Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  Jill flashed a panicked look in her husband’s direction, then returned her gaze to Sullivan. “Is there something wrong that you’re not eager to share with us? A crack in our foundation?”

  “No, it’s nothing important. Really. Your foundation is rock solid. I just noticed an unusual wire connection when I was down there earlier today and couldn’t get the phone jack to work. Erin knows way more about wiring than I do.”

  “Go right ahead, then.”

  We went downstairs, and he shut the basement door softly behind us. I muttered, “I don’t know diddly-squat about wiring.”

  “That was all I could come up with off the top of my head. If they ask, the problem’s caused by a carpenter’s staple through the phone wire. That’s actually the truth.” He led me through an unfinished room into an enormous partially finished workshop. Wall-length shelving was filled with gadgets and jars of various sizes and contents. “I was down here an hour ago, and it’s like a miniature science lab. I decided to check the labels on all these bottles, just in case. I found one that’ll interest you.”

  We were obviously looking for a container of arsenic, but just as I’d started to read the labels, I heard someone enter the room behind us. Kevin had somehow managed to follow us down the stairs, unheard.

  “Hey, Steve,” Kevin McBride asked. “What’s this about some sort of trouble with our wiring?”

  “It’s nothing major.” Sullivan replied, “The phone jack in the den doesn’t work. I wanted to trace it down . . . see if I could fix it.” Man, he was a smooth liar!

  “I’m more than capable of doing that by myself.”

  Kevin was glaring at us, and I was absolutely certain he’d caught us scanning his shelves and not the wiring along the floor joists above our heads. “This is quite a workshop you’ve got here, Kevin,” I said, surveying the area and trying to send icy thoughts to my cheeks, which were nevertheless growing warm. “Your wife said you’re an electrical engineer, right?”

  He drummed his fingers on his crossed arms and replied sourly, “That’s right.”

  I headed across the room to feign interest in a schematic that was spread across the top of a large oak table. “Wow. This is impressive. You even design your own circuit boards?”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to start up my own company.” His roving eyes focused on my breasts again. Considering that we’d been caught snooping, for once I appreciated his ogling me as a much-needed distraction to him. “It’s been a lifelong dream of mine. I think I’ve hit upon a new invention that could sell like hotcakes. Once I get some more financial backers to help with the production, that is.”

  While scanning the wiring along the ceiling, Sullivan asked, “What is it? Your invention, I mean.”

  Kevin gave him a jab in the shoulder. “Can’t tell you that, man. Loose lips sink ships and all of that.”

  “Hey, I understand.” Sullivan held up his palms. “Not that you have to worry about me, in any case. All I know is fabrics and color palettes. Wouldn’t know how to wire up a circuit if my life depended on it. That’s why I had to trust Gilbert here when I wanted to know if it was okay to drive a big staple right through a phone wire like that.” He pointed at something above his head, hopefully the carpenter’s staple.

  “Which I told him it isn’t,” I replied firmly.

  “I see.” Kevin looked at me, then at Sullivan, and rocked on his heels. “So why were you looking at my bottles?”

  “I’m a collector of rare old bottles,” I lied instantly. “There are a couple of bottles on your shelf that happened to catch my eye.”

  None of those bottles appeared, at a glance, to be more than ten years old. Still scrutinizing the ceiling, Sullivan hastily interjected, “Someone must have been a bit careless with the staple gun.”

  Kevin followed his gaze and replied, “Taylor, I guess.” He looked at me with a raised eyebrow and, for some reason, winked. “Jill hired him do some odd jobs around the house last week. I didn’t connect Taylor’s recent handiwork with the fact that the phone in the den hasn’t been working.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sullivan promised.

  “That’s okay. Really. I’ll fix it myself later. As you can surmise, we hardly ever use the phone in that room anyway. My wife prefers the cordless from the kitchen.”

  “Even so. I’ll get some phone cord and redo this for you,” Sullivan said. “I like to make sure my rooms are perfect.”

