingerly stepped off the ladder, I spotted something nestled among the ashes and soot: a black, silk-covered button.
Ang Chung was apparently missing a button from his favorite robe.
We already knew that two rooms’ worth of Sheetrock needed to be replaced. The attic would need to be gutted and rebuilt. The roof would also need to be razed and rebuilt. The triangular roof supports had to be replaced, which would be the most time-consuming part of the process. Several boxes along the opposite wall had survived the blaze, though Shannon and Michael were going to have to inspect their contents to see if they’d been irreparably damaged even so.
Both David and Steve got busy on the phones trying to tap into their substantial connections in the construction world to find a means to get Shannon’s roof repaired as quickly as possible. They soon hit pay dirt: A local roofing subcontractor that David frequently used had been stiffed on a multiple-house job. As a result, he already had the major support structures in stock that Shannon’s house needed. Despite his previous record of foot-dragging, David was now apparently going to more than make amends. He estimated that he could install a whole new roof in less than two weeks. A time frame like that was utterly unheard of for such a big job, especially when insur
ance companies were involved.
As we left the Youngs’ house and got into the van, Sullivan grinned at me. “We finally caught a break on Shannon’s house. It’s amazing that David’s going to be able to fix the place that quick.”
“Yes, it is. Although I’m less convinced than ever before that the fire was a mere accident. Take a look at this.” I pulled the button from my pocket. “I found that in the attic, right next to the ladder.”
“Gotta be Ang’s.”
“Right. And why would a feng shui consultant be climbing around in a storage attic?”
“Other than to set fire to the house, you mean?” He handed me back the button and started the engine. “Thing is, that’d be real incriminating, if we were talking about a reputable consultant. But this is Ang Chung. He’ll say anything to explain this away. The guy churns out more pure fiction than Stephen King.” He backed out of the driveway and onto the road.
I sighed. “True. All the button really proves is that Ang was recently in that attic. And he’ll claim he went up there to get a reading on the ba-guas or something.” (Ba-guas are the octagonal shapes that determine the optimal locations for various types of activities in a building.)
“Even so, you should give it to the police.”
“Oh, jeez! I’m such an idiot! Chain of evidence! I removed the evidence from the scene of the crime! Now it really is worthless!”
“Ouch,” Sullivan muttered quietly. He patted my thigh—to be reassuring, I’m sure, though I was a little startled by the gesture.
Discouraged, I vowed to give Linda Delgardio the silk-covered button as soon as I could.
Sullivan and I went our separate ways during lunch. I grabbed a salad and joined a couple of girlfriends at the gym for a yoga class. Far from being able to relax, my brain was filled with images of Ang creeping around in Shannon’s attic and messing with the wiring. Reportedly, the ba-gua could be used to predict the future of a home and its occupants. If only we’d been working with an authentic master instead of with Ang Chung, perhaps that ancient art could somehow reveal the home’s secrets. Such as who had murdered my brother within its walls and had set fire to its roof.
