by Leslie Caine
“It’s another coincidence, believe it or not. I dropped by last night to discuss divorce proceedings, and the police kept me here, interviewing me. It got so late, I wound up sleeping in the guest room.”
“Is Pate home?”
“I think so.”
“What unfortunate timing for you to have been visiting this neighborhood just now,” I said, testing.
“You can say that again! Poor Shannon!”
“So you and Pate were here…together when she was killed?”
She grabbed my elbow and said in hushed tones, “I didn’t get here till after supper time. And by then the—”
“Tracy?” Pate’s deep voice emanated from inside. “Who are you talk—” He broke off when he spotted me. “Erin. I’m terribly sorry about your client’s death. Shannon and I may not have been able to get along, but I hope they catch the coward who did this to her and string him up by his…thumbs.”
“Thanks, but I’m here on a different matter, which I hope for your sake is unrelated. I wanted to talk to you about a product you’re selling at your store. A workstation.”
He chuckled. “You want a discount? Hell, I’m happy to give you any furniture product we carry.”
“No. This is about your selling my brother’s design for the All-Position Workstation. Did you steal—”
He held up his palm to cut me off. “Erin, maybe we should step into my office.” He glanced at Tracy, still lingering by the door.
“This isn’t a social call, Mr. Hamlin. I need a simple yes or no before I go to the police. Did you steal Taylor Duncan’s design when your Pied Piper products made the All-Position Workstation?”
He crossed his arms. “No, I did not. And, by the way, the thing’s not exactly flying off the shelves. We just have it in a couple of local stores to test the waters. It’s tanking, big-time.”
“How did you get hold of my brother’s design?”
“It wasn’t his. I acquired it…legally, of course. David Lewis holds the patent, under his name and his alone. He approached me about that product last year, showed me the manufacturing specs and all the paperwork—including authentic patents—and got me interested enough to follow him to his house and see it demonstrated.”
That made no sense. Taylor had said that he’d met David for the first time just a couple of weeks before he was killed…and that David had given him the foreman’s job to set him up for a fall. Considering Taylor’s criminal record, I couldn’t leap to his defense; maybe Taylor had been lying about who came up with the workstation design.
A sudden gust of wind blew my hair into my eyes and ruffled Pate’s. Tracy’s, however, must have been sprayed into place. I took a moment to collect myself, then asked, “What did the prototype look like?”
“Rustic but functional. Made mostly out of old exercise equipment.” He shrugged.
That was Taylor’s work, all right. Had David actually taken Pate to Emily’s house? “Where does David live?”
“A town house in South Crestview.”
Emily’s house was a two-bedroom house east of town. Taylor or David must have constructed a second prototype. “How much money did David make on the deal?”
“I paid Lewis ten grand for an exclusive agreement, with bonuses and percentages if the thing got hot.”
“Did you know anything at all about Taylor Duncan’s having come up with the design a couple of years ago? And building his own prototype to test it?”
“No, I didn’t. And clearly you’re going to have to take up the matter with David.”
I nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
He grinned at me and cast a quick sideways glance at Tracy. “Would you like to turn this into a social call now? My soon-to-be-ex-wife was just about to leave, but I’d be happy to take you on a tour of my home.”
This was a first—declining an offer to see the rooms in a house that I’d found fascinating from the outside. “No, thanks. I need to go see David Lewis immediately.”
Tracy stepped forward, “I’ll walk you to your car, Erin.”
As soon as Pate was out of earshot, she said, “Erin, I know how this must look to you…my answering the door at Pate’s like that. Again. But I was just here trying to get our divorce papers signed. And…once I heard about Shannon, I wanted to see if he had an alibi.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“And where were you?”
Her jaw dropped. “I was organizing a charity function in Denver all day.”
“These days it’s impossible to know who to trust.”
“No kidding,” she murmured sadly and turned away.
I got into my rental car and called David Lewis’s cell. He answered with his ubiquitous “Yeah?” and I said that I had something important to discuss with him right away. He said to come to his office—a ramshackle trailer southwest of downtown.
When I arrived, David seemed to be in a foul mood, which made two of us. He didn’t have his usual quota of sawdust in his hair, I noted. “Is this about Shannon?” he asked as I took a seat on the folding chair in his drafty office. “All I can say is, God help the piece of crap who killed her. And I hope he or she meets Him soon.”
“I’m surprised you feel so strongly about her death. She didn’t seem to treat you very well.”
He glared at the wall behind me. “She was demanding to work for, thanks to that asshole, Ang Chung, but she was a good person. She sure as hell didn’t deserve to get killed.”
“No, she didn’t.” And neither did my brother. “That’s not why I’m here, though.” I filled him in on how my mother had shown me the prototype for Taylor’s workstation that he’d been developing for at least two years. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered the product on the shelves at BaseMart. Pate says that you showed him a patent with your name on it.”
“Right. Because it’s my invention.” David maintained his scowl. “Far be it from me to challenge your memories of your brother and all, but the simple truth is he must have been feeding you and your mother a line of bull.”
