Poisoned by Gilt

by Leslie Caine

  I never once failed to notify him when I made significant

  changes or additions to our site. I fired up my computer.

  "Sure. And they linked to ours. For mutually beneficial business referrals."

  I pulled up our Web site and the "Links" page, and

  Linda looked over my shoulder. Sullivan had added several sites to our list. "I don't even know who half of these

  people are," I grumbled. "I doubt that we'll get any business from them at all."

  "It doesn't hurt."

  "Actually, it might, if it established a connection between us and Richard Thayers in the mind of some

  homicidal maniac." As I scanned the list of links, I gaped

  at one of them. "M.H. Custom Furniture?" I asked in

  amazement. "You linked to Matthew Hayes?"

  "I did?" He sounded equally surprised and rushed next

  to Linda to peer over my opposite shoulder. "Jeez, I did!

  I'm taking that one down. I must have added that a couple of months ago, when we ordered the dresser from

  him. For that client on Sable Road."

  "Matthew Hayes is the guy who heckled Richard

  Thayers the night he drank the paint," I explained to

  Linda.

  She nodded. I could tell by her demeanor that she'd

  96 L e s l i e C a i n e

  already recognized the name. "The link to Richard

  Thayers's site could be the connection, all right, which

  encouraged some random jerk to target you." Linda

  peered at the screen.

  "I guess," I muttered.

  "Or it is the killer trying to scare us," Sullivan said,

  "and he or she is out for Erin."

  "Excuse me?" I bristled. "Your name is on the card,

  too, you know."

  "That is a possibility, Erin," Linda said, touching my

  shoulder. "The article mentioned the assistance you gave

  us in solving the murder cases last year." She held my

  gaze and said evenly, "It's hard to know how the killer

  took that news."

  I sighed. "That was just a throwaway line . . . the reporter insisted it would beef up the human-interest angle."

  "Nevertheless. Who have you been in contact with

  who had a possible motive for killing Mr. Thayers?"

  Linda asked me.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Come on. I know you, Erin. There's no way you

  haven't been asking questions. You seem to be incapable

  of removing yourself from any murder investigation in

  town."

  "That's a little harsh."

  "Yeah, yeah." She flipped open her notepad. "Sorry to

  offend. Just give me the names."

  That was a simple enough question to answer.

  "Burke Stratton, of course. Margot Troy. And Darren

  Campesio."

  "The three finalists," Linda said.

  "Right."

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 97

  She waited for a second or two, then studied my features when I didn't continue. "That's all? You haven't

  spoken to Jeremy Greene, Stratton's architect, about the

  murder?"

  "I've talked to him since then, yes."

  "But not about Thayers? Even though there was an article about them in the paper a few months ago? About

  Jeremy Greene and Thayers having a legal squabble concerning the design of his house?"

  "Well, sure. Thayers's name came up. For one thing, I

  wanted to ask if our client's basement is similar to

  Thayers's since his was apparently substandard."

  "And is it?" Sullivan asked, which, come to think of it,

  was a darned good question that Jeremy hadn't actually

  answered sufficiently.

  "Meaning he's on the list," Linda said before I could

  answer Sullivan, making a notation in her pad.

  "Also, Erin was flirting with Matthew Hayes," Sullivan

  said. I glared at him, but he continued casually, "After

  Richard's final class."

  Linda looked at me expectantly, pen poised.

  "I was making conversation, not flirting," I said to

  Linda. "But it's possible that Matthew's guilty, and if so,

  he would certainly know that our business is connected

  to Richard. But now you've got the complete list.

  Definitely." I paused. "Well, not counting Asia McClure.

  She lives in the house right between Burke's and

  Darren's. But as far as I know, she has no connection to

  Richard Thayers, other than an obvious grudge against

  environmentalists."

  Linda scribbled in her pad and then put the pad in her

  pocket. "Okay," she said with an officious nod. "Take

  care. I'll keep you posted as best I can."

  98 L e s l i e C a i n e

  "Thanks, Linda."

  "No problem. Let me know right away if you get any

  more threats." I could read frustration in her every little

  gesture. She detested my connection to yet another murder case. I'm sure I detested my entanglement even

  more.

  Sullivan released a sigh the instant Linda left. "She's

  right. You're an incorrigible snoop."

  "Thanks so much."

  "I didn't mean it as a knock against you. I am, too.

  Occupational hazard. We have to have an intense curiosity about what makes people tick, and we enjoy poking

  around in people's homes. Otherwise we wouldn't be in

  this business."

  "That's true, I suppose," I said, relieved that this wasn't

  going to turn into a quarrel.

  "It's the killer who made this personal . . . who's threatening us now. All the more reason to get the bastard before he gets us. We need to focus."

  "On the investigation, you mean?"

