by Leslie Caine
pick anyone else."
Sullivan said, "Hey, Gilbert. I didn't miss everything
again, did I?"
"No, we're the first ones here."
"Earth Love's running of this meeting is a disorganized mess," Darren added. "Not exactly big news, right?"
He cupped his hands over his mouth and cried sarcastically, "Stop the presses!"
Sullivan's posture stiffened beside me, and I silently
willed: Go ahead, Sullivan. Pop Darren one, right in his
lantern jaw.
Burke arrived next. His eyes were bloodshot, and his
blond hair had a cowlick that stuck straight up like the
flag on a mailbox.
"I'm grateful you're both here," Burke said. "Thank
you."
"It was the least we could do," I replied, just as
Sullivan was muttering, "No problem."
"I half expected to read in today's headline you were
in jail," Darren said to Burke.
Burke stared at him with empty, exhausted eyes. "I'm
the police's chief suspect. And I didn't do it. I'm innocent."
"Good luck with that," Darren said.
"Your sympathy is overwhelming," Burke growled.
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 181
Darren shrugged. "Hey. It's not like you're the only
one the police are investigating."
"You, too?"
He nodded grimly. "Let's just say that they don't take
kindly to the fact that my Magnum is missing from my
gun collection."
"You've got a gun collection?" Sullivan asked him,
just as the harried receptionist returned, pushing a cart
containing a coffee urn, a pitcher of water, and a box of
sugar cookies.
"Got my own shooting range, in the back room,"
Darren continued proudly. "One of the advantages of
having an underground house." He glared at Burke.
"Apparently, though, I've got to do a better job of keeping
the place locked up when I'm not home."
"The gun wasn't stolen at the open house, was it?" I
asked. Maybe the thief had stolen both the gun and the
gold paint at roughly the same time.
Darren shook his head. "On the following Monday. I
had everything locked in the glass case through the weekend. Though I sure wish now I hadn't let half of
Crestview see that I own firearms. I'd figured I could
show them off without having some bleeding-heart liberal contest judge see 'em. The finalist judge wasn't supposed to attend the open houses, you know. Not that it
stopped Richard Thayers."
"He was there?" I asked in alarm.
"Yes. As I told the police," he answered, nodding.
"Course, I never saw him come inside, just spotted him
over by the pond."
"That must have been when he discovered that illegal
cable my idiotic architect ran!" Burke exclaimed.
A full battalion of Earth Love executives, from what
182 L e s l i e C a i n e
looked like the CEO down to first-level managers, swept
into the room, Margot Troy in their midst. She took a seat
across from Burke. Her fingers were so fidgety that they
looked like spider legs. The two female managers sat
down as well, taking all of the remaining seats in the
room and forcing the three men to remain standing.
One of the more regal-looking men, wearing a sports
jacket and seated at the head of the elongated oval table,
introduced himself as Preston Wilcott. He glanced at a
three-by-five note card and stated, "We've decided, under
these tragic circumstances, that we're going to cancel the
green home contest. No winner will be declared. We will
instead start a fund for outstanding ecological contributions to society. The fund will be named for both Walter
Emory and Richard Thayers." He paused, scanned the
crowd's faces, then continued, "We deeply regret the
events that have transpired and our inevitable decision to
cancel the contest. All of us at Earth Love recognize the
considerable effort that each of you has--"
"Please, let's not be too hasty," Margot interrupted. "I
believe I have a suggestion that will fill everyone's needs."
Mr. Wilcott peered over his reading glasses at her. "I
hardly think that's possible at this juncture, Ms. Troy.
The loss of two colleagues can never be recompensed."
"No, of course not. But there is one person, a local
celebrity, who can restore the dignity and stature to this
contest that it so richly deserves."
"A celebrity?" he repeated.
"Yes. We are fortunate to have a strong connection to a
TV host whose show specializes in homes and lifestyles."
Uh-oh. I knew exactly what was coming next, and it
was a terrible idea. Margot grinned at me, and I shook my
head violently at her. She looked puzzled for a moment,
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 183
but then returned her gaze to Mr. Wilcott and announced, "I propose that we ask Audrey Munroe, of
Domestic Bliss with Audrey Munroe on Channel Four, to
judge the Earth Love green home contest."
"I'd like to go on record saying I'm opposed to that
idea," I promptly interjected. Margot glared at me, and I
glared right back at her.
Mr. Wilcott allowed everyone to discuss the idea for
several minutes, at which time Sullivan and I both said
that we could be putting Audrey Munroe in danger--a
notion that Margot, Darren, and a couple of employees
countered by stating that there was no harm in asking
Audrey, who could simply decline if she felt in any way
jeopardized.
