by Ginny Aiken
I walked to the waiting room, tapped my lips, and thought some more.
Behind me, Tedd’s sharp, high-heeled steps followed Dutch’s heavier ones.
“What if . . . ?” Dutch prodded.
My brain buzzed as if on a Starbucks overdose. “I hadn’t planned artwork for the hallway, but what if I use the doors as wall art?”
He gave me one of his “Now you’ve really lost it” looks. “Now, wait. Hear me out. We all agree the doors are fabulous. And they’re historic treasures someone—us—has to save. So if they can’t be used in modern construction, why don’t we take advantage of their art value? The carving is magnificent.”
Tedd headed back to where I’d stacked the doors. She ran a red-tipped finger over the intricate detail, her smile wider by the second. Dutch joined her.
I followed, certain of my new vision.
Patience is not one of my stronger virtues, and it didn’t show any sign of fortification right then. But I bit my tongue and zipped my lip. I waited them out.
When Dutch gave a soft “hmm . . .” I knew I’d won the battle. And, to my credit, I didn’t crow.
Instead, I said, “Don’t you think small, museumlike halogen spots above each door panel, like the ones I had installed around the perimeter of the waiting room, would make for a dramatic display?”
Dutch began to nod. He whipped out his measuring tape again and nodded some more. “Not only are the doors narrower than the openings, but they’re also shorter. That means we should have enough space above them for your spotlights to aim just right. Now, I’ll still have to figure out a way to hang them without pulling down the walls—”
“Aw, give me a break, Merrill! I can’t believe you’re about to throw up another roadblock. That should be a piece of cake for you.”
“Yeah, like I can leap tall buildings and stop runaway trains, right?”
I blushed again. “Well, maybe you’re not quite Superman, but you’re pretty handy with hammer and nails. Get with the program, Dutch ‘the Toolman’ Merrill. Give that old-TV-show guy a run for his money.”
“More power, huh?”
I faked a punch to his shoulder. “There you go! Chalk one up for the Toolman.”
We all laughed, more out of relief at the averted stand- off than at my lame excuse for a joke. Then my cell phone rang.
It was the shipping company about the delayed Guatemalan chairs. A multitude of apologies and excuses followed. I controlled my irritation—what else could I do? These minor headaches are part and parcel of my much-loved career.
“So what’s the verdict?” Tedd asked.
“Another few days—he promises. I was afraid he was even going to offer me his firstborn kid as collateral for the chairs.”
“That’s too bad,” Tedd said. “I can’t wait to see them. The samples I fell in love with that time I went to Tijuana were incredible. I know they’re going to look fantastic in my waiting room.”
I grimaced. “So do I . . . if they ever get here.”
“Just so long as your part of this deal doesn’t slow my part down,” Dutch offered.
“Give me a break! They’re just chairs. They go in last, after you’re done doing your thing.”
“Come on, kiddies,” Tedd said. “Let’s try to get along now—”
“Teddie!” a warbly female voice called from the waiting room. “Are you here, dear?”
The psychologist glanced at her watch on her way to the front. “Look at the time! Yes, Darlene. I’m here. Is Jacob with you?”
“Of course, dear. I wouldn’t come without him—it’s Cissy’s day off, remember?”
My curiosity got the better of me—when doesn’t it? Since we began the redesign of Tedd’s office, I’d met more than a few of her other clients. I say “other” because I’m on the books too. Tedd has helped me deal with personal bogeymen a time or two. So I wanted to get a look at Darlene and Jacob, whoever they were.
Besides, something about the elderly woman’s voice tugged at me, so I followed Tedd into the waiting room. When I walked past Dutch, I had to do some more ignoring, since he muttered, “There goes that nose again. Snoop, snoop, snoop . . .”
It wasn’t easy, but I prevailed. Actually, it was my curiosity that won; it dragged me into the waiting room to catch a glimpse of Darlene and Jacob. I let my dignity squawk.
