Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  Talking about Sullivan brought the day’s horrific events to mind. I should tell Audrey the whole story tonight: she might never forgive me if she heard it secondhand, and it was bound to make the headlines in tomorrow’s newspaper.

  She asked, “Would he be willing to talk for five minutes about curtain rods?”

  “Probably not, now that you mention it. But he could talk about coffee tables instead. His designs are—”

  “It has to be curtain rods, Erin, not coffee tables. And I need you.”

  I shuddered at the notion of myself on a TV screen. “There’s bound to be someone at a window treatment store who’d be dying to do something like this.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Just help me prepare for the interview. Tell me what I’ll need to ask my curtain rod representative.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Do you really want to do this now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  That was a stupid question for Audrey. For someone who changed her mind every two seconds regarding her room designs, she was adamant about her show’s topics and never one to procrastinate.

  Indeed, she shook her head as she fished her Tiffany notepad and Mont Blanc pen out of the pocket of her scarlet jacket. “Didn’t you once sell curtain rods to the trade in New York?”

  “Briefly. Among other things.”

  She donned her reading glasses. “Just give me the basics so that I can be an informed interviewer.”

  I sighed, loathing the very idea of talking about this now. I hatched a plan to make my every statement as dry and clinical as humanly possible and bore the woman to tears. I’d already been manipulated by Detective O’Reilly tonight. By gosh, if I wasn’t able to enjoy this conversation, she wasn’t either. “Okay. Let’s see. You’ll want to ask about materials.”

  She nodded and peered over her reading glasses at me. “By ‘materials,’ you mean the fabric for the curtains?”

  “No, as in wood versus metal rods. Wood is traditional, metal more contemporary. But be sure whoever you interview talks about other factors that go into the decision—the overall balance of the room design, etcetera.You’ll want to ask about how to select the size, as well. Standard curtain rods are one-and-three-eighths or two-inches in diameter. The size of the window determines the size of the rod. Everyone knows a large window needs a large rod and a small window requires a small rod, but the length of the curtain needs to be considered, too. A wide but short window with curtains that extend only to the sill or apron can seem out of balance with a thick rod, and—”

  “Good lord!” Audrey cried. “You’re putting me to sleep here!”

  I pretended to be offended by her statement and clicked my tongue. “It’s nearly midnight! Doesn’t sleep strike you as appropriate?”

  She rolled her eyes a second time and continued scribbling notes. Then she looked up at me and inquired, “What about those doodads at the ends of the rods?”

  “They’re called finials. Finials are especially important. They can augment a window treatment and enhance the overall design of a room.”

  While writing, she muttered, “Maybe it’s just as well that you aren’t going to do the interview. You’re sounding like advertising copy now.”

  “Thanks so much, Audrey.”

  She gave me a regal smile. “Which is not to say that I don’t truly appreciate your help, dear.” She sighed. “Only that this segment is never going to win me an Emmy.”

  “That is a bit beyond the scope of even the finestquality curtain rod.”

  She gestured at me with her pen.“Go on, Erin. Fill me in on finials.”

  Deliberately sounding as close to a computerized voice as I could reasonably hope to get away with, I rattled off: “Finials are often sold separately from the rod. They’re made out of glass, wood, or metal, and there’s a wide range of prices. Low-end finials are made out of plastic, but you should tell your viewers to avoid them unless they intend to paint them. That’s a great way to save some money. A crappy-looking rod can be painted a color that looks wonderful with the curtain fabrics, or the finial can be covered in fabric.”

  She grinned. “At last. Some information that’s actually going to be helpful.” She looked up from her notepad. “Anything else?”

  The perfect opportunity to change subjects and tell her about the traumatic events of my day. Realizing I wasn’t up to the task at this hour, I replied,“That’s it. Just that decorators need to consider not only the pattern, if there is one, in the curtain fabric, but the patterns and lines of all the upholstery and accessories, and especially the wallpaper and molding.”

