by Leslie Caine
the striped beige was a massive improvement in this
room, and I'd be happy to live with it for the next few
months--or however long it would be until Audrey was
motivated to hire a painter.
My thoughts promptly wandered to Sullivan. He'd
been highly distracted when he returned from his trip to
Denver with Jennifer Fairfax this afternoon. He'd said
only that she'd really liked our presentation board, but
wanted to be "really hands-on with our final decisions."
It had taken every ounce of my self-restraint to refrain
from asking whether or not he was sure that "our final
decisions" were exclusively where she wanted to be
"really hands-on."
Audrey was never much help when it came to
preparation or cleanup, but she did help me move the
buffet back into place to hide the one missing stripe
segment. As we inspected its placement, she said, "I'm
joking about your dating other men. You and Steve are
meant for each other. I have a sixth sense about these
things."
"Then why have you been married four times?"
She gave me a dirty look but said evenly, "My powers are only effective when used to match other couples."
"Ah. Well, I think your powers are a tad out of focus
this time, I'm afraid. Unless I'm wildly off base, Steve's recently decided that his life is complicated enough as it
is, and he's going to start dating our glamorous divorcee client who's been chasing him for weeks. And even
if they don't date, there's always going to be some
D o m e s t i c B l i s s 7 5
other single woman or unhappy not-single woman
chasing after him."
"Maybe so. But ultimately he's going to make the
smart choice and choose you. I'm absolutely certain."
"Well, thanks, Audrey. I'm touched by your loyalty. But
frankly, your pronouncement would have been more reassuring if you hadn't also insisted you were 'absolutely
certain' about the beige."
"In any case, the moral of this particular story is: Trust
what the experts tell you. And, Erin, you are the expert
with paint and interior design . . . but I am the expert at
matchmaking."
c h a p t e r 7
On Monday afternoon, Burke rose from his
seat on a pale green sofa as I entered the
lobby of the Earth Love headquarters, where we were
scheduled to meet for his hearing. He gave me a nervous
smile and pushed his wire-rim glasses into place.
"Thanks for doing this, Erin." His gaze lingered past my
shoulder to the doors, and I knew he was hoping that
Sullivan had come as well. Burke didn't ask me about
him, so I didn't volunteer the information that I had no
idea where Sullivan was, but that he would almost surely
not be joining us. The last time Sullivan and I had spo-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 77
ken, two hours ago, he was with our hands-on client,
Jennifer Fairfax, and I'd reiterated that he should let me
handle this hearing.
A receptionist escorted us to a small auditorium-style
room, where Walter Emory and two Earth Love executives were seated at a long table on the stage. Walter spotted us and beckoned for us to grab a seat in the front row.
We did so and waited, Burke a one-man band of jitters.
Some fifteen minutes later, Walter said, "Let's get
started." By then about thirty people were in the audience, and because it was cold outside and yet none of
them had been wearing coats, I figured they must have
been Earth Love employees. As best I could tell, there
was only one newspaper reporter in attendance, although
there were camera crews from all the local TV stations.
An environmental engineer at Earth Love led things
off, sitting witness-style in a chair on the opposite side of
the stage from Walter and his two de facto judges. She
spoke about the predicted range of meter readings for the
types of heating, cooling, and passive solar systems in the
house. She said that all findings were consistent with her
expectations.
Next, Burke was called upon to take his turn on the
hot seat. He said that he absolutely did not tamper with
his meters or misrepresent the source of the water for his
nonpotable water usage. (Apparently Richard had accused Burke of diverting water from a nearby brook to
water his lawn. Earth Love required that only "gray water"--runoff or recycled water from one's own property--could be used.) Burke went on to say that I was
here on his behalf and would be happy to testify as well.
Walter conferred very briefly with his cohorts and
said that wouldn't be necessary. He then dismissed the
78 L e s l i e C a i n e
charges against Burke, pending the discovery of significant evidence to the contrary of his ruling, and announced that the awards banquet would be held a week
from Saturday, at which time the contest winner would
be announced.
That was it for Burke's hearing, which was about as
undramatic as it could be. The newspaper reporter asked
Burke for his reaction, and he replied, "I'm glad this formality is behind me. I knew all along that I'd never done
anything wrong." The reporter nodded, thanked him,
and headed over to interview Walter Emory. Only one of
the TV reporters bothered to approach, asking Burke if
he felt that this hearing had something to do with
Richard's death. Burke answered simply: "No," and
walked away. The reporter stammered for a moment, but
let him go. The rest of the crews packed up quickly, their
reporters grumbling that this story was too dull to air.