  “That’s really not necessary.” Kevin paused, rocked on his heels again, and regarded us coolly. “So. How long are you two going to keep this up?”

  “Keep what up?” Sullivan asked, innocence personified.

  “This crap about both of you coming down here to look at the one staple in the cord. Do you really think you’re fooling me?”

  “Pardon?” I asked, affecting the same look of innocent ignorance that Sullivan had donned.

  Kevin ignored me. He said to Sullivan, “Jill assumes you’re gay, but I’ve seen the way you look at Erin when her back is turned. You two have a thing going, don’t you?”

  “He caught us, Erin,” Sullivan said.

  He strode over to me and rested his arm around my shoulders, and I played along and flung my arm around his waist. He was every bit as well toned as he appeared to be.

  My cheeks were growing ever warmer, and I babbled to Kevin, “It helps Steve’s business sometimes when his female customers think that he’s gay. They’re more willing to listen to his ideas about fabrics and colors.”

  “Hence the ruse,” Sullivan added.

  Kevin gave me another of his patented lascivious grins, still undressing me with his eyes. “Can’t say as I blame you one bit, dude.”

  “What did you think?” Sullivan asked as we left the McBrides’ home several minutes later. An icy breeze greeted us the moment that we stepped away from the ell of their house.

  “You did a terrific job. I liked everything about your room.” I couldn’t help but tease him: “Especially the mounted fish. That was a really nice touch.”

  “I meant about the arsenic in the basement, and don’t push my buttons, Gilbert. There was nothing I could do about the stupid fish and you know it.”

  We stopped by the door of Sullivan’s van, parked next to mine in front of the McBrides’ garage. “I never actually saw that arsenic bottle.”

  “It was on the second shelf,” Sullivan replied, “half-hidden behind other bottles. No way is their having arsenic a coincidence. Kevin or Jill must have killed Randy. I should go to the police, don’t you think?”

  “You might only succeed in turning yourself into their new chief suspect. Which is about all I accomplished by going to them about the cyanide.”

  “Yeah, but . . . it’s so suspicious, that bottle of poison in Kevin’s workshop.”

  “Which is why it’s so weird that Kevin or Jill would have simply left it out in the open, if they knew about its being there. Someone else could have sneaked into the McBrides’ house at some point and stashed the bottle there to frame them.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone framed them. I think that’s why Kevin was so anxious not to leave us alone in his workshop. He had no way to know anyone would be looking around there before he had the chance to get rid of the bottle. The guy’s a lech, and I wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him.”

  My attention wandered to a blue sedan on the street that had slowed as it drew closer to the house. It seemed to me that the neighborhood was overdue for another police visit, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if this turned out to be an unmarked police vehicle. The driver backed up and parked on the street, then a stocky man with a dark complexion climbed out of his vehicle and headed toward us. My heart sank. A police officer. He was in a suit and tie, but the casual attire of Crestview made this almost as obvious a police uniform as the standard blues.

  He glanced at the “Interiors by Gilbert” on the side of my van and then at the “Sullivan Designs” on Steve
’s as he stopped in front of us. “You Erin Gilbert?” he asked me, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Yes, I am.” My stomach was instantly in knots.

  “And are you Steve Sullivan?”

  “Yeah. Can I help you with something?”

  “Maybe. I’m Detective Martinez.” He fished out a pair of business cards from his pocket and handed one to each of us. The half smile remained. “I’m investigating a possible homicide in this neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, we know about that . . . Randy Axelrod,” Sullivan said. “Erin spoke with the police already. A detective told her Randy died from arsenic poisoning.”

  Martinez’s expression didn’t change. “Come down to the police station this afternoon. We’d like to ask you both some questions.”

  “Together?” Sullivan asked.

  “Or separately. Whatever works best for you.”

  Never would work best for me, but I wisely kept the thought to myself. The concept of the police possibly considering me a suspect in a murder terrified me into silence.

