by Leslie Caine
“I told you so!” I promptly told Sullivan. “Somebody tried to kill us!”
“Might not have been after both of us,” he intoned. “Since it’s your van, you were the likely target.”
“Maybe so, but the passenger side isn’t known as the death seat for nothing.”
“Which I came uncomfortably close to discovering,” he muttered, staring past my shoulder at the road. Linda and her partner were walking toward us. They must have intercepted a call from the patrolmen.
After a few minutes of deliberation, Sullivan and I found ourselves in the back seat of Linda’s patrol car as we followed the tow truck. Linda listened to me while her partner “Manny”—Officer Mansfield—drove. I repeated what the tow-truck driver had said about my brake line having been cut. She asked, “How long would you say that the Youngs were out of sight, from the time you arrived to when you left?”
Sullivan and I exchanged glances. “Half an hour, maybe?” he guessed with a shrug.
“At least twenty minutes, for sure.”
“And were they gone separately, or together?”
“Separately,” I answered. “It was like they were on a tag team for a while. One would leave the room when the other arrived.”
Sullivan added, “But neither of them was there when we were in back, talking to David Lewis.”
“The contractor,” Linda muttered as she jotted something down. “So could he have slipped away long enough to tamper with your brakes?”
“Easily,” I answered with a nod. “All the carpenters are mostly working in back of the house today. And Ang Chung arrived at some point.”
“Plus Pate Hamlin seems to be home more often than not,” Sullivan said. “And he’s right across the street.”
“He works out of his home office, so of course he’s there.” I felt a little annoyed at how eagerly Sullivan seemed to throw Pate’s name into the circle of suspects. “For all we know, Rebecca Berringer could have spotted my van, done the deed, then left.”
“So could Pate’s ex-wife.”
I frowned. “That’s a stretch. Yesterday was the only time I’ve seen Tracy at the house.”
“But it’s still possible,” Sullivan countered.
Linda was flipping back through her notes, no doubt to reference Tracy Osgood. It felt as though Sullivan had offered her up to the investigators to protect Rebecca. “Sure. And it’s also possible that a perfect stranger could have slashed my brake line. But there’s a certain lack of motive where either Tracy Osgood or a stranger is concerned.”
“Anyone else you can think of?” Linda intervened, before we could start squabbling. “We’ll talk to all the workmen, too, of course. Have you had any unpleasant encounters with one of them?”
“No,” we said in unison.
“Did Taylor Duncan have troubles with anyone on the crew?”
“Not that I know of,” I replied. “Not counting his prickly relationship with his boss, David Lewis. They were all at his funeral yesterday, though, and spoke highly of Taylor afterward.”
She nodded and said nothing.
“By the way. Detective O’Reilly hasn’t said a word to me lately, though I told him I wanted to know the results of Taylor’s autopsy.”
Linda kept her face impassive, but I thought I saw a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “He must have forgotten to call you. The tox screens were all negative. No drugs or alcohol whatsoever were in his system.”
I settled on a white Saturn sedan as my temporary replacement for the van. Sullivan joked that my first order of business should be getting an enormous magnet to stick on the car door that read Sullivan & Gilbert Designs. He volunteered to handle the remainder of our appointments for the evening, which I gladly accepted, then headed home.
Some aches and pains in numerous parts of my body were starting to make themselves known as I made my way up the slate walkway. Despite my world weariness—or perhaps because of it—the approach to the house looked extra lovely and welcoming, like a Hallmark housewarming card. The darkening sky formed a striking indigo background for Audrey’s regal stone house. I marveled at how the yellow glow through the transom and sidelights from the crystal chandelier beckoned. The crisp, pine-scented air mingled gently with warm lavender and eucalyptus scent as I stepped over the threshold into the picture-perfect foyer.
Through the French doors, I could see Audrey pacing in the parlor. That was not a good sign. She’d quite possibly reached the limit of her nurturing skills over my loss, and this evening was going to be All About Audrey. It would be wise for me to wait my turn to tell her about my car accident.
