by Leslie Caine
“What are you doing here? And how did you get here?” There were no other cars on Henry’s cul-de-sac besides Sullivan’s and mine.
“I snuck into the moving van. Just before those steroid abusers you hired took off from your storage unit.”
“Why? And how did you know to be watching for them at some storage unit in Northridge?”
“I’ve been following you, actually.”
I thought about the mattress and sleeping bag in Laura’s storage unit. “You haven’t been living at the U-Store facility, by any chance, have you, Jerry?”
“No. And anyways, that’s all irrelevant. You’ve got to quit this job, Erin.”
“Why?”
“Because you bullshitted me about your use of environmentally responsible materials.”
He must have seen the zebra-hide wall hanging. And the leopard-skin ottoman. “With this particular client, I’ve had to compromise on a couple of items, but—”
“A couple of items?!” he cried. “How do you sleep at night?!”
That was more than a little overstated, but I held my tongue. Even though I didn’t believe that he was telling me the whole truth about his motives for following Laura and Hannah, I did believe that he was truly a conservationist, and I respected that.
He gestured at Henry’s house. “This . . . this . . . reprehensible, death-bounty merchandise represents everything I’ve devoted my life to working against!”
“Um, Jerry, I was assured that the leopard skin is a clever fake, and the . . .” I stopped, and sighed. He was staring at me in horror, as though I’d drowned a puppy in front of his eyes. “Why me, Jerry? Out of all the designers and all the home-goods stores selling merchandise that use fur or leather, why have you zeroed in on me?”
“Paprika’s made me realize how offensive consumerism really is. One night, when I didn’t have anyplace to stay, I walked by their window display. I’m seeing all this . . . useless nonsense that costs more bucks than I’m likely to make in a lifetime. I targeted them, not you. But your office is close to Paprika’s.”
Lucky me, I thought sourly. Steve Sullivan’s office was nearby, too. Why couldn’t Sullivan have gained his own personal activist? “How were you planning on getting back downtown, Jerry? Were you hoping to sneak unnoticed into an empty delivery van?”
He shrugged. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just knew I had to do whatever it takes to convince you to quit this job. Have you looked in all the boxes? Seen all the animal blood that’s on your hands?”
“What are you talking about? I told you, the fur is synthetic. ”
“You think that ashtray is a fake?”
“What ashtray?”
He shook his head and grumbled, “I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”
That was the second time he’d made the comment, and I’d had enough. “I sleep just fine, Jerry. Safe and comfy, under a roof that I’m helping to pay for.” More or less.
“Yeah. Great. By working for people like Henry Toben,” he sneered. “And before you ask, I read his name on the shipping labels.” He spat on the ground in my direction, then eyed me with disgust. “You know what? You deserve what you’re getting, lady. I give up.” He turned on a heel.
“What do you mean ‘what you’re getting’? What are you talking about?”
He called, “You’re a gorilla killer!”
“Pardon?” I’d been called many things, but never that.
He continued to storm down the hill, then turned and shouted, “I’d like to see how you’d feel if someone were to do that to your cat!”
I shouted after him, “How did you know I have a cat, Jerry?”
He turned away and resumed his path down the sidewalk, making a rude gesture at me over his shoulder.
What on earth was he talking about? What ashtray? What gorilla? I mulled over chasing after him, but didn’t want to risk it. For all I knew, he could be the knife-wielding maniac who’d killed Laura. Maybe he saw Hildi yesterday, when he was thrusting a knife into Audrey’s front door.
I walked up the ramp and into the van to investigate. As the movers had reported, only small boxes and loose items intended to accessorize Henry’s home remained. Within moments, I spotted the cause of Jerry’s diatribe. A gorilla’s paw, amputated at the wrist, that had been turned into an ashtray.
The sight made me sick to my stomach. Unwilling to touch the thing, I left it where it was and stormed back into the house and up the stairs, wanting to put my fist in Henry’s face, if only he were there right now.
