by Leslie Caine
Myra rose and walked over to that wall. “I guess that makes sense. We can put a shelf on the half wall.”
“That would look great,” I said. “It will open the area up, but the half wall will still give the rooms definition.”
Steve tapped on the wall, judging where the studs were located. “We’ll need to put a support post here . . . right where the wall ends. We’ll have to contract that work out,” he told Myra. “We shouldn’t have any problem finding someone to do this after the holidays.”
“That reminds me. The floor is making an unusual squeak right here,” Myra said. She stood in the center of the room and shifted her weight from foot to foot, which did cause an unduly loud squeak as the plywood subflooring creaked beneath her. “Do you hear that? It doesn’t sound like a piece of loose plywood to me, somehow.”
“It doesn’t to me, either,” I agreed. “Steve, I’m going to head downstairs and check the structure. There should be a beam going across the ceiling in the basement right about where you’re standing. We need to make sure the support beam is in good shape before we start any major renovations.”
Myra escorted me to the basement door. I asked, “It’s unfinished, isn’t it? Your basement?”
“Yes.”
She flipped on the light, and I went down into the musty-smelling basement. Myra came down partway with me but waited on the stairs.
“Can you tell where I’m standing?” Sullivan called down to me.
“Yes.”
“The noise in the floorboards does sound a bit odd,” he said in a half shout. “It’s probably my imagination, but there seems to be too much give.”
There was a loud cracking sound just over my head, as though he were turning the floor above into a trampoline.
“Erin, don’t you think—” Myra started to say.
I couldn’t hear her above the noise. Just as I stepped toward her, the massive support beam almost directly above my head gave way.
chapter 15
I dived onto the concrete floor. The impact jarred through my body as my jaw smacked shut and pain seared through my rib cage and abdomen. The wind was knocked out of me, and I struggled against intense pain to catch my breath.
I managed to prop myself up on my elbows and look back. Miraculously, nothing heavy had fallen on top of me, just splinters and rubble. I’d been very lucky, and I stared at the devastation around me in disbelief.
The entire support beam that ran straight across the ceiling had collapsed.
Myra was screaming. She’d turned away, but remained on the basement stairs, her arms covering her face.
“I’m okay,” I called, as much to reassure myself as Myra.
As I stumbled to my feet, Steve raced down the steps past Myra. “Erin! Are you all right?” he asked as he rushed to me. His face was white.
It hurt to talk, but I answered, “Fine. Just bruised.” My cream-colored Armani was now dirt-colored. My panty-hose were a complete casualty. Coughing, I tried to wave away the considerable cloud of dust that the falling beam had kicked up.
“Erin! Thank God you’re all right!” Myra cried. “For a moment there, I was so afraid you’d been killed.”
I examined the fallen support beam. The wood was a perfect, sawed-off rectangle; the timber was an engineered, glue-laminated piece. Only the top inch of the end was jagged where the beam’s weight combined with the pressure of traffic above forced it to give way. Steve’s stomping on it from above had apparently done the trick.
“The beam’s been cut,” Steve said as Myra cautiously made her way over to us.
I ran my hand along the slight arc-shaped marks left by the circular saw. “And there’s some flaking here along the bottom edge. Someone sawed through the beam on both ends and then caulked it so no one would notice. The house was booby-trapped.”
“That’s . . . that’s impossible! Who would do such a terrible thing?” Myra asked. Her eyes were wide with fright.
She’d recently learned that her husband had been murdered. Why would she think it was impossible for someone to have sabotaged her house?
Steve said, “Just on the off chance that the rest of the house is about to collapse on top of us, I suggest we all get out of here.” He grabbed our arms to hasten us along. “Thank God the subflooring held,” he told me as we climbed up the basement stairs, “or I’d have landed right on top of you.”
“Yeah. That was lucky for both of us.”
The nearest exit was through the garage, and Myra opened the door for us. The skies had clouded over, and the temperature had plummeted. Myra was shivering, and I dully realized that I was, too, despite my now-filthy suit jacket.
“You need a coat,” I told her. I glanced at the front door and bit back a curse. My leather satchel was inside her living room, along with my portfolio, my digital camera with its hundreds of stored photographs, and my notebook. Without those items, I was essentially without the database that I’d been developing for years.
“Steve, I have to go back inside. I left my satchel with my portfolio—”
“Get it later. It’s not like you don’t have any backups in case . . .” His voice faded as he studied my features. “No backup? Jeez, Gilbert!”
Being chastised by Sullivan was the last thing I needed, and I grumbled, “I’ll be right back.”
He grabbed my arm as I tried to walk away. “No. I’ll go.” “You weigh more than I do. You’re likelier to crash through the floor.”
“It’s my house,” Myra said. “I should be the one to go in.”
“No! I’m going! You two are getting on my nerves. I will walk softly, get my satchel, and be right back.”
“Stick to the outer walls.”
“I’m not a spider!”
“I meant, don’t go near the center of the house.”
“I know, Sullivan! I’m not stupid . . . just overly optimistic”—a personality trait that my experiences in this particular Crestview neighborhood were stripping from every fiber of my being.
