by Leslie Caine
“Who says I’m not?”
“An actual Crestview police officer who’s a friend of mine.” One who’d better be arriving any second now.
“Yeah, well . . . I needed to keep everyone from panicking. Someone could’ve gotten trampled, running away from me like that. I wasn’t out to hurt anybody. I just want everyone to be more respectful of Mother Earth.”
“Why follow Hannah?”
“I wasn’t,” he said firmly. “I just wanted to talk to her, without making it look like I was waiting for her. I was going to accidentally on purpose bump into her at the next walk light.”
That was marginally plausible. “And yet, Monday night, you followed my friend Laura Smith from Rusty’s to Paprika’s. Why?”
“Who’s Laura Smith?”
“The woman who threw you to the floor. She told me you’d been stalking her all over town.”
He shook his head. “Woman’s whacked if she says that. It’s you I’ve been following sometimes . . . you and a couple other designers.” He wagged his finger in my face. “You people are the ringleaders for the destruction of the environment!”
“Oh, give me a break! You think we’re ringleaders? Compared to oil companies? Compared to pipeline drillers in Alaska? To paper mills? Nuclear plants? Factories? You honestly believe that those operations are environmentally friendly, compared to a handful of interior designers in Crestview, Colorado?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I overstated my position. You suck less than the oil companies do. Make you feel better?”
I gritted my teeth. “I actually do consider the sustainability of products and materials before I make recommendations to my clients. I’m not irresponsible.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t that nice.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and resumed walking along the pedestrian mall in the same direction as Hannah had gone. Linda would only see us if she drove down Fifteenth Street. Unable to think up an excuse to detain him, I fell into step beside him. He continued, “There are children starving to death, you know. Every day. They don’t have the money to keep themselves alive. I’m sure they appreciate all the thought you put into choosing wallpaper.”
“And I’m sure the starving children also appreciate all the time you spend harassing me and Hannah. How exactly is that putting food on their tables?”
He spread his arms. “At least I try to get people to think twice about how they throw their money away.”
We crossed Fifteenth, which was void of all police vehicles. Damn it! Where was Linda? We were already too far down the mall for her to find us quickly. I improvised desperately. “Listen, Jerry, can we talk about your opinions at length? How about if we meet for dinner tonight? You can choose the place and the time. I’ll pick up the tab, of course.”
“Sorry. I have plans. Some other time.”
“Can I get your phone number . . . to schedule another time, then?”
“Don’t have one.”
“I saw you just a minute ago, speaking into your cell phone.”
“That’s just a prop. The thing doesn’t work.”
“Your address, then?”
He shot me an impatient glare. “If I had one of those, I’d probably have a phone number. I really gotta run.” He picked up his pace.
“Wait, Jerry.”
He said over his shoulder, “I gotta be someplace.” No time for tact. I called after him, “Laura Smith was murdered the night after you and she had your confrontation. Do you know anything about that?”
He froze. When he looked back at me, his face had gone pale. His thin lips were nearly white. “No. But I’m sorry.”
I walked up to him once more. “Are you?” I asked. “Sure. Whoever she was, I’m not wild about how she used judo on me for no reason. But I didn’t want the woman dead.”
“It would help the police investigation if you talked to them about that night.”
“Yeah. Okay, Erin. I’ll go in and talk to them.”
“How did you know my name?”
“It’s on your office door.”
“Just my last name is. Not my first.”
He resumed walking at a brisk pace. Keeping up with him and pleading with him was pointless. After a few strides, I stopped and watched him disappear around the corner. My heart sank.
I snatched my phone from my purse and called Linda Delgardio’s cell. “Hi, Linda. It’s Erin. I lost Jerry on Sixteenth Street, where he’s heading south on foot.”
“Thanks. I’m on Fourteenth, just a minute away. I should be able to spot him.”
“I’ll head down Sixteenth and see if I can help you find him.”
“No, Erin.” Her voice was stern. “You’re getting overly involved . . . putting yourself in jeopardy. And I sure as hell don’t want to wind up having to investigate two murders. For one thing, it’d be a total pain in the butt to have to try to find some other interior designer to replace you as my friend.”
I chuckled and said, “It would be thoughtless of me to increase your things-to-do list like that.”
“Right. I’ll keep you posted, once we nab the killer. Gotta go.”
She wasn’t going to be pleased that I’d met George Wong last night, I thought as I put away my cell phone. She was bound to learn about that from the Northridge police detective I’d spoken to last night after my tense exchange with Mr. Wong.
Maybe I was getting a little overly involved. Patience and passivity have never been high on the list of my personality traits. Even so, I decided not to try to pursue Jerry Stone any further. Instead, I turned in the opposite direction to retrieve my van outside my office.
Hildi trotted up to greet me, but showed no interest in staying in the foyer with me. The place felt deserted, and indeed, I soon found a note on the kitchen counter:
E—Went to the movies. Back by eleven—A
I fixed myself a quick dinner of pasta and a salad. Halfway through my meal, the phone rang, and I answered.
“Hi, there,” said a deep male voice—John.
“Hi.” Finally he called.
“You sound tired.”
