Design on a Crime

by Ginny Aiken

  Did I affect people or what?

  After that splendid encounter with Steve, I went home and, since I needed income, pulled out the photos of the Stokers' living and dining rooms. I took the pictures and my rulers, colored pencils, paint-chip fan, and box of sample fabrics to the kitchen, where I spread everything out on the table.

  With a cup of Starbucks in one hand and a Milky Way bar in the other, I plopped on a chair and stared at the stuff of my brand-new career. I should have been excited about my first professional project, but instead, Marge's death consumed my thoughts and emotions.

  I munched a mouthful of candy and tried to envision Gussie's rooms emptied of their current furnishings. I failed.

  Had Steve killed Marge? If so, had he done it alone, or had he enlisted Noreen?

  After what I saw yesterday, anything was possible.

  Yesterday ... what a day.

  I'd avoided philosophical waxing for years, but yesterday taught me a couple of unexpected lessons.

  When I propped my chin on my hand, the empty candy wrapper dropped to the floor. Midas's indelicate slurps followed. I bent, snatched the messy paper away, balled it, and tossed it into the garbage.

  I now had a new understanding of trash. Before yesterday I wouldn't have thought I'd find rich people's garbage overrun by rats. But I had, and I'd figured out something else. No matter how much money a person has in the bank, most also have stuff in their lives they don't want disturbed, personal repulsive rodents in their trash sheds.

  I figured Steve's women were among his. Not that the women themselves were rats necessarily, just his adulterous ways. I wondered what else might lurk in his back shed.

  The second thing I learned is that information comes in odd packages. A mouthy fourteen-year-old isn't your typical informant, but I learned more about Steve from Robert than during years of acquaintance and from his late wife.

  What I still didn't know was if he'd killed Marge.

  I suspected him now more than I had before I knew of his affair with Noreen. I'd thought Noreen was romantically tied to Dutch. Yesterday's discovery made me more uneasy than ever.

  Did Noreen have something to gain by killing Marge? Beyond getting Steve all to herself, that is. And how did Dutch figure into all this? Was Noreen in love with him? Did she really care for Steve instead? Or-yuck-was she playing with both men?

  In spite of my disgust, I had to look into these sticky matters. Did I ever wish I didn't have to. But if I wanted to avoid jail, I needed my questions answered.

  And what was Ozzie's part in this puzzle?

  I would've been better off if I'd studied criminology instead of interior design.

  When the phone rang, I didn't know whether to gripe at the interruption or to cheer. Noreen was on the other end.

  "I'd like to meet with you and Dutch now that you've both had a chance to see the Gerrity mansion," she said.

  Mention of the house brought back the memory of Marge's body, its life spent, my friend gone. I still didn't know if I could work with Noreen after all that had happened, but the least I could do was go. Oh, and get a handle on my emotions too.

  "When would you like to do that?" I asked.

  "As soon as possible. Are you busy tomorrow morning ... say around nine thirty?"

  Aside from the Stoker project, I had nothing else on my plate, and Noreen knew it. "I'm available."

  "Then how about if we meet here at my condo. Do you need directions?"

  I knew the ultraluxurious development. But as we made small talk, an idea occurred to me. "Would you mind if I came a few minutes early? I have a color-chip fan, and I doubt Dutch is interested in color schemes."

  That wasn't a flat-out lie. I do have the fan, and I was pretty sure Dutch didn't want to see it, but I had no intention of simply bringing out the color chips when I met with Noreen. I also had questions for her.

  "That'd be great!"

  Noreen really wanted that place. Would she have killed Marge, and in the process put the brakes on her purchase? I hoped to find out. Soon.

  "Then how about if I get there about fifteen or twenty minutes earlier? Maybe more like nine-ish?"

  "Oh, I can't wait!" Noreen sounded like a teen headed for a heartthrob's concert instead of a thirtysomething widow. "What do you like? Coffee? Tea? Bagels or croissants? I'll make sure to have something fun to eat while we choose colors. That'll be fun."

  I gulped. She made it sound as if we'd be doing some kind of morning pajama party. I only wanted to delve into her secrets ... her trash shed, so to speak. "I'm a Starbucks fan, but it's not necessary, and bagels are great."

