by Leslie Caine
could never take a life. I'm not a killer. I don't have it in
me."
"I'm so sorry. I've dealt with a couple of clients over
the years who've lost a child, and I know there's no
greater loss."
He nodded, wringing his gloved hands. "There's nothing more painful. If I could have switched places with my
son, died instead of him, I would have gladly done so.
Your hopes are gone. You lose your future. Gone."
"I'm so sorry," I repeated quietly.
"Thanks." He squared his shoulders and looked at me.
"That's what led to my rift with Richard. Now he's suddenly dead."
"Your falling out with Richard was related to your
son's illness?"
He closed his eyes and nodded, swallowing hard.
"Truth, Erin? Richard had good cause to hate me. We'd
hired him to help us rid the house of carcinogens. Caleb
died anyway, of course. We all knew it was going to happen. But . . . I stiffed Richard on the invoice. He presented it to me the day I got back from intensive care,
when they told me Caleb wasn't ever coming home. I
was crazed. I . . . took it out on him. Called him a con
man."
"And was he?"
"No. He did what we hired him to do. He'd told my
wife and me up front that there was nothing he could do
to reverse the cancer . . . but we all hoped he could slow it
down. He taught us what we should have done originally
with our interior paints, and so on. He lowered the radon
emissions in our basement and garage. Hooked us up
with a dietitian." He shrugged. "About a year ago, I paid
him what I owed. I tried to apologize, but he wouldn't lis-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 53
ten to me." He frowned and added under his breath,
"Though he cashed my check."
"You told me yesterday you fired him for his shoddy
work."
"That was just the easiest explanation. And was partly
true. I did fire him . . . but I only claimed it was shoddy
because I needed to blame him . . . blame somebody for
my loss. And he does hate me."
"Why did he hate you, though? Anybody in his position would have understood how . . ." I let my voice fade
as the color rose in Burke's cheeks. "Oh. Did you damage
his reputation afterwards?"
He averted his eyes and said, "At the time, I felt I was
justified in telling people he was a fraud, you know?
Then, once I returned to my senses, I told myself my behavior was understandable. I'd lost my only child. My
marriage was in ruins. Who wouldn't need to lash out?
But after a year went by . . . things finally dawned on me.
Right around the time I was building my house in
Crestview. That's when I discovered that I'd managed to
hire the same architect as Thayers, so--"
"Jeremy Greene was Richard's architect?"
"Yeah. Of Greene Home Architecture. Guess the
name appealed to both Richard and me. Anyway. It finally hit me that personal tragedy doesn't give anyone the
right to verbally abuse others. What I'd done to Richard
was just like if I'd lost a terminal young patient, and the
parents had sued me or made me into a scapegoat for not
being able to perform a miracle. Yet . . ." He paused and
hung his head. "I hate having to talk about this. But. For
the first few weeks after Caleb's death, I really went out
of my way to spread the word that Stratton's products
weren't actually reducing carcinogens. I'm a doctor, so
54 L e s l i e C a i n e
people think I know what I'm talking about on all healthrelated subjects. I've since felt horrible about my behavior. Ironically, last night, it occurred to me that maybe
this whole thing with Richard becoming my judge was
paving the way out for me . . . for Richard to get even, or
for me to get him to accept my apology and put it behind
us. But now that's never going to happen." He closed his
eyes. "Instead, this just brings some of those feelings back
to mind. Of holding my dead son in--"
He couldn't continue. I retrieved an unopened bottle
of water from my desk, handed it to him, grabbed a tissue
for myself, then slid the box over toward him. He availed
himself of both. I could only imagine the paralysis he
must have felt as not only a grieving parent, but a children's physician as well. After a lengthy pause, he rubbed
his forehead and said, "Enough of this subject. But . . .
do you know how it happened? The receptionist said
Thayers had been poisoned."
"He drank what he thought was his own nontoxic
product, but the cans had apparently been switched and
relabeled."
He gaped at me, incredulous. "What product was it?
Paint? Varnish?"
"It was a can of gold paint."
"Gold paint! Oh . . . crap!" He sank his face into his
hands. "My God. I'm being set up."
"What do you mean?"
He took a few seconds to collect himself. He rose and
paced. His eyes remained wide with fright, and he kept
clenching and unclenching his fists. "Do you remember
the cans of generic paint we had on display in my garage
for the green-home open space last weekend? How I'd se-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 55
lected gold, because it was more toxic than nonmetallic
colors?"
"Yes." We'd put a display together for the open
house--the dos and don'ts of home building. I put two
and two together. "Someone took the paint can out of
your garage?" I asked incredulously. "The 'don't' can was
stolen?"