“I must be even more tired than I feel if you can tell that from a single syllable.”
“Your voice sounded deflated, actually.”
“I had a long, difficult day.” And was not happy about having to discuss George Wong with John momentarily.
“I wish I could perk you up, take you out to dinner tonight. But I have to meet with my boss. We’ve got to go over the final plans for the new showcase home out in Longmont.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, that’s why I was calling. I was hoping to get your opinions on what I’m doing with the house. Not so much looking for a free consultation from you, you understand, as just . . . picking your brain a little.”
“You want me to look at your drawings?”
“At the house itself, actually. I’ve got most of the furniture in place already, just need some help with accessorizing.”
I brightened a little. “My favorite phase of room makeovers.”
“I know. That’s why I thought of you.”
“I’d be happy to take a look.”
“Great. Our lunch got cut short the other day. How ’bout if you stop by the showcase house at lunchtime tomorrow? We’ll grab a bite to eat afterward.”
Which would be the perfect chance for me to bring up George Wong’s statement: “Be sure to tell John Norton I said hello.” That topic was best handled face-to-face, but then again, it was burning on my mind right now.
As I jotted down the address, the doorbell rang. I said a hasty goodbye to John, assuring him that I’d meet him tomorrow, then hung up. I trotted into the foyer and peered through the sidelight. The hulking silhouette just outside the wavy lead glass was unmistakable—George Wong. Oh, my God! Why was he here?
I cursed under my breath. I didn’t want to open my door to him, but I also didn’t want to give him the upper hand and let him know that I was afraid of him. He k
new I was here; he would have heard my footsteps, seen my silhouette through the glass just as I’d seen his.
I straightened my back, took a deep breath, threw open the door, and stepped out onto the porch, directly in front of him. To my satisfaction, he took a step back.
He bowed his head at me. “Evening, Miss Gilbert.”
“Mr. Wong. This is a surprise. How did you find out where I live?”
“I asked some questions of our mutual associates. It is not hard to locate someone in this town. As you have discovered for yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You located me at my place of business, although my number is unlisted.”
Why would someone’s business number be unlisted? I wondered. “Well, sure, but I certainly don’t know your home address.”
“They are one and the same. However, it is difficult to catch you in your office. You are not there often, it seems.”
“I’m there by appointment only. And if you’d like to make an appointment to discuss business, I’d be happy to do that for you. But I don’t bring my work home with me.”
He chuckled. “Yet now it seems as though the mountain has come to Muhammad.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Wong?” I demanded.
“You have been talking to the police about me.”
Though his voice remained dispassionate, I had a powerful urge to run for cover. “I . . . gave them your name as having supplied the reproductions in Laura Smith’s house. She was murdered. The police need to investigate anyone who’s had recent dealings with her.”
“Yes, I’ve had recent dealings with Miss Smith. As you have. Everything I do in my business is legal.”
“Good to know. So why are you here?”
“I hoped perhaps I might ask you to mind your own business. With a friend of yours dying, I would think that would be wise, yes?”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Wong?” A wave of fear was making my knees shake.
He gave me one of his unnervingly chilly smiles. “Of course not. It is a helpful suggestion, Miss Gilbert. I do not want to see you have the same kind of ‘recent dealings’ as Laura Smith.”
A chill ran up my spine.
The icy smile never faded from George Wong’s lips. He bowed his head a second time, turned, and made his way down the steps. I watched him leave, half expecting to see him get into the back of a black limo with smoke-black windows. He had driven himself, however, in what the dim lighting of the streetlamp revealed to be a cheerful-looking metallic spring-green VW Bug. As he let himself into his car and saw that I was watching him, he bobbed his head, then drove away.
The next day, I arrived at John’s showcase home a few minutes early. No one answered the doorbell, and I couldn’t tell if the bell was even working. I knocked, opened the door, and leaned inside. “John?”
No answer. I let myself in. As he’d described over the phone, the furniture on the main floor was in place, but the tables and walls were bare. I studied the room, imagining what I would do with accessories to warm the space and make this room feel personal and inviting.
The heavy, dark furniture needed vertical, lighter lines to counterbalance all the bold horizontal elements. Accessories would require elongated vertical lines. A slightly green tint of a clear vase on the side table. Lavender sprigs mixed with the dark jade of eucalyptus stalks, there. In the dark corner, a second vase of tall, regal ornamental grasses that would draw out the warm yellows in the room. In that cozy nook in the stairwell, some simple but dramatic arrangement of curly willows in an indigo vase would be stunning. On the coffee table, I would place a glass bowl containing nothing but clear marbles.
The artwork needed to be light in tone and texture. A watercolor above the sofa in blues and greens. On the short wall to the kitchen, a mirror in a simple, elegant frame. Opposite wall, a print of some kind—maybe a study in purples—a painting of violets, even. That would really pop against these too-typical ivory-colored walls.
After a minute or two of painting mental before-and-after pictures, I realized that I’d forgotten to locate John. I climbed the stairs and called his name again. He must have dashed off someplace with a coworker, because the company pickup truck that he normally drove was parked in the driveway. Even so, I wasn’t sure it’d be all right for me to wander around the house by myself.
