by Leslie Caine
I slowly removed my coat and hung it in the closet, where I also stashed my purse. In my current mood, I was in no hurry to enter the main living space. This foyer and the gorgeous kitchen were the only rooms that Audrey ever allowed to remain in pristine condition. There was never any way of telling just what awaited me, furniture-wise, in the room on the other side of the French double doors.
Steeling myself, I opened the door and discovered that, indeed, Audrey was in the throes of one of her research projects for her show. She had shoved most of the furnishings against the walls and had spread out six tablecloths on the floor. Each cloth sported a centerpiece of varying size and composition. Audrey was seated in a semi-lotus position beside them, surveying the table arrangement directly in front of her. Hildi sat right next to her.
Hildi promptly meowed a greeting, feline, no doubt, for: I had nothing to do with this mess. She was no more fond of Audrey’s frequent furniture rearranging than I was, although this particular project had given her so many accessible play toys that her suffering was minimal.
Without so much as a hello, Audrey asked, “What’s your opinion on centerpieces, Erin?”
“You want my ‘opinion,’ singular? Such as if centerpieces work best on a table or on the floor?”
She didn’t crack a smile. Instead, she grabbed the Tiffany notebook that she perpetually used to jot down ideas for Dom Bliss—her nickname for her highly rated TV show. “In terms of what their purpose and function should be.”
“Ah.To decorate the table.”
Again, she gave no reaction to my sarcasm. The woman could outstubborn me even at my most obstinate moments, so I might as well cooperate with her. I took a seat beside Audrey on the lush Oriental area rug. To pamper myself, I brushed my fingertips along the wool bristles, admiring the deep, rich, firebrick red, suitable for a king’s robe, and the royal navy blue in their sometimes-geometric, sometimesfloral pattern. So much time, talent, and craftsmanship had gone into producing this one hand-knotted carpet.
With a sigh, I answered, “Personally, I consider centerpieces a must. When I’m revealing a newly done-up dining room or even a kitchen with a table, I always accessorize with a centerpiece. I make sure that it pulls in an accent color or echoes some of the room’s lines.” I paused and reconsidered my statement.“Actually, sometimes I just want the centerpiece to draw the eye to a particularly nice tabletop. I use a white centerpiece on a dark wood tabletop, or dark on light.”
Audrey made a couple of swift notations, then surveyed the six tableclothes.“I’ve been trying these various centerpieces on the different shapes of tables . . . trying to decide if I like them better as symmetrical or asymmetrical, according to their table shape. What do you think?”
With regal grace, Hildi strode over and settled onto my lap. While stroking her soft fur, I answered Audrey.“For room designs, I’m a big believer in asymmetrical designs . . . but I like symmetrical centerpieces the best. I sort of like the idea of dinner guests being more or less equidistant from the centerpiece.That’s really just a matter of personal taste, though. What is important is that the size of the centerpiece be in scale with the size of the table.”
She nodded as she again took notes.
“You did a great job with the floating-candles one here . . . particularly for not actually lighting them when Hildi is in the room to play with the flames,” I added.
“That’s my favorite centerpiece of the six.” She peered at me over the frame of her reading glasses.“Any tips for the centerpiece composition itself?”
I gave a shrug. “You’re more creative with this type of thing than I am.That simple arrangement you made last Christmas with the pine boughs and the small gold-spray-painted pumpkins and gourds was glorious.”
She grinned at me.“Thank you!”
“But, in general, I love fresh-cut flowers, candles . . . the classics. I’m partial to crystal or porcelain bowls and vases. But ceramics can be wonderful, too. When it comes to everyday centerpieces, I like the old standbys . . . the bowl of fresh fruit for an everyday centerpiece, the fresh-cut flowers in an attractive vase . . . one that doesn’t tip over easily.”
Audrey nodded, but she was still looking at me expectantly, so I continued. “If this is a dinner party where people don’t necessarily know one another well, an unusual centerpiece can be a nice conversation starter. The only type of centerpiece I truly hate is a big, tall contraption where you have to crane your neck to see someone seated on the opposite side.” I paused.“Or are you primarily interested in talking about centerpieces for special occasions?”
She winked. “That’s okay, dear. Special occasions are my forte.” Indeed, most of the arrangements that she’d done in this room were clearly intended for Easter. She’d used pastel colors for her flowers, dyed eggs, even some jelly beans. One especially nice arrangement incorporated a mirror base and a string of tiny white lights.
She closed her notebook. “Heard anything new from Wonder Woman?”
“Pardon?”
“Your guest from my presentation last night. The one who sent that odd-looking young man flying across the room. Did she ever call you back?” She rose and stretched.“And was she all right?”
“Physically, yes. In all other areas, the jury’s still out.”
“Have you eaten dinner already?” Audrey asked absently, glancing at her watch. Apparently she’d already lost interest in hearing about Laura.
“No, I have to—”
“You’re in luck,” she called as she left the room. “We had Chef Michael on today’s show.”
That cheered me up immediately.“Yum!” I said quietly to Hildi as she stepped off my lap to follow Audrey into the kitchen.“Dom-Bliss leftovers!”
