Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  Debbie gave me a quick glance, then said, “I’ve got some more boxes to pack up in my office. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Kevin promptly got up and began to pace in front of the smoked-glass coffee table between us. “This has something to do with those letters you found in the wall upstairs.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the case or not. What makes you think so?”

  “Myra said as much. A couple of days ago. That time that you and Debbie came into the kitchen right when I was trying to slip out the back door. Myra said she could never tell me what happened right after she and I broke up, but that it had something to do with you.” He stopped directly in front of me, his hands fisted, his expression one of fury. “What the hell was she talking about? Was it all spelled out in those letters?”

  “I don’t know. I never read them. All I know is that when I spoke to Myra last night she told me something strange.”

  “What?”

  “That you and she had a baby together. Twenty-seven years ago. And that I was that baby.”

  His anger promptly deserted him. He shrank into the recliner that Debbie had just deserted and muttered, “Oh, my God. Myra. She’d had some . . . troubles with . . . delusions and depression. I had no idea it was that bad.”

  “I feel so sorry for her,” I said in a near whisper.

  He met my eyes. “Myra taught my chemistry class my freshman year at CU. Thirty years ago. We fell in love. When she got pregnant, she didn’t know if it was Randy’s or mine, but she told me we had to end things . . . that either way, this was going to be her and Randy’s baby. Only the baby died within a few days of her birth.” His eyes flew open wide. “Hey. Come to think of it, they named the baby Erin. Maybe that’s why Myra got it into her head that you were really her child, when she deluded herself into believing that her baby had lived.”

  “You were just a college student then, right, and not a neighbor? So . . . are you positive that Myra’s baby died?”

  “Absolutely. I went to her funeral.”

  “Huh,” I muttered, though my mind was racing.

  “I’ve always loved Myra. All these years.” His bark of laughter was hollow. “She’d made it perfectly clear it was over as far as she was concerned, and I never forced it, but I’d drive through her neighborhood sometimes. . . . When a house went up for sale just a couple of doors away from hers fifteen years ago, I insisted to Jill that we move. Jill was furious—our other house was much more to her liking, which is to say, godawfully ostentatious.” He shook his head. “I guess I always believed that one day, Myra would leave Randy for good and we’d run off together. But it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Debbie cautiously entered the room. “Actually . . . I’m pretty much finished packing up the basement.”

  Kevin squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said softly. “Myra was a wonderful lady. She was just too fragile, and life never gave her a decent break.” He grimaced. “My car’s still two miles away, over at the gym. I’ve got to jog back, get cleaned up, and get home. Jill will be sending out a search party before I know it.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to him, though the whole matter of stringing his wife along while he professed to be in love with Myra was reprehensible. Maybe he didn’t love either of them, but merely their money— money that Myra hadn’t actually possessed until she inherited it from Randy.

  As Kevin let himself out, he said to someone outside, “Carl’s not here, but Debbie’s in the living room.”

  There was one quick rap on the door, and Taylor strode into the house. He gave a little nod and said, “Hey, Debbie.” Apparently nobody used proper etiquette when entering this home. “Kevin practically bowled right into me just now. He’s sure in a mood.”

  Debbie’s eyes had widened in surprise. “Taylor. What are you doing here?”

  “Carl didn’t tell you? He hired me to move you and your stuff out in my pickup.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me. I already hired movers.”

  “Looks like I wasted a trip,” he grumbled.

  “It’s okay,” Debbie said. “You can keep Carl’s money and take a load of books over for me, since you’re already here.”

  “Fine by me.” Taylor eyed me, then waggled his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s going on across the street? There’s a shitload of police cars over there.”

  “It’s Myra,” Debbie said solemnly. “She died this morning.”

  He frowned. “Jeez, that’s too bad. She was pretty friendly to me. Lately she was, I mean. It was weird. Before her old man got offed, she acted like she hated my guts. Now all of a sudden she’s all ‘Taylor, how nice to see you again!’ ”

  “She seemed to be a bit unpredictable,” I muttered.