"Right. I'd noticed it was gone, but I figured it just got
mislaid someplace. Or that the cleaning crew I hired after the open house had put it away in the wrong spot."
"The police didn't say anything about fingerprints."
"That doesn't mean they didn't find any." He hugged
himself, even though he was still wearing his heavy
parka. He sighed, looking weary and defeated. "Maybe
it'd be best if I went to the police station myself to tell
them this. Instead of waiting for them to come to me."
My heart ached for the poor man. "That might be
wise. And . . . I'd get a lawyer, if I were you."
He gave me a grim smile and headed toward the door.
"I'm so sorry about all of this, Burke. I'll try to help in
any way I can."
"Thanks, Erin. I appreciate that. I just hope it isn't going to cause friction between you and Steve."
"I'm sure it won't," I lied again.
Fifteen minutes later, Steve returned. "Burke was
here," I told him. "For our scheduled meeting this morning. He says he ran into you."
"Yeah. Erin? We need to cut him loose. I can't give
him the kind of service he deserves."
"Like I said before, I'll handle our interactions for the
both of us, but I don't think I can drop him as a client.
56 L e s l i e C a i n e
Not after what he told me. He says his only child died of
leukemia. He'd hired Richard to try to help extend his
son's life. But when he died, Burke was so grief-stricken
that he took things out on Richard. He went so far as to
lie about Richard's products and skills. He'd tried to apologize la
ter, but Richard wanted nothing to do with him."
"He's lying. That doesn't sound like Richard."
I held my tongue, wondering how well Steve could
possibly know his professor, considering their limited
contact during this past decade. "Steve, maybe you
should take the day off."
"Maybe I should," he said. And just like that, he left.
c h a p t e r 5
he afternoon was hectic, to say the least, with my
Tcovering work for both of us, and I found myself
deeply annoyed at myself for having suggested Sullivan
take the day off. The more I reflected on our conversation with Richard, the more skeptical I was about
Richard's claiming not to have known that Burke was in
the contest. I also wondered if Richard had known that
Burke had hired his architect to design his potentially
award-winning house.
Despite being pressed for time, I ran a computer
search in the local online newspaper for any articles
58 L e s l i e C a i n e
linking Jeremy Greene and Richard Thayers. To my surprise, a short article had been published six months
ago reporting that Richard had sued Jeremy because of
the "structurally inadequate" design of his foundation. I
found it odd that Richard was holding the architect, not
the builder, accountable for the problem. No subsequent
articles had been published, so perhaps the matter had
still been pending when Richard died.
A fabric-shopping expedition at the end of the day
happened to place me in the vicinity of Jeremy Greene's
architecture studio. If nothing else, I wanted to know if
his being the architect for both Richard's and Burke's
homes had really been a mere coincidence. And from a
purely business standpoint, considering the nature of the
lawsuit, I wanted to know if my client's foundation was
going to collapse.
Jeremy's office was in a boxy redbrick structure in
South Crestview, sadly lacking in architectural interest.
Jeremy had done little to enhance his one-size-fits-all office space or to show off his skills, other than putting his
truly excellent basswood models on display. I wondered
idly if he'd consider hiring Sullivan and Gillbert Designs
to jazz up his space.
He was poring over blueprints at his drawing table
when I arrived. Jeremy was about my age (twenty-nine,
which reminded me that I was due for celebrating my
next birthday in the Bahamas). With his eager grin and
sparkling eyes, he was more cute than handsome--babyfaced with a weak chin and a receding light brown hairline.
He pushed back from his work when I asked if he had
a minute to talk and said convincingly that he appreciated the chance to take a break. I sat down on a wheeled
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 59
swivel chair identical to his own, and silently observed
that the chocolate brown vinyl flooring was the perfect
surface for propelling oneself around the space on these
caster-wheel chairs. This, however, was an acutely inappropriate time to share such inanities, so we somberly exchanged a few words about our sadness and dismay at
Richard's untimely death. I then told Jeremy how I'd only
recently learned that he'd designed both Richard's and
Burke's homes.
He nodded and indulged in a proud smile. "Modesty
aside, those are the two best straw-bale homes in
Colorado. Did Burke tell you that we used much of the
same floor plan?"
"No. He told me he didn't know at first that you were
Richard's designer."
"The name didn't come up for a while, when I was
first showing Burke the design. It never occurred to me
that they'd know each other. Small world."
So it was a coincidence--but then, the world of the
ecologically superfocused in the town of Crestview,
Colorado, truly was small. "I guess it's no wonder that
Richard felt he had to withdraw. He was going to be judging a house which was so close in design to his own."