In the large, boring beige space stood a tall, slender woman who brought to mind lace and tea parties and all the niceties of the late Victorian period. She wore her snow white hair pulled into a soft Gibson-girl knot at the top of her head, and the lapels of her pale mauve silk suit were embellished with tiny seed pearls. A spectacular strand of more pearls, golden and marble sized, circled her neck, while the diamonds on her hands sparkled in the weak incandescent light of the table lamps.
At her side a gentleman stood tall and strong, his hair a steely gray, his eyes almost the same color. But something about his gaze struck me as odd. Sadness swept over me, even though I had no idea why.
“Jacob darling,” Darlene said with a pat to one of the overstuffed beige sofas. “Come sit here while I talk with Teddie. You’ll be in the sun, and you know you like that.”
The haunting gray eyes turned to Darlene, then to Tedd, to me, and finally back to Darlene. A frown creased Jacob’s high forehead.
“Who . . . who are you?”
My stomach sank to my toes. His disorientation spoke loud and clear. Dementia, possibly Alzheimer’s. How terribly sad.
With infinite patience Darlene murmured more soothing words. Tedd waited at their side, silent, a soft smile on her lips. I stepped back so as not to disturb Jacob any further.
I prayed under my breath. I asked for strength for Darlene, clarity for Jacob, wisdom for Tedd.
A tear slid down my cheek.
Dutch’s large, warm hand settled on my shoulder, and I surprised myself when I leaned back.
“Tough, isn’t it?” he whispered.
“I can’t begin to imagine.”
Darlene took a magazine from the central coffee table, opened it to a colorful ad, and placed it in Jacob’s hands.
I glanced at my erstwhile nemesis. “Awesome, isn’t she?”
He gave me a crooked grin. “I don’t think I could ever come up with that much patience.”
“And love . . .”
“For better or for worse . . .”
We watched for long moments until Willa, Tedd’s new secretary, stepped out from behind her reception desk and sat next to Jacob. With gentle words she struck up a one-sided conversation with the elderly man.
Only then did Darlene turn to Tedd. “He’s had a bad week.”
“And you?” Tedd asked.
Darlene shrugged. That’s when I noticed that her suit dwarfed her. Either she’d borrowed the outfit, which I doubted, since it seemed so perfect for her, or she’d lost weight—a great deal of weight—since she’d bought it.
Her sigh was more sob than sigh. “I start treatment again next week.”
Tedd tried to hide her reaction to Darlene’s words, but I’d come to know her pretty well in the last year. The tiny flare of nostrils and the quick blink revealed her shock.
She only nodded. “Want to come in now?”
Darlene stepped into Tedd’s counseling office, her shoulders high, her step firm, her demeanor made more tragic by the display of courage.
Before the door closed, Tedd asked, “How many chemo sessions will you need this time?”
I looked up at Dutch.
He looked down at me. “The doors are no big deal.”
2
After that it was hard to find fault with Dutch or to hassle over details; I’d just had a look at the greater scheme of things. My troubles were nothing compared to the burden Darlene carried.
I focused on the paint technique I’d chosen for the office walls. For that certain south-of-the-border flavor, without going touristy Mexican, I’d decided on a plaster and glaze finish that would—I hoped—make t
he plain old drywall look like aged adobe. By the time I’d coated a couple of feet of wall in the tinted goop, I wore almost as much of it as the drywall itself did.
“That is fascinating,” Darlene said.
“Ack!” I spun around, the trowel full of glop in hand, and dropped a big splat of the stuff at her feet. “I didn’t hear you.”
She smiled, although the smile didn’t quite make it to her Liz Taylor violet eyes. “I knew Teddie was having work done to the office, and I asked her if I could take a peek. I love what you’re doing.”
My grin came out crooked. “To the walls or to my clothes?”
Her laugh did brighten her gaze a tad. “It’s like I used to tell my boys when they were little—messy, but good.”
The globs that clung to the old overalls and tank top I’d brought to change into fit right into the first category. “I’ve never been accused of being a clean painter, so I guess I shouldn’t expect to be a neat faux techniquer either.”
“What is that you’re using?”