The men were putting together the bed frame in the guest room, the zebra hide that was to hang above it currently on the floor nearby. I examined it with renewed disgust; I should never have allowed Henry to include it with purchases made in my name.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” I told the movers. “Change in plans. We’re done here.”
“But . . . we haven’t placed the dining room table for you or—”
“The homeowner can do that himself, once he returns.”
Sullivan glared at me. “Gilbert? What’s going on?”
“I can’t do this. Jerry’s right.”
“Jerry who?”
“Jerry Stone. I’ll explain in a moment.”
One of the moving men thundered, “We still have a batch of stuff on the driveway and in the garage that we—”
“Again, the homeowner can take care of it. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”
The one mover looked at the other, then glanced back at me. “Suit yourself, lady. Guess we’ll just empty the rest of the van on the driveway and take off.”
“Fine. Thanks for all your work.”
He scoffed a little as he thumped down the stairs. “Yeah. No problem.”
“What happened?” Sullivan asked me gently. “Does this have something to do with Laura?”
“No, with Henry’s disgusting taste. I’m putting my foot down.” Unable to get the hideous image of the ashtray out of my mind, I muttered, “If it were up to Henry, he’d lop off my foot and turn it into a doorstop.”
“What are—”
A door banged downstairs and Henry called, “Darlin’? The moving men are leaving. I thought you said they’d do the installation, too, but there’s still—”
I tromped down the stairs and snarled, “Good, you’re back. Now you can explain to my face how you thought I’d agree to placing illegal and reprehensible contraband in one of my designs!”
“Contraband? What? You mean drugs?”
“No! The gorilla’s paw!” I pointed at the door. “Go look outside, wherever the movers have dumped the rest of your things!”
Henry stared at me, then at Sullivan, now standing on the stairs behind me. “I’ll do that.” Crimson splotches had formed on his cheeks, but I was quite certain they were from the embarrassment of getting caught in the act. Indignant, he stormed out the door.
“Henry bought a gorilla’s paw?” Sullivan asked me. “What a jerk.”
“I’d call him a lot stronger names than that. Come on. We’re leaving.”
Sullivan, however, stayed put. Just as I was about to protest, Henry came puffing back inside, carrying the grotesque ashtray. “This isn’t mine, honey. Someone must have made a mistake.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. “Give me the shipping order. It’s got to be among the things the ashtray came with, or it couldn’t have been delivered. I’ll call the store and double-check the order.”
Henry winced, looked at me, then said meekly, “Okay, you got me, darlin’. It is mine, but I told them specifically to ship it directly to the house next week, so you wouldn’t see it. The store loused up my order. I knew they’d do that, the idiots!”
I wasn’t sure how or when he’d sneaked this particular delivery past me; it certainly hadn’t been there when Sullivan and I checked everything less than a week ago. For now, there was a more important matter to resolve. “I need to know where you bought that horrible thing, Henry. A gorill
a’s paw is illegal to import. Whoever did so needs to be turned in to the authorities and have their operation shut down for good.”
“Uh, well . . .” Henry tugged on his white dustcover of a toupee. “I got it from an independent source. Don’t even remember the guy’s name. He approached me. He was just another customer in that furniture store on the mall. He had a catalogue of stuff like this, and he handled everything.” He looked up at Sullivan, still standing on the stairs. “He was a real scruffy-looking guy. Maybe even homeless, for all I know. I guess I shouldn’t have trusted him.”
The description made me uneasy. “What did he look like exactly?”
“I dunno. White guy with a beard. Average height. Thin.”
“His name wasn’t Jerry Stone, was it?”
“He never told me his name. The company’s name was African Trading Company, though.”
“There was a man wearing grungy jeans and a ratty-looking gray sweater who left here just a couple of minutes before you arrived. He was hitchhiking back to downtown Crestview. Did you see him on your way home just now?”