Despite the scene in the basement, nothing seemed amiss when I gently stepped through the door. There was no noticeable sagging of the floor, nor were there any toppled furnishings. My satchel and all its precious contents remained exactly where I’d left them—on the floor next to the worn-out turquoise velour overstuffed chair. Gingerly, I crossed the room and snatched up the handle, then started to collect Sullivan’s things from the coffee table, only to hear him bellow through the glass outer door, “Hey, Gilbert! Leave it! I have backups!”
“Too late, Boy Scout,” I snapped, and swept his portfolio and notebooks into my arms. Just to spite him, I took yet another step deeper into the house to retrieve his briefcase.
Under his watchful—if angry—gaze, I returned to the doorway and grabbed a coat of Myra’s from the Victorian coat tree. Sullivan held the door for me. “Real smart, Gilbert. Remind me never to get caught in a fire with you. I’m sure you’d insist on going through the flames to rescue your shampoo.”
“Probably so. I buy high-end, salon-quality products, and they’re pricey.” I thrust his things into his arms, all but hurling them at him. “Here. And you’re welcome.”
Myra was standing at the very edge of her property. It wasn’t as if the place were going to implode and suck us into the rubble, I thought ungenerously. I gave her the coat.
Myra asked, “Can you and Steve fix this?”
“No. But we can hire someone who can.”
“We’ve got a major construction problem ahead of us now,” Sullivan interjected, striding toward us. As if we needed him to lend an authoritative voice to our discussion. “We’ll have to keep everyone out of the house, first off, and get a crane and winch to replace that beam before there’s any further damage. I can call some trustworthy contractors and get you a name.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to find someone willing to check out the premises today and see if they can put up a couple of temporary posts,” I suggested. I glared at Sullivan, silently d
aring him to disagree. Whether or not he deserved my wrath, I’d nearly had a house collapse on top of me. I’d paid my dues for the day.
He made no comment.
I asked Myra, “Was anybody operating power tools downstairs recently?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure, because we went to Aspen during Thanksgiving week. Last year I gave both the McBrides and the Hendersons keys to our front door, in case of an emergency. With Randy’s heart condition, that seemed prudent. And anyway, Randy was always building things and sawing down there.” She paused. “Come to think of it, I don’t know why he made Taylor set up a workshop outside, when Randy had a perfectly good workshop already in place in our basement.”
“Maybe he just didn’t want to allow Taylor access to his private tools,” Steve replied.
Myra pushed a stray tress of gray hair back from her forehead. Her face was still very pale. “True, but now that I think about it, Randy hadn’t been going into the basement as often as he used to. . . .”
“You think your husband might have sabotaged his own home?” I asked. “Why would he do something like that? He’d be putting himself in danger.”
“But maybe he didn’t care about that, since he knew he didn’t have long to live anyway,” Myra said. Under her breath she added, with a touch of venom, “And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to kill me.”
There was an awkward pause, and Steve and I exchanged anxious glances. Conflicting theories occurred to me at once—an explanation for Jill’s drunken remark about knowing “what he’d done” to her—that Randy had tried to frame Myra for his murder with the sawed-off beam and then ingested the arsenic intentionally, or that Myra had staged everything and wanted to kill me.
“The police need to know about this right away,” Steve said, reaching for his cell phone.
“That’s okay,” Myra replied. “I’ll use Jill’s phone. And I’ll have to let Debbie know that she can’t stay in my guest room after all.”
She turned and started to walk toward the McBrides’ house, then stopped and faced me. “Erin, I am so, so sorry about what just happened. I feel so responsible. I don’t know how I’d have been able to carry on if that beam had killed you.”
“Better than I could have, I’m sure,” I retorted, in what was nothing more than a nonsensical babble. It seemed to suffice. Myra gave me a kind smile and turned back toward Jill’s house.
Once she was out of earshot, Steve asked me, “Do you think she’ll actually call the police? Should I call them, too, just in case?”
“I don’t know. Right now, the only thing that I’m certain of is that I’m taking the rest of the day off. And I’m not taking another minute of my precious life for granted.”
“Should we bag this job right now?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s your call, Gilbert. We can tell Myra we’ve reconsidered, and thanks but no thanks. We agreed we’d turn the job down if it looked like things were getting out of control. You just nearly got killed. If that’s not out of control, I don’t know what is.”
I sighed and looked up into his grim face. There was no way I could walk away from all of this now. I had to know who killed Randy and who’d inadvertently come so close to killing me. “Maybe so, but I just can’t believe I was the intended target. The only person who could have pulled that off would have been Myra, and that means she had to have been walking around in her house aware that the floor could collapse at any moment. Let’s see what happens over the next few days while Myra’s getting her house repaired. Maybe the police will have arrested Randy’s killer by then.”
Steve frowned. “Maybe.” He was obviously unconvinced.
