by Leslie Caine
“What’s wrong with that?” Henry asked.
“Furniture showrooms should be set up to resemble rooms in the house whenever possible,” I replied.
Sullivan translated, “You need to give your customers ideas for how each piece might go together.”
“That way they can visualize, say, the store’s sofa in their own living room. That’s infinitely more appealing than simply comparing this new sofa to that new sofa.”
Henry began to pace in front of the coffee table, his arms tightly crossed on his chest. In contrast, Wong looked totally at home and relaxed. He had put his feet on the leopard-skin ottoman. “We’ll feature the fundamentals of feng shui in the showroom itself,” Henry announced.
He had mispronounced it as “feng shoe,” bungling not just the second word but with a soft e in feng, instead of fung. Not a good indication that he was an accomplished disciple.
“Have you studied feng shui?” I asked Wong.
“No. However, that will never arise as a question, with my ancestry.”
“But you know all about it, I’m sure. Right, Steve?” Henry asked.
“Both Erin and I do. It’s impossible to be a designer in a place as New Age as Crestview without at least a working knowledge of feng shui.”
“When did you get the idea for this partnership of yours?” I asked Henry.
“That’s what they call serendipity, sweetheart.” He stopped his pacing long enough to rock on his heels. “I met George here when he came and bought a used VW Beetle from me, just two weeks ago. We got to talking about showrooms and everything, and I told him about how I’d wound up acquiring a storefront over at the downtown mall but hadn’t decided how to best utilize the space . . . and he was saying how he didn’t have a storefront at all for his furniture business. Next thing you know, I made a little joke about two wongs not making a white, then how white rhymed with Dwight, which is my actual first name, and viola! Dwight and Wong was born. That’s going to be the name for our new store.”
“I see,” I said, battling a smile at how Henry had named a musical instrument when he’d meant to say “voilà.”
I eyed George Wong, who gave me a knowing grin. There was little “serendipity” involved, of that I was certain. George could have learned that Robert was working with Henry and then arranged to meet Henry at the dealership. Though I didn’t know what his motive for doing so might have been, I did know that their having met “two weeks ago” meant that George had met Henry Toben before Henry’s stair had been tampered with. That in turn meant that George could have been the one to saw through the stair while Henry was holed up in the hotel.
Sullivan and I exchanged glances. I knew from his expression that he was drawing similar conclusions.
We left a minute or two later. We both knew better than to give too much free advice before we’d actually been hired. Sullivan winced a little as he climbed into my passenger seat. As I drove away from Henry’s, I asked, “How’s the leg?”
“Still hurts.”
“What did the police want?”
“It was your friend calling.”
“Linda Delgardio?”
“Yeah. She was returning my call, from this morning.”
“What about?”
“When you were being so stubborn and thickheaded about my not coming here with you, I wanted to let her know you might be walking into an ambush.”
“Gosh. All this flattery could go to my head . . . if it weren’t so thick, that is.”
He cleared his throat but didn’t reply. Frustrated and embarrassed, I yammered about how something extremely fishy was going on with those three men—Henry, George, and Robert. When he didn’t respond, rather than demanding to know what in heaven’s name was going on in that handsome-but-ever-inharmonious head of his, I found myself blathering about the scenery. April is a ravishingly beautiful month in Crestview. The flowers and greenery gleam against the purple-and-white-peaked backdrop of the mountains. The town itself is a lovely cross between Old West and modern, with liberal use of red brick for office buildings. The homes are virtually always meticulously maintained, and range from the fabulous historic mansions in Audrey’s neighborhood to the charming little bungalows that we now drove past.
We were at a red light halfway to our offices by the time Sullivan finally spoke up. “So . . . you broke up with Norton yesterday?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Yeah, when he followed me out the door at your house. I assumed John told you at the time.”
Sullivan scoffed, “I’m the last person he’d tell something like that to.”
“Why? You said you two already managed to . . . Oh, wait. I get it. You mean he wouldn’t tell you about our ending things because of that macho jealous dance you two are doing.”
Sullivan grumbled, “I sure wouldn’t call it a ‘dance,’ Gilbert.”
“Boxing match, then,” I replied.
“Whatever. Anyway, he’s not good enough for you. He’s no one I’d want to depend on when the chips were down.”
I didn’t feel like talking about John and, as the light changed, quickly said, “To my eye, it’s George Wong who’s looking guilty as hell.”
“He does to mine, too. But if this Jerry Stone character was trying to warn you by slipping you those photos, Henry’s actually the villain in all of this. Plus, don’t forget, Pembrook’s tied to both Toben and Wong. Not to mention his ties to Evan and Laura.”
“Just like you and I are tied to those same people.”
He made no reply.
“We should tell Linda about all of this.”
“Your cop friend?”
“Yes,” I said tersely, annoyed. He called Linda just today! Why is he yanking my chain? I stopped in front of his office to let him out. “I’ll call her myself. Later today.”
At home that evening, Hildi was showering me with attention—cuddling onto my lap affectionately when I sat down, and shadowing me wherever I went. I soon rewarded her with a flake of the salmon I found in the fridge. Isn’t it nice how our pets train us into trading them treats for affection?