  “Yeah. If by that you mean she’s, like, totally wacked.”

  “Taylor!” Debbie chastised. “Myra Axelrod was a good person and a personal friend of mine. Don’t talk about her that way!”

  “Sorry. But, shit, you know as well as anyone that she was one of the crazier people on the planet.”

  “Is that true?” I asked Debbie.

  She sighed. “In a way, the poor thing.”

  Taylor pulled out a chair from the dining room table and dropped into it, straddling its banister-style back. “One time, back when I was house-sitting, she wandered into Carl’s house. She was—”

  Debbie snorted. “When you say ‘Carl’s house,’ you mean mine as well, don’t you? Meaning the house we’re all sitting in right now?”

  “Yeah, but, like, you’re moving out.” He returned his attention to me and continued. “It was the middle of the night. She’s wearing, like, this shiny red bathrobe and pink fuzzy slippers. She looks at me, and she says, ‘What time is it?’ And I go, ‘Nine thirty,’ or whatever, and she says, ‘Is it that late? I was looking for my daughter. Is my daughter here?’ I just want her out of there, so I tell her, ‘No, but I’ll send her right home if I see her.’ Then she just thanks me and leaves.”

  “Oh, that poor woman!” Debbie cried. She looked at me and explained, “She lost a baby girl in childbirth many, many years ago and then could never have another child. Randy said the whole thing made her mind just snap, and when she got stressed, she’d get delusional and . . .” She shook her head. “This all seems so disrespectful.” She scowled at Taylor and asked, “Why didn’t you tell Carl and me about Myra when we got back from Europe?”

  Taylor growled, “God, Debbie. I don’t know. Maybe I was a bit distracted by being hauled off to jail at the time! Must have slipped my mind!”

  Debbie winced. “Of course, Taylor. I’d forgotten.”

  “Yeah. Just like you forgot to warn me about your Looney Tunes neighbors. If you’d told me how weird the Axelrods were and that they had a key, I would never have been arrested. I wouldn’t have been so casual about leaving my stuff out.”

  She clicked her tongue and bolted upright in her seat. “Taylor Duncan! One of these days you’re going to have to learn that to be an adult means taking responsibility for one’s own actions. It is nobody’s fault but your own that you got arrested for selling drugs! Not mine and certainly not your stepdad’s for not warning you about Randy. Not Randy’s for turning you in. Yours for committing a very serious crime in the first place!”

  “Hey! You’re not my mother! You’re not even my step-mom once removed anymore!”

  “Thank God I’m not your mother, because if I were, your drug use and dealing would have broken my heart! Just like you broke Emily’s heart! And Carl’s, too, for that matter! They’ve given you everything, and if you ask me, which nobody ever does, that’s been their only failure in parenting. And what have you ever given them in return, Taylor? Aside from grief, I mean. You’ve given them lots of grief.” She shot to her feet and took a step closer to him. “Since I’ll soon no longer be distantly related to you through marriage, it’s high time I told you something that’s been festering in me for the last couple of y
ears. Get your head out of your ass and act like a man! Take responsibility for yourself. Start doing the right thing by your family members!”

  Taylor sat in stunned silence. It was clear from the red-cheeked expression on his face that her words had hit him hard.

  “I’m going to finish packing up the kitchen now,” Debbie said to me in a calmer voice. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “No, thanks.” I rose. “I should get going. Any minute I’m sure the police are going to want to talk to me again about Myra’s poisoning.”

  Taylor’s jaw dropped. “She was poisoned?”

  “Actually, I don’t know whether she was or not. I simply assumed she was.”

  He leapt to his feet, dragging his palm over his shaved scalp, and went to the front window. There he parted the sheers to look at Myra’s house.

  Confused at his reaction, I followed his gaze. There were now a half-dozen official-looking cars and vans parked by the house, including an unmarked white van. Myra’s body was being put into the van; I could see the black body bag from here. “Taylor, maybe she wasn’t poisoned. All I really know is that she looked similar to how Randy was when we found him.”