At length, Wilcott took a quick straw poll of his employees in the room, which turned out to be unanimous
in Audrey's favor. He sighed and stared into space for
what felt like several minutes. Finally, he said, "To desert
the contest feels like an admission of Earth Love's culpability for two murders. That is abjectly unfair. Furthermore, if we complete the contest successfully, we might
be able to spare not just ourselves but the very concept of
green design from becoming the butt of late-night talk
show jokes. Both Richard Thayers and Walter Emory devoted their careers to the noble cause of saving our
planet. Regrettably, it seems they've also sacrificed their
lives to that cause. They deserve better than to become a
punch line for their efforts. So, I'm willing to continue
the contest only if Ms. Munroe agrees to be the judge.
Otherwise . . ."
"Then that's what will happen," Margot stated firmly.
"I'll convince her." She lifted her chin. "We've met more
than once at charity functions," she added, giving me a
184 L e s l i e C a i n e
sideways glance, "and she is a wonderful, generous person."
"All right, then. Let's adjourn. Please ask Ms. Munroe
to contact me personally. Assuming she's amenable, we'll
attempt to carry on."
"Thank you, Mr. Wilcott."
He gave her a thin smile, weariness and sorrow weighing heavily on his features. The Earth Love employees
left en masse.
Margot promptly turned to me and hissed, "Once
again, Erin, you disappoint me." She swept from the
room.
Burke grimaced as he watch
ed her. Then he shook his
head and gave me a sympathetic smile. "Typical Margot
self-centeredness. That's the reason I recognized early on
that the two of us were a bad match."
Darren guffawed. "You just don't know how to handle
ladies with money, my friend." He winked, then left, calling, "Ms. Troy! Wait up. Let me get that door for you!"
Exhausted and discouraged, I arrived at home a couple
of hours later. I was eager to curl up on my favorite sofa
with Hildi and shake off the stress of the day.
Hildi promptly greeted me with a rub against my legs
when I stepped into the parlor. I swept her up and cuddled her, just as Audrey entered the room from the dining
room-cum-temporary kitchen.
"Erin, you're never going to believe what I've just decided to do," she said with a huge smile on her face.
I must have unconsciously squeezed Hildi, because
she hissed and scampered from my arms. "Please don't
tell me you're the new judge of Earth Love's contest."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 185
"I'm the new judge!" She arched an eyebrow and gave
me a disapproving once-over, apparently having gathered
the tenor of my last statement. "Aren't you going to thank
me?"
"Why would I be thankful? You're deliberately putting
yourself in harm's way! Did you forget all about my
telling you that the first two judges were murdered, for
heaven's sake?"
"How many times have I asked you to keep yourself
out of danger, but you haven't listened? This is very hypocritical of you, Erin."
"You're right. I'm a hypocrite. Be that as it may, you
really, really need to reconsider."
"I've thought this through enough times already. I told
them that come hell or high water, I was only going to
spend the remainder of this week on the contest. I'm simply going to pick up right where their last judge left off."
"And by that you mean shot dead on somebody's
lawn?"
"Of course not! I'm not in any danger. The fact that
two contest judges have died doesn't mean that they were
killed because they were judges. The previous victims
had prior relationships with each other and with the finalists. I don't. And while I certainly am correctly considered an environmentalist and a conservationist, those are
far from my most noted characteristics."
"Which would be more along the order of . . . oh, I
don't know. Maybe rashness and stubbornness."
Ignoring me, she continued, "The contest will be over
once and for all by this Saturday. I assure you, Erin, I do
not have a death wish. I simply believe in what Earth
Love is trying to do for the world, and I want to help them
accomplish their goals. My biggest fear is just that I'll be
186 L e s l i e C a i n e
partial and unable to judge your client's house as harshly
as everyone else's. But when I thought about it more, I realized I'm up to the task. You will understand, after all,
that I absolutely cannot show favoritism. Won't you,
Erin?"
"I don't know," I snapped, aware that I was sounding a
bit like a petulant brat, but not caring. "I wasn't listening.
Just like you haven't been listening to me."
"Pardon, Erin?" She winked. "My thoughts must have
wandered. I'm afraid I didn't hear a word you just said."
c h a p t e r 1 5
"An old Mexican proverb (although I
could be wrong about its derivation)
warns us that, unless you know where
you've been, you can't possibly know
where you're going. Perhaps that's
why we sometimes feel so lost."
--Audrey Munroe
"You know what bothers me, Erin?" Audrey
asked, breaking the silence that had only reBLISS cently blessed us as I settled into my book and
she had momentarily taken up her latest project--a quilt for her second grandchild.
"Is there only one answer to your question?" I
asked, a little testy, not wanting to leave the
company of my book's characters.
