Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  “Gives me a chance to take my cigarette break anyway,” Taylor mumbled. He then plunked himself down on the tarp that covered a stack of lumber tidily marked “Sullivan.”

  “Could you sit someplace else, please? I need to go through that stack to look for my missing one-by-six.”

  “This is Sullivan’s stuff.” He kept his perch and lit his cigarette.

  “And what’s the obvious place to hide a board? With other boards. Give me a hand.”

  We started restacking Sullivan’s materials from top to bottom so that I could handle each piece of wood and ensure that there didn’t appear to be one odd man out that resembled my wandering board. A third of the way through a half dozen Italian black walnut boards we found a lone one-by-six of oak. Eureka! Kevin or Sullivan had tried to throw me off by hiding one of my boards! How low could you get? “This is it.”

  “How do you know, Gilbert? Did you mark each one with your lipstick?”

  “No,” I shot back, the tone of my voice more than implying the word jerk-face, “but when you’re at a lumberyard, you load the boards as you select them from the racks. You wouldn’t suddenly stick one board into the middle of a group of . . .” A brown bottle on the ground, partially hidden by the tarp, suddenly caught my eye— especially the skull and crossbones prominently displayed on its label. My pulse quickened. “Oh, my God,” I said. The bottle looked exactly like a container I’d stowed in my van a couple of months ago, just before moving in with Audrey. My ex-boyfriend had bought the cyanide for a metal-plating project that we never actually got around to starting before he became my ex. I hadn’t known where to dispose of the stuff, hadn’t wanted to bring a bottle of poison into Audrey’s home and risk Hildi’s getting into it, and the bottle was so safely packaged and nicely tucked away in my spacious van that I hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought in weeks.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “What’s this doing out here?” I demanded, showing him the bottle.

  “That?” he asked as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Yes, that! It’s cyanide! Do you know if this is my cyanide?”

  He shrugged. “Guess it must be. It was in your van.”

  “What were you doing with it?”

  He puffed on his cigarette before replying, staring impassively at the little bottle of poison I clutched in my hand. “I didn’t want the glass to break when I was unloading wood.”

  “I had it carefully packed inside a heavy-duty plastic bag, inside a sealed metal container filled with kitty litter in case of spillage! And I put the can inside a box packed with foam. Just to make sure that it couldn’t break open!”

  He took another drag on his cigarette, squinted at the smoke. “So I guess I got curious.”

  “Jeez! This was an unopened bottle! Someone’s broken the seal!”

  “Like I said, I got curious. I’ve never seen real cyanide before. I wanted to know what it looked like.”

  “You had no right to go through the stuff in my van like that!”

  “You told me to unload your materials.”

  “I told you and Kevin to unload the wood. What kind of nutcase would have put wood inside a cardboard box inside a can that was filled to the brim with kitty litter?”

  “Beats me. Maybe the same kinda nutcase who carries around bottles of poison.”

  “Someone gave it to me when we . . .” I gave up. I didn’t need to explain myself to the likes of Taylor; after all, he was the one who’d swiped the bottle out of my van. “I don’t like anyone to touch it, for obvious reasons. That’s why I keep it locked away, inside my van.” Which, come to think of it, Taylor had left unlocked all of yesterday afternoon.

  “And yet you go tossing your key to Kevin,” he retorted. “After you’d talked to the guy for all of ten minutes.”

  “Where do you get off, criticizing me for—” I stopped. This situation was getting out of control. I was all but hopping up and down in my anger. “If anything should happen to anyone in this entire city that’s linked to cyanide poisoning, I’m going to tell the police about this.”

  His face remained inscrutable. He took one last pull on his cigarette, then dropped it and crushed it under his heel. “So what’s the final word on the length? Do I start over again this afternoon or use what I’ve got now?”

  Through gritted teeth, I retorted, “Neither one. We’re going with plan B.” I flipped my paper over and quickly sketched out what I wanted, very carefully explaining each aspect to him. This was an idea that I’d almost opted for in the first place—to have a twenty-inch shelf unit sit on top of one of the reproduction iceboxes that the Hendersons already owned. That ought to make Carl happy. Part of the design had, after all, been his idea.