  "They'll be ready at nine. Thanks so much, Haley. I just know the house is going to be wonderful."

  She hung up, and I held the receiver a couple of minutes longer. What had Dutch said the morning of the auction? Hadn't he warned Noreen against counting unhatched chickens? Maybe she was innocent. I didn't think a killer would expect cops to let the sale go through any time soon.

  I returned the phone to its cradle, and it dawned on me that I'd really scored. I'd have Noreen to my nosy self for at least a half hour before Dutch arrived.

  "Cha-ching!" I pumped my fist in victory. "Bingo!"

  I did a little victory dance back to my chair. Midas opened one eye, clearly bewildered by my sudden activity. "Hey, you know? I might be on to something here. I coulda been great, I coulda been a champion ... a contender ... something like that!"

  Midas yawned.

  Yeah, I can be goofy, but I haven't been for a long time. Still, I couldn't let that take over my thoughts. I'd stuck my foot in Noreen's door, and I was going to celebrate.

  Tomorrow might turn into another fiasco along the lines of yesterday, but I was taking my fun while I could.

  "Goal!" I crowed. Hey, if soccer players on Spanishlanguage TV channels could go bonkers when they scored, so could I. I'd never understood the fuss when the ball did what it was supposed to do. Now I had a new appreciation for success.

  I just hoped it carried me through to the killer's conviction.

  When I stepped into Noreen's condo, I knew I was in over my head. I'd studied all kinds of decorating styles and knew how much furnishings cost, but this place went beyond intimidating. From the high-gloss black marble floor, to the white silk fabric on the walls, to the avant-garde gray stone sculpture on the custom steel credenza in the entry, to the low white leather couch that lined two walls-made to order, of course-the place reeked of jet-set budget.

  I come from the steal-of-a-deal end of the spectrum.

  What do I know about this kind of taste? After all, I'm the one who named my business Decorating $ense. It doesn't make sense to me to go into hock just to get a home to look nice.

  Noreen doesn't share my philosophy.

  "Make yourself comfortable," she trilled on her way to the kitchen. "I'll be right back with our goodies."

  Comfortable? Here?

  Hah!

  I tucked my backpack under the endless glass coffee table and unzipped my portfolio. I had to at least make it look as though I'd really come to discuss colors and whatnot. I spread out my fabric swatches, and thank goodness I had some nice dupioni and raw silks, some knobby linens, and spectacular cashmere wool in the mix. I could imagine the look Noreen would have given me if I'd pulled out my favorite muslins, chambrays, simple chenilles, or-yikes!-cotton in prints or even ticking stripes.

  At least I don't do fake, man-made, pseudofabric stuff.

  "Here you go," my maybe client said. "Help yourself."

  She set the silver tray on the glass surface, and trust me, there was plenty of room in spite of my mess. I noticed the quality cut-crystal goblets of orange juice-fresh squeezed, since bits of plump pulp floated on top.

  Not only did she offer bagels and the usual cream cheese, but on a paper-thin platinum and white porcelain plate sat glorious slices of smoked salmon. An antique jelly jar, cut crystal to match the goblets, held jewel-toned preserves, and the handle of w
hat looked like a honey stirrer poked out of a superb silver pot.

  My gaping jaw nearly clipped the glass table.

  "You didn't have to go to so much trouble," I said. "This is wonderful though."

  "It was nothing. My housekeeper loves good food, so she had a ball putting it together." She sipped orange juice, then pointed at the fabrics with the goblet. "These look nice. Where would you use them?"

  I gulped down my bite of salmon-draped bagel. "I didn't have a particular place in mind. I brought them to see what you like."

  With a tiny silver fork, Noreen picked up a translucent orange curl of fish. She rolled it up, popped it into her mouth, and chewed, an appreciative smile on her face. "Naomi outdid herself with this salmon."

  I couldn't talk with a full mouth, so I nodded.

  Noreen continued. "Anyway. I like all kinds of things, but I insist on feel-good fabrics and upholstery. I want only the best against my skin. I can't stand those trendy burlaps and scratchy stuff. Give me a slinky silk any day."

