Death by Inferior Design

by Leslie Caine

  Emily’s look of inner pain intensified. She nodded and averted her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and said in a low voice, “Taylor’s staying with me through Christmas. I live out in Lafayette . . . and I’m listed in the phone book. You should stop by for some . . . eggnog or cookies. Or perhaps dinner. Nothing would please me more than to . . .” She faltered.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” I said. “I’ll try to at least stop by.”

  “You really should, Erin. But we’ll understand if it’s too hard for you.” She crossed the room and started down the stairs, saying over her shoulder in a choked voice, “Merry Christmas.”

  I battled the lump in my throat well enough to say, “Merry Christmas to you, too, Emily. And tell Taylor merry Christmas for me as well.”

  I heard the door open and then shut behind her, but she made no reply.

  chapter 23

  Just as I turned off my computer and prepared to leave for the day, Carl called. To my surprise, he asked if I could come to his home immediately to fix the outlet covers. He added, “I already got the covers off the outlets and started soaking them in hot water, like you told me to in your message.” Despite deeply regretting my having left that stupid message with him, I decided to get this job over with once and for all.

  As best I could tell in the dark when I drove past, Kevin’s belongings had been removed from the McBrides’ front lawn. I wondered whether or not Steve’s efforts had proved fruitful and the photographer had been allowed to shoot the pictures for Debbie’s article.

  Amid the twinkling Christmas lights on the surrounding homes, every lamp in Myra’s house, including the ones on the front porch, was illuminated. Yellow police tape blocked access to Myra’s front door, and two police cars were parked in front of her garage. The sight gave me a chill.

  I pulled into Carl’s driveway and collected my supplies. I poured a minute amount of powder for wallpaper paste into a recycled margarine bowl, stashed a mixing spoon, Phillips-head screwdriver, scissors, sewing chalk, architect’s scale, and X-Acto knife into my purse, and carried the roll of wallpaper along with a small plastic cutting board. Thus burdened, I made my way up the walkway and rang the doorbell. Carl opened the door and said, “Evening.” He didn’t smile, but at least his voice didn’t sound hostile. He backed up to let me in. Though his arm and leg were still in casts, he was now able to walk without crutches or a cane.

  “Hi, Carl. This is just going to take me a few minutes.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  I glanced at the living room, which Debbie had emptied out, and only then remembered that the bedroom I’d worked so hard on would have been ransacked now as well.

  “Is Kevin here?” I asked, a little nervous. After all, I might be alone in the house with Carl. He’d stopped just short of clobbering me the last time we were alone together.

  “I don’t know where he is. Probably bending a bartender’s ear.”

  I went up the stairs and felt a terrible pang when I entered the bedroom. Debbie had left the television and its stand. The round, skirted table was still in the corner, along with the bentwood side chair. Carl’s clothes from the missing dresser were heaped on the floor. The bed was gone. Debbie had even taken the curtains, rods and all. The wonderful tiger maple nightstand was gone, as was the oil painting of the French village.

  This must be how an ice sculptor feels after an Indian summer unexpectedly turns her creation into a puddle. That I was here to put the finishing touches on a wall made me as though I were desperately trying to carve my name into the last remaining lump of ice.

  I found the outlet plates in the sink and easily scraped off the wallpaper, then mixed up my tiny batch of wallpaper glue. While I was kneeling in front of the wall— cutting out with scissors the new general sections of wallpaper that I would need—Carl joined me upstairs. He dropped into the bentwood chair.

  “The police released Taylor,” he reported. “He told me he was innocent, and I believe him.”

  “I think he’s innocent, too. His confession seemed bogus to me right from the start.”

