by Leslie Caine
We headed to our respective clients’ homes to let them know we were leaving. Debbie came to the door, carrying a stack of paperbacks balanced in a shoe box. “Come on in, Erin. Carl told me to tell you that the TV stand is stained, and he said he’d apply the polyurethane when he gets home at five. I’m just putting these away upstairs in my closet.”
I faked a stern expression. “You know, Debbie, you’re breaching my policy of never allowing my customers to move things themselves back into the remodeled room.”
She chuckled. “I couldn’t wait. Besides, these books weren’t in the bedroom before. They were in my office. So technically, I’m not moving anything back into the room.”
“Ah. Well, that eases my conscience a little.” I glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to spare before I had to leave for another client’s home in Foothills Park. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“Thanks. I’ve got two more loads after this one. I can’t believe how much extra storage space for books that closet gives me!”
I followed her upstairs and glanced around at my nearly completed design. The ambience of a calm, cozy oasis that I’d hoped to achieve was starting to come together. It was frustrating to have to wait clear until midday tomorrow to see this room in its final state.
Debbie had triple-stacked books on the deep shelves and had me help her stash them without rhyme or reason. This hidden shelving was infinitely better than having knee-high stacks along the walls, but she would have a devil of a time finding a particular title this way. If only my room design hadn’t initially been a surprise, we could have discussed other options, such as a floor-to-ceiling book carousel in the closet. As we descended the stairs again, I had to adopt yet another temporary mantra—Let it go, Erin . . . let it go.
There were only another twenty or so books remaining in her office. While helping her to box them, my vision fell upon a small stack of papers next to the printer. The printout was titled “Window Treatments—A Whole New World.”
“Oh, hey,” I said with a big smile. “When Carl told me you were a technical writer, I assumed that meant computers and high-tech equipment.”
She stuffed a tress of her red hair behind her ear. With her back to the computer, she replied, “That is what I write.”
“But you sometimes do freelance work on home design articles?”
Her eyes flew wide. She whirled around to look at the printout. “Oh, uh, no, I don’t. I didn’t write that article myself, I just printed it off the Net weeks ago. For use when planning my own bedroom.”
How odd. If she’d printed the article off the Net, it should have contained Internet print headings. I read the existing headers. “Oh, that’s one of Randy Axelrod’s pieces for Denver Lifestyles.” He must have sent Debbie one of his yet-to-be-published articles.
She followed my gaze. “Oh, yes, indeedy. That’s Randy’s article, isn’t it? I’d forgotten.” Avoiding my eyes, she scooped up the box of books. “I’ll carry these. Can you turn out the lights?”
“Sure.”
She had borne that same expression and demeanor when she’d been caught in the lie about how she came to possess her chest of drawers. She was lying about something again. I scanned the first paragraph of the article. It was the typical voice that Randy had used in his magazine editorials.
I followed Debbie up the stairs, wondering. Could she have ghostwritten those articles? That would certainly explain the disparity between Randy’s written and speaking voices. Not to mention his complete lack of interest in design.
As we were putting away the last of Debbie’s books, she said, “Seeing Randy’s article just now got me to thinking . . . I wonder if I should go ahead and talk to someone at the magazine about that story Randy promised to do on you and Steve Sullivan.”
“Or on the contest winner, rather.”
“Well, yes, but now we can rethink Randy’s decision. In fact, I could have our subscribers vote on which room they liked the best. That way you’d both get plenty of positive publicity.”
Our subscribers?
Her expression changed to alarm as, obviously, her own words registered. “I . . . used to do a lot of freelance work for Denver Lifestyles.”
“I see.” There was obviously more to this than she wanted to divulge, but I decided to let the matter drop. “Jill told me she was interviewed by the police last night.”