  Audrey nodded, and as she scribbled, she said, “Right. All lines. Especially wallpaper and molding.” She gave me a beatific smile that I instantly knew was a payback for my affectations while answering her questions. “Thank you, Erin.” She returned her beautiful notepad and pen to her pocket.

  Feeling a little guilty, I said eagerly, “Hey, Audrey? I do have one fun suggestion for the show. You might want to close the segment by saying something along the lines of: ‘Spare the rod, spoil the drapes.’ ”

  She gave me a look that clearly said, You poor dear, patted my knee, rose, and swept from the room.

  chapter 9

  Long after Audrey had retired, I remained awake—my second night in a row unable to sleep. Detective O’Reilly might have lied about Randy Axelrod’s cause of death to see if I would confess or point the finger at some murderous co-conspirator. After the detective had all but accused me to my face of poisoning Randy, I’d insisted on giving O’Reilly the container of cyanide. He could consider it evidence or not, but I wanted it out of my possession.

  What festered in me throughout the night, however, was the suspicion that someone had murdered my biological father all but in front of my eyes. Even if I was destined to never know my paternal roots for certain, I did know that Randy Axelrod deserved justice, and I wasn’t going to sleep well until his killer was behind bars. I waited until eight a.m., then, determined to do whatever I could to help solve his murder, I called Debbie Henderson and arranged to arrive an hour later, vowing to myself to keep my eyes and ears open for clues.

  At nine o’clock on the nose, I rang the Hendersons’ doorbell. Carl answered. He was wearing a suit and tie. So much for his promise yesterday that he would take the day off to help me. Before I could even say hello, he said, “Taylor got your headboard out of the garage. He needs to know what you need done to it.”

  My instructions were clearly spelled out in the drawing, and I couldn’t begin to understand why Taylor would choose to haul it across the street again, but I bit back an irritated response and merely replied, “Okay.”

  “I’ve got some eggs cooking on the stove. Excuse me.” Carl closed the door in my face.

  Advising myself not to read anything into his brusque manner, I tightened the belt of my black leather jacket and went across the street in search of Taylor. The air was sweet and crisp. I glanced over my shoulder; a bank of clouds had cloaked the mountains and much of the sky in gray.

  Myra emerged from her front door as I walked up the driveway. Had she been watching me through the window? She wore a pretty cotton skirt and a periwinkle shell underneath her tan cardigan. For the first time since I’d met her, she had on makeup, and her gray hair was neatly fastened into a French twist. All told, I thought, she looked as far from a recent, grieving widow as one could get.

  “Good morning,” she said. “How are you doing, Erin?”

  “That’s just what I was about to ask you.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled at me. “Absolutely wonderful, in fact.”

  Wonderful? Just half a day after her husband died? I battled through a mental flashback of Randy complaining about the taste of his Budweiser and forced myself to return her smile. “That’s good to hear. I noticed Taylor’s truck is parked in your driveway. Is he going to keep his workshop over here, do you know?”

  She nodded. “We discussed moving it to the Hende
rsons’ or the McBrides’, but that seemed like such a waste of time.”

  Taylor specialized in wasting time. He’d carried a heavy headboard out of its owner’s garage and clear across the street.

  Myra continued. “He should be out back. Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, but no, I’m fine.” No way was I accepting food or beverages from anyone in this neighborhood. “I’ll just see how Taylor’s doing and then I’ll get back to work at the Hendersons’.”

  I let myself through the gate of the split-rail cedar fence. Taylor was not in sight, but the odor of cigarette smoke was so strong that I couldn’t have missed him by much. He’d probably gone into Myra’s house to use the bathroom.

  I passed the workshop area to examine the headboard, which was atop a plastic sheet on the lawn. It was fully assembled, and Carl and Debbie must have completed the staining and sealing work yesterday. Even in this incongruous setting, the headboard was beautiful—and looked as though it must weigh a hundred pounds. Now, thanks to Taylor, I would need to get him and another strong individual to carry it back over to the Hendersons’. Could he be stalling? Deliberately keeping me here on the job until he could slip something into my water glass? Good heavens, I was getting paranoid!