Audrey, on the other hand, was far harder to train. Though she’d had a week to get rid of the excess furniture, she’d merely stacked the overflow coffee tables in one corner of the parlor and had balanced the smaller, lighter sofas upside down on the larger ones. We now had more space to walk through the room, along with a possible concussion in the offing if her stack of tables were to topple over on someone. The way my luck had been going of late, I had no doubt which one of us would be victimized. At least the staff in the emergency room would get a chuckle when I explained that I’d been hit on the head by a falling coffee table.
With Hildi wrapped around my ankles, I checked my voice mail and discovered a message from Hannah, asking me to call her at home. She’d never called me for anything other than work-related issues, so I anticipated that she must need me to host a presentation at Paprika’s.
She answered on the first ring, her voice bubbly as she said, “Erin! I’m so glad you called! Can you please come to the store tomorrow at ten? That’s my official break time. I’ll brew us a fresh pot of coffee this time. We need to talk.”
We do? “You’re working on a Saturday?”
“I almost always do. It’s one of our busiest days. At least they give me Sundays off . . . and a couple of half days. I’m trying to toe the line, now that I’m in so much hot water with the owners.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Oh, sure. More or less. I just feel like venting a little with someone, face-to-face. Can you make it? Please?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
I puzzled over the call after we’d hung up. Justifiably or not, my instincts were on red alert. Hannah’s voice had seemed unnatural—breathy—as though she was nervous. Or lying about something.
As promised, at ten on Saturday morning I arrived at Paprika’s, still a little apprehensive. I found Hannah
right away, setting up a new display of bold, primary-colored linen place mats. Working at a leisurely pace, she said, “Oh, hi, Erin. Glad you could make it. I need just a couple of minutes to finish up what I’m doing, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll just look around the store.”
She nodded and glanced at her watch. “I’ll be with you soon.”
Like a lemming, I went straight to the salad bowl section. That magnificent mahogany set was still unsold. I decided to play it coy and focus my attention on the other, less compelling bowl sets first.
As I did so, however, Dave Holland stormed through the door. When he made a beeline for Hannah, I ducked out of sight. “I’m here,” he growled at his ex-wife as he crossed the floor. “Exactly when I said I’d be.”
“Good for you, David. But I’m busy. Exactly like I said I’d be. Sorry.”
“Let’s get this over with. We can’t just leave everything hanging like this.”
“David, this isn’t the time nor the place. I’m at work now, in case you failed to notice.”
“Of course I noticed. You’re the one who said to come to Paprika’s at ten o’clock. Let’s go to your office. Come on.”
She set this up deliberately so that I’d witness Dave’s combative behavior. Why?
“Take your hands off me!” she shrilled. “I’ve told you this before. If you so much as touch me again, I’m calling the cops!”
Setup or not, I couldn’t stand by if Dave was manhandling her. I walked out from behind the high shelf and said innocently, “Hannah? Dave? Is everything all right?”
Dave instantly wore a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary expression. He released his grip on his ex-wife’s upper arm. Hannah, meanwhile, forced a weak smile. “Absolutely. Dave was just leaving.”
Peering at him, she announced, “For your information, David, I’ve been dating someone really special for the past month who treats me like royalty. Why should I waste my time talking to you? Ever!”
“Just so you know, you’re not going to get away with any of this, Hannah! You hear me? None of it!”
“Get out of my store!”
He started to leave, then stopped, picked up a large duck-shaped soup tureen, and hurled it onto the floor. The porcelain smashed into pieces. “Put that on my Visa account! Just like you have all your other freaking purchases, you bitch!” As he pushed out the door, he called over his shoulder, “Now at least one ‘purchase’ was worth every penny!”
A salesclerk promptly appeared with a broom and dust-pan, asking Hannah if she was all right. A second one rushed over. Hannah replied, “Yes, I’m fine.” She gestured at me. “But my friend is here now, and I’m going to need to take a longer break than usual.” The two women went on to discuss their horror at Dave’s actions, but the glint in their eyes indicated they were inwardly delighted to have some excitement.
As Hannah led me to her desk in the storage room, she gave my elbow a squeeze. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Erin,” she said with a dramatic sigh.
I was too annoyed with her routine to play dumb. “It sounded to me as though you knew in advance that we were both coming to see you at exactly the same time.”
Her cheeks reddened. She hesitated by the coffee station, where, as promised, a full, fresh pot of coffee was on the warmer. “Well, that’s kind of true. I did want to chat with you this morning, but I also wanted to make sure I had a witness, just in case things with Dave got out of hand.”
I took a seat—the same uncomfortable slat-back wood chair as before. “I thought you said Dave didn’t have a violent temper.”
“He doesn’t. He just . . .” She let her voice fade. “Okay. I fibbed when I said that. He kind of does have a bad temper. But I know he didn’t kill Laura.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She poured us both cups of coffee and handed me one. “I’ve known him for twenty years, back since we were in grade school together. This is the worst I’ve ever seen him act in all that time. He’s just . . . under a lot of stress right now.”