  "Yeah. It's great of you to try to gather information

  about who killed Richard. Even though I think you'll

  eventually draw the same conclusions I have about our

  client. Which reminds me . . . I'm sorry about how I acted

  at Earth Love. It was too late for me to testify, by the way,

  so I just had an informal chat with Walter about Richard

  and my suspicions about Burke. Nothing I said changed

  his opinion in the least. We were already on the same

  page."

  He paused and looked at me with an anguished expression. "But Gilbert . . . right now, I feel like I've got so

  much bottled-up rage in me. I've got to make sure this

  killer pays for what he . . . or she did. That's just how it is."

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 99

  "I know. I understand how you feel."

  He leaned back against my desktop. "So what have

  you found out so far?"

  "Not much. Like I told Linda, I talked to those people,

  and while nobody dropped any huge clues in my lap, nobody struck me as being incapable of the crime. Darren

  Campesio is a belligerent kook who seems to equate the

  green home contest with Homeland Security. And my

  exchange with Asia McClure, Darren's and Burke's

  neighbor, was also pretty nasty."

  "She has a bad relationship with Burke, right? Hates

  the windmill he's erecting?"

  "Right. She grew especially hostile once she gathered

  I'm pro-conservation. She acts as though ecology is a personal affront to her. And she was so unpleasant that she

  might have doctored our card, just as a mean practical

  joke."

  "A practical joke?"

  "To harass me. It might be a payback for my having

  stepped on her flower when I walked up to he
r property

  line."

  "You stepped on a flower? How ghastly!"

  "Yeah. According to Asia's reaction, I should have

  been handcuffed and dragged off to jail on the spot, even

  though the daisy was already dead. Heaven only knows

  what she'd have done to me if I'd killed a live one."

  Sullivan grabbed his coat.

  "Where are you going?"

  "We. We're paying a visit to your grouchy friend."

  "Asia?"

  "Yep. We'll test her reaction when we tell her we got

  her message and want to talk about it."

  My hunch was that knocking on Asia McClure's door

  100 L e s l i e C a i n e

  would be seen by her as an act of aggression. But the fact

  that Steve was both asking me to do something with him

  and taking a proactive role was too appealing to resist. I

  snatched my purse and my coat.

  "Be sure to drive dead-center down Asia's driveway," I

  said as Sullivan signaled to turn onto Asia's property.

  "The woman completely flipped out when I brushed

  against her dead flowers. If you get too close to her junipers, she'll consider it a declaration of war."

  "Let's not assume the worst."

  "That's not an assumption, Sullivan, but rather an informed assessment. I'm telling you now: Do not expect

  sweetness and light from Asia McClure."

  "Okay, but she's not the Antichrist either, surely. Let's

  just give this our best shot." He winked at me, then shut

  off the engine.

  I shook my head in dismay. "You're thinking you're going to charm her in spite of everything I just told you."

  We got out and walked along the path. "No offense,

  Sullivan, but I'm thinking you've met your match."

  "We'll see. In any case, I stand forewarned." He gave

  me what had to be the world's sexiest grin and jabbed at

  the doorbell.

  Moments later, Asia pulled the door open, but kept a

  grip on both the knob and the doorjamb. Her scowl

  made her look like a stone gargoyle. "Well, well. It's the

  decorators. Did you forget the address for your client?"

  "No, not at all," Sullivan said with a chuckle. "We're

  simply following up on your message. The one that you

  dropped through our mail slot."

  "I didn't give you any message. Why would I want to

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 101

  contact you? I have no interest in hiring a decorator. I

  like what I like, and I don't need to pay someone to tell

  me what my tastes are."

  "Good for you." Despite his words, Sullivan's confidence was already visibly faltering.

  "If someone gave you a message and told you to come

  here today," Asia continued, "it wasn't me. Or else you

  made a mistake. Which is more likely."

  "Also, I wanted to apologize one more time," I blurted

  out, sensing that Asia was about to close her door in our

  faces. "I remember how gorgeous your gardens were last

  August, when we first started working at Burke's house.

  You're truly an extraordinary gardener, Ms. McClure."

  She crossed her arms and regarded me coolly. "That's

  because I love flowers. And I love to garden. I like to cultivate beautiful things. It's not hard to get skilled at something you love to do. Though the pests are a problem."

  "You mean the aphids and caterpillars?" Sullivan

  asked.

  She shook her head. "My ecomaniac neighbors.

  Which includes your client. The fool is erecting a windmill now! All because that bigger fool, Darren Campesio,

  has one, so Dr. Stratton wants a taller one in his own

  yard. It's going to cast a shadow across my flower beds!

  Instead of my view of the Rockies, I'll be looking at a

  damned oversized beanie-cap propeller! He should move

  it to his front lawn, so it blocks his own door and not my

  mountain views! Plus, who knows how much noise the

  thing's going to make?"

  "They're virtually silent, and they produce no noxious

  fumes," I assured her.

  "Regardless, it's a huge butt-ugly metal contraption

  that I'll be seeing every day! And speaking of noxious

  102 L e s l i e C a i n e

  fumes, our pond stinks, thanks to Stratton and his hippie

  food."