“Oh?”
“I designed that station. Me. Acting alone. I was trying to cut costs wherever possible, and your brother was young and inexperienced, but talented. I hired him to redraw my blueprints and build me a prototype, based on my design.”
That had to have been done clear back before Taylor’s final stint in jail. “When was this?”
“About two years ago. I don’t remember off the top of my head. But I can go back and look at my notes for the design.”
“You told me you didn’t know Taylor when he came looking for a carpenter’s job. But that you needed a foreman and gave him a shot.”
“I didn’t know him—merely met him a couple of times for a month or two. It was way back when he was still in high school, or a recent grad, maybe. Kind of like temporary summer labor.”
I was highly skeptical but said, “I see.”
“So is there anything else?”
“I’d really like to see all the legal agreements between Pate Hamlin and yourself. Along with the patent. That should go a long way in determining who’s the legitimate owner of the concept.”
“No problem. I’ll have my secretary locate them. She’ll make copies for you.”
“Thanks.”
He squinted at me. “You do realize that…Taylor was something of a blowhard, don’t you? This is hardly going to be the first time he tried to steal credit for someone else’s work. I mean, we are talking about a two-time convict and a druggie.”
“Which is why the documentation is so important. It will clear the whole thing up right away.”
“Right. Sure. Good.”
I glanced at his desktop and, even though I was reading upside down, the name Taylor Duncan jumped out at me. I tilted my head and scanned the page. “Is this an insurance claim?” I blurted out.
David’s eyes widened, then he frowned and said firmly, “Yeah. He was my foreman. I always take out insurance policies
on my foremen.”
“So are you getting paid for my brother’s death?”
“No, nothing like that. It was just a policy insuring me against liability. In case he did something stupid and the client sued. You can imagine how crucial that was for me in Taylor’s case.”
“And yet now we’re all probably out of a job.”
He looked at me in surprise. “I doubt that. Michael’s going to need to have us finish up. He can’t get any kind of good price on his house while it’s still under construction.”
“So he’s selling the house? He told you that?”
“Er, no. I’m just assuming he will.”
I nodded and left, now convinced that Michael and David were in cahoots. I hoped I would be able to find out just what that partnership entailed.
Never be afraid to change your surroundings. We need the chance to experiment and to try new things to keep ourselves free and young in heart and mind.
—Audrey Munroe
* * *
DOMESTIC BLISS
“I’m thinking of doing something dramatic with this room,” Audrey announced. We were sitting in the den, and she’d had a faraway look in her eye for a while now, which usually meant trouble.
“You’re moving the furniture around again?”
She continued to gaze pensively around the room. “What would you think of installing an oxygen bar in here? We’d put in three or four of those tubes that allow you to inhale some lovely scented oxygen. Eucalyptus or lavender would be especially nice, after a long, hard day, don’t you think? Along with several of those antique Arabian water pipes?” I was too stunned to answer. At length, she prompted, “Erin?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking that this must be how the interior designer for Graceland felt when Elvis suggested putting the green shag carpeting on the ceiling in the jungle room.”
“That would be a no to my suggestion, I take it?”
“That would be an omigod hell no, Audrey. An oxygen bar and a batch of hookahs?”
“Hookahs.” She chuckled. “That sounds like how Tracy, with her Texas accent, would say ‘hookers.’”
“And a bevy of call girls would be every bit as elegant an addition to this room as hookahs. At least they might be able to teach us a thing or two we don’t already know.”
“Speak for yourself, honey,” she said, affecting a Mae West voice.
Embarrassed, I didn’t reply.
“But it’d be fun for a while,” Audrey prompted.
“The water pipes and the scented oxygen? Or the hookers?” I teased.
“Do you think we could rent a portable oxygen bar for a party?” she asked, not to be deterred.
“So long as you’ve got the money, you can rent anything. Which is not to say that you should. Doesn’t it seem at all dangerous to you to put pure-oxygen dispensers in the same room where you want people to be smoking? Not to mention counterproductive?”
“Maybe so,” she mused. “Let’s forget the hookahs and just concentrate on the oxygen.”
I massaged my suddenly aching temples.
“Erin, a headache can be a symptom of oxygen deprivation, you know. And here in Colorado, we’re already a mile above sea level. We probably suffer from that all of the time and don’t even realize it.”
“What’s going on, Audrey? Are you going through some kind of midlife crisis that’s taking you back to your wild days in the sixties? Feeling nostalgic for Woodstock?”
“Those were good times for me. But I was hardly into drugs and free love. I was dancing in the New York City Ballet then.”
I studied her expression. Something was up. “Please promise this isn’t a trick.”
“A trick?”
Uh-oh. Her cheeks pinked up, and her tone had a too-innocent quality to it. “You’ve already looked into renting hookahs and an oxygen bar!” I cried. “You’re planning on featuring them at the Sullivan and Gilbert kickoff party!”
“It was just one possibility…. Over the years I’ve found that adding an unusual twist to one’s parties makes them stand out in people’s minds. That’s especially advantageous when you’re planning a party to promote a business venture.”
