by Leslie Caine
Burke shook his head and sighed, his shoulders sagging. I didn't know what to say. Both of Burke's neighbors
struck me as being borderline emotionally disturbed.
Asia could have felt that poisoning a conservationist was
mere poetic justice. Darren had so much emotional investment in this contest that if he'd had an encounter
with Richard, he might have killed Richard over a disparaging remark about his house.
And for that matter, Asia or Darren might be so malicious that one of them had taken the paint from Burke's
garage and swapped it with Richard's--just to frame
Burke Stratton for the crime.
c h a p t e r 1 1
he next morning, Sullivan, looking a little out of
Tsorts, entered our office carrying a stack of notebooks, which he shuffled from arm to arm as he hung up
his coat. I was on the tail end of a phone conversation
and nodded to him in greeting, but he paid me no attention. As I hung up, he dropped a stack of nine obviously
well-used spiral notebooks onto his desk. He eased into
his leather desk chair, eyeing the stack all the while.
"Okay, I'll go first. What's up with the notebooks?"
He glanced at me. "Turns out, they're my inheritance.
From Richard's estate. He left specific instructions in his
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 129
will that I was to get the contents of the top drawer in his
file cabinet." He gestured at the notebooks. "That's what
was in there. Richard's lawyer had to call the police, and
they just now called me and said I could come in and
claim them."
"That's . . . surprising. You and Richard hadn't been in
touch in years."
"I know. He must have changed his will in the week or
two before he died."
"Are they notes from his classes?"
"A couple of them are. Mostly they're just . . . ideas that
he's had. For environmental projects and things. I've
only had the chance to skim through them so far."
"He didn't leave you any instructions about them, did
he? Telling you what he wanted you to do with his
notes?"
"No. I wasn't expecting to get anything at all, of
course. And it just feels strange . . . reading Richard's
words, now that he's dead."
"Have the police examined them yet?"
He nodded, paging through the notebook on top of
the stack. "That's where I got them, just now. From
Detective O'Reilly. Your favorite," he said sarcastically.
I shuddered and made a comical grimace, and he
grinned and said, "He asked about you."
"He did?"
"Of course. The guy's obviously got a big crush on
you."
"Oh, please! He does not! He treats me with nothing
short of contempt!"
"Just calling 'em like I see 'em."
"Have you had your vision checked lately?"
Sullivan ignored my remark and sighed as he flipped
130 L e s l i e C a i n e
through a notebook. "When O'Reilly handed the notebooks over to me, he said, 'Most of this stuff is better than
sleeping pills.' A lot of the notes do seem to be pretty random. But there could be a clue in here someplace, and if
so, I'm going to find it."
As the day wore on, Sullivan was only halfway present.
He made a reasonable showing when we visited with
clients, but he spent every other moment with his nose in
one of Richard's notebooks. I tried hard not to get annoyed, but my patience had worn thin when he told me
to drive--even though he'd insisted we take his van--to
all our joint appointments just so he could continue to
read Richard's notebooks.
"Huh. This is interesting," he muttered as I swung into
the left lane. We were navigating heavy traffic on our return trip from a client who lived halfway between
Crestview and Denver.
"What?"
"Richard wrote down Margot Troy's address and
phone number and circled it."
"In what context?"
"Can't tell. There are a couple of businesses on the
same page. They sound like investment firms."
"Maybe her name's just there because he was going to
judge her house for the Earth Love contest."
"No, these notes are from long before then. Five years
ago." He flipped back and forth through a couple of
pages as he scanned Richard's angular handwriting.
"Yeah. Looks like Margot might have been an investor in
some business venture of Richard's. That was right
around when he was first starting to market his eco prod-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 131
ucts." He paused. "I noticed she called him Richard in
class. Her fellow classmates were all calling him
Professor Thayers. He paused. "Would Margot be home
this time of day?"
"I have no idea."
He glanced at his watch. "Let's give it a shot, just in
case."
Far be it from me to object to investigating a surprising
link to a murder victim. Truth be told, because Margot
worked out of her home--she had a computerconsulting business--I knew she was quite likely to be
home. "This whole thing keeps getting more and more
strange," I remarked.
"Yeah."
"Richard had prior relationships with two of the three
finalists chosen by the committee. It's odd that he
dropped out as judge for Burke, when he must have already known Margot Troy was also a finalist."
"Which implies he knew he could be impartial toward
her," Sullivan replied defensively. "In any case, he
wouldn't need a second reason, so why mention it as he
was stepping down?"
"Margot skirted the question when I asked if she knew
him personally."