The scents as I entered the kitchen made my mouth water. Even without the delectable aromas, this spacious room was utterly scrumptious, its colors, textures, and glittering surfaces making such a glorious feast for the eye. A red-to-yellow palette brought such warmth to the room—from the coppery-red hues of the maple floor and copper oven range hood to the creamy ivory walls above stately yellow-ocher ceramic tiles. Clear-glass-and-white-wood cabinet doors lovingly mimicked Audrey’s eight-pane windows, giving such a clean, airy feel to the space. On the kitchen island, below the regal oval-shaped antique copper chandelier with its lovely alabaster ceramic candles, a Naples yellow bowl filled with Macintosh apples served as the centerpiece.
“What can I contribute?” I asked, heading toward the spotless stainless-steel refrigerator. “A spinach salad, maybe?”
Audrey removed a steaming dish from the oven and replied, “Absolutely.” She set the dish on the Caledonia granite countertop near an indigo glass vase that brimmed with marigolds.“Plus all the details.”
“Details?”
“About your enigmatic, judo-flipping friend.” She turned to face me.“You didn’t actually think I was going to let you off the hook with that skimpy story, did you?”
I had no good response to that question, so I merely gave her a sheepish smile, feeling my cheeks grow warm. Lately I seemed to be making a regular habit of misjudging people.
“Honestly, Erin! Do you think that Hildi is the only one around this joint with a little healthy curiosity?” She gestured for me to get going by drawing circles in the air with her poppy-patterned oven mitt. “Now, start at the beginning, and carry on from there.”
Chapter 5
A little after eight P.M., I found a parking space on “the Hill,” the typical college-town business area near the CU campus. Linda Delgardio had arranged to meet me at a local dive there. She was working a four-to-midnight shift all this month, so this was her dinner break. An hour earlier, I’d called Steve Sullivan’s cell phone and tried to convince him to join us, but he remained intent on keeping watch over Laura’s house, certain she was going to skip town, just as she had last year.
Linda was just finishing her burger and fries when I arrived at the noisy, greasy-smelling sandwich joint; I ord
ered a glass of water. Linda was having a bad day; her partner had called in sick, and Linda looked more than a little under the weather herself. Her nose was red, and her normally sparkling dark eyes were dull. Her long black hair was pinned up as usual whenever she was on duty, a failed attempt—even despite her head-cold symptoms— to make her nondescript within her masculine uniform. We wasted little time with small talk before I asked, “Do you know if there were any undercover police officers at Paprika’s last night?”
“I doubt it. Usually we just use undercover cops for things like drug trafficking . . . a kitchenware store hardly qualifies as a hot spot for drug deals.”
“But maybe, since Audrey Munroe’s a local celebrity and was speaking, the police could have sent someone to keep an eye out, in case someone wanted to harass her.”
Linda shook her head. “We’d just send a uniformed officer. It’s possible a narc was there as part of some ongoing investigation, I suppose, but he’d have kept a low profile. You wouldn’t have even known he was there. Why? What’s up?”
To the best of my ability, I related every detail of the events of last night at Paprika’s and my visit this morning to Laura’s home, as well as Sullivan’s heated conversation with Laura on her front porch. “My suspicion is that she’s either swindling Dave Holland out of his money or she’s setting up a big insurance fraud—planning to set the house on fire and collect on the lost possessions . . . which won’t actually be lost at all.”
“Sounds that way,” Linda replied. She sneezed and blew her nose. “You want me to question her?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Okay. If nothing else, I want to ask her myself about Evan Cambridge’s whereabouts. That’s bound to make her think twice about trying to pull another scam anytime soon. I’ll let you know how it goes.” She grabbed her pen and notepad. “What’s the address?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to be cut out of the picture, and I was painfully aware of how important this whole thing was to Sullivan. “Actually, Steve Sullivan’s already there, watching the house from a car down the street for fear she’ll take off again. So . . . I was kind of hoping you’d let me come with you. Would that be possible?”
She raised an eyebrow and peered at me. “You want to ride out there and swear out a complaint against this woman in person?” She leaned back in her chair and added sarcastically, “Will you at least allow me to drive the squad car myself?”
I grinned in spite of myself. “Okay, point taken.”
“Are things really that slow in the interior design business that you’re desperate to go on police ride-alongs? Even if I wanted to take you with me tonight, Erin, I couldn’t. Not till the proper paperwork’s filed that says you won’t sue us if you get shot, maimed . . . the usual drill.”
“But if Steve and I happen to be waiting outside her house when you arrive, and Laura’s willing to let us all in, that would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
She rubbed her forehead and frowned.
I took a sip of water, feeling uncomfortable, hoping that I wouldn’t have to explain myself. “This is important to me, Linda.”
She regarded me for a moment. “Aren’t you dating someone right now? Are you more than friends with this Sullivan character?”
I shook my head. “Less than friends. It’s just that . . . I keep remembering how he shouted at Laura that he wants his life back. I get the feeling he means that almost literally . . . that she derailed him that completely. What she did to him was just so unfair, and so far she’s gotten off scot-free. Sullivan was supportive when I blundered into that hideous ordeal back in December and needed help. I can’t just turn my back on him now, when he’s in need. It’ll bug me forever.”
