Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  “Why?”

  “Please be a dear and help me with one end of that table. The twins will be home from their ski trip tomorrow afternoon, and they can help me move that silly new chair of Kevin’s outside then.”

  Damn it! The photographer would be here soon. Just because she was emptying her husband’s closets didn’t mean she had to immediately tear up Steve’s impeccable den design. “Jill, I just . . . wouldn’t feel good about helping you to move your husband’s things.”

  “I’ve already carried the table out to the front porch,” she said, as if my concern were merely one of logistics.

  “It’s really not my place to get involved in any sense in a marital dispute. And didn’t Debbie contact you about the story she wanted to run featuring Steve’s and my room designs? The photographer’s going to be here in just a couple of hours.”

  She scoffed. “Do you honestly think that I would allow a room in my house, one that has a dead fish over the fireplace, to be displayed in a magazine for all the world to see?”

  “Steve could replace the fish temporarily with something more . . . reflective of your refined tastes.”

  “I can’t be bothered.” I bit back my response as she continued. “If you’re reluctant to choose between Kevin and me, I must remind you to consider which side of your toast bears the butter. You haven’t forgotten about our meeting tomorrow morning to cement the plans for the New Year’s party, have you?”

  “But the purpose of the party was to raise capital for your husband. You’re . . . still going to hold that party?”

  “Of course. I’ll simply change the theme. We’ll go back to the traditional idea of—” She stopped abruptly as a silver BMW pulled into the driveway. Leaving the motor running, Kevin got out of it.

  “Hey! That’s all my stuff!” he cried as though his wife had to simply be confused about its ownership.

  “I heard about you and Myra!” Jill shouted back. “I’ve known all along!”

  He started to come toward her, protesting, but she held up a hand. “Stay where you are. You come any closer, I’ll get a restraining order against you!”

  “But . . . it’s my house! What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You killed Randy, Kevin! You wanted Myra so badly, the two of you cooked up this plot to get rid of him. Then something backfired on you and she wound up dead as well.”

  “That’s nuts! I did nothing of the kind!”

  Her features twisted with rage. “I’ve put up with your games long enough, Kevin! I had our phone tapped. I’ve got recordings of you and Myra, making your plans. I’ve already turned them in to the police!”

  “You what?! That’s just . . . Jill! I never once discussed murdering Randy with Myra! Or with anyone!”

  “Save it for the police when they play back those tapes for you. I’ve lived with this knowledge of you and your affairs for years now. I won’t live with the knowledge that you’re a murderer.”

  Kevin gaped at her.

  Jill leveled her finger at him and continued. “And if you think I’m going to let you stay here, share my home with a murderer, you’re even a bigger bastard and fool than I believed!”

  Just then, car tires squealed as someone made too fast a turn onto the street. Carl’s red Subaru whizzed past us, came to a stop in front of Myra’s house, then backed up the half block to pull even to us.

  Carl rolled down the window on the passenger side of the car. “Erin, is Taylor inside?”

  Before I could answer, Kevin thrust himself between us, gripping both sides of the open car window. “Carl! Jill’s thrown my stuff outside on the lawn! Can I stash everything at your place till she calms down?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just let me talk to Erin.”

  “Do you have a spare key?” Kevin asked him.

  Carl tried to wave him aside. “Use the combination and go in through the garage—six-three-eight. I have to find out where Taylor is!”

  “He’s at the Crestview police station,” I called to him over Kevin’s shoulder. “I think Emily is on her way there, too, if she hasn’t already—”

  Carl tore off, swinging the car around. Jill whirled and stomped back into her house. Kevin got back into his car and sat behind the wheel in shock.

  I knew how he felt. My birth father had been murdered, and now so had his wife. My birth mother or my half brother was very possibly the killer. Steve needed and deserved the publicity from Denver Lifestyles. He was in a better position to appease Jill than I was, and there was little time to salvage the room before the photographer arrived for the shoot. I looked again at the slip of paper where he’d written his address and phone number. My afternoon’s assignment was in the general area of his house, and this message was best delivered in person.