I launched into a detailed explanation, thankful I could give her a short break from the troubles she faced. Her interest fueled my zeal, so I told her how I’d mixed pigment into the mush and would later apply a blend of more color and glaze medium. My goal was a warm, aged hue on the now imperfect texture of the walls.
“I’m so impressed,” she said in a sincere voice. “I never would have thought someone might want to make a new place look like . . . well, like my place.”
“Really? What’s your home like?”
“I guess it’s what’s called a painted lady, a big, old Victorian with the multicolored gingerbread trim outside and the interior plasterwork they used to do back then. The moldings are dark—Daddy never did let Mama paint them white, no matter how often she told him it looked much too old-fashioned.”
I drew a sharp breath. “You didn’t paint them, did you?” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, since Daddy was so opposed. I’m afraid I was a bit of a Daddy’s girl.”
That breath exploded out in relief. “I’m so glad. It’s a crime what some people do to those magnificent old homes. They don’t pay attention to the exquisite craftsmanship, the fine materials, the artistry that went into the construction and finish work, the pride the workmen took in everything they did.”
“Go, Haley, go!” Dutch cheered.
I turned toward him. “What rock did you crawl out from under? I thought you went to pick up the beams for the ceiling.”
“That didn’t take long.”
I faced Darlene again. “Just ignore him. He’s a necessary evil—good for construction and the occasional headache.”
Dutch shot me one of his most wicked smiles and waggled a finger under my nose. “Ah-ah-ah! Don’t forget, you once saved me from a fate worse than death. That old cliché says now you own me.”
“Don’t remind me.” I wouldn’t remind him of the times he’d saved me. The memories weren’t good ones, even though I was glad he hadn’t been locked up for a murder he didn’t commit. “Besides, I gave you back your sorry self. Right away too. You’re all your own.”
He clutched his clasped hands to his chest. “You wound me, oh, Faux Finished One.” He winked at Darlene, who was, inexplicably, charmed by the goofball. “Even though she sure doesn’t look like she’ll be finished here anytime soon.”
“Punny, punny. Just not very funny.” I tipped up my chin. “You can’t rush perfection, Merrill.”
“What’s with the sloth’s pace, Farrell?”
“Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “Then you’re not married.”
I squeaked in horror.
Dutch gaped.
Tedd laughed. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?”
I spun to face her. “Are you out of your mind? I’d never—”
“Never say never,” she cut in. “How’s it going out here? That is, besides your usual head butting.”
Dutch snorted. “She’s slow.”
I reached for Darlene’s arm, then thought better of putting my plastered paw on that yummy mauve silk. “If we ignore him, he might go away,” I said. “It’s going well, but you can’t hurry the process. It takes layers upon layers to make plain old drywall look like ancient adobe.”
“It would seem very well worth the time investment,” Darlene said. “The texture she’s applied, even though the color is a bit bright, looks like that of the walls in my house. I’d let her go at her pace.”
I beamed. “See? A woman of discerning taste.”
Darlene again patted my shoulder—carefully, since I had splotches of plaster there too. “And you’re a talented young woman. I just might get inspired now that I’ve seen your work.”
“That,” Tedd said, “is a wonderful idea. You could use some fun right about now, Darlene. And redecorating, although a pain at times, is fun.”
A sigh brought the sadness back to Darlene’s violet eyes. “You’re right, dear. I haven’t had much fun in a long, long time.”
The resignation in her voice touched me. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I love what I do, and I can . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe I can make the process easier for you—with the house, of course. I’m itching to get my hands on a Victorian treasure like yours. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Darlene was taken aback. “Oh, no . . . Haley, is it?”
At my nod, she continued. “I can certainly afford a designer, and I insist on paying for your time. You’re very young, Haley, and I’m sure just starting out. You can’t afford to give away your talent and training like that. Why, you’d wind up in the poorhouse in no time at all.”
I blushed.
Tedd chuckled.
Dutch laughed.
