by Leslie Caine
I felt myself easing up on the accelerator as I neared the café where I was supposed to meet my boyfriend, John Norton, for a lunch date. That wasn’t a good sign. On the surface, John was the perfect match for me. It’s just that I had the sinking suspicion that our relationship was heading down my typical path—even though he was wonderful in many ways, ultimately he was just not the one. We’d only been going out for two months, however—not long enough for me to come to a definitive conclusion. Besides, I could unconsciously be holding him accountable for something—and someone—he had no control over whatsoever.
I pulled into a space in the restaurant lot, shut off the engine, and sat in my van, staring through the windshield.
John was a terrific guy—nice-looking in that clichéd tall, dark, and handsome way. He was also intelligent and charming. He even had a professional interest in interior design; he managed a design center for one of the largest residential developers in the state and was in charge of furnishing showcase “demo” homes for his employers. It certainly wasn’t John’s fault that Steve Sullivan, of all people, had been the one to set up the two of us.
To John, Sullivan was an old friend. To me, Sullivan was a sometimes friend, sometimes professional rival. What Sullivan always was, though, was an enormous thorn in my side. With our downtown offices on the same street and separated by just three blocks, potential customers—especially the ones who were familiar with comic English operattas—sometimes got Gilbert versus Sullivan confused. In the two and a half years since I’d first moved to Crestview, both of us had been guilty of falsely accusing the other of deliberately taking advantage of our clients’ confusion. A couple of months ago, just as our frayed feelings were finally on the mend, they’d unaccountably begun to unravel once again when John and I started dating.
The door to my van opened, and I jumped, my reverie abruptly shattered. John smiled at me, his dark eyes merry. “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I spotted you through the window and figured you might be waiting for a personal escort, beautiful lady.”
“I was just lost in thought.” I returned his smile. “But I’ll gladly accept an escort, kind sir.”
He gave me a peck on the cheek as he helped me down from the van. “Client troubles?”
“Something like that.”
He held the restaurant door for me. The female maître d’ gave him an appreciative once-over as she deposited us at our table. He and I chatted effortlessly, and I soon began to realize, as I always did whenever we were alone together, why it was that I was so drawn to him. John was excellent company and a really good guy. I was nuts to think that there was no magic between the two of us. I took a moment to silently admire his features. In his mid-thirties, John had the most wonderful laugh lines imaginable; when he smiled, they crinkled at the edges of his dark eyes, making them all the more appealing.
We ordered our lunch, and while we ate, I started to relate how I’d arrived at a client’s house this morning and found her “myopic boyfriend” stumbling around the place and the antiques “downgraded to chintzy reproductions.”
“Man, that’s weird,” John exclaimed. “So, what’d your client have to say for herself?”
“Well, the ‘client’ is my friend Laura . . . the one I went to Audrey’s presentation with last night? She basically claims that she’s keeping all of her pricey antiques under lock and key, while she and her boyfriend use the much less expensive replicas. She says they’re simply speculating with the antiques and hope to sell them at a profit in another couple of years.”
John’s brow furrowed as he polished off the last bite of his chicken tetrazzini. “Her name’s Laura?”
“Yeah. Laura Smith.”
John nearly choked and had to grab for his water glass. He held up his palm as he struggled to regain his composure, as well as his air supply. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. “I know a Laura Smith. I hope to God that’s not the same woman. Describe her to me.”
“She’s roughly my size . . . five eight . . . about my weight, as well. Dark brown hair and eyes. Stunning. Looks a lot like Angie Harmon from the TV show . . . the actress who married the football player.”
To my increasing consternation, John was staring at me with his jaw agape. He cried, “Oh, shit, Erin! You’re friends with this woman?”
“Yes. Why? Who is she?”
“Erin,” he said, holding my gaze, “Laura Smith —or whatever her real last name is—is Steve Sullivan’s infamous ‘Laura.’ ”
“Oh, my God.” If I’d been eating at that particular moment, I, too, would have nearly choked. “Oh, no. I can’t . . . ! My friend Laura Smith is . . . the same woman who conned Steve and ran off with his former business partner?”