  Detective Martinez turned to walk away. Sullivan looked at me with raised eyebrows, as if to ask if he should mention the arsenic. When I shrugged in reply, he said, “Officer? You might want to get a look in the McBrides’ basement workshop. I was down there earlier and spotted a bottle of arsenic on the second shelf of their bookcase.”

  The detective eyed Sullivan for a long moment. “Be sure to come to the station house. Soon.” He stabbed at the McBrides’ doorbell.

  Sullivan made a poor show of unlocking his van in super-slow motion while we watched to see what would happen next. Jill answered; she and Martinez spoke quietly, then she and I locked gazes for an instant before she ushered him inside. The fierceness in her expression chilled me to the bone.

  Sullivan and I stood there in silence for a moment or two after the front door had been shut. Sullivan chose to ignore our brief exchange with the detective entirely and said, “We’re still on with Myra at five tonight, right?”

  “Right.” That was when we had scheduled our initial visit with Myra to take “before” pictures, measure the rooms, and get a feel for what she was looking for in her redecorated household. Sullivan hadn’t repeated yesterday’s suggestion of dinner, but if he remained mum on the subject by the time we left Myra’s tonight, I vowed to myself that I would take the initiative. He was being a true gentleman now, and it was high time for me to forgive his boorish behavior last year and make nice.

  I drove home, my mind in a whirl. I wasn’t going to go back to the police station of my own volition. Detective Martinez hadn’t set an exact time or stated that my visit was mandatory. No way was I willing to sit in that sterile environment and be stared at like bacteria under a microscope. The police could come to me if they wanted more information, and anyway, there was nothing more for me to tell them, was there?

  chapter 12

  In the blink of an eye, our babies become adults, and minor keepsakes from their childhoods become our greatest treasures.

  —Audrey Munroe

  “Splendid,” Audrey cried as she rushed into the foyer before I could even close the front door. “You’re home precisely when I need a practice audience.”

  She waited impatiently as I removed my coat and stored that and my purse in the closet. I rarely had the chance to watch Audrey’s show and enjoyed my occasional gig as guinea pig for her five-minute show segments. This, however, was a rare break for me in the middle of an intense day, and I weighed the notion of telling her that I had too much on my mind. Realistically, though, all I felt up to doing for the next five minutes or so was sitting and staring at a wall, so I might as well stare at Audrey. I followed her into the kitchen, and we took our standard positions—Audrey behind the island and me seated in the breakfast nook. Today her sewing machine was out, so obviously this segment had something to do with fabric.

  With no how-are-you-doing-today preamble, she flashed me her TV smile and launched into her show persona. “If you’re like most parents of young children, you dearly enjoy recording your little ones’ heights. You can buy premade plastic charts for upward of twenty dollars, or you can make and personalize one for the cost of a couple of yards of fabric, a measuring tape, and a few odds and ends such as rub-on letters that you probably already have in your junk drawer.”

  Who has rub-on letters in their junk drawer? I wondered, but knew better than to interrupt. Audrey would tolerate criticisms after her demo, but not during.

  “And for us aunts, uncles, and farther-up-the-growth-chart parents, personalized height charts make a wonderful baby shower or Christmas gift.” She reached below my line of sight and lifted up some off-white fabric. “My first tip is to be sure that you make separate growth charts for each child. We parents well know that the last thing children need is one more source of comparison and competition. Besides, the chart that you make will be a lovely, wonderful keepsake you’ll always treasure . . . with pictures of your child and his or her name on top. One chart for two or more children simply won’t do.”

  I couldn’t help but smile and nod.