  I knew where to take this chat next. "What about colors?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "I'm just so done with all this white stuff on black stuff, you know?"

  I nodded again.

  "I want to surround myself with sultry, rich jewel tones. I think they make a woman look younger, sexier."

  My eyes nearly bugged out. She'd been having an affair with a married man, now formerly married, and maybe with a handsome bad-boy builder too, and she thought she needed colors on her walls to make her more appealing?

  I was so out of my league.

  "Why don't you show me what colors you like?"

  Noreen flipped through the color chips. She tipped her head one way then the next, intent, focused, sipping juice every so often. This seemed as good a time as any to launch my attack.

  "Did Marge know about you and Steve?"

  The goblet fell. Chips of glass flew into the cream cheese. Juice splashed on the white leather. Noreen's eyes blazed cobalt fire.

  "What do you mean?"

  I laughed. I was nervous, and her outraged look hit me funny. "Don't take me for a fool. Did Marge know you were having an affair with her husband?"

  The color on Noreen's cheeks matched the preserves, which I still hadn't tried and, even though they looked good, probably never would now.

  "I want you to decorate my new home, not stick your nose in my private life."

  "I'm not sticking my nose in your private life. I'm asking a question about something that could affect my future. I'm sure you know the police think I killed Marge."

  "Do you think I killed Marge? For Steve?" Her smile wasn't nice.

  "I just asked a question. Did Marge know you were having an affair with her husband?"

  Her glare intensified.

  The doorbell rang.

  That would be the other man in Noreen's life. I didn't know how involved she was with Dutch.

  "I'll be right back," Noreen said between clenched teeth. It didn't sound polite or like a promise. It struck me as a threat.

  At this rate, I'd be dismembered before I found out who'd killed my friend.

  "You're here already?" Dutch asked a minute later.

  What could I say? I went with the obvious. "Evidently."

  "I hope you haven't come up with structural changes for the place. You'll have to wait until I check out the whole building before you consider anything like that."

  "I brought paint chips and fabrics to see what Noreen likes-"

  "She came to ask nosy questions," our would-be employer said. "I hope you're not loaded for bear too."

  Dutch gave me a dark look. "I came to talk about the Gerrity mansion. What's your deal?"

  "Can't help it if I want to stay out of jail."

  He groaned. "What'd you do now?"

  "I need to know how Noreen felt about sharing Steve with Marge."

  Dutch's green eyes opened wider. 'Are you crazy?"

  "I'm as sane as the next guy." My perch on the white leather sofa left me at a distinct disadvantage, so I stood. "You'd both want to know if you were in my shoes."

  Noreen sneered. "I'd never get into a mess like yours."

  "And I'd never corner someone I thought might be a killer on my own," Dutch added. "You'd be surprised how short your life can get if you ask the wrong person the wrong question at the wrong time."

  Noreen turned her anger on him. "I'm not a killer, and I resent what you just said. I sat next to you the whole sale. When would I have had the chance to kill Marge Norwalk? Even if I'd wanted to, which I didn't. Divorce is less messy."

  Dutch jabbed a long finger my way. "I didn't say you did. She's the one acting like Nancy Drew."

  When her glare bounced back at me, I dropped into Noreen's bad graces again. Not that I'd ever left. 'Are you so desperate that you'll accuse anyone you think of?" she said. "If that's the case, then you probably did kill Marge."

  "Give me a break! Would I care about the redesign of the Gerrity if I'd killed Marge? If I had, I'd be pretty happy to keep the place shut down for good. Besides, asking tough questions isn't the best way to land a job. If I'd wanted money or whatever, I wouldn't need to work for you anymore now, would I?"

  Ooh ... that didn't come out right.

  Dutch groaned again. "Okay. This meeting's over." He took my elbow and dragged me toward the door. "We'll get together another time, Noreen. Sometime after Haley takes her meds."

  "Hey! I only take vitamins." I pulled out of his clutches. "And I haven't asked all my questions yet."

  "Oh, yes you have." He came up and wrapped his arm around my waist. "At least for today."