Clearly, Burke's fears that he was going to be dragged
through the mud were not coming to pass.
He and I had parked on opposite sides of the building,
which wrapped around a large courtyard. As we parted
company in the lobby, he said, "It's awful that Thayers
wound up dying so suddenly. I know that under the circumstances this sounds petty, but I would have liked to at
least defend myself against whatever evidence he felt he
had against me. This way it's like . . . having to show your
grades to the professor to get an A in the class, when you
already knew you had a perfect score." He shook his head,
and added, "Or rather, you show 'em to the dean, after the
professor's died. So you wind up feeling ridiculous and
selfish for caring that you got an A in the first place."
"Maybe so, but ultimately what matters is that you
earned your perfect score."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 79
"I guess that's how I have to look at it." He smiled a little, said, "Thanks again, Erin," and headed out a door to
the side parking lot. I crossed the slate floor, which I
knew had been built from salvaged roof tiles, and headed
out toward my van. Today's perfunctory proceedings,
without so much as a mention of Richard's death, felt
heartless and empty, as though we were a gaggle of geese
merely reforming our V formation a few seconds after
one of our own had been gunned down. On the other
hand, maybe we were worse than geese. Wasn't there a
Jack London story about a go
ose staying by its wounded
mate's side until death claimed them both?
As I made my weary trek across the parking lot, I decided that neither extreme was correct, as is so often
the case. Walter should have said a few words about
Richard's death and how none of us wanted to be there
under these sad circumstances, yet the underlying principles driving this contest were so important to Richard
and to the world that I knew he would have wanted us to
soldier on.
I was jarred from my reverie by the sight of Sullivan
emerging from his van a few rows down from my own van.
I hurried over to him, glad that he couldn't read my mind
at that moment; I was picturing myself in the role of the
goose, rushing to her wounded gander's side. "Hi. There's
no need to go in. They already exonerated Burke."
"They did?" He sounded disappointed.
"Of course. There was no evidence. Why? Did you
find something incriminating?"
"Not really. But I'm still going to go talk to the judges."
"Why?"
"Someone needs to stand up on Richard's behalf. May
as well be me."
80 L e s l i e C a i n e
"No, it shouldn't be you! For one thing, you've got a
conflict of interest regarding our client. For another
thing, like I said, it's too late. The decision has already
been reached." To my immense relief, beyond Sullivan's
shoulder, I could see the string of news vans heading
down the access road; the last thing I wanted was for this
disagreement about the innocence of our client to end
up on the ten o'clock news.
"If I don't speak up for him, Richard comes out looking like a crazy old fool," he countered. "Like he drank
poisonous, metallic paint just so he could freak out his
class, and he made wild, baseless accusations against a finalist. He deserves better than that."
"I see your point, Steve. I do. And I feel for your loss.
With all my heart, I wish things were different. But the
problem is, you and I are supposed to be supporting our
paying client right now, not testifying against him . . .
when you have no proof that he did a single thing
wrong."
"That can't be helped. My loyalties are with Richard.
Nobody else is going to speak for him. He was a good
man and he deserves to have his side of the story told.
Furthermore, I'm keeping an eye on our client from here
on out in order to gather murder evidence, just like you
would if our positions were reversed."
"I wouldn't be testifying behind our client's back!"
"And I wouldn't be buying his sob story. He hired
Richard to rid his former household of carcinogens. His
son died anyway. I think he blames Richard and finally
took his revenge."
"Some four years later? And on that very same day, he
tells me that he was wrong for how he treated Richard?"
Despite my best efforts, my anger was only rising. "You
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 81
know, Sullivan, maybe we should look at what we actually know instead of speculating. We know that Richard
went berserk and was making wild, baseless accusations
toward you when he found out Burke was a finalist in the
contest. Why is it hard for you to believe that Richard
also made wild, baseless accusations toward Burke?"
Sullivan met my gaze, but his expression never softened. We both knew I'd made an excellent point. He
turned away, calling over his shoulder, "I've got to go say
my piece before the judges scatter. I'll see you later."
"When?"
He ignored me and entered the building.
Though neither he nor anyone else could hear me, I
retorted, "You'd make a lousy goose, Sullivan!" If I was
mortally wounded, he'd desert me to go honk at the
hunter. Then we'd both get shot and die alone.