  I got into my van and dialed the now-empty house across the street. I left a message on Carl’s machine explaining that I needed brief access to his bedroom this evening to make the repairs to the outlet covers.

  Afterward, I shook my head, shocked at myself. This whole neighborhood was going to hell in a handbasket, but first I was fixing the outlet plates. Now I’m losing a grip on reality!

  Steve’s house turned out to be a bungalow near Foothills Park that, just in terms of the location and prior to seeing the interior layout, instantly had me fighting the green-eyed monster yet again. Although the above-ground portion of the house couldn’t be more than twelve hundred square feet, he could walk to the hiking trails inside fifteen minutes. He also had a wonderful wraparound deck with a gorgeous view of the mountains over his privacy fence.

  He had an old-fashioned antique brass door knocker; even in my battered state of mind, I appreciated the solemn sound that it made under my fingertips. I felt a flutter of nervous anticipation as I heard someone unlock the door.

  Steve was still wearing all-black clothes, the top two buttons on his shirt open. Unless I was fooling myself, his eyes lit up a little at the sight of me. “Hey, Gilbert. I waited for a while, but the police seemed to want to keep you talking forever.”

  “You missed yet more excitement after you left.”

  “What happened?” he asked, stepping aside to let me in. He shut the door behind me, crossed the stunning oak floor, and eased into a forest-green chaise longue. A vintage iron floor lamp stood beside the chaise. The only other furnishing in the loftlike room was a stunning, down-filled sofa covered with ultrasuede. No doubt this had been one piece that he’d appreciated too much to give up when Evan had wiped him out and skipped town.

  “They hauled Taylor down to the police station.”

  “They arrested Taylor?”

  “Yes. He confessed to the police that he killed both Myra and Randy.”

  “Whoa. Well, it’s great that the killer’s caught.”

  “Except that I don’t think he’s the killer. I think he’s lying to protect either his mom or Carl.”

  “You think one of them did it?”

  “Not necessarily, just that Taylor believes one of them did.”

  Steve let out a confused sigh. “Man. And sometimes I think my life’s screwed up.” He met my eyes. “Don’t just stand there, Gilbert. Grab a seat on the sofa. It’s not like I’ve got too many seating options.”

  The instant I sat down, I could tell from the dreamy comfort that the sofa used top-of-the-line eight-way hand-tied coil construction. I noticed, too, that although the walls were bare, telltale nail holes indicated that pictures had been removed.

  “You sold off your paintings?” I asked.

  He winced. “A couple of them. And some photographs. The portraits I did of my ex-girlfriend were just too painful to keep around.”

  Though I tried to cover my reaction, Steve had been watching me so intently that he must have noticed my eyes widening.

  “Your ex-girlfriend?” I echoed.

  “She ran off with Evan. Turns out she was his actual business partner . . . or partner in crime, really.”

  “Oh, my God. That must have been h
ideous for you!” So why was my heart singing?

  “Yeah. I . . . kind of left that part out before. I didn’t want you to think I was playing you for sympathy.” He sighed. “So, Gilbert.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in his spartan living quarters. “You like the way I’ve decorated for the holidays?”

  There wasn’t a speck of decoration in the place. “Festive,” I pronounced with a nod. “Hosting a big holiday bash, are you?”

  “No point in jazzing the place up for the holidays when I’m going to be heading home to Wisconsin. To my parents’ place, that is. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  I felt a too-familiar pang. My mother used to put together the most wonderful Christmas celebrations. “That sounds nice,” I said and heard the wistfulness in my voice.