Henry shook his head. “There wasn’t anyone out there hitchhiking.”
“He must have already gotten a ride.”
“I only passed one car on the main road. A beat-up Chevy. I didn’t see any passengers in it.”
I rubbed my forehead, frustrated. Could Jerry have lied about how he’d gotten here? Had he simply tailed the delivery van? “Someone butchered a gorilla to make your ashtray, Henry. How could you buy such a thing?”
He spread his arms. “Because it’s . . . comical. Like you said when you were designing the place . . . it’s whimsical. You’re the one who told me you like a touch of whimsy in your design.”
“Then wallpaper a bathroom with funny pages! But don’t buy from some poacher who would kill a gorilla just to amuse some heartless American businessman who wants to snuff out his cigarettes in some poor primate’s foot!”
Henry threw up his hands and said, “Okay, okay! If it bothers you that much, I’ll send it back.”
“Good,” Sullivan interrupted. “You do that. Immediately. Or else the authorities are going to hold you personally responsible.” He touched my shoulder and said, “Let’s get back to work, Gilbert. I’ve got the whole master bedroom to install yet, and now there’s just the two of us.”
Enraged, I gaped at him. “I’ll do no such thing! Don’t patronize me, Sullivan!”
“Henry said he’d send the ashtray back. There’s nothing more he can do at this point. It’s not like he can go to Africa and sew the gorilla’s paw back on.”
“But what about the zebra and the leopard? Henry assured me they were from a company that only sells fakes, and I believed him! He duped me into supporting the slaughter of animals!”
“And just where do you think the leather comes from for the recliner in the living room, Gilbert?” Sullivan fired back. “You’re wearing leather shoes! Where do you draw the line between what kind of animal you’ll allow to be killed to produce the goods that you yourself use?”
“There’s a big line between using cowhide products and knowingly supporting poachers, Sullivan, and you know it!”
He averted his gaze and said nothing.
I stormed outside, shouting, “I need to get some fresh air and clear my head!”
“I’ll get your work done for you in the meantime,” Sullivan shot back.
I paced next to my van. Furious, I repeated to myself: “ ‘It’s not like he can go sew the gorilla’s paw back on.’ ” I kicked a pebble. “What a jerk!” To think that I was trying so hard to help Sullivan! John Norton is a terrific guy and the absolute perfect match for me. John was right, damn it all! If only I’d met the two men in reverse order, I could well have been in love with John by now, instead of harboring a stupid crush on his stupid surly friend, who was, in turn, harboring a stupid grudge against all womankind simply because he’d stupidly fallen for a deeply disturbed woman. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
It took me nearly twenty minutes on the phone until I was satisfied that a wildlife inspector from the Denver office of the Fish and Wildlife Service would drag the full information out of Henry and try to shut down this “African Trading Company” black-market business. By then I had calmed down enough to suspect that Sullivan was simply playing devil’s advocate and befriending Henry so that he could continue to pry information from him. Which was not to say that I would forgive Sullivan, only that I could understand where he was coming from.
Resolved, I returned to the house, and saw that Henry was arranging the dining room on his own. “Hello, darlin’. I’ve got the ashtray all packaged back up and ready to be returned. You over your hissy fit yet?”
“I was, up until this moment. For your information, Mr. Toben, that was not a ‘hissy fit,’ that was rage at having been duped into supporting the import of illegal contraband from poachers. I could have lost my business license if I’d knowingly purchased such an item.” I wasn’t actually sure if that was true, but it certainly should be. “I’ve already contacted the proper authorities. They’ll be in touch with you soon.”
Henry paled. “I just thought it was a gag item. You know . . . a joke.”
“Where’s Steve?”
“In the garage.”
“No, he isn’t. I walked right past the open doorway.”
“He’s in the storage area above the garage. He could probably use some help, in fact. That’s where we stashed the few items from my original household that you allowed me to keep.”
