by Leslie Caine
There was a long, awkward pause. "I don't know what
to say," I finally stammered. "But it seems strange that the
police would release something like that to you, if they'd
read it and considered it solid evidence."
"You're forgetting, Erin," he said dejectedly. "It's not
evidence of a murder, but rather a motive for suicide. So
they probably don't need to keep it in their possession.
I'm sure they just made a photocopy."
We had reached our lot. I pulled into his parking
space and turned toward him. He'd shut the notebook
and was now staring straight ahead, his expression glum.
I put my hand on his shoulder, hoping some words of
wisdom or reassurance would occur to me, but he pulled
away from me and got out of the van.
At least he waited for me between our vans, though, as
opposed to storming off someplace by himself. "It wasn't
suicide, Gilbert."
"Okay," I murmured.
"No, I'm positive. He was just having a weak moment
when he wrote that stuff. He would never have invited
me to that particular class, or seemed so surprised by the
consistency of the paint, if he was planning on killing
himself."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 139
"So we'll solve this thing ourselves, if we have to."
He gave me a grateful smile, which I struggled to return. I didn't know Richard enough to say one way or the
other, but I was inwardly panic-stricken by my own suspicions.
What if Richard had asked Sullivan to the lecture as
part of his plan for framing Burke Stratton to take the murder rap for his suicide?
I started to head toward our office, but Sullivan hesitated, staring at the asphalt near my van. He headed
toward the front tire. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I don't
have a flat, do I?"
"Not yet. But you'd better be careful as you leave.
There's some broken glass."
With a sinking feeling, I quickly rounded the front of
my van. "Jeez! One of my headlights is smashed!"
Sullivan joined me, cursing. We both knew this
couldn't have been an accident; my space was at a right
angle to the side of a building, which made front-end
fender benders impossible.
Something was protruding from the ring of jagged
glass that rimmed the cavity of my headlight. It looked
like a business card. "Uh-oh."
"Another anonymous message?" Sullivan asked me,
while I extracted it with my gloved fingers.
Indeed, it was a second red-splattered Sullivan and
Gilbert card. I flipped it over quickly, expecting to see a
second death threat. This time, there was only a crude
drawing of a smiley face.
c h a p t e r 1 2
It was strange how ominous a childish little sketch
could seem. Sullivan wanted to go with me to the
police, but that seemed like a waste of his time, so he reluctantly agreed to let me go alone, provided I made
good on my promise to keep him informed.
Linda Delgardio took my statement. After I'd given
her what little information I could, I asked how the investigation was going. With a slight shrug, she replied, "It's
still considered an open case, at least."
The phrase "at least" clearly spelled doom. My heart
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 141
sank, for Sullivan's sake. "You're ready to conclude it was
suicide, aren't you?"
She peered at me, weighing her words. "There is some
talk that it'll eventually get ruled a suicide."
"Were Burke's fingerprints found on the can of gold
paint?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, Erin." She touched my hand,
her demeanor both gentle and sad at once. "You know
that."
"That's okay. I already know the answer. Burke told me
himself that a paint can that had gone missing from his
garage had to be the one that Richard drank from, so
Burke's fingerprints would have been all over the can itself . . . just not on Richard's company's label. The killer
would have stuck the label itself onto the can later. And
Sullivan read the section of Richard's notes to me where
he was speculating about drinking a toxic product. So I'm
sure Detective O'Reilly and lots of your colleagues have
concluded this was Richard's last act of vengeance . . . trying to make Burke take the fall for an act of suicide."
Linda pursed her lips.
"I know how much you hate it when I play amateur
sleuth, but for what it's worth, Sullivan swears Richard
would never commit suicide."
"How well did Steve really know his former teacher,
though?" Linda asked rhetorically. "Plus, we located several people who toured Burke's place at that open house
the Sunday before Mr. Thayers's death. One middleaged couple picked out Richard Thayers's photograph
from a number of random pictures and said that he was
there that day."
"Uh-oh. So it is looking like Richard could have
taken that can himself." Something was bugging me,
142 L e s l i e C a i n e
though, and an instant later, I made the connection.
"Richard told us he'd only found out last Tuesday that
Burke's home was in the contest, let alone a finalist.
Those were his exact words. But if he'd really been
there the previous Sunday, he must have known Burke
was a finalist. Which either means he was lying to
Sullivan, or that the couple who picked out Richard's
photograph was mistaken."