"We no longer treasure anything."
Uh-oh. That, if I'd ever heard one, was a precursor for one of Audrey's patented rants. I'd be
lucky to get back to my reading within the hour.
Time for preemptive measures."That's not true. I
DOMESTIC treasure your friendship. And I treasure this book
that I'm reading." Laying it on thick, I continued,
188 L e s l i e C a i n e
"Most of all, I treasure these quiet evenings at home.
They're so restorative for me that,
I
without them,
couldn't possibly keep going during hard times. Such as
the day I had today, when I was feeling so down in the
dumps from Walter's death, coming so soon after
Richard's. So thank you, Audrey, for this gift of refuge and
respite that you've given me."
"I mean in general," she replied, not batting an eye at
my obsequious speech."As a society. We've turned ourselves into a nation of disposables. Disposable income.
Disposable toilet-bowl brushes. Disposable relationships.
When does it end?"
"That's a question I was just now asking myself," I muttered, cradling the book in my hands.
"Take this quilt, for example. I'm making it for my second grandchild's crib. And every single scrap of cloth
that's going into it has particular relevance for the baby.
Each piece of fabric was worn by one of the baby's relatives."
"That's sweet."
"More importantly, it's an heirloom in the making.
How can we hope to teach our culture to treasure its
ancestry if we don't teach the new members of our
own families to treasure their grandparents and greatgrandparents?"
"That's an excellent point, Audrey, although I hope
you were teaching your sons to treasure their grandparents. Back before you became one yourself."
"I'm not saying that mothers should teach their
daughters and sons how to cross-stitch their family tree,
D o m e s t i c B l i s s 1 8 9
mind you." I reluctantly shut my book, realizing that
when she was willing to ignore my snide remarks, there
was no stopping her."Although, come to think of it, that's
an excellent idea to present in a future broadcast.
There's been a resurgence of sewing circles, you know.
Probably because we have lost so much of our heritage
lately. I'm going to suggest to my audience that they
consider introducing some of the classics of the past--
cross-stitched family trees that are handed down to the
next generation, along with the skills to continue them.
Coiled rag rugs, made from outgrown hand-me-downs.
And, of course, quilts like this one."
As she spoke, she spread out her patchwork fabric,
and a pink petal on her cornflower pattern caught my
eye. I leaned forward. "Hey. That pink fabric looks familiar. This isn't from my pink blouse, is it? I've been missing
that blouse for months now!"
"Didn't I tell you about that?" Audrey asked, blushing
to match the hue of the pirated fabric. "I had an accident involving some India ink when I was working on
Japanese painting techniques."
"And how did my
blouse get involved?"
"I don't recall the precise sequence of events. But it
brings to mind something I've been meaning to tell you
for a while now." She looked impishly at me. "Pink isn't
really one of your colors, Erin."
"Audrey!"
"I'll replace the blouse, the next time we go shopping. But you really should look at a deeper red. Magenta, maybe."
190 L e s l i e C a i n e
"Speaking of fabric stains," I snapped,"isn't this going
to be a problematic baby gift? Handmade quilts aren't
really all that washable, are they? Don't they need to
be hand washed?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"And I'm sure you don't think a new mom has time to
do frequent hand washings, do you? I mean, you know
a baby's blanket is only going to go for two or three
days tops between washings. That's going to cause a
whole lot of wear and tear on all of those heirloom fabrics of yours."
"Not to mention on your pink blouse," she said under
her breath.
"It's not as if your mother's wedding dress, for example, was intended to be washed twenty or thirty times inside of two months."
"Good point. Fortunately, however, I'm way ahead
of you. Quilts of this size make wonderful wall hangings
for a baby's room. My son and his wife can wrap little
Audrey in it when they're coming home from the hospital. Then they can capture the moment in photographs
and frame some of them. Those photographs, along
with the quilt itself, will make a wonderful matched set to
hang on a wall of the nursery. It will look lovely. And,
many years from now, when Audrey is old enough to appreciate some family history, she will have a memento.
One which can be handed down through the ages.
Which is why, incidentally, I'm also creating a chart that
lists where each piece of fabric comes from. Including
your pink blouse, from her auntie Erin."
D o m e s t i c B l i s s 1 9 1
I felt touched and said, "It's amazing that you
can recall the source of that many different fabric
swatches."
"Yes, well . . . I'm taking creative license whenever
necessary." She pointed at a particular section of her
quilt."This parallelogram is from a striped shirt that somehow wound up in a lost-and-found basket in my laundry
room when the boys were little. But it now belonged to
Cousin Jason, twice removed."
"Actually, I take back everything I said, Audrey.