She faced me the moment I opened the door. “Erin, I’m in real trouble here. I need your help.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Hildi, meanwhile, meowed a greeting from her perch on the sofa.
“It’s that dreadful Rebecca Berringer’s fault. Or at least her hyperactive publicist’s.”
I clucked in an advanced show of sympathy and settled into the comfy Ultrasuede cushion beside Hildi. I stroked her soft, black fur. She rumbled with a contented purr.
“They’ve been advertising Rebecca’s show everywhere,” Audrey continued. “The Sentinel, the Post, the News, the sides of buses, magazines, store windows…you name a large, vertical surface in this town, and Rebecca’s face is on it. My numbers are dropping. The station says that’s because her show is hipper and fresher than mine. Which, by the way, is their way of tactfully pointing out that she’s forty years younger than I am.”
“But you’re the one she’s copying. You’re the Domestic Bliss Goddess herself. There’s no way she can overtake your loyal audience and your credibility.”
“True, but let’s recap, shall we? Forty years younger than me. A television show. She’s got the higher percentage of eighteen-to-twenty-eight-year-olds. That’s the market everyone wants. It has the most clout because of its high percentage of disposable income. The advertisers consider it their bread and butter.”
“But for a show about interior design, airing at nine in the morning, your and Rebecca’s audience is basically the same as Martha Stewart’s. And she’s your age.” More or less. Lately Audrey had vowed to assign herself negative numbers for her birthdays, so she was supposedly getting younger with each passing year.
Audrey put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, my numbers are dropping, Erin, and either I get them up or the station drops me.”
“Uh-oh,” I muttered, now certain that I knew where this conversation was heading.
“I have to bring in younger, fresher guests. I need you to get over your silly TV phobia, Erin, and do a segment on the show. Immediately.”
I had fought off this request mightily ever since we’d first met. One glance at her face told me that this was her Waterloo. (Or was that her Alamo? I meant whichever battle was shorthand for I won’t take no for an answer. Sadly, my knowledge of history began and ended with architecture and furniture periods.)
“Okay, Audrey. If it’s that important to you, I’ll do my best,” I promised. “But let’s please start me out with as short a segment as possible. That way, if my stage fright forces me into a state of shock, your viewers will only have to stare at your catatonic guest for a couple of minutes. You can wheel me out of there afterward during a commercial break.”
“Fine. I’ll put you on with Chef Michael, who’s always popular. He agreed to bring along a feng shui expert that Shannon knows. I’m sure he’ll be a big hit as well.”
I grimaced. “Ang Chung?”
“Yes. Why the face? Doesn’t the man speak English, or something?”
“Perfectly. He’s an American. He doesn’t seem to have any Asian whatsoever in him. I think he changed his name when he started practicing feng shui because it was good for business.”
“You don’t sound fond of him.”
“I’m not. I think he might have killed Taylor.”
“That’s a problem. Well. Murderer or no, it’s too late
to change my guests around for tomorrow’s taping. I’ve got everything confirmed already with the producers.”
“Tomorrow!?” I shot to my feet, Hildi emitting a rr-r-r of protest. “You scheduled me for tomorrow? Before you even talked to me about it?”
“I knew I’d be able to count on you when the chips were down. Which they are now.”
“I just hope I don’t lay an egg. Heaven knows Rebecca Berringer is far from one of my favorite people. I’d love to see your show outshine hers and drive her back into the B-leagues, where she belongs.”
Audrey grinned at me. “There’s the spirit! So let’s sit down and discuss what your topic will be for tomorrow.”
Sullivan okayed my forcing him to cover for me yet again. That was my last hope for bailing out on Audrey. The next morning I rode down to the TV studio with her. Ang was in the greenroom when I arrived. He was wearing all black silk, but his Nehru jacket was an upgrade from the usual one. Audrey’s greenroom was literally that; she’d requested that the walls here be painted a lovely mint green. Ang did a double take as I entered. He studied my features as I took a seat in the exquisite over-stuffed beige jacquard chair across from him.