  I surveyed Taylor’s workspace. The vise grips of a Black & Decker Workmate held an Italian black walnut coffee table, the pieces clamped in place while the glue dried. The table was very handsome—simple and stunningly elegant—with tapered legs and a small shelf below the tabletop for magazines. The piece was characteristic of a Sullivan design, relying on the sublime wood grain for its distinctiveness.

  There were still some materials under Steve’s tarp. Curious, I peeked under the tarp and noted that all of the boards had been cut and their rough edges sanded smooth. These had to be the makings for the entertainment center that Kevin had fetched Taylor to begin on Saturday afternoon. In contrast, my own stack of wood was gone, yet there was no sign of the oak television stand. Maybe that was now in the Hendersons’ garage, but if so, I had no idea how Taylor had assembled it so early in the morning. Maybe he’d come back last night and worked after all.

  Taylor slid open the back door and stepped out. He spat on the ground. “Checking up on me again, Gilbert?”

  Carl had been the one to tell me to come over here and give Taylor the instructions he needed. My paranoia was raging, and I felt a prickle of fear as the muscular young man approached. Today he wore his spiked dog collar again, along with the same overalls and work boots he’d had on all weekend. His scalp, however, was sporting a five-o’clock shadow, as was his chin. “The headboard looks great,” I praised. “Now all we have to do is assemble the rest of the frame, after it’s in the bedroom. I’m sure you’ve already noticed that the stairway is too narrow to angle this through otherwise.”

  “Yeah. No shit.” The false bravado in his voice combined with the suddenly super-innocent facial expression made me very glad that I’d mentioned it.

  “Is the TV stand assembled?”

  “Yeah. But it still has to be stained and sealed. I brought that over to Carl’s garage for you this morning, when I was picking up the bed.”

  “Thanks.” I couldn’t help but glance at the much heavier headboard as I said, “So . . . this is ready to go back across the street now and up to the bedroom, I take it?”

  “Yeah, I just brought it over here ’cuz I thought the boards were too long by an inch or so and needed to be cut again. Didn’t want you flipping out again like you did with that TV stand. But, turns out, everything’s gonna fit fine.”

  “That’s why I keep a tape measure with me.” I showed it to him. “They’re so portable.” Especially when compared to a massive headboard with an attached bookcase. Not to silently beat a dead horse. “Are you going to be able to help me install the bed and the crown molding this morning?”

  “Nah. Still got a shitload of work to do for Sullivan. But I already cut the molding, and it’s all in Carl’s garage, so you can go ahead and get that up yourself. So long as you can handle a nail gun.”

  “I can manage.”

  “I got Carl one for Christmas last year. I’m pretty sure he’s never used it, though.”

  As Taylor brushed past me, another disturbing memory returned to me. The first time we met, Myra had said that she’d caught Taylor poking around in her refrigerator. Maybe he’d been doctoring Randy’s beer. I resisted the temptation to babble to Taylor that I was an excellent shot with a nail gun to give him the impression that I knew how to defend myself.

  He turned on his saw and started to cut a chunk off what looked like a piece of scrap board to me, so I was quite certain that this was his gentle way of bringing our little chat to a close. While mulling Taylor’s backward approach to carpentry—for simplicity’s sake, molding is generally cut to size as it’s being installed—I headed through the side yard. The odds that he’d sawed all of my precut crown molding pieces correctly were comparable to my happening across a winning ticket for the Colorado state lottery.

  Debbie was standing on the bottom step of Myra’s porch, looking up at Myra. I was about to greet them, but hesitated when I glimpsed their expressions. Both women were obviously very upset with one another. I took a step back, so they couldn’t see me.

  “Myra, please. I’m asking you to forgive and forget,” Debbie pleaded.

  Her voice redolent with hostility, Myra replied, “I forgive you, Debbie. After all, it’s not like I loved the son of a bitch. But asking me to forget is a different matter entirely.”