“Some guy you’re ‘less than friends’ with is going to haunt you forever?” She held my gaze.
I sighed. Linda seemed to be in investigating-officer mode. I wasn’t sure myself how I felt about Sullivan. It was impossible to explain something that was purely emotional and not rational; all I knew was that, at the very least, I needed to balance things out with Sullivan—to know that he was back on an even keel in terms of his professional and his personal life—or I would never truly be able to give my relationship with his good friend John Norton a real chance. I chose to express none of that to Linda. Instead, I answered, “It sounds a little crazy, I know, because it is crazy, but . . . yes. I have to help Sullivan out, or everything will seem forever out of balance between us.”
Linda blew her nose again. Although clearly none too happy, she grumbled, “Fine. I’ll meet you there. Sarge will bust my butt if he finds out about this, though.”
“Thanks, Linda. Can we go right away?”
She shook her head. “My schedule’s already jam-packed. You or your ‘less than a friend’ can always just call this in . . . make a verbal complaint against her. But then the duty sergeant might assign someone else. Otherwise, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Probably within the next hour or two, unless something urgent comes up in the meantime.”
“I’d rather wait two hours and have you be the one who talks to her.”
She shoved aside her pack of tissues and picked up her pen again. “So what’s her address?”
If I hadn’t known precisely where to look for Sullivan, I’d have driven right past the dark-colored sedan that he’d told me he’d borrowed. He was parked along a dead-end road in the mountainous subdivision, adjacent to Laura’s cul-de-sac but a little farther down the main drag. Laura would be forced to drive past this intersection as she left the neighborhood. I parked my van several car lengths behind his, trotted to his car, waved, and waited for him to unlock my door, then slid into the passenger seat.
The interior reeked of old cigarette smoke. The ashtray was brimming with cigarette butts. The cheap plaid upholstery of my seat was ripped, and the plastic dashboard was cracked. “Nice wheels,” I teased.
“Best I could do on such short notice. Belongs to a buddy of mine.”
“Good thinking. Following Laura in a van marked ‘Sullivan Designs’ would have been something of a giveaway. It’d be like James Bond driving around in his tricked-up BMW with a big sign on the roof that read: ‘Surveillance by Bond. James Bond.’ ”
Steve didn’t even crack a smile. He continued to glower out the windshield as if his anger was necessary to maintain his vigilance. “No sign of her yet. Or of Holland. Just wish it hadn’t taken me so long to borrow a car. She had more than two hours to clear out between the time we left her house and I got back up here. In retrospect, it would have been better to stick with the Sullivan Designs van and let her know full well that I was tailing her.”
I held my tongue. In his mood, this was going to be a long wait, indeed. I reached for the dial of the radio to switch it on. “Radio’s busted,” Steve muttered.
“Perfect,” I replied.
The time passed slowly. Sullivan was about as talkative as a sullen teenager. Mercifully, at ten after ten, Linda’s squad car drove past us. Steve promptly followed it as far as the base of the driveway, parking on the street, and we walked the rest of the way. Linda waited for us by her black-and-white car. I gave her and Steve a cursory introduction but decided not to provoke her by saying much of anything else. Even so, she glared at me, her mood apparently having worsened since our meeting at the café.
“Like I said earlier, Erin, this totally goes against standard police procedure. I won’t do anything to stop you two if you follow me to the front door, but I strongly suggest you let me do all the talking.”
“No problem,” Sullivan said. “Not a word from either of us.”
Linda glanced at me, and I nodded, so she walked ahead of us toward the house. “Makes me nervous to have civilians trailing me like this.” I resisted replying that it made me nervous to trail an armed police officer like this. She continued up the sandstone porch steps and rang the doorbell. She stepped to one side of the door, as if in habitual anticipation of a shotgun-blast greeting. Sullivan
and I remained on the top step. If we were greeted with a shotgun blast, the two of us were dead ducks.
Dave opened the door, once again wearing his sunglasses. Linda introduced herself as Officer Delgardio and asked if he was Dave Holland.
He nodded grimly. “Is there some kind of trouble, Officer?” His face was red and damp with perspiration, and he seemed out of breath.
“I’d just like to ask Laura Smith some questions. Is she here?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“She isn’t?” Sullivan asked, bristling with alarm. “Are you sure about that?”
Dave retorted, “Check the garage if you don’t believe me! Car’s gone. Closet’s cleared out . . . suitcases gone. Same as last time. I figured she was with you,” he snarled at Sullivan.
“No way. I told you: I was just another of her patsies. If I were you, dude, I’d check the balance on all my savings and credit accounts.”
“She wouldn’t do that to me! After you threatened her this afternoon, she probably just got scared and ran. She’ll be back, though. I’m sure of it.”
“Did she leave a note?” Linda asked. There was a glint of annoyance in her voice, no doubt intended for Sullivan, who’d immediately broken his vow of silence.
“No, she just up and left.”
“Right after Erin and I talked to her?” Sullivan again interjected.
“Sometime around then, yeah.” Dave gave an angry shrug. “Like I said, you scared her. She must have panicked.”