  Using the sewing chalk, I held the outlet plate in place against the wall and traced around it. With that drawn rectangle as a guide, I found the precise location on my new section of paper and traced around the outlet cover a second time. As a double-check, I used my architect’s scale as a straightedge and my chalk to draw an X within this rectangle, making sure to cross the points of the diagonal corners. Leaving a suitable margin, I sliced around the rectangle with the X-Acto blade. All that I needed to do next was paste the rectangle onto the plate cover, making sure that the margins were even and that the center of the X was in the center of the hole in the cover, cut out the holes, and fold the margins under the edges. I repeated the procedure for the cable outlet, and—minus the X—for the circular phone jack cover.

  Carl let me work in silence—so much so that I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But as I was wiping away my chalk lines, I glanced back at him and saw that he was watching me with a gloomy expression on his face.

  I decided that I needed some answers from him, and because this was the last time I hoped to see the man, this was my only chance. The moment I’d erased my last chalk line and tightened the last plate into place, I turned resolutely to face him. “Carl, I had an interesting chat with your ex-wife yesterday. Emily gave me those letters and the necklace. She said that they were intended for me all along.”

  “You’re their daughter?” He sighed. “I should have guessed. You look a little like Emily, now that you mention it. And I guess that’s the only way somebody could have gotten hold of your picture. Plus, Randy had been so insistent that I hire Erin Gilbert and nobody else. He’d been acting so weird. But I figured he was just yanking my chain, like always.” He grumbled, “God, but I hated that guy’s guts. I didn’t kill him. But I sure don’t miss the jerk, either.” He let out another heavy sigh. “Myra’s another matter, though. Whoever killed her deserves the electric chair, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Because I now knew for certain that Randy Axelrod was my biological father, I felt compelled to defend him a little. I asked, “Did you always find him intolerable? Or did your opinion of him lower when you found out he had fathered your first wife’s child?”

  “I was never all that crazy about the guy. But learning about him and Emily was the last straw.” He cursed under his breath and shook his head. “I never should have let her get away. That woman is the love of my life. I dragged Debbie down the aisle with me, hoping I could get over Emily. But I never did.” He gave me an appraising look. “You’re lucky to be related to her, Erin. Emily’s a hell of a woman.”

  How was it possible for me to feel “lucky” regarding my birth mother in the light of the events during the past week and a half? I said instead, “You read Emily’s letters. You had to know all along that they were written by her to her daughter. Why did you mislead me into thinking they were love letters from Randy to Debbie?”

  He shrugged. “Debbie’s and Emily’s handwriting is so similar that at first I was convinced the letters were written by Debbie. Then when I found out that stationery belonged to Randy, I realized they were probably sharing the same stationery at some point. I was jealous; I must have gotten my two wives confused in my head.”

  I glared at him. “That doesn’t make any sense at all, Carl. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  He grimaced. “Truth is, I just . . .” He began again. “I figured it was Emily or Taylor who killed Randy. I wanted to make myself look guilty rather than let one of them get arrested.”

  “Just like Taylor confessed to a crime he didn’t commit to protect his mother? What is this? You both immediately assumed that Emily had murdered someone, and you both made false confessions to protect her?”

  There was another long pause. Finally he answered quietly, “I’d like to believe she’s innocent, too. But . . .”

  Unsettled, I rose, rinsed out my bowl, and gathe
red my materials and tools. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Carl remained silent, staring at the wallpaper in his decimated bedroom.

  “Have a pleasant evening, Carl,” I muttered as I headed down the stairs.

  I felt bone weary when I got home. There was a handwritten note from Audrey taped with a big fat Christmas bow on my bedroom door. It read:

  E—I’ve gone to Colorado Springs for some final filming of my Christmas special. I won’t be back until late tomorrow night, but you can reach me on my cell phone. Eat the tortellini salad in the fridge . . . leftovers from today’s show. Yummy!

  There was also a message on my voice mail from Jill, who sounded like a petty dictator: “It is absolutely imperative that you show up as scheduled for our meeting to discuss the final details of the New Year’s party. We’ll run out of time otherwise.”