  "Hippie food?" Sullivan repeated.

  "Shrimp and algae and green glop! This is infuriating!

  I buy my house for the views and the peace and quiet,

  and now I'm getting a polluted pond and whirling blades

  over my head on both sides!"

  "We'll see what we can do about Burke's windmill,"

  Sullivan cajoled. "We might be able to keep the height

  reasonable and reposition it so it's as unobtrusive to your

  property as possible."

  "Better yet, tell him to take his windmill and stick

  it where the sun don't shine! It's all the fault of this

  blasted contest! That's what made both of those men go

  crazy, trying to eke out more and more energy savings,

  all of which are now at my expense! They're stealing

  my happiness! If your client wants a green home, far as

  I'm concerned, he should just paint the blasted thing

  chartreuse."

  Sullivan chuckled.

  "That wasn't funny," she snapped at him.

  Sullivan looked at me in frustration. Just as she was

  shutting the door, I cried, "Wait. We're here because

  someone wrote a veiled death threat on one of our business cards and stuck it through our mail slot at some

  point last night."

  "Really? Well, it wasn't me." She made a derisive

  noise. "How juvenile. Although you both should have

  been mature enough to come straight out and ask me, so

  maybe you're getting what you deserve." She started to

  close the door in our faces.

  Sullivan stopped the door. "Ms. McClure, please.

  Hear me out. Richard Thayers was my mentor. He

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 103

  meant a great deal to me. Do you have any idea who

  killed him?"

  "No, I do not." She slammed her door shut.

  We walked back to the van in silence. As he slipped

  behind the steering wheel, Sullivan muttered, "Thanks

  for not saying 'I told you so.' "

  "You're welcome."

  I caught a look of deep sadness on his features as I

  glanced at his profile.

  "They'll catch the person who did this, Steve.

  Richard's death is not going to go unpunished."

  He gave me a small smile of gratitude, but said

  nothing.

  The weather rapidly deteriorated that afternoon. Sleet

  was falling as reports of a major snowstorm rolled in. By

  two P.M., we decided it was best to reschedule our lateafternoon appointments, which all our clients readily

  agreed to. By two-thirty, we'd decided to head home.

  "Steve?" I asked, gathering my nerve as we put on our

  coats. "How about coming to my house? We can make

  ourselves some hot cider or cocoa, put some logs on the

  fireplace, and just unwind a little."

  To my horror, he actually winced. "Uh, thanks,

  Gilbert. I'd better get home, though, in case this storm's

  as bad as it's threatening to be right now."

  I stopped myself from asking if having to spend the

  night
at my house would be such a terrible hardship, and

  instead said, "Suit yourself," with a shrug. "See you tomorrow." He fumbled with getting the key in the lock,

  which struck me as an intentional diversion to avoid my

  gaze. I brushed past him.

  104 L e s l i e C a i n e

  "Yeah. See ya, Gilbert."

  I knew at that moment what it felt like to harbor unsubstantiated certainty of another person's guilt. Sullivan

  had to be seeing another woman behind my back. At

  least the heavy sleet made it easy to dash away from him

  with my head down. It also masked the tears pricking at

  my eyes.

  The drive home was slow and slippery, and I was very

  glad to arrive in one piece. Four hours later, Audrey arrived, having had a much harder time getting home from

  the studio in Denver. She was shaking, so I suggested either peppermint schnapps in her hot chocolate or rum in

  her cider. She opted for both and mixed them together,

  calling the concoction a "hot choc-o-cider pepperum."

  To no one's surprise, she soon discovered that the names

  were a better combination than the flavors, and she

  dumped it down the drain in favor of a port wine.

  The three of us--Audrey, Hildi, and I--settled into

  the parlor, as Audrey held court and described her harrowing drive in detail. What was normally a forty-five

  minute drive had taken her nearly five hours, and she'd

  seen so many fender benders that her recap turned out to

  be surprisingly lengthy.

  We were just starting to discuss our options for dinner

  when an enormous crash shook the house. Hildi tore out

  of the room and up the stairs. I felt like following her.

  Was this noisy attack on my home related to the death

  threat?

  "What on earth was that?" Audrey paled, shrinking

  into her wing chair.

  "I don't know. It sounded like a bomb going off in our

  P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 105

  kitchen." I gripped the back and the arm of the

  Ultrasuede sofa. If I could have managed the feat, I'd

  have burrowed between the cushions.

  "Where did Hildi go?"

  "She ran upstairs, probably to hide under my bed."

  "Sensible," Audrey replied. "Maybe we should go join

  her."

  "I think we'd better go look at the kitchen. Something

  large must have hit it."

  "You first. I'll be right behind you, though."

  We rose, and wordlessly shuffled through the dining

  room toward the kitchen. A stiff breeze blew toward us,

  which could only mean that a wall or window was missing. The damage greeted us as soon as we neared the entrance. "Oh, my god," Audrey said as we surveyed the