  “Are you . . . sticking around Crestview for Christmas?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got some close friends with little kids who’ve kind of made me their unofficial aunt, so I’ll go there on Christmas day. I’ve got two final decorating jobs for Christmas Eve parties, plus a pair of New Year’s Eve parties. Decorating, lifestyle tips—that sort of thing is something of a sideline for me.” Ashamed of my self-pity, I was rambling to cover for myself, even though I suspected that I’d told him all of this before. “More than enough to keep me busy.”

  “Good for you.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure it lets you while away the hours, stringing popcorn and cranberries.”

  He was patronizing me. I replied evenly, “Actually, remind me to show you sometime how to make a chain out of strips of construction paper.”

  “I don’t mean to make light of your jobs.”

  “Make fun of them as much as you want, but those referrals sometimes lead to major design contracts. Which brings me to why I’m here. Debbie’s taking over at Denver Lifestyles and planned to do a feature on her bedroom and the McBrides’ den.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Not really. You missed the past tense when I said that’s what she planned to do. The photographers are arriving in less than two hours, and Kevin’s blue marlin is now out on the lawn. Along with his clothes.”

  “Marital strife?”

  “And then some. Jill threw him out, accusing him of having murdered Randy so that he could run off with Myra. So she’s chucking all his possessions, too. It’s not looking good for your coffee table. Nor the Barcalounger. Maybe there’s something you can say to her, though, to convince her to let her husband’s room be featured in a magazine nevertheless.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Oh, cripes,” he muttered, deflated. “No way.”

  I gave him another moment, then asked, “Ever notice that Chippendale wing chair in Jill’s formal living room?”

  “Mahogany with claw-and-ball feet and acanthus-carved knees?” Brightening a little, he picked up on my thought pattern and said, “I’ll take out the recliner, and she’ll love the coffee table once she sees the Chippendale next to it. But that won’t be enough, Erin. The woman’s pure ego. The only way she’ll agree to a photo op of Kevin’s den is if she were the focal point. If only there were a large portrait of her someplace to hang over the mantelpiece.”

  “There is,” I said with a grin. A sight that had scarcely registered during my quick tour of her house had returned to my mind’s eye. “An oil painting that looks like she’s in her late twenties. Top landing, east wall, directly across from the master bedroom. Haven’t you ever been upstairs in their house?”

  Ignoring my question, Steve hopped to his feet. “Will it work in the room?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to picture it. I couldn’t judge the dimensions, but the colors of the mat, wood frame, and portrait background would be striking against the fireplace and the surrounding green walls. “Well enough for our purposes,” I answered.

  Steve was already collecting his things for a hasty departure.

  I rose, too, “I’d better run. I’ve got to get to my party-decorating job.”

  “Yeah. Hey, if I don’t see you before then, have a merry Christmas.” He was too busy searching for his keys to look at me. Were he a customer, I’d have had a useful lifestyle tip for him—place a side table near the door to house the keys and any other paraphernalia he regularly needed for work.

  “You too, Sullivan.” I let myself out, wishing I could cancel my afternoon job and instead reflect on Myra’s death—examine my feelings in privacy. But my next clients were hosting a dinner party tonight, and their lives weren’t going to be put on hold because of my problems.

  My work was completed on time, and, showered by well-deserved praise that felt undeserved even so, I left my clients to their lovely home and their lovely evening. Rarely had I felt so alone. But, I knew if I went home now and Audrey was there, my floodgates would likely open. Last night’s heart-to-heart had been hard enough; I couldn’t handle two of them in a row with someone I was only just getting to know. I went to my office instead and left a message on Emily’s phone at her studio to please keep me posted regarding Taylor.

  A few minutes after six p.m., someone opened the door to my office and started up the steps, and I watched the stairwell, expecting this to be a holiday shopper in search of a public bathroom, which, at this time of year, tended to comprise a sizable portion of my visitors. It was Emily.

  I greeted her warmly and offered her a seat. She sank into the antique Sheraton armchair with my mother’s cross-stitched upholstery. She looked a little flustered but no longer distraught. I asked if she’d been able to help Taylor, and she nodded.