  I didn’t return the call; instead, I decided to sleep on the matter. The morning brought no particular insights, however, and I debated whether or not I could withstand continuing to work in that neighborhood. My resolve to help the police ferret out the killer was fading like fabric overexposed to direct sunlight, especially now that I was so deeply worried that Emily could be the person they sought. Two people had died and, judging by the bullet holes in my van, the killer had a gun.

  On the other hand, Jill was paying me handsomely, the work itself was fun and relatively simple, and in no way could my going over to someone’s house to help them plan a New Year’s party be construed as walking into a lion’s den. I could be in and out of there in an hour, at most.

  Resolved, I drove to Jill’s house and rang the doorbell. I was anxious to see if her portrait was now hanging in the den and made a mental note to check out the room as soon as possible.

  She greeted me with a gracious smile, asked me to come in, and took my coat. We both happened to wear navy-blue linen skirt suits that were almost identical. Except for the fact that hers was, no doubt, a size zero— unless American fashion designers are now into assigning negative numbers. “We’re dressed like twins,” I commented with a smile as I stepped out of my shoes.

  “Yes. My daughters would be so pleased,” she said, without interest. “The invitations for the party have already been mailed.”

  “Okay.” I retrieved my Palm Pilot, pen, and notepad from my purse and left it next to my shoes.

  “Since it’s too late to cancel, we’re changing the theme,” Jill said. “Instead of looking to filch their money for Kevin, I’ll be inviting my friends to celebrate my new-found freedom.”

  “Good for you,” I said heartily. “But . . . if the invitations already went out, aren’t you inviting mostly venture capital folks? Not necessarily the friends you’d want to celebrate changes in your personal life with . . . ?”

  “True, but we’d already invited our old friends as well. This way I can make it clear to Kevin that when the marriage is dissolved, I’m the one who gets to keep our mutual friends.”

  “Oh, good.” Was hoarding one’s friends “good”? I wondered to myself. “Why don’t we start by—”

  The door slammed open behind me. Startled, I whirled around. Kevin McBride entered, looking disheveled and desperate. He stared past me at his wife. “Jill? Can we talk?”

  “No!” Instantly her features mutated with fury. “You can’t just barge in here anymore! This is my home, not yours!”

  “Sorry. I’ll . . . go back out and ring the darned doorbell.”

  She put her hands on her narrow hips. “Just say whatever you have to say to me, then leave.”

  He gave me a little glance, but ventured, “You were right, Jill. I’m going to mend my ways. I’ll give up all the running around. And the attempts at starting up new businesses. My inventions never work, anyway. If you want me to, I’ll get a real job. I’ll grind it out, just like all the other worker ants. It’ll be hard, but I’ll manage. Somehow.”

  “Too bad you didn’t face that hurdle ten years or so ago,” Jill grumbled. “Maybe by now you’d have cleared it.”

  I started to step back into my shoes, saying, “I’ll give you two some privacy—”

  “No!” Jill cried. “Don’t leave me alone with him! He might hurt me!”

  Kevin bellowed, “Oh, come on, Jill! You know I didn’t really kill anyone! You were just saying that to get attention!”

  “I did no such thing! I saw you, Kevin! Carrying the arsenic over there!”

  “What arsenic? I told you before, that was a plant. Somebody stashed it in my office to set me up. Probably Taylor.”

  She marched toward him, and I flattened myself against the wall. “Kevin,” she snarled, “you’ve said your piece, and my answer is no. Now, either you leave of your own free will, or I’ll force you to go. Do I have to call the police?”

  “Fine. I’m going. But don’t think I’m just going to give up on everything we’ve had together.” He stepped onto the porch.

  “You already did give up on us. Before we ever even met. You always loved Myra. I was just your consolation prize. Your wealthy one.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Goodbye, Kevin.” She slammed the door in his face, then threw the deadbolt, using a key that she then pocketed. She turned on her heel to face me. Placidly, she gave me a practiced smile and patted the pocket containing the key. “Unfortunately for my soon-to-be-ex husband, I changed all the locks first thing this morning. Sorry about the interruption, Erin. Now where were we?”