  Taylor flipped on the motor of his saw and fitted his safety goggles back in place. “I like that idea better anyways. See? I knew I was cutting these boards right.”

  “I’m locking the cyanide in my van,” I shouted over the ruckus. “And we’ll keep my board right where it is now, in Sullivan’s stack.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Taylor said, and resumed cutting, sawdust scent wafting in the sweet morning air. “Just be sure ’n’ keep the stuff available. The way this weekend’s going, I might just want to mix myself a Mazel Tov cocktail and put myself out of my misery.”

  “Molotov cocktail,” I muttered to myself, certain that was what he meant, although that particular “cocktail” was a type of bomb and not a poison. At this point, he was welcome to either one!

  I ducked into my van and carefully opened the bottle. My heart sank. Had there really been this little of the white powder in the container? The contents should have been a full inch higher.

  I’d skimmed the literature sent with the bottle when I first received it. An inch was probably enough poison to kill a grown man. I packed the bottle away again. The name of the chemical company on the outside of the box must have piqued Taylor’s interest; he’d probably hoped it contained recreational drugs. If only I’d done an inventory before heading home last night . . . or, better yet, researched how to safely dispose of the stuff right away instead of leaving it in my van for months. Maybe I should join Taylor in a Mazel Tov cocktail.

  My head was pounding. My van had been unlocked all Saturday afternoon. Yesterday that cyanide bottle could have been in someone else’s possession for half of the day. Who would want it? And why?

  “Erin?”

  I jerked upright and twisted toward the voice. Steve Sullivan was watching me through the van’s open double doors. He had what I could only describe as a smug smile on his face. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  How did he manage to appear whenever I was off balance? “Just fine, thanks. I’m taking a quick breather.”

  He raised an eyebrow and studied me as I scooted past him to jump from the van. “Guess the pressure’s off now that the jig is up, hey?” His hair was in its usual annoyingly sexy-looking faux disarray. Today he wore a tan V-neck sweater and blue jeans.

  “I suppose so. I’m still going to try to finish the job by this evening, though.” I glanced at the Axelrods’ house. Maybe it wasn’t Sullivan or Kevin who’d moved my board to my competitor’s pile, but rather Randy, who really seemed to relish messing with people’s heads. On the remote chance that the lone oak board really did belong to Sullivan, I asked, “You didn’t happen to bring a one-by-six eight-foot length of oak with you for this job, did you?”

  “No. Why? Do you need one?”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “Uh-oh. Has Taylor been playing fast and loose with your work orders?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Quite the carpenter we’ve got here.” He waggled his thumb over his shoulder. “If we just needed him to tear down walls for us, we’d be all set.”

  “Is that a reference to my fiasco yesterday with removing the paneling?” I snarled.

  “I admit I heard about that from Kevin, but I simply meant that the guy’s b
uilt like a bulldozer,” Sullivan said placidly. “Don’t be so defensive.”

  “Sorry. The undercurrents in this neighborhood must be getting to me.”

  “You mean the simmering Hatfields-and-McCoys aspect?”

  “Exactly.” So he’d noticed it, too.

  He nodded. “I’ve never seen people who so obviously rub one another the wrong way choose to spend so much time together.” He paused. “Kind of like you and me.”

  That we rubbed each other the wrong way was an understatement, but hearing him say that aloud made me unexpectedly sad. He pivoted and headed toward the McBrides’ house before I could get a read on his expression.

  “Good luck, Sullivan.”

  I’d meant good luck with Taylor’s not botching his jobs, but he must have taken my remark to mean more, because he gave me a mock salute over his shoulder as he continued to walk away. “Yeah, you too. May the best designer win.”

  “I’m just hoping for a tie,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  I was already framing a rebuttal to his anticipated joust, but he made no reply.