  “You’ll want to buy thick, heavy fabric with a coarse weave, such as this stiff interfacing or this canvas.” She showed me the fabrics as she spoke.“Purchase two linear yards of fabric. With the standard thirty-six-inch widths, you can cut the fabric in half lengthwise for two eighteen-inch-wide charts—the perfect dimensions.” She unfolded the canvas to reveal that it was actually two pieces. “We’ll attach a measuring tape to each chart. Plan on mounting your finished chart on the wall so that the bottom of the tape is precisely twelve inches above the floor. Unless you’re measuring the height of Fido, Fluffy, or your ficus, those bottom inches are wasted space. And if your child is well over six feet tall, chances are that he or she is too busy playing basketball to be measured anyway.”

  I chuckled, but then my mind started to wander as Audrey demonstrated how to hem the fabric and put eyelets in the top corners. Audrey was the only person I knew who actually preferred to sew standing up like this; she’d once explained to me that it felt better on her back, though Audrey had so much excess energy, she probably simply couldn’t stand to sit down long enough to sew.

  Talking loudly over the whir of her machine, she showed how to attach the measuring tape along the right edge of the fabric. She’d first lopped off the bottom foot of the tape, altered the numbers one through twelve on that piece to read sixty-one through seventy-two inches, then fastened it to the top of the tape.

  Audrey continued. “If you need to pinch pennies, rather than purchasing tape measures from your local fabric store, you can print a free measuring tape from Web sites such as LLBean.com. Just be sure to use high-quality cloth paper, or to laminate your everyday paper when you print out your measuring tape.” She held up a second chart that she’d already started using this method, which she completed by gluing the last segment of tape into place on the interfacing.

  She gave me, as the virtual camera, a beatific smile. “Let me show you the wonderful keepsake I made from my son’s growth chart.” Again she reached down, retrieving a beautiful cedar container, roughly the size of a shirt box. “As you’ll be able to tell from his six-one height, Michael inherited my first husband’s genes.” She removed a folded cloth from the container.“By the way, I’m expecting him to be available quite soon. He lives near Washington, D.C. He married this shrew of a woman two years ago, and naturally the marriage is falling apart. I tried to warn him that he should never choose a woman whose main hobby was—”

  “You’re going to talk about your son’s marriage on TV?” I yelped.

  “Of course not, dear. That was an aside to you.”

  As she spread out the wall hanging, I was so impressed that I rose involuntarily and stepped forward for a closer look. “Audrey! That’s absolutely adorable!” She’d sprayed a clear polyurethane over the surface of the cloth to keep the dates and marks preserved and had lovingly cut out pictures of her son at two- to
three-year stages. She’d embroidered his name at the top and done a lovely cross-stitch pattern along the entire edge of the piece. She’d also used fabric paint to augment some of the blank spaces with delicate designs. From bottom to top, the photographs began with her newborn son at the hospital and ended with him looking very, very handsome in his cap and gown.

  “Thank you, Erin. That’s truly sweet of you to say. But you know, my real audience isn’t allowed to leap up and rush the stage for a closer look.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot! You’ve thrown off my timing.”

  “Surely that was already thrown off when you started trying to fix me up with your son. Michael’s still a married man, you know. Even if he gets divorced tomorrow, he’ll need to decide on his own when and if he’s ready to start looking again. He’s a grown man of—”

  “You make a good point, Erin,” Audrey interrupted. “No need to keep jabbing me with it.”

  “Sorry. Please continue.” I meekly reclaimed my seat while Audrey cleared the counter of everything except the sewing machine.

  A dazzling smile was instantly back on her face, and I recognized it as her we’ve-just-returned-from-commercials expression. With the identical intonations that she’d used before, she began, “If you’re like most parents . . .”

  chapter 13

  Three hours later, I arrived at Myra’s house a minute or two early and rang the doorbell. Though there still wasn’t any snowfall despite this being mid-December—Christmas was just a week away—there was a decided chill in the air, and I didn’t feel like waiting for Sullivan to arrive and having to idle my motor to keep the heater going. Now that I was no longer required to move or stain furniture or paint walls, I had dressed up in autumnal colors—an A-line wool skirt suit, silk blouse, and silk scarf.