“Erin? Are you all right?”
I tried to force a smile, but felt too nauseated to be successful. “I guess they call it the greenroom because the future TV people can get so nervous that they turn green.”
Ang arched an eyebrow. “You’re nervous? You should put yourself in the southwest corner and breathe in the winds of change.”
I oriented myself mentally and realized I was sitting near the north wall. “I don’t feel like moving at the moment.”
“That’s a mistake. Feng shui should never be dismissed out of hand.”
“I use intuitive feng shui myself in my designs, Ang. But I don’t want to be breathing in any winds just now. I’m already feeling blown away by my stage fright.”
He chuckled. “You poor thing. Wish I could help. I’d suggest that you allow me to guide you in some meditations, but I’m next on camera.”
Just then, Audrey’s assistant came in—a rail-thin young thing who seemed overcaffeinated—and informed Ang that they were “ready for him.” The wording gave me an image of an execution chamber being prepared for us, and I nearly fainted.
On his way to the door, Ang patted me on top of my head as though I were a cocker spaniel. “As they say in show biz, break a leg. And reconsider your cavalier attitude about feng shui. You’re up right after me, and you’re running out of time to pull yourself together.”
His smug attitude was intolerable. I snarled at him, “I like your new jacket. You lost a button from your other one, didn’t you?”
“No. Why?”
“I found one that looked like it came from your black robe. In the Youngs’ attic. Right after the fire. I gave it to the police.”
The assistant was now jiggling anxiously. She urged him on with a tight smile. Ang’s dark eyes flashed in anger, but he clenched his jaw and left with her.
Okay, that was mean of me to bring up the button just then. It was also unwise, in general, to prod a potential killer. Figuring it couldn’t hurt, I moved to the southwest corner and breathed deeply. Where Ang Chung was concerned, there was no telling if “winds of change” were truly what I was inhaling, but I could sure smell the cheese danish from the snack tray, and that wasn’t helping my nausea.
I watched on the monitor while Ang lectured the audience in that infuriating calm demeanor of his, demonstrating the nine “rooms” of the “house” in feng shui, and explaining how each can have an effect on a person’s life.
“For example, your next guest is shaking in her boots, she’s so frightened to be out here on stage.”
“Oh, thanks for bringing that up in front of the audience!” I grumbled to myself. Payback for mentioning giving the button to the police, I supposed.
I turned off the TV and sat there, staring straight ahead. After a minute or two, Michael Young arrived.
“Erin! My God. You look like you’ve been running a marathon. What happened? Food poisoning?”
“No. Stage fright.”
“Really? Can’t relate, to tell you the truth. I just pretend Audrey’s the only one there, and there’s nothing to get nervous about around Audrey.”
“But she’s not alone,” I reminded him sourly. “There’s an audience. And a camera.”
Miss Pencil stepped across the threshold. “Are you ready to go, Ms. Gilbert?”
I think my heart stopped. “I…no, I’m not.”
She looked confused. “But…that was just a rhetorical question. You have to be ready. Nobody ever says no.”
“They would if you asked them the right question,” I babbled, stalling for all I was worth. ‘Do you want to fall flat on your face on stage?’ for example. If you asked that, the guests would say no.”
She blinked at me. “You have to come with me,” she insisted. “Right now.”
Michael rose. “Erin needs a couple more minutes to compose herself. I’ll go first.”
“But Ms. Munroe just announced that it was going to be the interior designer up next,” she whined.
“The show’s taped anyway, so they can just edit the guest appearances in whatever order they want afterward.”
“Okay, I guess, but…”
I got to my feet. “Thanks anyway, Michael. I’d better get this over with now before I talk myself into going AWOL, which Audrey would never forgive.”
