by Leslie Caine
having to housebreak a two-year-old dog, while Laurie
and Sammie are at school and he's here on the job."
She paused."Oh, and Scott's sister is expecting again."
"I take it there's nothing major going on in Bill's life?"
"He's trying to decide between a used Chevy and a
Toyota 4Runner. I told him to talk to my car dealer first
and mention my name to see if he could get a better
deal."
I managed a small smile and a nod. "It's great that
you're on such good terms with all the workmen."
"It makes the whole experience so much more
pleasant for everyone. Plus, it's just human nature that
they'll want to do a better job for home owners who've
treated them with the respect that they deserve."
She made some notations in her notebook."I'm putting a show together on tips for remodeling. Getting to
know all the subcontractors and their staffs is one. And
saving little jars is another."
"Little jars?"
"Yes. To serve as containers for small quantities of
every color of paint in your house. That has saved me so
much time and hassle over the years, I can't even tell
you. This way, whenever I get a nick or mark on my walls
or trim, I can simply grab a jar, shake it to stir the paint
312 L e s l i e C a i n e
quickly, and then I can dab fresh paint over the mark
with a fingertip. Compare that to having to haul out a
big paint can and a screwdriver to open it with, along
with a stir stick, putting out newspapers, finding a paintbrush, et cetera."
"That's a brilliant suggestion, Audrey." Hildi leapt off
my lap.
"Thank you." Audrey beamed at me. "Do you have
any more tips like that one for the show?"
Hildi was headed in the direction of her food dish
and managed to knock over a cut-crystal bud vase just
then.
"How about passing along my kitchen-remodel suggestion to keep only the barest necessities in your living
space and put everything else in storage?"
"Oh, absolutely. My do-as-I-say lifestyle is one of the
many reasons my show is filmed in a studio and not in
my house." She closed her notebook. "We can talk
about this later. But right now, Erin, I have a confession to
make."
"Uh-oh." I braced myself.
"I know this is going to make you angry, but I felt so
strongly about it that I went ahead and butted into your
personal business. I asked Mr. Sullivan to handle work
without you today."
"Audrey! You can't keep--"
She held up a palm."You're right. It was wrong of me.
I promise not to do anything remotely like this again, if I
can possibly help it. But this is Valentine's Day. You're
both so miserable just on ordinary days now. On a holi-D o m e s t i c B l i s s 3 1 3
day specifically made for lovers . . . well, the thought was
simply too grim for me to sit back and do nothing."
I leaned forward and reached around some empty
Tupperware bowls to put my hand on top of hers."I appreciate what you're trying to do, Audrey. I do. But this
isn't something you can fix. We have to work this out between us. It may or may not end with our being together, but either way, it's going to take time."
She put her hand on top of mine."I understand that,
Erin. But sometimes things are too overwhelming for us to
carry on with business as usual. This is one of those times.
You have the stress of coping with two murders and a
suicide attempt, on top of Mr. Sullivan's stupid transgression. All the while you're seeing him every day and trying to hold your business together. Then you compound
all of that with today's expectations and baggage?"
Just hearing my litany of woes listed aloud like this
was depressing me. I pulled my hand away and began
to rock myself slightly in my seat.
"I'm not taking no as an answer, Erin. I went ahead
and made reservations for us at the spa for the full fourhour treatment.That, by the way, is always my biggest tip
for a really special treat for your Valentine's Day. One of
my ex-hubbies--I don't remember which one--taught
me that. We'd treat each other to massages and facials."
"That's a great idea for anyone who can afford it."
"Oh, it's adjustable for any budget. You give your significant other a card, and inside the card you place a
handmade coupon: Good for the person's favorite
314 L e s l i e C a i n e
meal or activity, or what have you. The point is really just
to give your loved one a little TLC. Which is exactly what
you need today, Erin."
"You're right, Audrey. And thank you."
"You're welcome. Does this mean you forgive me for
butting in?"
I managed what could very well have been my first
smile in more than a week. "Yes. Especially considering
that this is the last time you're butting in like this. Provided you can possibly help it, which doesn't sound all
that promising to me, by the way. What time is our reservation?
"One P.M."
"That late?" I asked. "Too bad you didn't make your
confession to me last night. I'd have stayed in bed for
another hour."
The doorbell rang, and Audrey winced. "Oops. The
second half of my confession is here early, so I'll make
this quick. Mr. Sullivan and I talked at length, and we
both decided that his taking you to dinner or even
lunch on Valentine's Day was too much pressure with
things so raw."
I sprang to my feet."So he's taking me to breakfast!?"
"Just to coffee. I really should have stopped you from
making yourself a cup here. More than one cup makes
you so edgy." The doorbell rang a second time.
I started cursing.