John nodded, the muscles in his jaw working. “The woman who ripped him off for all he was worth.”
Stunned, I sat still and tried to fathom this revelation. There went my last shred of hope that there was an innocent explanation for the replaced antiques. My thoughts raced back through all the intimate personal details I’d shared with Laura while considering her a friend. I now knew a measure of what Steve must have felt; I, too, had been betrayed. “But . . . I thought she and Evan Cambridge had left the country, let alone the state of Colorado.”
“They must have come back.”
“Obviously. But why? Why come back to the same town where they can get thrown in jail?”
“They must be planning some sort of major con job. Could this ‘boyfriend’ of hers maybe be Evan in disguise?”
“No. I met Evan three or four times, and this is a different guy. Laura refers to Dave as her . . . life partner or something.” This news was simply too bizarre to accept. “I can’t believe that she . . . did this to me. Whatever ‘this’ is. She hasn’t actually done anything yet.”
“Makes you wonder. . . . If she was pulling off some sort of heist or con, why hire a designer who could catch her in the act?”
“She must’ve never intended to let me back into her house once her scam was under way. By using a professional designer and befriending me, I’d be an expert witness she could use if the insurance company questioned how valuable her belongings were. Meanwhile, her fakes are good enough to fool most everyone else, so she can . . . destroy her own home, supposedly with those priceless antiques still in place.”
The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. “That little witch! No wonder she was so careful to document everything . . . getting certificates of authenticity from the antiques appraiser, taking photos of each piece. They live in the mountains, where there’s always such a big risk of forest fires. They’re probably going to torch the house and then quietly sell the antiques on the Internet!” I paused. “Or she is. Dave’s seemingly clueless . . . there just to sign the checks. But that could be an act, for my benefit. Damn it all! Now I wish I’d asked Dave Holland about the missing antiques right away.”
“So you’re thinking this is an arson fraud in the offing.”
“It’s possible. She told me the household contents have been insured for a million dollars. Judging by the front room, they’re now worth one-fiftieth that amount.” I couldn’t help but add under my breath, “She acted like we were getting to be such good friends.”
“Are you finished eating?” John asked, his features grim.
I nodded at my half-full plate. “I’ve lost my appetite all of a sudden.”
He signaled the waitress, pushed back his chair, and dropped his red linen napkin on the table. “We’d better pay a visit to Sullivan . . . try to ease him into the news that Laura’s back in town. If he’s caught off guard, he’ll do something crazy. Like wring her neck.”
A deep, muffled voice was coming from the office as John cracked open the carved, custom-made oak door. Over his shoulder, he told me, “Sounds like he’s with a client.” I peered past him to see that Sullivan was alone and on the phone. He held a hand over the mouthpiece as John said, “Hey, Steve. I’m here with Erin. When you have a
minute, we’ve got some business to discuss.”
Sullivan gestured for us to come in. A designer’s office is his first and best line of advertising, and this one was so effective that I had to prevent my brown eyes from turning green whenever I entered. Sullivan’s taste was pure contemporary: clean lines, “less is more,” nothing bulky, nothing that detracted from the sheer grace of the space. Though few, each furnishing he’d selected was exquisite. The texture of the wool Berber carpeting was sublime and augmented perfectly the grain of his knotty alder desk and cabinetry. His simple-but-astonishing sitting area in the back corner with its pair of posh, comfy club chairs and Sullivan-designed tiger-maple coffee table beckoned visitors to come peruse through his delectable portfolio. John and I, however, sat down in the two sleek, ultra-modern steel-gray chairs facing Sullivan’s desk. The light fixtures suspended from the ceiling were formed from this same burnished steel. On the exposed brick wall behind him hung a single, unframed oil canvas—an iron-red horizon against a black background that looked like an emblazoned desert at nightfall.