"Maybe she just didn't want to gossip about their relationship."
"It's not gossip when you're talking about yourself." I
glanced at him when we stopped at a red light. His brow
was creased, and he tilted the page at an angle. When he
continued to stare at one spot, I asked, "What?"
"Looks like the two of them might have dated or something."
"He writes about his romances?"
132 L e s l i e C a i n e
"He doodles."
"You mean things like Margot plus Richard enclosed
in a heart?"
"Not exactly, no."
As he flipped the page, I caught a glance of what
looked like a drawing of a naked woman. It hit me then
how little I knew about Richard's personal history. "Was
Richard ever married?"
"For thirty years. His wife died several years ago. Heart
disease." He switched notebooks. Even from the briefest
of glances, it was obvious that this particular notebook
was the most recent; the paper edges were much cleaner,
and a sizable portion appeared to have been unused.
Sullivan thumbed through the pages to find the last journal entry.
"Not to be unduly pessimistic, but I don't know how
forthcoming Margot's going to be. Like I said, she's already dodged my questions about Richard. And when the
police examined the notebooks, they must have picked
up on Margot and Richard's relationship, too."
"True. But we might have an easier time getting information out of her than the police could."
"How so? The police have a legitimate reason to ask.
Whereas, if you're planning on questioning her about obscene doodles in Richard's notebook, I can guarantee
Margot's going to throw us out on our ears."
He looked up from his reading material. For the moment, I'd captured his full attention. "Good point. Now
that you mention it, you'd be better off solo. You can . . .
make girl talk with her. You know. Get her chatting about
former lovers and stuff."
"Oh, sure, Steve," I said with a sarcastic laugh. "That'll
be a snap. I do that with all my clients. Especially the
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 133
ones who are as friendly and low-key as Margot. We like
to have giggle-fests and pillow fights in our underwear."
Sullivan grinned. "Sounds great to me. Tell you what.
I'll be a good soldier and keep an eye on you through the
window."
I had to smile. It was nice that he was teasing me, at
least. We pulled into the driveway, and he ducked into
the backseat, quickly reabsorbed by his reading. I went to
Margot's door, half hoping she wasn't home, while trying
to think of a viable excuse to draw us into this girly conversation that Sullivan was expecting of us. She opened
the door, sporting her usual frosty expression. "Erin. This
is a surprise."
I could only think: For you and me both. Wanna have
a pillow fight and talk about boys? "I was in the neighborhood and, well, I just wanted to stop by to see if you'd already handled that quick design job you mentioned last
week."
"I mentioned a design job?"
"Yes, you did." I could feel my cheeks warming. It
sounded as if I was desperate for work and had come begging. I wished a better excuse had come to mind. "That
time you called but I put you on hold, you'd mentioned
having reconsidered hiring me."
"Oh, heavens, Erin." She arched an eyebrow. "I'd forgotten all about that. You know how I am."
"I see. Well, since I'm here, maybe we could chat for a
few minutes."
She eyed me suspiciously, but then stepped aside.
"Come on in."
This felt awkward and downright embarrassing. At
least I'd been granted entry. Sullivan owed me, big time.
She led me to what was, hands down, the nicest room in
134 L e s l i e C a i n e
the house, if I did say so myself: her kitchen. Margot held
fast to the rule that everything must be secondhand or salvaged, and so even her modern, energy-efficient appliances had been purchased either at scratch-and-dent
sales or from homes in forfeiture. I sat down on one of her
cognac leather barstools. I'd found them at an ill-fated
downtown restaurant. I ran my hands appreciatively over
the counter--a lovely green made from recycled glass.
The backsplash, too, was a light green, also produced
from recycled glass.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
"I'd love some. Thank you."
She already had water steaming in her kettle. As she
prepared two cups of peppermint tea, I said lightly, "I
suppose Richard's going to have lots of friends and loved
ones at the service tomorrow."
"Probably so."
"You're going, aren't you?"
"Yes."
I waited a beat in the hopes that she'd mention that
they'd once been friends, but she merely pursed her lips
and started bobbing the tea bags in the cups with so
much energy that the hot water almost sloshed over the
rims. I sighed. "Did you and Richard know each other
before you first took a class from him?"
She drained the last drops from a tea bag by squeezing
it, then cursed and dropped the teabag, shoved the cup at
me, and ran cold water over her burned hand. "Why do
you ask? Did Richard say something to you about me?"
"No."