Linda held my gaze for a long moment before replying. "Sometimes witnesses see photographs of victims
or suspects, and their minds can play tricks on them
and give them a false memory. You were there that
weekend. Did you ever see Thayers? Or any of the suspects?"
I shook my head. "Hundreds of people came through
Burke's house that weekend. I hadn't met Richard, yet, so
we could have crossed paths without my noticing."
She nodded. She was chewing on her lip, which she
sometimes did when she was lost in thought. After another lengthy pause, she said, "You mentioned the name
Asia McClure to me. Have you had any more dealings
with her recently?"
"Yes. And not pleasant ones. It's an understatement to
say that she is not a conservationist. She says she spotted
me at the open house, so she certainly could have swiped
the paint can. But she's not really a suspect, is she? Did
she even know Richard Thayers?"
"Not personally," Linda replied. "But a few months
ago her political group, Consumers for Common Sense,
had quite a skirmish with his World's Watchdogs group.
Things got ugly and both Asia and Richard were arrested." She studied me, then said, "By the way, I'm only
telling you this because that story will be in tomorrow's
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 143
paper anyway. Our public information officer was asked
about it in a press briefing just this morning."
"Asia is combative enough to resort to extremes. She
might have felt that Richard deserved to be tricked into
making himself ill by drinking toxins. She's currently on
the warpath about Burke's building a windmill and ru
ining her view. Maybe that's related somehow to Richard,
since he was a vocal advocate of renewable energy."
I paused, trying to put my thoughts in order. "Maybe
Richard was at the open house, but didn't want to admit
it, because Earth Love had specifically stated he wasn't
allowed to attend the finalists' open houses. Asia and
Richard could have crossed paths that day and gotten
into an altercation afterwards. Maybe he saw her spraying
pesticides and confronted her."
"Using a pesticide? In January?" Linda asked skeptically.
"Or something similar." I considered alternative scenarios, and remembered something about Asia's house
that had barely registered with me at the time. "Last
week, during that stretch of warm weather, her back
porch had what looked like a fresh coat of paint. Maybe
she was painting that weekend, and Richard gave her a
lecture about poisoning the environment with noxious
off-gases."
"That's what lawyers call sheer conjecture, Erin."
"Sure, but it makes sense. For one thing, Richard's attending the open house could explain how he could have
found Burke's violations so quickly. One of those violations had to do with nonpotable-water usage, so he would
have been examining the small pond that's bisected by
Asia's property line. Asia watches her property like a
hawk. And, frankly, it's much more believable that
144 L e s l i e C a i n e
Richard did read the articles in which the finalists were
announced, though he claimed he didn't learn their
names till the very night it was publicly announced that
he was judging. I know I would be reading everything I
could about a contest I was about to judge. Wouldn't
you?"
She sighed. "I really shouldn't be discussing my theories with you, Erin. But do you think an argument between Asia and Thayers would be motive for her to
poison Richard Thayers?"
I shrugged. "In a boxing match, she'd hit below the
belt at every opportunity. And she's my top suspect for
doctoring my business cards."
"I'll have a talk with her."
"Thanks. I'd appreciate that." I paused, still pondering
the scenario of Richard's having kept an eye on Burke's
property. "You know, if Richard was skulking around on
Burke's property, he could have run into Darren
Campesio at some point, too. Darren told me he went to
Burke's open house, and I've seen him watching over
Burke's property with binoculars. He runs around in
combat fatigues, like he's part of some covert surveillance
operation."
She studied my features. "You're not going to suggest
that Mr. Campesio killed Thayers because he thought
Thayers was trespassing, are you?"
"No, but Darren's an odd guy. He could have confronted Richard, learned that he was the contest judge,
and gotten into an argument with him about rule violations. Richard seemed singularly unimpressed with
Darren's house when we spoke about it the afternoon before he died."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 145
Linda said nothing, but she shook her head slightly as
if every bit as confounded by the behavior of Burke's
neighbors as I was. She shoved back from the table.
"Erin, I'll see if I can learn who's doing this with your
business cards and smashed your headlight. And I'll talk
to Ms. McClure and Mr. Campesio. But . . ."
"Don't hold my breath?"
"The simplest explanation is usually the right one. In
other words, it's likeliest that Richard committed suicide.
But we'll do our best."
"You personally don't think it was suicide, though, do
you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised either way."
In all honesty, neither would I, but Sullivan would
never forgive me for saying that to a police officer. I
thanked her and left, then called Sullivan from my van in
the parking lot. I gave him a severely edited version of my
conversation with Linda. He sounded skeptical when I
finished by insisting, "That's really all we discussed."