"Count to ten, dear, and try to remember that although I have my annoying traits, I have plenty of endearing ones to counterbalance them."
D o m e s t i c B l i s s 3 1 5
"But you just got through saying how it was too much
for me to be seeing Sullivan today, which is true! Then
you go and . . . and--"
The doorbell rang a third time.
"You should really go answer that. He's probably
brought you flowers. You can't just leave him standing
there."
I growled, but turned and headed to the front door.
Sullivan was my business partner, after all. However bad
things were for us romantically, I still hoped we could
keep Sullivan and Gilbert Designs together.
I swept open the door. Sullivan stood on the porch
holding a spectacular array of exotic flowers--red
amaryllis and anthuriums, white calatheas, calla lilies,
and Oriental lilies--in a red-tinted glass vase. He gave
me a shy smile. "Morning. I was afraid you wouldn't answer." He held out the bouquet to me. "These are for
you. Happy Middle-of-February Day."
"They're beautiful. Thank you." I sighed and asked if
he'd like to come inside for a moment. I was experiencing the usual agony of seeing him, being this close to
him as he stepped through the door. Every time we
were in the same room together now, my insides felt like
they were being squeezed. I pr
essed myself against the
foyer wall to give myself some distance. "It figures you
wouldn't be so predictable as to bring roses."
"That's not entirely true. There's more."
"Oh, Steve. I'm sorry, but I don't want more. I already
feel like I'm recovering from getting trapped in an avalanche. I'm just trying to get my feet back under me."
316 L e s l i e C a i n e
"I know. I feel that way, too. Can you put the flowers
down, please?"
I sighed but complied, putting the bouquet on the
coffee table in the parlor. I stood there admiring them
for a moment, struggling to get my heartbeat and my
nerves back to normal. I wondered for a moment if it
was possible that, beneath his suave exterior, Sullivan
was as nervous as I was.
When I turned around, Sullivan hadn't followed me.
He was still standing in the foyer, now holding a red envelope in one hand and a tiny white paper cup in the
other. I grinned."You carved another grape into a rose?"
"Not quite." He stepped toward me and handed me
the paper container, saying,"Actually, this time I kept trying to carve a rose into the shape of a grape, but that's
surprisingly difficult to do."
I peered into the cup and then removed a tiny ceramic rose. It was pale pink and impossibly delicate, not
much bigger than my fingertip."Oh, Steve.This is so cute!"
"Plus, it should last longer than the grape-shaped
rose. Or the rose-shaped grape, for that matter." He
handed me the envelope."Here. Open this now."
I obliged him. The front of the card was a picture of a
perfect red rose, and the inside was blank except for
Steve's brief handwritten note:
Dearest Erin,
Forgive me.
Love always,
Steve
D o m e s t i c B l i s s 3 1 7
I met his gaze. "I won't belabor the point," he said
gently, "but I am going to keep asking your forgiveness
periodically. Sooner or later, one of us will cave, and it
isn't going to be me." He gave me a sexy smile."But for
now, I'm just hoping you'll agree to get a cup of coffee--or maybe a hot chocolate and a bagel--at the
place on the corner. Just in honor of Middle-of-February
Day. No pressure."
"That sounds nice." I put the ceramic rose and the
card on the table next to the flowers. Audrey would
read the card the instant we were gone and would be
dying to know what I'd said in return, but I had no intention of answering. If I had my way, my very own compulsive meddler would suffer in suspense for a long, long
time.
Steve helped me with my coat and we left the
house. We seemed destined to walk to the coffee shop
in silence, but for once I didn't mind at all. I let my hand
brush against his, and before long I'd laced my fingers
through his. We continued our short journey, hand in
hand, our steps in perfect harmony.
a b o u t t h e a u t h o r
Leslie Caine was once taken hostage at gunpoint and
finds that writing about crimes is infinitely more enjoyable than taking part in them. Leslie is a certified interior
decorator and lives in Colorado with her husband and a
cocker spaniel. She is at work on her next Domestic Bliss
mystery.
If you enjoyed Leslie Caine's
POISONED BY GILT,
you won't want to miss any
of the wonderful mysteries in the
Domestic Bliss series.
Look for them at your favorite bookseller.
And read on for an exciting early look at the next
Domestic Bliss mystery,
HOLLY
AND
HOMICIDE
a domestic
bliss mystery
by
Leslie Caine
Coming in fall 2009
Holly and Homicide
on sale fall 2009
c h a p t e r 1
The article about a grave robbery caught my attention.
It was a short piece on the second page of the Snowcap
Village Gazette, which quoted the haughty wisecrack
of the local sheriff: "Probably another case of yuppie
skiers robbing us of our ancestry, like the way they're
turning the Goodwin Estate into the Wendell Barton
B and B." My heart began to race, and I thought: Here
we go again. A picturesque December morning in the
ski town of Snowcap, Colorado, had just turned a lot
colder.