  They fell silent. Deliberately making a noisy approach, I came toward them. Debbie gave me a quick glance, then looked up at her neighbor and said, “Again, Myra, if there’s anything at all Carl and I can do . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” In much lighter tones, Myra said, “Erin, don’t hesitate to ask for help with finishing up the room, either. These days, I would just as soon stay busy, rather than allow my thoughts to wander.”

  I thanked her, and she said goodbye and went back inside her house. Meanwhile, Debbie Henderson combed her fingers through her red hair and said, “It’s so good of you to come again so soon. We were all so shaken yesterday. . . .”

  “It was upsetting, all right, but much worse for you, I’m sure. You knew Randy so much better than I did.”

  She pursed her lips as if biting back a reply. “I’m afraid Carl left for work already, so I hope you aren’t counting on his help.” Crestfallen, she added, “He suddenly changed his mind about taking the day off.”

  To offer some cheer, I said, “I should be able to complete your bedroom today or tomorrow. My calendar’s fairly open. All I’ve got scheduled this week are quick jobs—decorating homes for holiday parties or assisting with furniture shopping for Christmas presents.”

  “Myra was under the impression that you were really swamped.”

  This is why I hate telling white lies—they darken of their own accord, like unstained cherry cabinetry. “Myra has a major job in mind that would take me well past New Year’s to complete.”

  We headed up her driveway. Debbie said, “Myra told me about your hospital visit yesterday. Jill and I went there ourselves, but Myra said Randy wasn’t in any state to see us. She told us to leave.”

  “I must have happened to come along at exactly the right time, then.”

  “Apparently so.” Her face was inscrutable, but I detected a hint of bitterness in her voice.

  “I hope it doesn’t seem as though I’m getting in the way of established friendships here,” I said, feeling sorry for her.

  “Not at all. Heavens!” She hesitated as we stepped through the front door. “I can’t begin to imagine how this must all seem to you—a perfect stranger—walking into all this . . . bickering among friends. Not to mention having someone collapse in the room you were working so hard on.” She glanced upstairs, then added, “I know this is selfish of me, but . . . thank God he died at the hospital and not in my bed
room. I don’t know what I’d do. The room is so beautiful now, but I know all I’d be seeing when I closed my eyes would be Randy’s corpse.”

  I hadn’t stopped to consider the nightmarish images that she’d been left with in the wake of finding Randy sprawled on the floor of her room. If Debbie now had indelible negative emotional connotations, my design wasn’t going to be successful, no matter how good it might be otherwise. “Are you going to be okay with your new room if we stick with the original design? Or would you feel more comfortable if we started over fresh and tried to get rid of any mental associations?”

  “No, absolutely not! I love what you’ve done with the room. It was a horrible coincidence that . . . his heart gave out in my house, not in his own. But I don’t feel as though the room is cursed. And it’s so lovely!”

  “Good.” Over the years, something unexpected had happened in nearly every room I’d ever worked on; it was just part of the process. However, truth be told, if ever a project of mine was cursed, this was the one. Among the potential disasters decorators envision, death is not high on the list.

  I wished I felt comfortable enough with Debbie to ask her for her theories on what had happened. Why had Randy been carrying the letters and necklace? He had to have been in severe pain from the effects of the arsenic. Had collecting those items been so urgent as to be his final action? And what had happened to the letters and necklace afterward? Had Carl collected them and hidden them for safekeeping?

  “After the crown molding is up, I’ll need to hang the window treatments and move the furniture in. Normally I have furniture movers do that for me. That headboard is going to be really heavy, and the bed frame needs to be assembled, which requires two or three people. I’m going to have to find someone other than just Taylor to help me.”

  “I’ll bet the three of us could manage, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but I just can’t ask you to do that. It seems so . . . unprofessional. This is the one stage where the homeowner shouldn’t lift a finger, let alone a two-ton headboard. It’s unfortunate that Taylor moved it back over there while it was still in pieces, but he thought he might have to make some alterations.” A plausible—if inadequate—explanation for his actions suddenly occurred. “Oh. I’d forgotten about your allergy to sawdust when we were working in your garage yesterday. I hope you—”