She nodded. “They spoke to Carl and me, too. They’re suspicious about the circumstances of Randy’s death, but I can’t imagine why. I mean, yes, the man had enemies. Randy enjoyed rubbing people the wrong way. But his heart condition was a ticking time bomb, and he stubbornly refused to adjust his lifestyle. There’s no way he would have lived all that much longer, regardless.”
Maybe the killer had an even-louder ticking time bomb to deal with, I thought.
Just before noon the next day, I was sitting alone on the floor beside the glossy new night table in the Hendersons’ master bedroom. Jill had excused herself to make an important phone call a minute earlier. The bed had been assembled and the chest of drawers moved into place, but it was the night table that currently held my attention.
I indulged myself and ran my palms over the top. It had a heavenly smoothness to the surface. I took a deep breath as I opened its breakfront and slipped some books inside. There was nothing quite like the scent of new fine wood case goods. This had been a pricey purchase but worth every penny—a limited-edition artisan-style breakfront in rich tiger maple. It was absolutely exquisite, with a sleek, gentle flair in its legs and sexy lines. I lovingly closed the breakfront doors. From the doorway behind me, Jill chuckled.
“Caught in the act,” I murmured, and scrambled to my feet.
“That’s quite all right. I don’t blame you in the least. That nightstand is divine. Believe me, Erin, if I’d have seen how beautifully that table went with my old dresser, I never would have let Debbie have my dresser in the first place.”
“I’ve always had a weakness for nice furniture,” I confessed. “My high school friends were drooling over pop magazines that showed Brad Pitt naked from the waist up, while I was poring over the legs in Architectural Digest, and House and Garden. ‘Oh, sure,’ I would tell them, ‘the man has gorgeous blue eyes, but try holding up a Murano indigo glass bottle next to his cheek sometime and see which color is more spectacular.’ Pop stars come and go. But a solid cherry cabinet with dovetail joinery? Now that will outlive us all.”
She continued to smile at me, her blue eyes merry. “And were your friends impressed with that argument?”
“Not really.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t think so.”
“It probably goes without saying that I wasn’t voted Most Popular in high school.”
She smiled a little and turned away. “Let’s get your window treatment up now, shall we?”
“Oops. Did I hit a nerve just now, Jill? Were you voted Most Popular?”
She laughed again, clearly delighted that I’d picked up on her body English. “What can I say? High school was a good time for me.” She said wistfully, “My family lived in a mansion in Massachusetts. That’s where I grew up . . . in Lexington. Our home was filled with the antiques—Hepplewhites, Sheratons . . . I’m sure you’d have appreciated its interior. I should show you photos sometime.”
“You really should. What was the house design? Colonial? Federal?”
“Federal. Every room had these marvelous high ceilings and fireplaces. The estate had such a grand presence that it positively reeked of elegance and grace. It’s hard sometimes to adjust to the more contemporary style of homes we have out here in Colorado.”
“Do you get to go back and visit, at least?”
She frowned and shook her head. “We wound up selling the place when my parents passed away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. About that whole situation. Losing my parents and their estate. But Randy needed the money.”
“Randy?”
“Kevin.” She giggled unconvincingly. “I meant my husband, of course. Slip of the tongue. Randy’s death’s so heavy on my mind, I guess.” She made a fluttering motion with her fingertips, as if to flick away any discomfiture at her flub. “Kevin needed the money—venture capital funding—for his latest get-rich-quick scheme.”
“I had a boyfriend who was always trying to discover some quick way to make his fortune. And I’m sure one of these days he’ll manage.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “Was he an electrical engineer, like my Kevin?”
“No, a chemist.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s probably just as bad . . . their noses always in these ridiculous books with mathematical equations.” She rolled her eyes and released a heavy sigh. “Do yourself a favor, Erin. Marry a man with the same interests as you. You’ll keep each other’s hearts much longer that way.”
So the McBrides’ marriage was in trouble, too, just like the Hendersons’ was. These couples didn’t need designers so much as marriage counselors!