“So…your mind went directly to oxygen bars?”
“No, it took a circuitous route. Remember how we talked about doing that housewarming ritual for your office with the smudge stick? Well, I set fire to the sage in the kitchen as a test, and it had a surprisingly disagreeable odor. That got me to thinking that maybe I could experiment with different spices. Which, in turn, led me to hookahs and oxygen bars.”
“You’re sure that was just sage you were inhaling? You didn’t hide marijuana in the spice rack at some point, did you?”
“Of course not. Although that would make for an interesting lifestyles tip during one of my Domestic Bliss programs…. ‘Now here’s a little tip for all you teenagers in the audience who are trying to hide your stash from your parents.’”
We both laughed. “At least you’d be hitting a chord among the younger audience marketing segment that your producer claims is so critical.”
“True.” With a sparkle in her eye, she added, “All of this reminds me, Erin. As much as I love that ceiling medallion you installed, I’m thinking a thick shag carpeting up there would be even nicer.”
“Oh, stop,” I groaned.
“It’s high time shag carpeting made a comeback—”
“That would be wonderful. And maybe I’ll finally be able to dust off my hot pants and leggings.”
“Well, my dear, let’s make a deal. You put those on, I’ll don my leather miniskirt and halter top, and you and I will go out on the town.”
“And we’ll look like hookahs,” I muttered.
chapter 19
Our pleasant banter was interrupted by an abrupt bang. It sounded like a gunshot. Almost simultaneously, there was the clinking noise of shattering glass above our heads.
“What was that?” I cried, leaping to my feet.
“Probably an engine backfiring.” But Audrey had paled. She obviously wasn’t buying her explanation any more than I was.
“It sounded like an upstairs window broke.”
She rose and headed toward the foyer.
“Audrey, wait! You’re not thinking of opening the front door, are you?”
She froze, then said, “No, that would be reckless. I was just going to go upstairs and see if our windows are intact.”
“I’ll go.” I headed for the staircase. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I went straight upstairs to my bedroom and threw open the door. The breeze that riffled my silver, raw silk curtains and lace sheers was an immediate giveaway. So was the shattered glass.
Someone had shot a bullet through my bedroom window.
“I understand how serious this is.” Officer Mansfield, Linda’s partner, was trying in vain to placate Audrey. He’d even made a flip remark about “minimal damage.” Neither Linda nor I was making any attempt at jumping to his aid.
“Oh, good,” Audrey replied with false gusto. “Just so long as I’m sure that you understand how upsetting it’ll be if one or both of us is shot dead the next time we look out a window, we can all sleep soundly tonight.”
Mansfield frowned. “We’ll send patrol cars out to circle the area, ma’am.”
“Rather than circling the area, why not have one park across the street? Are you really so overextended in Crestview that you can’t spare even one squad car and an officer?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, you said yourself that the lights were out upstairs and the room was unoccupied at the time. It was probably just a prank. And no one got hurt. All it did was break a window—”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Linda flinch, mirroring my own reaction. “The window isn’t the problem!” Audrey snapped. “It’s the deadly projectile that passed through it! I would strongly suggest the Crestview police take all reasonable precautions to prevent another one—one that might find a human t
arget!”
Mansfield tugged at his shirt collar. He towered over Audrey physically, but was looking a tad intimidated. “Of course, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to honor your request for increased patrols.”
“We’re hoping that the casing we retrieved will have a fingerprint, Ms. Munroe,” Linda interposed, before Audrey could pounce on his “I’ll do what I can…”
“Yeah,” Mansfield added earnestly. “And we’ll do our best to catch the shooter.”
“And how good is your best?” Audrey challenged, staring up at him. “What are the chances of your making an arrest?”
He cast a nervous glance at Linda before he answered. “That would depend on lots of factors. Witnesses…evidence from other similar crimes…urgency…and, er, so on.”
Audrey donned her patented I’m-losing-my-patience smile. “Then I’d better let you get back to work at catching the shooter, Officer. In the meantime, Erin and I will work to improve our limbo skills whenever we pass in front of a window.”
He tipped his cap and mumbled, “Evening, ma’am,” and scooted out the door. Linda bobbed her head and started to follow him. I had a strong urge to leave with them, knowing I’d be in for a major lecture from Audrey about how I needed to curb my tendency to involve myself in murder investigations.
“I’ll keep you posted, as best I can,” Linda said, when she reached the door.
“Great. Thank you. Have you gotten any solid leads on the killer?”
“Not really. Though Shannon’s husband looks awfully suspicious. He just raised the price of her art pieces by a factor of ten.”
“He did?”
Linda nodded. “A little fishy, huh? A grieving man immediately thinks to raise the prices on his artist wife’s works. And they’d separated the day before she died. How’s that for coincidence?”
“Michael’s always looking out for himself, first and foremost,” Audrey declared. “To appear on the competition’s show, he’s breaking our contract. Although that’s another suspect you should consider taking a strong look at.”