While tightening my coat collar, I employed my triedand-true calming tricks--I counted to ten and uttered my
silent confidence-and-optimism mantra. Individually,
we'd both been through rougher times than this. We
would survive. With a heavy dose of luck, so would
Sullivan and Gilbert Designs. But one thing was now
abundantly clear to me: The aftereffects of Richard's
death were going to weigh heavily on us until the killer
was behind bars. Richard's murder needed to be solved as
quickly as possible. I was in the position to possibly glean
some insider information, which I could pass along to
the police. I also had some free time, because Sullivan
obviously intended to work on the Fairfax assignment
alone. I could start by speaking with the two other finalists: Margot Troy and Darren Campesio.
I had some fences to mend with Margot, so I dialed
her number on my cell phone. She was as brusque as
82 L e s l i e C a i n e
ever and gave me the impression that she was surprised it
took me this long to call and arrange a meeting. (One of
the hardest parts of running a business that lives and dies
on referrals is having to eat crow when, if anything, you
should be the one serving it.)
I arrived at her place some fifteen minutes later. It was
a two-story, three-bedroom house, featuring the earthtone-colored stucco that had become very popular for
Colorado residences built in the last decade. Unlike
Darren's underground home or Burke's straw-bale structure, Margot's house looked to the unpracticed eye like
any other home in Crestview. Yet she had maximized
every inch to harness passive and active solar energy. The
external walls were two inches thicker than standard
homes to allow for extra insulation, and the foundation
and attic used an ingenious system of energy-efficient
heating and cooling. But truth be told, I found such
house construction details about as interesting as a
popcorn-textured ceiling. What really got me excited
about Margot's house were its furnishings. (Well, that
and the kitchen, which I'd designed for her two years
ago.) A visit to her home was like going to a new exhibition at a first-rate museum; there was always something
delightful to look at, but at the same time, there was also
that museumlike look-but-don't-touch aura, which always kept me from feeling at ease. Homes have a way of
taking on the personalities of their owners, and Margot's
aura was made of barbed wire.
She invited me inside. We got off to a great start while
Margot took me on a tour to show me her favorite acquisitions of the past several months. Despite her wealth,
Margot loved to frequent rummage sales and consignment shops, and she studied the classified section of the
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 83
newspaper every day with the fervor of a sports-gambling
addict watching the point spread. Brilliantly, however,
she'd made a rule for herself: Every time she purchased an
item for her home, she had to donate a comparable item
to charity. This policy forced her to avoid clutter--the
garage-sale aficionado's downfall--and to be extremely
judicious with her purchases. Her taste wasn't all that similar to mine--she had a fondness for Dan
ish modern that
I didn't share--but her eye was superb when it came to selecting accent pieces that could make a given room. I
raved about the yellow-and-sage painted metal chandelier
in her enclosed back porch. Its lemon-bough motif would
have looked ridiculous in, say, her formal living room, but
in this airy, outdoorsy space, it was divine. Likewise, she'd
hung a delightfully delicate mahogany etagere on one
wall in her ultraelegant living room and placed three of
the prettiest teacups on it that I'd ever seen. She'd also
found a stunning ceramic statue of lovers embracing
at an antiques store in London, which she'd set on the
mantel in her parlor. This was the room where, I gathered, my tour ended, because she told me to have a seat.
I avoided her Danish chaise and opted for the floral
sofa, which she'd picked up a couple of years ago at an
estate sale.
"Margot, I wanted to apologize in person for--"
"That's the least of anyone's concerns now. How is
Burke taking Richard's death? With his typical intensity,
I assume?"
"You know Burke Stratton personally?"
"We used to date. About a year ago. But it didn't last
long. He dumped me once he found out we were cocompetitors in the green home contest."
This was a surprising and unsettling development. For
84 L e s l i e C a i n e
one thing, Margot tended to be guarded about discussing
her love life, and for another, Burke had never given me
any indication that he even knew Margot, let alone had
once dated her. "Why would that bother him?"
"Oh, it was mostly an excuse. Frankly, his shock at
finding out I was a fellow contestant seemed staged to
me. But ostensibly it was because he believed we were
going to feel too bad if one of us won. What it really came
down to is that it was obvious to both of us that his architect and I were much better suited for each other."
"You're dating Jeremy Greene?" I tried not to sound
quite as surprised as I actually was, both at the news and
at her willingness to share this intimate information. He
was some fifteen years younger than she was, though to
be fair, I wouldn't have given that a second thought if
their ages had been reversed.
She beamed at me. "Yes, I am. Ever since Burke set
me free. Isn't Jeremy wonderful?"
I didn't know Jeremy well, and yesterday's conversation regarding Richard's lawsuit had left me suspicious of