I blew on the surface of my coffee and took a tentative sip. I almost laughed; once again, the flavor was dreadful, and it was ironic that with all of the state-of-the-art coffeemakers Paprika sold, the employees were apparently forced to use bargain-basement grinds and a thirty-year-old machine.
She released another overly theatrical sigh. “He’s trying to reconcile with me again, now that he’s single once more.”
“Are you considering it?” I asked to be polite, but feeling as though I was playing an awkward role in a vengeful scene entirely of Hannah’s making.
“Not on your life.” She frowned. “Dave’s the type of guy who can’t be without a partner, but also can’t be bothered to go searching for the right one. I’m sure, though, with all his money, women will throw themselves at him.” Her bitterness eclipsed that of the coffee.
She set her cup down, brightened a little, and, while opening the top drawer in her desk, said, “Come to think of it, now that I accidentally spilled the beans about the new man in my life in front of everyone at Paprika’s, there’s no sense in keeping this under wraps.”
She removed a framed photograph and set it on the corner of her desk. I stared at it in disbelief. It was a picture of Hannah locked in the arms of John Norton.
Chapter 21
Feeling Hannah’s eyes on me, I tried to cover my reaction but came up short. “What’s wrong, Erin? Do you know John Norton?”
“We met a few months ago.”
She held her hands to her lips in a reaction that still felt well rehearsed to me. “Oh, God. Did the two of you used to be an item ?”
“We’re no longer together.”
“Obviously not.” There was a haughty edge to Hannah’s voice. “Since he’s with me now.”
The remark made me bristle. John and I had broken up less than forty-eight hours ago. “How did you meet?”
She smiled as she stirred the sludge in her cup. “He came into the store one day a couple months ago, and we started flirting with each other.” Her voice was as full of artificial sweetener as her coffee. “He was buying a gift for his sister’s birthday.”
I nodded and said nothing, but I was smoldering. John had two brothers but no sisters. The gift for “his sister” could only have been the platter that he’d bought for me on my birthday, after we’d been dating for a few weeks.
Eager to end this conversation, I cried, “Oh, shoot!” and set my cup down. “I just remembered . . . I’ve got an appointment in Longmont at eleven-thirty.”
“You’d better get going, then.”
“Yeah. So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
She shrugged. “That can wait.”
“But you made it sound important in your phone message—”
“Well . . . it’s just that I was so rude the last time you were here. I wanted to apologize in person.”
Strange that she’d felt no burning need to apologize a week ago, when we went out for coffee after Laura’s service. “That’s really not necessary.”
“It is to me. What you were saying at the time . . . about Dave’s possible connection to Jerry Stone . . . pushed a button, I guess. See, not long before Jerry started showing up and hassling me, I warned Dave that I was thinking of suing him for more alimony. I started to think maybe that was something Dave would do . . . hire somebody to make my life miserable so that he’d have some leverage against me.” She gazed wistfully at the picture of herself and John. “Now that I’ve got a new man in my life, I’ve begun to realize that it’s time to let go of past hurts.” She reached over and patted my hand. “And also, not to take my minor troubles out on my friends.”
I forced a smile and rose. “We all get brusque from time to time, and I truly didn’t need an apology.”
“Good. Thanks.” She ran her finger along the edge of her desk. I was rooting for a sudden splinter to jab her, but no such luck. “And . . . there’s one mor
e thing.”
“Oh?”
She nodded and gestured for me to sit down again. Reluctantly, I did.
“A couple of business owners came into the store yesterday. They’re scouting the downtown area for space to put in their new furniture store. They were curious about pedestrian traffic and customer bases in the immediate area. I happened to ask if they were consulting with any interior designers, and your name came up.” She paused for my reaction, but I deliberately remained impassive. “You’re working with Hammerin’ Hank? And George Wong?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I was . . . wondering if you’d mind putting in a good word for me, whenever they get around to hiring and are looking for store managers.”
I rose again and said with a fake smile, “I’ll be sure to mention your name.”
She beamed at me. “That’d be great! Thanks, Erin.”
The moment I left the store, my pace slowed. That photograph of Hannah and John had been taken very recently, at the annual Cottonwood Creek Spring Festival just two weekends ago; I recognized the sign on an artisan’s tent in the background. John had asked me to go to that event with him, but I’d had to work. Later, he told me that he’d gone with friends.
Maybe she’d orchestrated the whole scene between herself and Dave so that, afterward, she could call my attention to the photograph, just to let me know that John was now hers. In fact, she could have lied about John’s saying my birthday gift was intended for his sister. If he’d instead said that it was for his girlfriend who was an interior designer, she might have asked and learned my name. It was even possible that she’d trapped him into posing for that photo with her. For my peace of mind, if nothing else, I had to learn the truth.
Unable to rid my mind of the hideous image of Jerry’s body, I still wasn’t up for going to my office, so I let myself into my parked car and impulsively called John on my cell phone. He greeted me coolly and asked, “What’s up?”
“There’s a framed photograph of you and Hannah Garrison on her desk at Paprika’s. She told me you two have been going out for a couple of months.”