Jill proved to be a less-than-ideal helper. She was clearly more used to giving instructions than to receiving them. We managed, however, to hang the sheers and the drapery panels on both windows and across the bedposts. The bronze curtain rods with their carved ivy leaf finials were every bit as big of an improvement as I’d expected them to be. The draperies were now a tapestry to delight the eye.
While I hung the oil painting, Jill put together the second nightstand on the far side of the bed—Carl’s side. To save money, I had gone with a flea-market purchase of a simple table with an open shelf. This is a nice trick of the trade—let one nightstand or corner table be merely functional by virtue of lovely, sin-concealing fabric. A large number of books could be hidden underneath the raw silk skirt I’d chosen.
We put the television set into place. I couldn’t hide all three jacks—the cable, phone, and electric outlets—behind this one small oak unit, so I’d created wallpaper covers for the outlet plates. The large oil painting worked so well in this room and drew the eye so nicely that I almost didn’t mind having the little black TV set with its dreadful aesthetics exposed to one side of the painting’s ornately gilded frame.
Next came the accessories, which for me was tantamount to conducting the orchestra in the final performance or adding the final tantalizing ingredient to a heavenly recipe. At this stage, I always have everyone leave the immediate area, because I can’t tolerate the slightest interruption, so I ushered Jill firmly from the room.
For a needed touch of femininity, I placed a delicate pattern of Belgian lace on the tiger-maple nightstand. I’d noticed a lovely pitcher that wasn’t being suitably shown off in the kitchen; this I would use for fresh flowers. The flowers were tulips—magenta with delicate white edging to each petal—and looked spectacular against the burgundy-and-gold glazed wall. I placed them on the nightstand on Debbie’s side, using a coaster I’d cut with pinking shears from an old plastic placemat.
I “borrowed” a bentwood chair from the sunroom that was suitably aged but had great bones and would look terrific under the window, as well as being a comfortable place to sit and read or just daydream. I set a reasonable and appealing number of books on the headboard shelves and parted the silk panels so that the folds curved deliciously. I arranged the fluffy pillows and draped a cream-colored cashmere throw so that its tassels dangled invitingly over the edge of the tiger maple footboard.
To provide an extra splash of color, I nestled a small pillow of aubergine velvet among the chenille ones we’d made. To highlight and echo that color burst, I placed an aubergine hand-blown art glass piece on the round table on Carl’s bedside. The slant of early afternoon sunlight that now graced the room was lovely and serene, and the lighting would be even nicer in the morning. Then the art glass would catch the sunlight with an intensity and warm glow reminiscent of a glass of fine claret at a midsummer day’s picnic.
Speaking of wine, I arranged a bottle of Merlot and two crystal glasses, along with a corkscrew, on the round table next to the art glass. In a subliminal message that I was certain Debbie would pick up on, I retrieved a hard-cover copy of Far From the Madding Crowd from her closet and centered it on the shelf. Lastly, for an extra touch of romance, I placed and lit three sandalwood-scented candles.
I called Jill back inside, and although she said nothing at first, the look of unabashed envy on her face was heartwarming. After she turned a full three-sixty, she looked at me and said quietly, “Regrettably, Kevin made me promise I won’t redo rooms until a full year has passed, which isn’t the case with our master bedroom. Expect a call in four months.” She sighed, then turned on a heel. “I’m going to go see the final results of my den and send Debbie over.”
“I hope she likes it.”
“She’ll love everything. Trust me. It’s Carl who’s impossible to please,” she called over her shoulder as she descended the stairs.
Alone again, I checked the room from all common angles, except while sitting on their bed; once a bed was fully made and pillows in place I had a superstition about that, and the last thing the Hendersons needed was bad luck. I positioned the arms of the brass sconces partway out and hid the remote control along the very back edge of books on the bottom shelf of the bed. Jill’s reaction had made my heart sing, and I had to admit that this was the nicest bedroom I’d ever been in—warm, elegant and yet cozy and inviting, and extraordinarily romantic with its rich, deep Mediterranean hues.