Sullivan was wearing a white Arrow shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His light-brown hair was, as always, slightly in need of combing—a look that was surely calculated to make women yearn to run their fingers through it to straighten it for him. His hazel eyes were nothing short of gorgeous, but lately they were often angry in my presence. Even now there was a tightness to his handsome features.
Because it was infinitely safer, I shifted my admiring gaze to his marvelous desk. Its sexy lines with their gentle flair in the base and legs were so typical of a Sullivan design that he’d surely had this piece custom built. He completed his conversation, hung up, and said, “Hey, Erin, John. What’s up?” He gave me only the briefest of glances before meeting John’s gaze.
“Erin’s got a new client who has a rocky personal history with you,” John began.
“What do you mean by a ‘rocky personal history’?” He finally looked at me. “Did I offend some client of yours somehow, Gilbert? If so, you’ll have to fill me in from the top.”
“It’s nothing like that.” Suddenly nervous and uncomfortable, I glanced at John, who nodded at me to go ahead. “John’s talking about a friend of mine. At least, I thought she was a friend. She started out as my client four or five months ago. She acted so nice, and we seemed to have a lot of things in common and really hit it off. Maybe I should have thought twice, with her name being ‘Laura’ and all . . . but I didn’t make the connection to you.”
Steve’s face paled, and I felt my own face growing warmer by the second. I continued, “You’ve never told me your Laura’s last name. I dropped in on her unexpectedly today and found out she’d done this really odd thing with the antiques in her house . . . swapped them for reproductions. I happened to be telling John about it over lunch . . . and I mentioned her name.”
Steve got to his feet. “Laura Smith?” he snarled, already in a rage. He leaned over his desk and shouted in my face, “Where is she? Where does she live? Give me her address, Erin! Now!”
“That’s not a good idea,” John said, rising, as well.
“Hey! This is my life we’re talking about! Besides, I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just want to talk to that thief face-to-face.”
I stood up. “Fine, Sullivan. I don’t have any appointments scheduled for more than an hour. I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t need to babysit me, for Christ’s sake!”
“Maybe not, but unless I’m there, too, I’m not telling you her address or phone number,” I replied firmly, trying not to flinch in the face of his fury. “If Laura’s the major con artist everyone thinks she is, you might need a witness in case she tries to pull another fast one on you. So either I go with you, or you don’t go at all.”
Sullivan glared at me, no doubt on the verge of wanting to wring my neck. John interjected smoothly, “She’s right, Steve. You confront Laura on your own, and she’s liable to fake injuries and have you arrested for assault.”
John gave Sullivan a moment to let this sink in. After a moment, Sullivan sighed. He raked both hands through his hair. “Guess you’re right.”
John glanced at his watch. “Listen, I was supposed to be back at work fifteen minutes ago, so I gotta run. Let me know how things pan out and what I can do to help.” He gave me a quick kiss, then strode over to Sullivan and clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Keep your head and play your cards right, dude. This could be your one and only chance to get your money back. So play it cool.”
With the fury of a man so livid that he could mangle a steel bar with his bare hands, Sullivan retorted, “Yeah. Cool. No problem.”
During the drive to Laura’s home, Sullivan was so on edge he looked like a store mannequin whose joints couldn’t bend far enough to let him fit in my passenger seat. I filled him in on Laura’s and my encounter last night with the apparently phony “undercover cop,” which made no more sense to Sullivan than it did to me. I then told him how Laura’s boyfriend had “lost” his glasses. “John and I were thinking that Laura’s probably pulling some kind of insurance scam. Maybe she’s planning on burning down her house, then she’ll sell off the real antiques.”
Sullivan grumbled, “Sounds like something she’d do. You’ve met Evan, haven’t you? Her boyfriend wouldn’t be Evan in disguise, would he?”
“John asked me the same thing. But no way. They’re different men. This guy’s name is Dave Holland. Have you—”
“Holland? Shit! That’s the guy she left a year and a half ago to take up with me. Or I should say, in order ‘to take me,’ period.”