I decided not to quibble with Henry’s wording; I didn’t wield sufficient power to control which new items I purchased on his behalf, let alone “allow” him to keep only a few old ones. I went to the garage. A flight of pull-down attic stairs was just ahead of me. “Sullivan?” I called.
“Yeah?” He started to come down the stairs, carrying a chair, and I waited, telling myself not to haul him over the coals, but rather to see things from his perspective. After all, he’d had to absorb a lot of heavy personal defeats in the past year.
Just as he put his weight on the next step, it gave way. I screamed, and watched helplessly as he crashed to the concrete floor.
Chapter 17
I shoved the chair Steve had been carrying out of my way and rushed to his side. He was writhing in pain, clutching his leg.
“Steve? Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
“Cripes! Does it look like I’m okay?”
My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what to do. He tried to get up, but dropped back down and again grabbed his leg at the knee. “Shit! My leg. Broken,” he managed, obviously in too much pain to say more.
Henry appeared, panting, in the doorway. “What happened?”
“Stair broke,” Steve gasped. He was attempting to rise on his good leg, and I helped him up.
“His leg’s broken.” My throat was tightening.
Unexpectedly, Henry took charge. “Let’s get you to the hospital. Get out of the way, Erin.” Calculating that he probably was a little stronger than I was, I let him take my place and allow Sullivan to lean on him.
The stair must have been on the verge of giving way and only cracked through as he stepped on it a second time with the added weight of the chair. I looked at the stair and cried, “No wonder you fell! The stair didn’t break; it was partially sawed through!”
Henry and Steve looked at the sabotaged stair. Steve cursed under his breath at the sight.
“Let’s get him to my van,” I growled at Henry, not trusting him behind the wheel. “I’ll drive to the emergency room.”
Steve continued to stare at the sawed stair as if transfixed. “Jeez! Look at that! Somebody was trying to kill me!”
“Or me. As the original designer, I was probably the likeliest person to be climbing up and down those stairs.”
“This trap was obviously set for me,” Henry protested. “Whoever sawed through those steps was gunning for me, not some designer, for cryin’ out loud.”
The next morning as I let myself into my office, I had the unshakable sensation that I was being followed. In fact, I’d been feeling that way ever since leaving the emergency room the night before to drive Sullivan to his home. With his tongue loosened by the trauma of his bad fall, he’d admitted that he, too, had been horrified by the ashtray, yet had hoped that he could “buddy up to Hammerin’ Hank” and get more information from him about Robert Pembrook. Sullivan suspected him of Laura’s murder. I’d asked if he’d gotten any information out of Henry yet, and he grumbled, “Nope. Just a broken leg.”
Steve was, at least, going to be able to walk in his cast in a couple of days. He had a break in his tibia.
Now, as I stepped through the doorway, I noticed a manila envelope had been slid under my office door. I swept it up, assuming it was from a client, but began to worry a little when I flipped it over and saw that it was unmarked. I opened the envelope as I climbed the steps.
As I reached the top step, the contents chilled me—a black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged man kissing a much younger woman in front of the door to what looked like a motel room. The second photograph showed their faces in profile. The man was Henry Toben—with thinning dark hair—and the woman was a very young-looking Laura Smith. A third photograph clearly revealed that Henry was groping Laura under her skirt. She, meanwhile, was smirking directly at the camera.
When these photographs were taken—and I was guessing that was roughly ten years ago—it would have been bad news for Henry Toben. His wife would still have been alive.
I had an hourlong meeting with a supplier, then locked my office and headed straight for Steve Sullivan’s home; I’d already called and told him about the photos, and he told me to let myself in. Nevertheless, I knocked, cracked open the door, and said, “It’s just me.”
“Come on in,” he called.
He lay on his chaise longue in his underfurnished living room. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, but his face looked drawn. His hair was in need of a combing, and I longed to straighten it for him. He was wearing jogging shorts, and despite the cast from the knee down, it was hard not to stare at his sexy, muscular thighs.
