by Leslie Caine
“Not exactly. You mentioned the other day that you decorate for holiday parties. We’re throwing a New Year’s Eve bash for some potential backers for Kevin’s business. I was going to decorate the place myself, but then I thought, why should I take that on, when you do this sort of thing for a living?”
I was already booked to decorate for one New Year’s party, but I could squeeze in a second one. “I’d be happy to do that for you. Let me grab my Palm Pilot.” I made a few fist pumps as I headed to the foyer closet; I so loved getting new clients that, even as down as I’d been just moments earlier, it always made me feel as though the cutest boy in school had just asked me for a date. I snatched up my purse from its usual spot on the shelf and retrieved my Pilot. As I paged forward to December 31st, I asked, “Do you have a particular theme in mind, other than the obvious one?”
“The obvious?”
“The new year.”
“Oh. That.” She giggled. “By ‘obvious,’ I thought you meant, ‘Give us your money.’ ”
I chuckled. “No, but I’m willing to bow to your wishes. I can string garlands with dollar bills if you’d like.”
“Something more subtle, perhaps. Maybe just IOUs as door prizes.”
“Have you hired a caterer?”
“Yes, they’re from Denver. Super exclusive.” She paused. “So much so that I’ve forgotten the name of their business. I’ll give you their business card the next time we meet. You’ll need to coordinate everything with them, I assume?”
“Yes. Some caterers bring their own bar carts and serving tables. How soon do you need an estimate from me?”
“Oh, I don’t care about the precise amount. I want this to be extravagant and expensive. As they say, the way to get money is to spend money. Just so long as you spend two or three grand, which would, of course, not include the food and beverages, you’re my new best friend.”
“Easy enough,” I said with a grin. My mind was already awhirl with images of crystal garlands and silver baubles that could transform the McBrides’ home into an enchanting gala at the Ritz.
“I’m sure whatever you do will be simply divine.” She added, “Myra tells me you and Steve have given her wonderful proposals for upgrading her interiors.”
“Thanks. We’re doing our best. We’ve got my next appointment with Myra tomorrow afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s wonderful. It’s fascinating to watch how Myra Axelrod is breaking out of her cocoon, now that she’s finally free of that monster.”
That monster. My father. My grip tightened on the phone. With that one statement, Jill had brought my mood crashing back to the hardwood floor. Carefully I remarked, “Randy seemed a bit abrasive to me . . . though I only spent a brief time in his company.”
“The man should have been in jail. He would have been, if I’d had any say in the matter. The number of times he put Myra in the hospital . . . it made you want to kill the bastard. And, it would appear, someone finally did just that.”
Shortly after eight the next morning, Linda Delgardio returned my call. When I asked if we could “get together and talk off the record” for a few minutes, she warned me that there was no such thing as off the record in her line of work. She asked if I still wanted us to get together, which I assured her I did, then suggested that we meet in half an hour at the Major Grind, a coffee shop near the CU campus.
Linda had arrived ahead of me and had managed to claim one of the Major Grind’s small, square tables. She gave me a warm smile and wave, which I returned and went directly to wait in line. She was in full uniform, and her long black hair was pulled back and pinned tightly against her scalp. The body English of the mostly college-aged patrons at surrounding tables indicated that they were leery in her presence; the self-consciousness that I felt around uniformed officers was clearly universal.
I got a cup of the house blend and joined her, exchanging hellos as I slipped into the bentwood chair opposite hers. “Erin,” she exclaimed, her dark eyes sparkling, “my husband loves the crystal you helped me pick out for my in-laws. Thank you.”
She’d bought four gorgeous red-wine glasses: oval-shaped bowls that felt sublime in one’s palm, delicate stems, perfectly balanced. What did it say about me that I remembered her purchase better than I did the woman herself ? And I didn’t even work at that store! “You’re welcome, Linda.”
“Lucky for me that I caught your presentation. His mom’s impossible to shop for, but like you said, ‘Who can resist beautiful stemware’?”