  “He’s out on bail. He recanted the whole thing once I assured him that I wasn’t guilty. He’d misconstrued some remarks I’d made in anger . . . after he’d told me about you and what you’d found in the wall. I knew at once that it was all Randy’s doing, and I lost my head. I made a crack to Taylor about how I wished I could poison Randy’s Budweiser. That, of course, turned out to be a . . . miserably thoughtless remark.” She searched my eyes. “Last week, when I found him in the back of your van with a container of white powder, I’d thought it was drugs. To tell you the truth, I was actually relieved when he showed me the label.”

  “How did my cyanide bottle wind up in the Axelrods’ backyard?”

  “That was a measure of Taylor’s immaturity, but that’s all, Erin. He deliberately placed it where he thought Randy might discover it if he tried to examine Taylor’s handiwork. He said it was supposed to be a joke . . . a harsh message to Randy not to”—she made air quotation marks—“ ‘nose around’ in Taylor’s space.”

  A bottle of cyanide is a real knee-slapper, all right. I held my tongue, and she continued. “I’m afraid Taylor also pilfered some of the poison . . . claimed there were rats in the trailer park that kept getting into his kitchen . . . or some such nonsense. Again, Erin, he’s not evil, just impetuous and immature. He turned the cyanide over to the police, though, thank God. Unfortunately, he’s being charged with obstruction of justice now, for making a false confession. But our lawyer’s working on it.”

  “Oh. Good.” I paused and added, “That he’s turned over the cyanide, I mean, not that he’s being charged with a lesser crime.”

  There was an awkward pause. Finally she leaned forward in her seat and said earnestly, “Erin, I came to see you because . . . I wanted to apologize. That wasn’t fair of me to call Taylor your kid brother and expect you to take care of him.”

  “I understand. You were just trying to help your son.”

  Some bitterness had crept unbidden into my voice, and it had obviously not gone unnoticed. A look of intense pain crossed her features. She averted her gaze, and a teardrop landed on her thigh, darkening the fabric of her pants. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to come over here and start crying. It’s just been such a shitty day.”

  “I know. I understand.” I fought off the image of Myra’s body on the bathroom floor. “It’s been a horrible day for me as well.”

  I held out a box
of tissues to her, which she promptly grabbed. Though seeing her in tears was painful, a part of me was unwilling to open my arms to the woman, even though she was my birth mother. There was very likely a double murderer on the loose, so surely my caution was justified.

  After she’d collected herself, she said, “You don’t know how much I wanted to marry Randy and raise you . . . our child . . . together. That’s just not the way things turned out. When I gave custody of you to Randy and Myra, I had no idea that they were going to wind up having their nanny adopt you less than two years later. I didn’t even find out about that till a few years ago, when I ran into Randy and asked about you. I was ready to kill him, I was so angry, but by then, well, it was far too late, of course. He tried to claim that he didn’t know how to find me once I’d left Crestview and moved to Denver.”

  There was a lump in my throat that prevented me from replying. I didn’t want to go over this same arid ground one more time.

  She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean that literally . . . that I would kill him. That’s just the sort of stupid statement that got Taylor into so much trouble, when he took it seriously.”

  Still frowning, she walked to the window. “I told Randy I would sue him for everything he was worth unless he promised me that he would do everything in his power to locate you and to give you my letters and cameo. It was, after all, the very least I could ask at that point.” She let out a sharp, bitter laugh and turned to face me. “He claimed later that he’d tried his best but couldn’t find you, but that he would hang on to the letters and necklace and keep looking.”

  She studied my features. “I’m so sorry, Erin. I know this must be really difficult to listen to.”

  Swallowing hard, I replied, “Emily, all I know is that two people—including my biological father—are dead. A support beam in Myra’s basement nearly crushed me. Bullets were shot into my van. Just yesterday, you yourself told me to stay away. This hasn’t exactly been the kind of let’s-get-acquainted greeting anyone would want.”