  He gestured at the activity across the street. “Which officer is in charge?”

  “I don’t know. Probably the guy in the brown suit. But what’s going on, Taylor? It’s far too early to know if Myra was poisoned. Her death could have been from natural causes.”

  He ignored me, threw open the door and marched outside. Though dumbfounded by his behavior, my instincts warned me that he was about to do something dreadful. I charged after him.

  “Taylor!” I shouted. “Stop!”

  He continued to storm toward Myra’s house and the man in the suit, whom I began to suspect was merely the coroner; he was obviously anxious at a man of Taylor’s titanlike stature striding toward him and was giving nervous glances to either side as if hoping for police support.

  “Taylor? What are you doing?” Debbie called, trailing behind us.

  “I have a confession,” Taylor said as he neared the man in the suit. “I did it. I killed them.”

  “Them?” the man in the brown suit repeated, glancing back at Myra’s house in obvious confusion.

  Taylor was visibly trembling. “Randy and Myra Axelrod,” he said. “I poisoned them both.”

  chapter 22

  Taylor, don’t say another word!” I cried. What was going on in his thick head? His confession was rubbish; just minutes ago he’d had no idea that Myra was even dead. He suddenly decided he’d murdered her only after I’d blurted out that she’d been poisoned. He must have assumed she’d ingested something he’d targeted for Randy, but the food and cooking implements had been thoroughly tested last week. How could that be possible?

  The man in the brown suit was gaping at us. Three uniformed officers drew closer, frowning. The eldest officer—a burly, bald man—asked Taylor, “You murdered that lady?”

  “No! He’s talking crazy.” I grabbed my cell phone out of my coat pocket, gesturing for Debbie, who raced across the street toward us. “Do you have Emily’s number?”

  She grabbed the phone from me. “She’ll be at work at her Pilates studio by now. I know that number by heart.”

  Swatting at Debbie’s hand in an attempt to knock the phone from her grasp, Taylor shouted, “Don’t call my mother! Leave her out of this!” Debbie took a step back and continued to dial. Taylor grabbed his head, looking panic-stricken.

  “How old are you, son?” the officer asked him.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “He’s only twenty,” Debbie interjected.

  The officer muttered, “Legally an adult, either way.”

  Where was Linda Delgardio? She would listen to me.

  Debbie thrust the phone back to me. “It’s ringing. I’m going to go grab my phone and get Carl out here. He’s just talking nonsense,” she told the men. “He didn’t kill anybody.” Then she turned and asked, “Did you, Taylor?”

  “Don’t answer that!” My heart was pounding. I couldn’t bear the thought that my talking through my hat had inspired Taylor to make a false confession.

  The phone was ringing at Emily’s Pilates studio. I gestured emphatically at Debbie to hurry back across the street. “Tell Carl that Taylor needs a lawyer.”

  The officer said to Taylor, “Let’s just head down to the police station. I’m going to put some handcuffs on you. No big deal—it’s standard procedure.” He looked over his shoulder. “Lennie? You want to pat him down and read him his rights?”

  I covered my ear as a woman answered the phone.

  “Emily?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Erin Gilbert. Taylor just confessed to the police that he killed both the Axelrods.”

  “What!?” she shrieked. “That’s not . . . Myra’s dead, too?”

  “I found Myra’s body this morning in her house. And a minute ago I mentioned to Taylor that she may have been poisoned, and he suddenly charged up to the police and confessed.”

  “Where is he now? Where’s my son?”

  The burly officer was guiding him through the patrol car doorway with one hand supporting the top of Taylor’s head, and he was so large that getting him into the backseat was a tight fit. “They’re putting him in a police car now.”

  “Stop them! Erin, he’s your kid brother! Don’t let them do this to him. He’s innocent!”

  I swore aloud. What exactly did she expect me to do? Throw myself down in front of the patrol car? Launch myself spread-eagle on the windshield? “Emily, I don’t see how I can stop this.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Do something! Let me talk to whoever’s in charge!”