Had I really said that? Yuk! I forced a smile. “Who, indeed?” If the answer turned out to be Linda’s mother-in-law, there went my one and only potential friendship within the Crestview police force.
Stalling while I tried to figure out how to tactfully bring up my concerns about the murder case, I blew on the surface of my steaming beverage and took a tentative sip. This particular blend was too acrid for my tastes, yet I hated the cloying sweetness of sugar in coffee. I should have opted for cocoa.
Linda, meanwhile, was guzzling her coffee. “I’ve been talking to some of my buddies at work. You turned a few heads there, let me tell you.” I widened my eyes in alarm, but she chuckled and said, “In a good way, I mean. That’s the thing about being a cop . . . all my work friends are real macho. You’ve already made something of a name for yourself . . . you’re the only witness who’s ever brought us a container of poison.”
“Is that a good thing?”
She merely smiled and gave me hint of a shrug. She leaned back in her seat and regarded me. “So. Some creep fired bullet holes into the side of your van last night. Jeez. Someone’s sure been running you through the ringer lately.”
“No kidding.” I tried to relax a little in my uncomfortable chair and breathed deeply of the delicious coffee aroma that enveloped us. “What makes it all the harder is that Detective O’Reilly seems to think I’m the devil incarnate. He makes me so nervous that I sound guilty even to me.”
She chuckled again and nodded. “His nickname’s ‘Oh, really?’ ” Her voice did an uncannily accurate impression of the detective’s skeptical intonations, and I laughed, too. “He conducts all his interviews that way.”
“He does?” I felt a measure of relief. I took another sip of coffee, hoping to make my next question sound as casual as possible. “So . . . did he tell me the truth? Was Randy Axelrod poisoned by arsenic and not cyanide?”
She furrowed her brow and focused her attention on her beverage.
I went on. “Judging from the articles I’ve read in the Sentinel, Detective O’Reilly’s being cagey to the reporters, too, about whether it was an arsenic or cyanide poisoning.”
Linda still held her tongue. After a long pause, she set down her nearly empty cup and said, “This is what I meant when we spoke on the phone about our chat being on the record. All I can tell you is, you’re right . . . officers are allowed to lie to suspects and even to witnesses if that helps us get answers.”
I nodded, thinking: Aside from the police, only the killer knows for sure if it was arsenic or cyanide.
Linda continued. “Bottom line, this is O’Reilly’s case. I can’t divulge any facts that could hinder the investigation.”
“Nor would I want you to. I have a pretty strong suspicion that . . .” I hesitated, feeling a little manipulative in trying to establish a sense of camaraderie with a woman I barely knew; my actions smacked of the times when new acquaintances first discovered I was a designer and—suddenly all a-bubble with enthusiasm—would invite me to their homes. “I think Randy Axelrod could have been my biological father. I certainly want whoever killed him put behind bars. Even though from all appearances Randy wasn’t exactly . . .” Again, I hesitated. “Did Randy Axelrod have a criminal record of any kind?”
“Criminal record?”
“Spousal abuse.”
She shook her head. Her expression was grim. “Not that I’m aware of, Erin.”
Although I couldn’t be certain that she
was being honest with me, I had the strong feeling that she was. Myra, however, could have suffered her beatings in silence and never reported them. My questions weren’t getting me anywhere. Still, I persisted.
“Linda, would it really mess up O’Reilly’s case if I at least knew my standing?” I took another quick sip; the coffee tasted a little less bitter now.
“Your standing?”
“I just want to know if I’m a chief suspect.”
Gently she said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you, since you’re innocent.”
“It’s easy to say ‘don’t worry . . . you’re innocent,’ ” I snapped, “but when you’re in that awful little room and you’re getting barraged with questions about your role in a murder. . . . Last night, Detective O’Reilly volunteered information about Randy Axelrod’s blood type, to test my reaction. Doesn’t that mean he already knew Randy Axelrod was my father? Which also means my birth records are now part of Detective O’Reilly’s file, right?”