To my surprise, I heard a male voice along with Debbie’s as the front door opened below. Debbie called, “Erin? Carl came home for lunch. Are you ready for the great unveiling?”
I came down to the landing and said, “Go on up. I’ll be there in just a moment.” I always prefer to give homeowners a minute to absorb how different their interiors have become before expecting them to give me their response to them.
Debbie was hugging Carl when I stepped back into the room. Hearing my footsteps, she immediately pulled away and said, “Erin, you’re a genius! I never imagined this room could be so stunning.”
“Do you like it, Carl?” I asked, inwardly bracing myself.
He fidgeted with his glasses. “This is . . . really something. Dang! I didn’t want to hire you. As far as I could tell, the room was just fine before, but jeez . . . I don’t even know what to say. I mean, this is so . . . neat.” He stared at the television set on its stand. “Look at that, Debbie! We can look straight at the TV now, without craning our necks!”
“Hurray,” she said in a deadpan voice.
“It was just an observation,” he muttered. “I’m not saying . . .” He scanned the room in an obvious attempt to find something else to comment on. He fixed his vision on the round table in the corner. “Oh, hey. You gave us some wine. Great!”
“I’m delighted you like the room.”
“We love it,” Debbie assured me. “I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“You just did. Enjoy. I’m going to go home now, but I’ll call on you tomorrow to make sure you’re completely satisfied.”
I went downstairs. As I collected my purse and grabbed my keys, I heard Carl say, “I think I’ll take the afternoon off. Would you like some wine, my dear?”
“I’d love some,” I heard her reply.
I pumped a fist and breathed a triumphant “Yes!” as I let myself out the door.
And yet I hesitated when I got behind the steering wheel of my van. I was sky-high now and dying to see Steve’s completed design. I decided to just brazenly go over there and ask Jill to show it to me. I made the short drive to the McBrides’ and parked behind Sullivan’s van.
Kevin McBride answered the bell and immediately said, “Erin! Come in and see my room.”
He put his arm around my shoulders as, after kicking off my shoes, I headed inside. “Steve Sullivan might not be as easy on the eyes as you are, but he did one heck of a job for us.”
“I’m sure he did. He’s very talented.”
Even barefoot and with Kevin in his indoor shoes, I was an inch or so taller than he. I jerked my shoulder just enough to signal him that I didn’t appreciate having his hand there, and he wisely let go of me as we rounded the corner into the den.
Well, rats. This interior was drop-dead wonderful, and I had to catch my breath as I took in my surroundings. It was a Sullivan room, and he was a master of clean lines and understated yet dramatic visuals; what had I expected?
Jill and Sullivan appeared to be in consultation about the entertainment center along the north wall. She was working the hardware, which allowed the pocket doors that hid the television set to slide out of sight to either side of the TV, but was saying to Sullivan, “I just don’t know.” She saw me in the doorway, stepped back to give me a view of the piece, and said, “Erin, what do you think? It’s just so . . . plain.”
The shelving echoed the clean lines of the coffee table, and I knew at a glance that all that the piece needed to meet with Jill’s approval was an eye-catching and expensive-looking vase or sculpture. “I love it! The top shelf is at just the right height to showcase beautifully your favorite figurine or sculpture.”
“That’s exactly correct,” Jill exclaimed. “Kevin, let’s go get the Ming vase from the study.”
The moment we were alone together I expected Sullivan to bite my head off for stepping on his toes, but he whispered instead, “Come downstairs with me for a moment.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.” I followed him to the study, where, under Jill’s watchful eye, Kevin was lifting the blue-and-white vase as though it contained nitroglycerin. If that was a real Ming and Kevin were to drop and shatter it, Jill would no doubt strike him dead where he stood. Sullivan told them, “I want Erin to look at something for me. Would you mind terribly if I showed her your basement?”