  I darted to the side. "Noreen hasn't answered. I wonder why. What's she hiding?"

  When Noreen gasped, I went in for the kill. "Did Marge catch you and Steve ... umm ... together?"

  "No!" Noreen cried. "Are you happy now?"

  Dutch clapped his big hands on my shoulders and pushed me to the door. "Now you have your answer. Let's get out of here before she calls security."

  I yanked away. "Don't manhandle me!"

  "Don't mess up my life any more than you already have."

  "I haven't."

  "You have."

  Noreen darted between us. She opened the door. "Goodbye!"

  We walked out. On the slate step outside, I turned. "I have another question-"

  She slammed the door.

  "How rude." I headed for the car but came to a screeching halt partway there. "I left my stuff. She can't keep my bag and my samples. I need them for work."

  Dutch rolled his eyes. "I'll get them. I don't think she wants to see you again any time soon."

  Whether I liked it or not, I had to agree. I'd bungled that. And unless he managed to sweet-talk Noreen into forking over my things, I'd be in a heap of trouble. To begin with, my driver's license was in my bag. Oh, and the Honda keys too.

  I stood in the driveway and looked at my little car and then at the European models in driveways up and down the street. I'd learned another lesson, one that didn't surprise me.

  Wealth did nothing for me; it didn't impress or daunt me.

  So much for the momentary intimidation I'd felt when I'd walked into Noreen's place.

  But this wasn't the time to ruminate on my condition. Dutch came out, my backpack purse over one vast shoulder, my portfolio clutched to his chest. A scrap of fuchsia silk clung to the hint of stubble already visible on his shaven chin.

  The absurdity of the moment didn't escape my notice. I laughed.

  He frowned. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing," I said between chuckles. "Everything ... you!"

  "Oh, that's clear."

  He had no clue how funny he looked, and I figured I'd be better off if it stayed that way. "Here. I'll take my things and head on home."

  "Chalk this one up as another failure, will ya?"

  "Oh, I don't know. There's something to be said for starting your day off with a laugh."

  He gave me a
grimace on steroids. "I didn't hear that," he muttered. "I didn't hear a thing."

  "Good-bye, Dutch." I threw my stuff in the backseat of my car and slid behind the wheel. "Look at the bright side."

  His green eyes opened wider. "There's a bright side?"

  "Sure."

  "And that would be ... ?"

  "Noreen didn't fire us."

  He groaned. "Yet."

  I gave him a valiant chuckle and drove away. He was right. Noreen hadn't fired us yet. But she could at any minute.

  And she probably would by the time I got home. I didn't want to see the answering machine in the kitchen. The flashing red light, which usually drew me like a moth, would stop me dead in my tracks.

  I might just have dealt my career a deathblow before it had a chance to live. And I might just have given the killer a heads-up.

  That criminology course looked better by the minute, if for no other reason than to learn how to stay a step ahead of the creep who'd already killed once.

  Hours of recrimination later, I gave Gussie a golden retriever look. It got me nowhere. "Why can't you?"

  "Because I showed you how to lead a meeting the last time."

  "But this isn't a real meeting-it's not Saturday morning."

  "The missionary society scheduled this presentation two months ago, and as the new president, you need to introduce our guest. Go ahead. Get the ball rolling."

  "The only thing that's going to roll is my stupid head." I took my place behind the podium. This was almost worse than the morning's escapade had been. Or maybe it was my just deserts.

  With another mock glare at Gussie, who only chuckled, I picked up the gavel and gave it a whack. The room fell silent. Good grief! Who'd have thought I'd have that kind of power?

  "Ah ... hi."

  I winced at my stellar eloquence. I tried again. "Hi, ladies. Um ... Gussie tells me Mr. Bowersox is here to tell us about raising money by selling telephone calling cards."

  The gray gent-he was as gray as a human could be: gray hair, gray eyes, gray suit, even gray skin-nodded glumly.

  Swell. He even had a gray disposition.

  I blundered forward. "Since I can't figure out how anyone could make money selling phone cards, I guess it's best if Mr. Graysocks ... er ... Bowersox comes and tells us."