My weekend was blissfully uneventful—thanks in no small part to the Dom-Bliss goddess herself. Audrey’d decided to enjoy a brief vacation in Aspen and left me alone in her soul-restoring house. My time was spent in glorious fashion. Saturday morning, I fixed up the den and, despite my time constraints and nonexistent budget, put the whole room more on a par with its stunning Christmas tree. By swapping some furnishings among the living room, parlor, and den, I was able to harmonize the den and improve the balance of all three rooms. On Audrey’s regal marble fireplace, where we’d hung our stockings, I decorated the mantel with some of her excess homemade gift-wrap materials.
When I plugged in the tree lights that evening, I felt a surge of joy. All those shiny, nicely textured gifts that Audrey had overdressed in custom wallpaper and fabric did indeed look fit for a king. Four of the presents were, however, for me, making me suspect that she’d violated our agreed-upon spending limit. My money for her gift had gone to fourteen-karat gold earrings, which I knew would be sheer perfection when worn with her favorite caftan. To my consternation, Sullivan’s voice whispered in my head: What is it with you, Gilbert? Why are you always accessorizing? I told him off, however, and he kept his mouth shut from then on.
With the setting arranged to my satisfaction, I could finally enjoy watching television in this room. A bowl of popcorn beside me and Hildi on my lap, I channel surfed and watched some design shows, which are my own personal version of a spectator sport—I talk back to the TV the way men do during football games. On Sunday morning, I drank cocoa and pored over the furniture ads and home-store fliers. Later, I was thrilled when a pair of friends back in New York called, and we yakked for nearly two hours.
Rejuvenated, my work on Monday morning was a breeze. Although my work was mostly of the basic-business-operation—and unpaid—variety, I so loved it that I was the proverbial kid in a candy shop. A sales rep came to my office to show me his company’s new lines for spring. I researched the three f ’s—fabrics, finishings, and furniture—for my source library of catalogues, pictures, and materials. The day’s schedule also gave me a chance to have my by-appointment-only office open to walk-ins. Not that I got many walk-ins anyway, tucked away as I was on the second floor between two clothing stores. Unless you knew to look for it, only the sharpest eye could spot my door with “Interiors by Gilbert” painted in white on the glass door.
The phone warbled, and it was Myra.
“Good news,” she declared. “The house is structurally sound again.”
“Already?” I asked.
“Already,” she repeated, her voice bubbling with cheer.
“I paid extra for an emergency construction job. The contractor Steve recommended to install the temporary posts was able to build a permanent fix. Since the beam was cut so close to the basement walls, they were able to install new posts and anchor them to the walls. Everything’s good as new, so we’re ready and waiting for you and Steve to start work again.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Debbie Henderson. She could be renting my guest room for quite a while. We were both hoping that you would be able to duplicate your design at her house for her room in my house.”
My heart sank at the mere suggestion; the one thing I never liked to do during the course of my work was repeat myself. “The two rooms have completely different floor plans and natural lighting. I might be able to repeat certain design elements, though.”
“Whatever you choose to do will be wonderful, I’m sure. We’ll let Steve handle the living room, and you and I can delve right into the guest room.”
She paused, but I said nothing, not yet able to phrase my reaction in a positive way. My shouting Trade a living room in the front of the main floor for a tiny guest room upstairs? Over Sullivan’s dead body! would not be the best way to go.
“Steve’s going to be calling you later this morning to discuss this with you himself, but can you make it over here at one o’clock this afternoon?”
My entire afternoon was free, although I’d planned on doing some Christmas shopping. “I suppose so.”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you then, Erin.”
She hung up before I could reply, and I went back to work, but in somewhat of a dour mood. I tried to restore my spirits. No matter who would
be lead designer on which room, there was no harm in my doing a little planning on the guest room; Sullivan and I could hammer out which of us actually did what later.
Several minutes later, Taylor lumbered up the stairs. He was wearing a white T-shirt underneath his overalls, but no jacket, although the temperature hovered in the thirties. He asked, “Is Sullivan here?”
“No. He might be in his own office.”
“He isn’t. That’s where I came from, just now.” Taylor met my eyes. “I kind of . . . wanted to let you both know that I’m serious about needing some work. Something important has come up, and I really do need some dough. My mom could use my support.”
He did seem to be completely sincere this time and, despite my better judgment, I felt a pang of sympathy for him. “Okay, Taylor. I’ll think about it. I doubt I’ll have much work right away. . . .” I let my voice fade, remembering that we were going to need a carpenter to remove that wall and install the new half wall at Myra’s. I would need to think long and hard to decide if I trusted Taylor well enough to forgo my usual contractors in favor of him. “But if anything comes along, I’ll let you know.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, frowned, and muttered, “I only did what I had to do, Gilbert. A guy’s got to stand up for himself. You know?”
“Taylor, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He scowled. “Just watch out. You think you’re, like, protected somehow. But you’re not. You’re getting taken for a ride like you wouldn’t even believe.”
With that, he pivoted and slammed down the stairs.
“Wait! What are you saying?”
He kept going.
I raced to the staircase. He was already pushing out the door. “Wait!” I cried.
He didn’t. I ran after him and spotted him turning down the red-brick walkway of the Spruce Street Mall. “Taylor, stop. What are you talking about?” I called after him.