  Taylor and Carl carried the cut-to-size boards for the bed to the Hendersons’ garage at a few minutes after ten. Carl excused himself to install the shelves in the closet while I measured the headboard pieces to make sure that they, too, weren’t four inches too short—at which point Taylor would no doubt try to convince me that the room would look nicer with a double bed instead of the existing queen. To my relief, this time everything was sized perfectly.

  “It looks great, Taylor,” I told him, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Any idea of when you can start putting the headboard together for me?”

  “Monday or Tuesday. I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”

  “It’s got to be finished tonight. That’s written into my signed contract with Carl.”

  “No way. I’m not knocking myself out for my stepfather. I can come back later and finish it up.”

  “No, actually, I have to have the room done by eight p.m. I thought you knew that.”

  “Yeah, originally, sure. Hate to tell ya this, Gilbert, but I have a feeling the surprise Christmas gift was spoiled the moment Debbie got back and saw it. Get real.”

  I grabbed fistfuls of my hair to stave off an impulse to grab his thick neck. “Never mind. I’ll finish the wood and assemble it myself.”

  “Whatever,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back toward the Axelrods’ property. “Course, the TV stand is gonna be a while. The glue’s gotta dry.”

  While Carl installed the closet shelves, Debbie and I turned the garage into a workshop. She worked on staining the crown molding, while I completed the headboard, deciding that I could just as easily stain and poly the wood after the bed was fully assembled—and this way, I comforted myself, I’d at least have the illusion of having made more progress.

  When I paused from tapping the boards for the bookcase into their notches, Debbie said, “I really love everything about your design. I’m sorry I was so panic-stricken when I came home yesterday. I wish I hadn’t yelled at you like that.”

  “That’s all perfectly understandable.”

  She frowned. “Well . . . but my fib about where I’d gotten the alder chest was inexcusable. I was just so embarrassed . . . coming home and finding a professional designer in my dreadful, messy house. I just couldn’t stand to give Jill all the credit for the one thing in my home that you were actually impressed by.”

  “Believe me, Debbie, my house is messy more often than not, and your alder chest is hardly your most impressive possession. Your entire sunroom is marvelous— the white antique wicker rocking chair, the breakfast nook, the brass lamp. . . . It’s all I can do to walk past the doorway and not drop whatever I’m doing, curl up on that cushy yellow-and-blue loveseat of yours, and just stare out the picture window and dream the day away.”

  She put her hand over her heart. “Really? That’s my favorite room in the house, too! Or, rather, it used to be. I already like the bedroom a hundred times better. And I hope you win the contest.”

  “I do, too, of course, but I have a feeling Steve Sullivan’s a lock. He’s really very good”—damn him— “and Randy seems to be all agog over the recliner that Sullivan picked out.”

  “It would be just like Randy to base his decision on a new chair.” Her voice was sour, and she’d narrowed her eyes. She forced a smile. “He’s not so bad, actually. And Myra’s got a really good heart. I don’t think anyone could blame her for being so . . . eccentric, considering the life she’s had.”

  “Oh? What kind of life has she had?”

  She considered her answer. “Let’s just say . . . lonely, and sad.”

  Carl rejoined us before I could ask Debbie any more questions. He announced that the closet shelves were installed, then looked at me working on the headboard, and said, “Why are you doing that yourself?”

  “Taylor said he was behind schedule with Sullivan’s coffee table, so he needed to—”

  “Bull. I’m getting Taylor over here if I have to drag him by the ear.”

  Minutes later, Carl returned with Taylor and Myra in tow. Beaming, Myra said, “Good morning, Erin.” She added, “And Debbie. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it?” Debbie replied.

  Myra gave me a searching look. “I’m not much with power tools, but I can do the last of the hand stitching on the pillows.”

  “Thanks. That would be a big help.”

  Taylor crossed his arms on his chest. “Like I already said to you guys, I’ve got stuff to do for Sullivan. He’s waiting for me at the McBrides’ right now. In two or three hours, I’ll get—”

  There was a thud directly over our heads. It sounded disturbingly like someone taking a header in the master bedroom.