I went outside again to make sure that the pickup was really his, in which case I would simply wait in the living room for him to find me. I spotted something near the front tire of his truck. I knelt to get a closer look, my mind racing to deny what my eyes were seeing.
A scarf. Silk. Cream-colored, with rose highlights. The shimmery fabric to one side of the knot had been cut clear through. The same scarf that Laura had been wearing the last time I’d seen her alive.
There was dried blood on the fabric.
Chapter 13
I got to my feet unsteadily, my heart pounding, my thoughts whirling. The killer must have placed Laura’s scarf here to frighten me off his or her trail. Which meant the killer knew I would recognize Laura’s scarf and that I would see it on this particular driveway.
The killer must have followed my van; that was the only reasonable explanation. The other possibility—that John was a homicidal maniac and had set up a macabre and chilling warning to me—was not reasonable.
I gasped at the sound of the screen door creaking open behind me, and whirled around. John stood there, grinning at me. Suddenly his smile didn’t seem quite so attractive.
“Erin. You’re here.”
In spite of myself, I flinched when he drew near. “Where were you just now?” My voice sounded distant to my own ear. “I called your name a couple of times. . . .”
He frowned, staring into my eyes. “I was in the garage, unpacking some furniture. What’s wrong, Erin?”
“I found this.” I stepped aside and pointed at the scarf by my feet. “It’s Laura’s. She was wearing it on the day she died. The killer had taken it . . . sliced it off her throat.”
“Jesus!” John exclaimed. His fingers bit into my arm. “Erin. Who’d you tell that you were coming here today?”
“Nobody. I didn’t tell anyone at all.”
“Was it here when you first arrived?” He seemed to be every bit as stunned as I was.
I pulled my arm free, struggling to keep myself from panicking. “I don’t think so. But it’s possible I walked right past it. I’m not positive.”
John snatched his cell phone out of a pocket in his khakis. “I’m calling the police.” He scanned the deserted street and grabbed my arm again. “Let’s get you inside. Someone must have followed you here.” He softened his tone. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling. Don’t worry.”
Though I despised it when someone told me not to worry about deeply upsetting things, I let him usher me inside. He kissed me gently on my temple and murmured some reassuring words. This is nuts; I trust John. I’m not going to allow myself to get suspicious of everyone, like Sullivan is, damn it!
To my severe disappointment, Linda Delgardio wasn’t on duty yet. A uniformed male officer arrived, collected and bagged the scarf, and asked me predictable questions about the precise timing of my arrival and my discovery, and if I’d noticed any cars behind mine. He asked John the same questions, then explained ominously that the Crestview police department was working in tandem with the Northridge police on the homicide investigation, and that I “shouldn’t be surprised” if they wanted me to come down to Northridge to answer some questions.
Afterward, I felt too agitated to discuss room designs with John and grudgingly agreed to take a long lunch at a quiet restaurant. We wound up in a booth at some Italian bistro on the eastern outskirts of Crestview. The décor was wonderfully old-family Italian—yellowed posters on the walls, red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, a partially melted candle in an empty wine bottle on every table.
We struggled to find topics of conversation. It was obvious that neither of us wanted to talk
about my finding that scarf, yet anything else sounded trivial. As we picked at our entrées, John scanned our surroundings and asked, “Why do so many restaurants use red interiors?”
I peered at him. “You’re humoring me, right?”
“No, I’m truly curious.”
“Red’s a complementary color for food . . . supposedly stimulating to appetities . . . and it’s flattering to diners’ complexions.”
“Aha,” he muttered.
“You honestly didn’t know that? It’s one of the first lessons on color selection in design schools.”
“I got into the business through the construction side of things. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not being much of a conversationalist today. I’m still too distracted.” Just then, there was a clatter behind me, and I gasped and spun around in my chair. A waiter had dropped a dish while trying to clear a table.
“You’re downright jumpy, too,” John observed as I turned back.
I was tempted to snap that anyone in my shoes would be equally “jumpy,” but that remark didn’t seem quite fair; only yesterday I’d found it suspicious that Hannah Garrison had been so easily startled by me when I went to Paprika’s to ask about Jerry Stone.
Despite his tame assurances otherwise, Stone had stalked Laura: I’d also caught him in the act of following Hannah. Maybe he had killed Laura and was now stalking me, leaving her bloody scarf where I’d find it.
“Erin?” John said. “Maybe it’d help to talk about all of this.”
Our eyes met. Once again there was something not so very attractive about his expression; a certain haughtiness, maybe? Surely I was just being paranoid. “I . . . went to talk to George Wong the night before last.”
John squared his shoulders and glared at me. “You went to see Wong in person? Why? That guy’s bad news! Didn’t I tell you that? If I thought you’d do something so foolhardy, I never would have given you his name in the first place!”
Though annoyed mostly at myself—after all, I’d already paid for my mistake, with Wong’s late-night visit—I snapped, “Where was the danger in just talking to him about Laura’s furniture? It wasn’t like I went storming into his office accusing him of murder . . . threatening that I was going to bring him down single-handedly. I’m not an idiot, John.”