When his laughter died down to a few chortles, Dutch said, “Not her. Haley here can probably buy all three of us out and have enough left over to make a nice dent in the national debt. She’s a bona-fide filthy-rich heiress.”
“I am well off,” I said. “But my money came after a tragedy. I was the beneficiary of a friend’s will. She died a horrible death. I’d much, much rather still have her around.” “I see.” Darlene’s voice revealed leashed curiosity. I admired her control—I would’ve blurted out something stupid and nosy.
An awkward silence swamped us, and the drier-by-the-minute plaster on my trowel didn’t fascinate me, but it was the most convenient thing on which to focus.
Once again Darlene displayed her grace and manners. “This has been lovely, and we’ll have to see what I decide about the house. But now I must go rescue dear Willa. It’s terribly difficult to keep Jacob calm and entertained for this long. And Teddie dear? If you’re smart, you’ll make certain you never lose that girl as an employee. She’s pure platinum.”
Tedd followed Darlene to the front. “She’s almost done with her doctorate in psychology, and I’ve asked her to join my practice, with a partnership in the future, as soon as the ink dries on her state license.”
“That little bitty girl . . . ?”
As soon as we were alone, I rounded on Dutch. “You’re never going to let me live down my most embarrassing investigative moments, are you?”
He crossed his arms. “How about you? You keep bringing up that old lawsuit—which I won, if you’ll remember.”
“Hey, a girl’s got to keep some kind of leverage around you.”
“And a guy’s got to watch his step around you. You’re danger on wheels.”
“Don’t you even think of bringing up the dead bodies stuff. Bella’s a ghoul and does it all the time. Especially now that she’s got herself a PI license.”
That set him off again. “Oh . . .” He tried again between laughs. “Oh man. I can just see the two of you now. Haley and the corpses, and Bella and the cats. Ever think of writing a TV script?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re repulsive. Murder is a hideous sin, and here you’re turning it into a joke.”
“Not the murders,
Haley,” he said in a soft and serious voice. “Never the deaths or the crimes that caused them.” Then he shrugged. “But let’s face it. The idea of you skulking through slime-filled trash sheds—” he held up a hand to stop my righteous objection—“which you’ve been known to do on occasion. And then, just outside the shed, voilà! Bella and her Balis as backup. Look out, Wilmont, Seattle, and all points beyond! Loony ladies on the loose.”
I planted my fists on my hips. The trowel splotched plaster down at my feet. “I’ll have you know, I am no longer in the corpse-finding business, and Bella has decided to specialize.”
He arched a brow. “Oh really? And just what would Bella’s specialty be?”
I’d walked right into that one. How was I going to tell him with a straight face? I gave it my best shot. “She’s Wilmont’s first official pet detective.”
This time he laughed so hard that tears poured from his green eyes down his tan cheeks.
In this kind of situation, a girl has just one option.
I joined him.
Three days and one gorgeously faux adobed hall later— well, it still needed a couple more coats of glaze—I had to put in an appearance at Norwalk & Farrell’s Auctions. I do own the place. Well, not all of it. My assistant’s position was short-lived; I offered Ozzie Krieger a full partnership a couple of days after my inheritance cleared probate.
That he would accept only 40 percent is a consequence of his faintly tainted past, one we’ve both agreed to keep where it belongs—in the past.
I walked into our warehouse to hear the scary scrape of wood against cement. “Hey, Ozzie! Are you damaging the merchandise again?”
A short, slender brown tornado spun into my path, his somewhat protuberant eyes open wide. “Oh, my heavens, Miss Haley! I have never damaged one of our pieces. I would never do such a thing. Why, I even have my surgical gloves on.”
My brilliant, master-worrywart partner stopped wringing his hands long enough to show me that, yes, he did indeed have on a pair of latex surgical gloves.
“Good grief, Ozzie! What are those for?”
“Well, miss. It’s all about the oils on one’s fingers. They can mar the integrity of many of the antiques we handle. These pieces are such magnificent exemplars of our historical wealth that I feel honor bound to treat them with the kind of respect pieces of such longevity have earned.”