  For a moment, nobody spoke, and I realized we were all taking a mental survey of anyone who could possibly be inside the Hendersons’ house. “Wait. Where’s Randy?” Myra sounded alarmed. “He said he was coming over here ten minutes ago.”

  “Oh, my God. . . ,” Debbie murmured. “His heart!”

  We raced into the house. Taylor took the lead, taking the steps two at a time. I darted into the bedroom just behind him. A couple of steps into the room, Taylor stopped so abruptly, I bumped into him. He stared down at Randy Axelrod’s sprawled body.

  Randy’s face was ice blue. Scattered on the floor around him were the love letters and the cameo pendant.

  chapter 6

  Randy!” Myra cried. “Oh, my God! Randy!” She stood frozen in shock, the Hendersons flanking her. Wordlessly, Taylor rolled Randy over onto his back. I knelt and felt his neck for a pulse, but my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t trust my judgment. Other than my nursing stint at my mother’s bedside, I knew nothing about medical care or first aid.

  “He’s not breathing,” I told Taylor. “Do you know CPR?”

  He said, “Yeah,” and tilted Randy’s head into position.

  “I’ll call nine-one-one,” I said, rising and dodging past Debbie, Carl, and Myra, who merely gaped mutely at Randy with ashen faces.

  I sprinted downstairs, grabbed the phone in the kitchen, and dialed. I told the dispatcher what had happened and gave her the Hendersons’ address. She told me to stay on the line till the paramedics arrived, but I insisted that I needed to tend to Randy myself, which felt true in spirit; I couldn’t stand being downstairs on the phone while a man was clinging to his life just a short distance away. I hung up and rushed back upstairs.

  Taylor was bent over Randy, still trying to resuscitate him. If his efforts were having any effect at all, I couldn’t tell; Randy looked lifeless. Myra was clutching her husband’s hand and crying—a low, keening moan that sounded almost inhuman. Debbie was at her side, patting her back, reassuring her again and again that everything would be fine. Carl still lurked by the doorway, looking both flushed and flustered.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” I told Myra, kneeling beside her.


  She murmured, “I knew he shouldn’t be here, climbing up and down those stairs all the time. His heart wasn’t strong enough.”

  I felt helpless. Was this my fault for not confronting Randy and instantly refusing to continue work the moment I found that picture of me? Had I done so, he probably wouldn’t have kept coming here, climbing up and down the stairs. I glanced over at the letters and necklace, still scattered on the tan carpeting. The only thing missing from the secret stash was my photograph, which I’d confiscated.

  Randy still wasn’t breathing on his own, even though Taylor appeared to be doing an excellent job at CPR. “Taylor, do you need a break? Should I try to take over for you?”

  He gave me the finger and kept ministering to Randy.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered.

  Myra stared at the items on the floor next to her husband, only just now noticing them. She reached across her husband and grabbed one of the letters and the necklace. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I found those inside the wall when I removed the paneling,” I explained, surprised that she hadn’t heard about the discovery from one of her neighbors, if not from Randy himself. She dropped the letter and cameo onto the floor again, disinterested.

  Carl said, “I stashed that stuff in a dresser drawer yesterday in the guest room for safekeeping. I don’t know why Randy was going through our things.”

  “That’s the least of everyone’s worries right now,” Debbie said rigidly, watching Taylor’s attempts to resuscitate Randy. “When he recovers, we’ll ask him.”

  Myra pursed her lips and said nothing. Despite Taylor’s efforts, Randy didn’t seem to be breathing. I felt sick.

  Outside, sirens wailed. “Thank God! I’m going to go down and let them in,” I said, seizing the opportunity to leave this appallingly silent room.

  My thoughts whirled. Randy, as I’d already suspected, had to have been the one to stash everything in the wall, after Taylor had built the hole in the first place. Otherwise, how could Randy have known to search through the Hendersons’ drawers?