She said nothing and her expression didn’t change.
I waved a hand, which may as well have been holding a white flag. “I’m sorry, Linda. I know you can’t answer that. It’s extremely frustrating to have this police officer treat me like dirt and yet know more about my heritage than I do. It’s like discovering someone has put a peep-hole in your dressing room wall.”
“Erin.” She leaned closer. “You seem like a really nice person. I wish you’d just happened to call me and none of this had happened to you, and we were able to chat freely, as friends.” She squared her shoulders. “Right now—” She tapped her badge. “There’s nothing I can say to you.”
I nodded, more frustrated now than ever. I was close to tears. When I looked up from my cup, Linda was studying me.
“Erin, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything that might help us get the killer?”
I mulled her questions, but I’d told O’Reilly everything I knew. “Not really. Anyone in Randy’s small circle of friends, for lack of a better word, could have murdered him.”
She glanced at her watch, then stood up, draining the dregs from her cup. “I’ve got to get back.” She handed me a business card. “I wrote my home address and phone on the back. If Oh, really? gets to you and you’ve thought of something helpful, I can be your go-between.”
“Thanks, Linda.”
She returned my smile. “Don’t mention it. I hope that the next time we meet, it’ll be during happier times for you.”
“Me, too. Thanks.”
She winked. “See ya.”
I watched her leave, watched the other patrons sneak looks at her as she passed the plate-glass window to her squad car. Those same curious glances then shifted in my direction. I straightened and started to push back my chair. Only then did I realize what I had in my hands. I had snapped my balsa-wood coffee stirrer into tiny fragments.
chapter 18
Although logic might tell us that a beautiful presentation doesn’t improve the actual flavor of the feast, our tastebuds aren’t governed by logic.
—Audrey Munroe
I was surprised to hear Audrey rattling around in the house. By this time on a Tuesday morning, she was usually at the television station in Denver. I stashed my coat and purse in the closet and headed toward the kitchen to greet her, curious about what kind of domestic project she’d have under way today.
It was immediately obvious why she was home rather than at work. Her nose was red and her eyes puffy. Sans her usual elegant leisure wear, she wore a yellow terry-cloth robe, its pockets brimming with crumpled tissues. She wore no makeup and her usually flawless ash-blond hair had a severe case of bed head.
“Morning, Audrey. Feeling under the weather?”
She sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Head cold,” she explained unnecessarily, her voice congested and gravelly. “This type of disaster is why we tape in advance.”
She’d taken out every piece of stemware from the cabinets and was lining them up by height along the granite counter of her kitchen isle. At her feet, she had several more boxes of crystal.
“So you’re . . . throwing an enormous cocktail party?”
She shook her head. “Research.” She blew her nose. “We’re discussing glassware tomorrow. I’ll be good as new by then. I’m taking zinc lozenges. They’ll knock this thing out of my system in no time.” She slid a green-cellophane-wrapped lozenge toward me. “You’d better take one of these now, too, to keep from catching my cold.”
“Too bad you got too late a start on the zinc yourself,” I muttered, wondering about its effectiveness. I took a seat on a bar stool and stuck the lozenge in my mouth. An artificial lemon flavor waged a losing battle to cover up the metallic flavor. I said, “Bless you,” to another sneeze, but she waved me off and grumbled, “Save your blessings for sometime when I really need them.”
“I did a presentation on glassware at a store just two weeks ago, Audrey.”
“I know.” (Her words sounded more like “I dough.”)
“That’s where I got the idea. I’m not feeling terribly creative this morning.” She rounded the isle and sank into the bar stool beside me. “In fact, I can’t even figure out where to begin.” She looked at me with sad—and watery—puppy-dog eyes. It wouldn’t be kind of me to ignore her hint that she needed some help.