“Is he a con artist, too?”
“Not as far I know. But I don’t make assumptions about people’s innocence anymore. Not after what Laura and Evan did to me.”
I clicked my tongue. “You can’t mistrust everyone just because you ran into two bad apples, Sullivan!”
“I don’t. I just mistrust my judgment of people.”
“Which works out to be the same thing. You hold yourself back because you assume the worst.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s see how trusting and gregarious you feel, next time some client wants to stock their household in pricey furniture and become all chummy with you.”
I fired back: “I’ll take that risk, anytime.”
“Sure,” Sullivan scoffed. “But that’s only because you didn’t get your heart ripped out of your chest in the process.”
Stung, I retorted: “It’s not like you’re the only person who’s ever been hurt, Sullivan.”
“True. But how many of us nearly lose their business and are driven to the verge of bankruptcy in the process?”
“That would depend upon how many ruthless divorce attorneys there are out there. It’s not all that uncommon in messy divorce cases.”
“You know what I mean, Gilbert. Laura lived with me for a year, pretending to love me. Then she stole all of my money!”
I negotiated a switchback as I neared Laura’s mountain home. “Okay, I admit it . . . you were taken worse than anyone I know. But tell me something, Sullivan. Do you think that this hardship of yours means that you’ve won the right to be embittered for the rest of your life? Is it really worth trusting no one because one woman betrayed you?”
He said nothing for a minute or two, then, while staring straight ahead and not looking at me, he asked quietly, “Is Norton treating you right?”
“Yes. John’s a great guy. Thanks for introducing us.”
“That’s the third or fourth time you’ve thanked me.”
“Is it?” I was surprised. I hadn’t thought we’d even seen each other three or four times since I’d started dating John.
“Yeah, but even so, you’re running a distant second,” Sullivan added. “Norton’s thanked me a couple dozen times for introducing him to you.”
“That’s sweet.” He truly was a great guy. And nice-looking. I should be thrilled that he was so interested in me.
Sullivan f
idgeted with the door to my glove box, which was slightly askew ever since I’d bashed into it with my easel last month. “So, Gilbert. You in love with him?”
“We’ve only been dating for six weeks.”
“It’s been more than eight weeks.”
That was true, actually, and I don’t know why I’d said that it was only six. “Why are you keeping track?”
He frowned and didn’t answer. I ground my teeth as I made the turn onto Laura’s dead-end street. If he’d wanted to go out with me two months ago, he could have asked. At that time, I’d have said yes. Instead, he’d fixed me up with his buddy, as though I were a garish tablecloth that he couldn’t wait to foist off on someone else. Now that he’d emptied out his linen closet, was he having second thoughts? If so, Sullivan was not only too late, but his behavior spoke volumes about his maturity level.
Fuming, I pulled into Laura’s driveway and slammed on the brakes. Sullivan didn’t even notice our unnecessarily abrupt stop. He was too busy staring at the stately two-story stucco house.
“So this is her place? Damn. Must be worth a cool million, easy. Not to mention that she’s doubled the value with pricey furnishings. We should have brought the cops with us. Arrested her on the spot.”
“For what? Suspicion of a fraud that hasn’t even taken place yet?” I sighed, detesting how shrill my voice was. Something about Sullivan always brought out the worst in me, so maybe it was good that one of us had realized the wisdom in maintaining our distance. My ego would have preferred that particular discretion to have been mine, however. In softer tones, I asked, “Do you have any hard evidence whatsoever that she was in on Evan’s scheme of stealing from you?”
“No,” he said bleakly. “None that would stand up in a court of law, at any rate.”
“That’s what I was afraid of . . . it explains why she was willing to risk returning to Crestview.”
I started to open my door, but Sullivan touched my thigh, then quickly jerked his hand away. “Do me a favor, Gilbert. When she comes to the door, pretend you’re madly in love with me. Just for Laura’s benefit, I mean.”