He shrugged. "Mostly in basic structure . . . rooflines,
floor plans. And they both use straw-bale construction, of
course. But in terms of aesthetics and energy efficiency,
Burke's house had Richard's beat hands down."
"I wonder if that made Richard envious. I mean, that
was the heart and soul of Richard's business . . . green designs and so forth. And yet here's this physician who has
built a house that looks like his, but is another ten or fifteen percent more energy-efficient."
"More like twenty-one percent, actually."
60 L e s l i e C a i n e
"Wow."
"But Richard knew that was just the nature of these
things. A lot of breakthroughs have occurred in the last
couple of years. You can't possibly keep up with them."
"So Richard didn't get angry about his house not being as energy-efficient as it might have been?"
Jeremy studied my features for a moment and replied
cautiously, "He didn't complain to me about it."
I feigned nonchalance and asked, "So he only complained about his home's foundation?"
Jeremy's features turned stony, and he stayed silent.
"I read about the lawsuit. Was that ever resolved?"
"Yeah. I mean, I haven't heard anything more about it,
so he probably dropped the suit. Or his lawyer did, based
on lack of evidence."
Nice evasion, I said to myself. "The newspaper reported that he was getting cracks in his basement walls
from an expansive-soil problem. Why did he blame you
and not the builder?" When Jeremy didn't answer me
right away, I pressed, "Surely as a conservationist himself,
Richard wouldn't be objecting to the amount of fly ash in
the concrete, right?" Fly ash was a by-product of coal furnaces that could be mixed into cement instead of being
merely discarded, an excellent practice that I knew
Jeremy always recommended.
"No, Richard knew the problem had nothing to do
with fly ash; it was caused by improper construction. But
the builder shifted the blame onto me, claiming he'd
built the foundation wall according to my exact specs.
Richard believed him, for some reason. And, anyway, all
they needed to do was underpin the support wall. As far
as I know, that's what they did, finally, and then the house
was fine."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 61
"Jeez. So your design was fine, but the builder
screwed up, you told them how to fix it, but you still got
sued? That must have made you furious!"
He shrugged. "Things like that are the price you pay
for running your own business. Once Sullivan and
Gilbert Designs has been around for six or seven years
like I have, you'll run into lawsuits, too. If you haven't already."
He wasn't telling me the full story. Richard would
have had no cause to sue his architect over a construction
problem that had been easily remedied. I tried in vain to
read his expression. "I guess that's probably true.
Unfortunately."
"Why are you asking about this, Erin? You're not playing amateur sleuth, are you?"
"I'm just watching out for the interests of my client.
is crumbling. He's put his heart and soul into that place."
"Yeah. He sure has." Jeremy sounded bitter. He rolled
his chair back into position at his drawing table. "It was
good seeing you, Erin. But I've got to get back to work."
"Thanks for taking the time to talk," I said in a breezy
voice. "Take care."
I left. When the time was right, I was going to have to
discuss my concerns about Jeremy's design with Steve,
and then with Burke. If there was a serious flaw in the design or construction of Burke's home, he would most
likely have to follow in Richard's footsteps and hire a
lawyer.
Furthermore, if Richard had uncovered a major flaw that
was going to topple "the two best straw-bale homes in
Colorado," Jeremy could have been driven to desperate measures--possibly murder--to protect himself. I considered
62 L e s l i e C a i n e
calling Linda Delgardio, my friend on the police force. She
never took kindly to my voicing theories regarding police investigations, though.
As I walked back to my car, my heart leapt at the tones
of my cell phone. I hoped it was Sullivan. Instead, a
friend from the Pilates studio I belonged to was organizing a last-minute girls' night out. I hesitated before agreeing to join them. I knew how much pain Sullivan was in,
and although it felt disloyal of me, I needed a dose of fun
and a temporary escape. Sadly, Steve's problems were
still going to be there tomorrow, and by all appearances,
the only thing he wanted from me right now was some
space.
The next morning, Sullivan was in the office when I
arrived a few minutes after eight. He'd already completed
a presentation board for a major remodel we were bidding on next week, and he'd redone the sunroom drawing of mine that he'd crumpled. "You must have gotten
here at six," I said.
"Closer to five. Couldn't sleep."
He was avoiding my gaze. "Since you've already got us
caught up, how 'bout I take you to breakfast?"
"No. I want to just . . . keep working. Stay focused on
the job. Thanks, though."
Did he mean he wanted to concentrate his energies
on work for merely this one morning, or for the foreseeable future? "We'd planned on going to that concert in
Denver tonight. Should we bag it?"
"Yeah. I'm not . . . I just can't right now, Gilbert. I've
got too much on my plate already."
"I understand."