  “We were about to talk about New Year’s themes,” I replied, hiding my reaction to her odd coldness.

  “Indeed. I want bright and wild. I’m thinking Mexican.”

  “Mexican?” I echoed.

  “Yes. It will be completely different from anyone else’s New Year’s party that way.” She gestured at the wall. “One of those champagne fountains will be here, but instead of champagne, we’ll do margaritas. We’ll suspend piñatas from the ceiling. Gorgeous reds and deep greens everywhere. Salsa music. Big sombreros for everyone instead of those silly cardboard cone hats.”

  I had a feeling that her party guests, who were no doubt expecting a black-tie affair, would feel as ridiculous donning a sombrero as they would a cardboard party hat. Jill would need to be talked down from this. “Okay. Let’s do another walk-through of your house and think about this. If everyone’s going to be wearing large sombreros, that’s going to affect the width of the aisles. We’ll need to look at moving out any fragile items that might be at the same height as a big brim.”

  “Good thinking,” she replied cheerfully.

  Lucky that one of us was thinking. Normally, I would never dissuade a client from throwing a Cinco de Mayo party on December 31, but the idea of sombreros and piñatas and salsa music seemed totally out of character for the blue-blooded Jill McBride. What she really wanted was just to get as far away from her original vision of the party hosted for her husband as possible.

  “Let me get you a nice cup of coffee, and we’ll get started,” she announced.

  Again with the beverages, I thought, as she led the way to the kitchen. The pocket doors to the den Steve had decorated were shut, delaying me from seeing if her portrait was now hanging over the fireplace. “Just a glass of tap water would be fine,” I said as we reached her glorious kitchen. I watched her pour herself a cup of coffee and me a glass of water from the tap on the refrigerator. “Jill, what do you think about decorating each main public room with items from a specific country? The party theme could be New Year’s celebrations around the world.”

  “Oooh. I love that idea, Erin!” She grinned at me. “No wonder Debbie is so fond of you. You’re a creative genius!”

  “That’s more than a little overstated, but I’m glad you like the idea. It will be fun.”

  “I know just the place to start.” She gestured for me to lead the way through the doorway ahead of her. “My formal dining room is French provincial.”

  Rococo, actually, but I was more than willing to go with the philos
ophy that the customer is always right now that she’d anointed me with the creative-genius title. We entered the room. She had a stunning Savonnerie rug under the elegant walnut table, which, even without its leaves, seated eight.

  “I’ll talk to the caterers. Heaven knows I’m paying them enough to buy me their flexibility.” With dramatic gestures, she said, “In here we’ll serve bonbons, French champagne, petit fours . . .”

  “And,” I interjected, “we can put a cake on the table, with the phrase ‘Let them eat cake’ written in frosting.”

  She raised an eyebrow and curled her lip, and I added humbly, “Or not.” This woman had a rather hefty dose of attitude for someone who, left to her own devices, would have her guests in sombreros and wielding sticks.

  Jill indicated the buffet behind me. “I told the caterer that he could use my French Louis the Fifteenth buffet from which to serve hors d’oeuvres. Of course, that was with the understanding that I’ll have his head if he damages it.”

  I considered pointing out her pun about “having his head” and Marie Antoinette but decided her reaction to “Let them eat cake” didn’t bode well for her sense of humor. Turning my attention to the buffet, I replied, “That’s a beautiful piece. Mind if I take a closer look?”

  “Not at all.”

  I opened the center breakfronts and glanced at her impressive array of fine china. “You’re just going to allow him to use the marble surface on top, right? You’re not going to want to remove your china, surely.”

  “Heavens, no. That would be far too impractical.”

  “I agree.” As I started to close the doors, I noticed how elevated the cabinet bottom was compared to the outside bottom edge. “Oh, wow! I’ve never seen this done on a buffet before! This has one of those hidden drawers underneath, like some Chinese wedding cabinets.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, that’s right. So it does. Very astute of you, Erin. I’d all but forgotten that was there. We’ve never used it.”