  I sprinted up to the nearest officer—a younger-looking man with a full head of hair. I thrust my phone out, and said, “This is the mother of the person you’re arresting. She wants to talk to you.”

  He took the phone from me. Mr. Brown Suit, meanwhile, got into the unmarked white minivan and drove away, no doubt anxious to get as far away as possible from this insanity.

  I wrapped my arms around my chest, wishing I could get Taylor away someplace private to speak to him. Debbie jogged back across the street, announcing, “Carl’s on his way.” She stopped beside me. In a half whisper that none of the officers could overhear, she continued. “He thinks Taylor must be tripping . . . blaming himself because of a drug-induced hallucination.”

  “Taylor seemed completely lucid to me.” By his standard, at any rate. He must be trying to protect his mother or his stepfather. That was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with.

  The young officer returned and handed me my cell phone. Debbie started to say that Taylor’s stepfather would arrive soon, but the officer cut her off. “He’ll be at the station on Thirty-third and Chestnut.”

  We watched the patrol car drive away, Taylor turning his face away from the window. Debbie stamped her foot. “He must be protecting his mother,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I mean, yes, it was terrible of him to get into drugs and everything. But Taylor? Kill somebody? No way.”

  “You think Emily Blaire is capable of murder?”

  “I think that woman is capable of any number of things,” Debbie growled.

  I shivered, not entirely due to the cold. I didn’t want to believe that my birth mother had actually poisoned the Axelrods. That possibility was far more upsetting to me than my belligerent half brother Taylor as the prime suspect. I buttoned my coat, my mind racing.

  Emily had been here that first day, when Taylor was unloading the wood and found my container of cyanide. Maybe Emily had actually been the one to take the cyanide out of my van. She could also have made some remark about the Axelrods to Taylor. He could have been provoked into making a false confession to protect his mother.

  “You didn’t see Emily in the neighborhood this morning, did you?” I asked Debbie.

  “Well . . . no, but then, I wasn’t watching. I was packing up my
basement office—which, as you’ve seen for yourself, gives me no view of the street whatsoever—then I went to Safeway.”

  “That probably is what Taylor’s got in his head, though . . . the thought that he’ll take the rap for his mother.” I didn’t want to add that he was probably trying to do the right thing by his family, as Debbie had recently harangued him to do. Or that it was every bit as likely that he was protecting his father, Carl, not Emily.

  Had Taylor rashly confessed to a crime he didn’t commit, in the mistaken fear that his mother was guilty? Or did I just not want to believe that my biological half brother, not to mention my biological mother, could be guilty of such a heinous crime?

  Debbie gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Erin, I really don’t want to be here when Carl comes home. I’m going to take a couple of boxes of stuff out to my new place. Couldn’t you please stay and talk to him?”

  “But can’t we call him on his cell phone and tell him that now to save him from—”

  “He never turns it on when he’s driving. Just tell him that they’ve already taken Taylor to the police station. Please?”

  That seemed the least I could do, considering that if I’d never blurted out my theory that Myra was poisoned, Taylor wouldn’t be in this mess. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Erin. I promise I won’t forget to come back by two to show the photographers your and Steve’s rooms.”

  She fled into her house, and less than a minute later, she was backing out of the garage. My attention was soon drawn to the McBrides’ house. Jill was dumping armloads of clothing into the front yard. She noticed me and gestured for me to come over. I tentatively ventured toward her. The mounted fish was on the lawn, along with what had to be Kevin’s entire wardrobe.

  I didn’t know what, if anything, she knew about Myra and hoped with all my heart that she wasn’t calling me over to ask. If so, I cut Jill off at the pass and asked, “What’s going on?” despite its being quite obvious that she was tossing Kevin out.

  “I’m hastening my husband’s departure.” Her voice was even and calm, although her eyes were red. She took a couple of steps toward her house, where the beautiful coffee table that Steve had designed was now wedged in the doorway. “Myra’s death was the last straw.”