“Well, whenever I do one of my glassware presentations, I start out by asking the audience to consider how they’d feel about going into a fancy restaurant and ordering a hundred-dollar bottle of French wine, only to have the sommelier serve their wine in a paper cup. And I tell them that the general guideline to identify a glass’s function is that chilled, straight-up beverages are served in glasses designed to be held by the stem, room-temperature beverages use glasses that are held by the bowl, and iced beverages are served in large glasses with wide rims and are held near the top of the glass. As long as people keep in mind that the key is whether you want your palm warming the contents or not, it’s all pretty much common sense.”
Audrey blew her nose and said through the tissue, “That’s how you can tell red-wine glasses from white.”
“Right.The stem of a white-wine glass is taller and the bowl is smaller because white wine is chilled, so the glass is held by the stem. Plus red wine needs to breathe, which is why its bowl is less tapered than one for white wine.”
“Whereas champagne glasses are tall, thin, and tapered, to retain the bubbles longer.” Audrey sniffled. “That much I know.”
“Right. I always recommend that people buy two champagne glasses. It’s such a minor expense, and I figure that’ll encourage couples to partake in the occasional romantic any-occasion celebration.”
She snorted.“That never worked on Fred . . . my third husband.”
“The one who died?”
She nodded. “Heart attack. If he’d have drunk more wine and champagne, we’d be happily divorced today. Wine lowers cholesterol, you know.”
“Mm-hmm. Mentioning that fact is a highlight of my glassware lecture.” Unable to resist doing so, I flicked my index finger against the bowl of the nearest, tulip-shaped glass. My fingernail pinged on the glass, which emitted a lovely, pure bell-like sound. “Listen to that, Audrey.” Holding the glass up to the light, I said, “I love your crystal. I have such a thing for glass . . . the way it catches the light . . . how it can be so smooth that it’s soft to the touch, despite having such a hard surface.”
Audrey started to have a minor coughing fit—perhaps to shut me up. When she quieted, I asked, “In any of your travels with the New York City Ballet, have you ever seen an opera singer actually shatter a glass?”
She coughed, then patted her chest. In a gravelly voice, she grumbled, “No, but I’m pretty sure my cough can dent a soda can.” She popped another throat lozenge into her mouth. “Did you once sell glassware, along with curtain rods?”
“No, actually my mom ran a bar and restaurant in Albany for a while. S
he’s the one who taught me about glasses.”
“What other types of glasses—besides the pair of champagne flutes, I mean—do you think people should buy?”
“That depends on what they personally like to drink or to serve at their parties. If someone’s lucky enough to own a beach house, daiquiri glasses are a must.” I gestured at hers. “Daiquiri glasses are, of course, the ones that look like inverted liberty bells.”
“Minus the crack,” she interjected.
“They’re good multipurpose glasses as well.” I paused, considering what other information might be helpful. “Here’s a tip for your audience: it’s a very nice touch to offer beer-drinking guests frosted mugs or pilsner glasses. Prior to guests arriving at your home, you simply rinse the glasses and tuck them in the freezer.”
She raised an eyebrow.“Provided we’re talking about Americans.”
“Is Domestic Bliss with Audrey Monroe being broadcast across the entire globe now?”
“Not yet. Any other tips for the show?”
“I personally like to own a couple of shot glasses, just because they’re such inexpensive travel souvenirs. I also happen to like having liqueur glasses. They’re so small that they’re difficult to break and easy to store, so when I’m entertaining dinner guests with children, I serve the children grape juice or ginger ale in my liqueur glasses to mimic the adults’ wineglasses.”
Audrey raised an eyebrow. “How sweet. Getting the little ones started early on the road to ruin.”
“I make sure I have the parents’ permission first.”
Facing me, she leaned an elbow on the counter and rested her head on her hand. “Weren’t you scheduled to talk about stemware for a full hour? How did you ever find that much to talk about?”
“Oh, there are other subtopics I haven’t mentioned, like how to recognize quality crystal, brandy snifters, cocktail glasses—which folks are always incorrectly calling martini glasses—pilsner glasses, old-fashioned and highball glasses . . . and I go into such scintillating subjects as how to pour beer.”