She gingerly dried her hand, flung the second tea bag
into the sink, and sat down beside me with her own cup,
her lips pursed all the while. Knowing what a recycling
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 135
queen Margot was, I felt honored to have been granted
my own unused tea bag, but she was so on edge, I elected
to keep that thought to myself.
"Burke said something, then?" She fixed a piercing
glare on me as she studied my features. "Because I know
I didn't say anything."
Now I was stuck, and my tea was so hot I could only
take the smallest of sips as a means for stalling. "Steve
found your name and address in one of Richard's old
notebooks, which Richard left to him in his will."
"I see." She frowned and took a sip of tea. "The police
gave the notes to Steve. And he told you. So much for my
privacy."
"We won't share that information with anyone else."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, I suppose I might as well
tell you the truth. Let's just say that my financial dealings
with Mr. Thayers provided me with an unexpected, and
substantial, tax write-off. His heart was in the right place,
but idea men like Richard Thayers tend to dismiss marketing as part of the equation for successfully launching a
business."
"Do you mean that Richard's products didn't sell?"
She snorted. "It was a disaster. I basically lost every
dime of my investment . . . in air purifiers." I waited
through some lengthy sips of tea for her to continue. "He
learned his lesson, though. That's why he started teaching continuing-ed classes at CU. That way, he could sell
his zero-off-gassing products to his students."
"He had his own private, captive audience."
"Not unlike professors who teach exclusively from
textbooks they write themselves." She took one more sip
of tea and made a face, then glanced at her watch. "I hate
to be rude, Erin, but I have a conference call."
136 L e s l i e C a i n e
"Oh. Okay." I took a couple of quick sips of tea, realizing I'd be deserting most of it. "I'll let myself out, then."
"Thanks for dropping by. Don't worry. There will always be the wannabes, like Richard Thayers, who can't
quite figure out the inside joke."
She swept out of the room, and I let myself out her
front door, utterly perplexed by her parting words. I got
back into the driver's seat of Sullivan's van and shut the
door.
"That was quick," he said.
"And strange. You were right. She was an investor in
Richard's air purifiers and lost her entire investment. But
I couldn't find a graceful way to ask if they were once a
couple, as well."
"Did she seem resentful toward Richard?" Sullivan
asked.
"Not at all. Although . . . she was very reluctant to tell
me about it. Maybe they'd had a secret agreement that
he'd compensate for her lost revenue by judging this contest and selecting her home."
"No way! Richard wouldn't have done anything so underhanded."
I kept my expression placid and said nothing. Sullivan
appeared determined to believe that Richard Thayers
hadn't changed in more than a decade since they'd
known each other well. Yet I was sorely tempted to ask if,
back then, Richard would have swallowed paint in front
of his students or accused Steve of "teaming up with an
enemy" merely because he'd been hired for a design job.
I dearly wanted to be there for Steve in his time of need,
but it was difficult when the Richard Thayers whom
Sullivan admired greatly and defended vehemently was
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 137
so strikingly different from the odd and unimpressive
man Thayers seemed to me to have become.
Sullivan returned to the passenger seat after we'd
pulled away from the curb and promptly resumed reading. "Are you learning any brilliant ideas from Richard?"
I asked.
"Sure. Always."
We were silent for several minutes. Sullivan seemed to
be stewing about something. At length he said, "I can't
help but wonder about these notes. Why he gave them to
me."
"It is a little strange. I guess it must be because you
were his favorite student, and he wanted you to carry on
in his footsteps."
"Maybe."
We'd joined a long string of cars at an intersection, all
of us waiting to turn left in heavy traffic. His brow remained deeply creased, and I battled the urge to reach
over and smooth it. Finally, I asked, "What's wrong?"
"There's a disturbing passage in here. It might explain
why the police aren't working full-steam on the case."
"Read it to me."
Just as I was finally able to make the left turn, he
cleared his throat and read, " 'I can't help but wonder if
there's truth in what they're quietly saying about me . . .
that I'm a fraud, just in it for the money. Sometimes it all
seems so pointless. Even if I never drive or fly anywhere
again for the rest of my life, I still wouldn't spare the
ozone as much damage as one burning oil well in the
Middle East causes. The world would be better off without me.' "
He stopped.
138 L e s l i e C a i n e
I asked softly, driving on, "You don't think he was talking about suicide, do you?"
He started flipping pages. "Not until you consider
what he also wrote a few days later."
"Go on."
" 'I get a thrill from shocking my students when I drink
the gilt. The way the girls shriek! Just for that moment, I
imagine what it'd be like to actually poison myself in
front of a full classroom. I should just do that and get it all
over with. Let's face it. That's precisely what I deserve."