"You sound too perky, which usually means you're not
telling me something. They think it was suicide, don't
they?"
"Yes."
He sounded utterly discouraged as he said good-bye.
As I drove home, I found myself bothered by something Linda had said. It was next to impossible to remember seeing someone in passing among the steady stream
of visitors. And yet, I did remember some man watching
me long enough to catch my attention.
At a red light, I used a designer's trick and shut my
eyes momentarily to recall the room at that moment. It
took me less than a second, but sure enough, I pulled up
146 L e s l i e C a i n e
a clear mental picture. I was now almost positive that my
ogler had been Matthew Hayes.
Audrey wasn't home by dinnertime, which meant she
was either working late or on a date. With no functioning
kitchen, it was easier to microwave a frozen dinner for
myself than to prepare a healthier meal. I ate at my computer in the messy, cluttered den, trolling the Internet
for possible connections between Burke Stratton and
Matthew Hayes. The possibility of their having met at
Burke's open house and discovering that they had a common enemy was weighing heavily on me. I could find no
clues or connections, but I did find a photograph of a
desk on the M.H. Custom Furniture Web site that would
be stunning in Burke's study. This was why it was a good
thing I was a designer and not a police officer; I was forever getting distracted by lovely furniture. I could see myself having to bite my lip rather than make unforgivable
statements like: "It's terrible that your friend is dead, but
that table his head is resting on is absolutely fabulous!"
I surrendered to my urge and called Burke to describe
the desk. He went to the Web page showing the piece
while we were still on the phone. "You're right!" he said.
"I love it!"
"So do I. But you recognize the name of the company,
don't you?"
He paused. "No. Not at all. Should I?"
"It's Matthew Hayes's company. He was the one who
was heckling Richard Thayers the night he drank the
toxic paint."
"Shoot! No, I missed the connection completely." He
paused. "What should I do?"
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 147
"It's really up to you, Burke. This particular desk in the
photo is tiger maple, which is not from the rain forest,
and it's entirely custom-made. We can request that he use
environmentally friendly varnish and locally processed
pine, and so on. But you should know that he does use
banned materials, although he claims they're recycled
only."
Another long pause. "What would you do?"
"I'm not sure, to be honest. We've bought from him in
the past, before we knew about his questionable ethics."
"Okay. Well, just . . . go ahead and order it from him,
but make it very clear that I'll only accept the desk on the
condition that I can return it if I discover that he's abused
"Will do."
He thanked me and hung up.
Late Friday morning, Richard Thayers's family finally
held a service in Crestview for him. It was a dreary affair
at the small, drafty shelter of a local park that Richard
had reputedly frequented. The gray, overcast sky seemed
to suck all the color from the surrounding landscape.
Sullivan gave one of several eulogies--as did Walter
Emory--but kept his speech impersonal, sharing only
how he tried to keep in mind the lessons Professor
Thayers had taught him every day in his own job. Margot
was there but ducked out quickly afterwards, and she was
the only mourner I recognized.
Sullivan seemed so determined to hide behind a stoic
mask that, at the gathering immediately following the service, he treated his own parents as mere acquaintances--
148 L e s l i e C a i n e
thanking them for coming down all the way from their
new retirement condo in the mountains two hours away.
His mom spoke to me privately and said, "Even as a little boy, he could never stand to let anyone see him cry."
"That doesn't surprise me."
She searched my eyes. "How are things between the
two of you?"
"Good." Trying to evade the issue, I said, "Business
has been excellent, really, and it looks like it'll continue
strong this year . . . knock on wood."
"I mean, how are things personally? Romantically?"
I fought off a sigh. This hardly seemed the time or the
place for such a question, not to mention that she should
be asking her son that question, not me. "Frankly, I think
he's seeing someone else."
"Don't let that stop you, Erin."
I glanced around and spotted Sullivan on the opposite
side of the parking lot. He couldn't overhear us from that
distance. "I'm letting the need to keep our business relationship strong stop me."
"Hmm. Steve gave me the same excuse when I asked
him that question."
"Probably because it's not merely an excuse. Running
a two-person business and trying to date is kind of like . . .
making out in a canoe. It's hard to stay afloat."
"Clever analogy. But you two are meant for each other.
Take care, Erin." She and Sullivan's father gave me parting hugs, then called another good-bye to Sullivan, standing by his van.
He and I made our way toward each other as his parents drove away. He gave me a sheepish smile. "I saw you
talking to my mom. She can talk your ear off sometimes."