Sullivan handed me a cup of decaf. Although he'd
pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt before
heading downstairs to the kitchen of the aforementioned Goodwin Estate, he slipped back under the covers beside me, his own cup in hand. "Thanks, sweetie."
I took a tentative sip. Perfection. "Did you see the story
about the grave robbery in this week's Gazette?"
"Yeah. Annoying potshot about the inn. Sheriff
Mackey sounds like a major jerk."
"No kidding." Wendell Barton, who owned the
town's new ski lodge, was only one of the partners
who'd purchased this fabulous Victorian mansion
from Henry Goodwin, who was a direct descendant of
its original owner. "I suppose by 'yuppie skiers' turning
this place into a Wendell Barton B and B, he means
you and me."
"Not if he's ever seen you try to ski," Sullivan teased.
I considered swatting him, but his coffee cup was
too full, and I didn't want to risk a spill on our divine
burgundy silk duvet. I settled for narrowing my eyes at
him. He laughed and kissed my forehead.
I felt the warm glow that I'd grown so wonderfully
accustomed to during the past nine months, since
Sullivan and I began dating in earnest. "I'm getting
better at skiing, you know. You said so yourself."
"You are. Absolutely. If you make good use of our
last three weeks here, you might even be able to stop
without grabbing on to a tree."
His snide remark called for a comeback, but the
grave robbery preoccupied me. Why would somebody
steal a man's bones? I took a couple sips of coffee and
reread the article.
"I'm sure the incident at the cemetery was just a
prank," Sullivan said. "Drunken frat boys on a ski trip,
blowing off some steam, maybe."
"The timing's really weird, if that's all it was. Why
dig through snow and frozen ground, just for a dumb
joke? You'd think they'd have dug two inches down
and decided to go TP some trees instead."
"Yeah, but it has to be a prank. What sensible motive could there possibly be? It's idiotic to dig up a
random fifty-year-old grave. Wasn't there a really common name on the tombstone?"
"R. Garcia, and the cemetery records are inadequate, so they don't even know how to track down
Garcia's relatives." I let my imagination gnaw on the
conundrum for several seconds. "Maybe that's why
this particular grave was chosen . . . so as to ruffle the
fewest feathers. I hope I'm just being paranoid, but
I think this was done by one of the hundred or so
townspeople trying to prevent the Snowcap Inn from
opening."
Sullivan took a sip of coffee, appearing to ponder
my w
ords. "No way."
"All I know is, every time Henry Goodwin or anyone else puts up a sign about the Snowcap Inn, someone covers it in graffiti."
"Still. That's a gigantic leap . . . from scribbling fourletter words on a sign to digging up a grave and maybe
planting someone's remains here, don't you think?"
How could I answer that? His point was valid, but
my counterargument was a combination of women's
intuition and past experience. A string of terrible past
experiences, to be more precise. The police department in Crestview--our hometown some forty miles
away--had undoubtedly been on the verge of assigning a homicide task force to follow me around. In the
last three years, client after client had dragged me into
a string of bad luck so long that Job himself might have
offered me a sympathetic shoulder. But my gloomy
run of catastrophes had magically lifted on Valentine's
Day, when Steve and I finally gave in to our mutual attraction. Since then, we'd become the proverbial
happy couple. And yet even as a young child, I'd
known there was no such thing as happily ever after.
We were long overdue for a stumbling block.
I tried to employ my "confidence and optimism"
mantra, but it was too late. With my penchant for finding dead bodies, I had an unshakable certainty that "R.
Garcia" was sure to turn up in my van or in my laundry
basket and our idyllic job would devolve into a disaster. The rambling three-story Goodwin Estate had
been built eighty years ago, as commissioned by the
current owner's grandfather--the founder of Snowcap
Village--but in these last couple of months, it had
come to represent how far I'd grown in my career and
in my life. Now the grand home, with its cupolas,
curved turrets, festive stained-glass accent sidelights,
and transoms, and all its countless handcrafted details, was somehow going to turn dark and ugly. And so
was my life.
"Erin? You're shaking. Are you cold?"
"A little."
He set down his coffee cup and pulled me close.
"Let me warm you up again." He kissed me tenderly,
and just like that, my fears melted away.
An hour later, I trotted down the stairs. Our bedroom was on the third floor of Henry's house--soon to
be the Snowcap Inn. When the inn officially opened
on Christmas Eve, Henry, too, would live elsewhere;
he planned to rent a condo in town for a year, and
then, once his mayoral duties officially ended, to
travel. As I entered the central hall, which would be