“Tell you what, Erin.” Michael took my elbow. “They film your segment in the quote-unquote living room, and they film mine in the kitchen. We’ll both go onstage at once. If you get nervous, just look at me, and I’ll give you the thumbs-up and beam at you for all I’m worth.”
The assistant was peering at my face and, when we stepped into the hallway, she suggested, “How about a quick visit with the makeup artist?”
I agreed, and the “artist,” who doubled as a camera-woman, dabbed artificial tawny colors onto my face.
By the time I sat down in Audrey’s pseudo living room, I was going through hot flashes and cold chills and could only think that if this had been the Middle Ages, someone would have decided I had the plague and I’d have been dragged off and put out of my misery. Audrey did everything she possibly could to calm me down, and when the assistant asked if there was anything she could get me, I said, “Beta blockers? Valium?”
“Sorry. I can’t give you my prescription meds. It’s illegal. How about some water?”
“Could you spike it?”
She raised her eyebrow. “Of course. By ‘water,’ I meant ‘vodka.’ Or would you prefer gin?”
“Never mind. I’ll take the actual water. Tap water.”
She trotted away, and I started to worry if “tap water” was a code name for some sort of illegal substance. I never should have joked about pills.
A moment later, the crew turned up the stage lights. I felt like an ant beneath the burning hot ray of a prism. The assistant gave me a dainty cup and saucer for my water. When I tried to take a sip, my hands shook so badly that I sloshed water over the rim. My cup chattering against its saucer sounded as loud as a typewriter.
I dimly realized that Audrey was staring at me as though she’d asked me a question. After a horrifying pause, I mumbled, “Yes, indeed,” figuring I had a fifty-fifty shot at that being a reasonable answer. The flicker of concern across her features and the guffaw backstage from Ang Chung let me know that I’d missed the mark.
“Erin decorated this studio,” Audrey said in an aside to her audience. “Didn’t she do a fabulous job?”
There was a nice applause, driven, no doubt by the “applause” light that was flashing. I muttered, “Thank you.”
“Getting back to my question, what are the most common mistakes that homeowners make when they’re decorating their new homes?”
Blank. My God! My mind was a total blank! I was turning into a tawny-painted zombie!
“Other t
han not hiring you, I mean,” Audrey said, with a wink to the camera.
Still nothing.
“Is it color clashing? Lack of focus? Too much trendiness? Too little attention to detail?”
“Scale can be a big challenge with a new home. The sofa that looked huge in the old apartment can be dwarfed in the new living room, or the table that looks perfect in the showroom can barely fit in your actual dining room.”
“So you recommend that home owners measure everything very carefully?”
“That’s always important, yes. But also, colors can go a long way to fixing the problems in scale and in harmonizing the visuals of the room.” I was sounding as stuffy as a closed casket.
“What do you mean by that? Give us an example.”
With the aplomb of an elephant on roller skates, I trudged on with my answers to her questions. An eternity later, Audrey was thanking me, and I was finally able to leave the stage. There was a commercial break afterward, and Michael promptly gushed, “You did great, Erin.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“I’m sure he meant it,” Audrey said, coming backstage to check on me, probably to make sure that I wasn’t trying to hang myself in her greenroom. “You did a fine job.”
“I was shaking like a leaf the whole time!”
“The TV audience won’t notice. They’ll think it was the camera that was shaking.”
“Oh, sure,” I moaned.
Audrey said, “You got off to a rough start, but your information was excellent, and you were charming. The only problem was you shook too much. You’ll do better next time.”
“This was a one-shot, Audrey. There isn’t going to be a next time.”
She gave me a quick squeeze. “Wait for me, dear. We’ll celebrate your appearance on the show with a nice lunch when we get back to Crestview.”
“Celebrate?!” I squawked.
“You can also look at this as a recovery meal, if you prefer. In any case, it’s a business expense, so you’d be foolish not to take me up on the offer.”
“I’d really rather—”
“Hold that thought. Watch Michael and me do our thing. I’ll be right back.”
