Death by Inferior Design (14 page)

chapter 8

“When opened, draperies are picture frames, meant to enrich and enhance the view by providing a touch of texture and a splash of color. When closed, draperies are the artwork itself.”

—Audrey Munroe

“Whew!” Audrey wheezed, dropping into the seat beside me as she waltzed into the living room, her complexion ruddy from the cold night air. “I am positively exhausted. I’m like that little skunk from the Bugs Bunny cartoon show. As the French would say if they were Americans, ‘I am Pepe Le Pooped.’ ”

The remark was so silly, it made me laugh in spite of my troubles. Despite her words, Audrey appeared to have more energy than I did— and it was easy to picture her thirty years younger, having just now danced off the Broadway stage to thunderous applause.

In sharp contrast, too keyed up to sleep upon returning home from the police station, I’d taken it on myself to unroll her rug and rearrange her parlor. I’d then done my best to relax by cuddling into my favorite corner of my favorite sofa and reading a novel, but I’d merely held the book open and stared at the page, unable to command my eyes to read the words or my brain to comprehend them.

“I’m glad you’re still up, Erin. I wanted to enlist you to do a guest spot on my Friday show.”

My pulse quickened with the beginnings of stage fright at the mere suggestion of appearing on television. “No, uh-uh, Audrey. Can’t do. I’ve got far too much on my plate these days.”

“If you don’t do it, dear, I’m going to have five minutes of dead air.” In the Here, kitty, kitty . . . tones that I used to call Hildi when it was time to take her to the vet, Audrey added, “The topic is one of your pet subjects— curtain rods.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Audrey.”

Her jaw dropped.“Who else am I going to get to talk about curtain rods at length?” she demanded theatrically.

“Is that a pun . . . talk ‘at length’ about curtain rods?”

“No, and don’t try to discourage me from choosing you by making lame remarks. You have got to get over your shyness in front of the camera, Erin. I’ll be with you, and you can pretend we’re having a regular conversation, just the two of us.”

Though I’d never told her in so many words about my stage fright, she’d seen through me. I could speak in front of groups of people without fear, but to do so on TV was another matter entirely. I replied, “A sizable portion of our ‘conversation’ will need to be spent looking out at the camera instead of at each other.”

“What’s hard about that? Pretend the camera’s the third person in our conversation. With a bad case of laryngitis. And one big eye in the middle of his or her forehead.” She patted my knee. “My show would be marvelous publicity for you.”

True, but irrelevant; I morphed into a blathering idiot in front of a camera.“You know who would be terrific for the job? Steve Sullivan. He’s a fellow designer I’ve been working with this past weekend.”

Talking about Sullivan brought the day’s horrific events to mind. I should tell Audrey the whole story tonight: she might never forgive me if she heard it secondhand, and it was bound to make the headlines in tomorrow’s newspaper.

She asked, “Would he be willing to talk for five minutes about curtain rods?”

“Probably not, now that you mention it. But he could talk about coffee tables instead. His designs are—”

“It has to be curtain rods, Erin, not coffee tables. And I need you.”

I shuddered at the notion of myself on a TV screen. “There’s bound to be someone at a window treatment store who’d be dying to do something like this.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Just help me prepare for the interview. Tell me what I’ll need to ask my curtain rod representative.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Do you really want to do this now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

That was a stupid question for Audrey. For someone who changed her mind every two seconds regarding her room designs, she was adamant about her show’s topics and never one to procrastinate.

Indeed, she shook her head as she fished her Tiffany notepad and Mont Blanc pen out of the pocket of her scarlet jacket. “Didn’t you once sell curtain rods to the trade in New York?”

“Briefly. Among other things.”

She donned her reading glasses. “Just give me the basics so that I can be an informed interviewer.”

I sighed, loathing the very idea of talking about this now. I hatched a plan to make my every statement as dry and clinical as humanly possible and bore the woman to tears. I’d already been manipulated by Detective O’Reilly tonight. By gosh, if I wasn’t able to enjoy this conversation, she wasn’t either. “Okay. Let’s see. You’ll want to ask about materials.”

She nodded and peered over her reading glasses at me. “By ‘materials,’ you mean the fabric for the curtains?”

“No, as in wood versus metal rods. Wood is traditional, metal more contemporary. But be sure whoever you interview talks about other factors that go into the decision—the overall balance of the room design, etcetera.You’ll want to ask about how to select the size, as well. Standard curtain rods are one-and-three-eighths or two-inches in diameter. The size of the window determines the size of the rod. Everyone knows a large window needs a large rod and a small window requires a small rod, but the length of the curtain needs to be considered, too. A wide but short window with curtains that extend only to the sill or apron can seem out of balance with a thick rod, and—”

“Good lord!” Audrey cried. “You’re putting me to sleep here!”

I pretended to be offended by her statement and clicked my tongue. “It’s nearly midnight! Doesn’t sleep strike you as appropriate?”

She rolled her eyes a second time and continued scribbling notes. Then she looked up at me and inquired, “What about those doodads at the ends of the rods?”

“They’re called finials. Finials are especially important. They can augment a window treatment and enhance the overall design of a room.”

While writing, she muttered, “Maybe it’s just as well that you aren’t going to do the interview. You’re sounding like advertising copy now.”

“Thanks so much, Audrey.”

She gave me a regal smile. “Which is not to say that I don’t truly appreciate your help, dear.” She sighed. “Only that this segment is never going to win me an Emmy.”

“That is a bit beyond the scope of even the finestquality curtain rod.”

She gestured at me with her pen.“Go on, Erin. Fill me in on finials.”

Deliberately sounding as close to a computerized voice as I could reasonably hope to get away with, I rattled off: “Finials are often sold separately from the rod. They’re made out of glass, wood, or metal, and there’s a wide range of prices. Low-end finials are made out of plastic, but you should tell your viewers to avoid them unless they intend to paint them. That’s a great way to save some money. A crappy-looking rod can be painted a color that looks wonderful with the curtain fabrics, or the finial can be covered in fabric.”

She grinned. “At last. Some information that’s actually going to be helpful.” She looked up from her notepad. “Anything else?”

The perfect opportunity to change subjects and tell her about the traumatic events of my day. Realizing I wasn’t up to the task at this hour, I replied,“That’s it. Just that decorators need to consider not only the pattern, if there is one, in the curtain fabric, but the patterns and lines of all the upholstery and accessories, and especially the wallpaper and molding.”

Audrey nodded, and as she scribbled, she said, “Right. All lines. Especially wallpaper and molding.” She gave me a beatific smile that I instantly knew was a payback for my affectations while answering her questions. “Thank you, Erin.” She returned her beautiful notepad and pen to her pocket.

Feeling a little guilty, I said eagerly, “Hey, Audrey? I do have one fun suggestion for the show. You might want to close the segment by saying something along the lines of: ‘Spare the rod, spoil the drapes.’ ”

She gave me a look that clearly said, You poor dear, patted my knee, rose, and swept from the room.

chapter 9

Long after Audrey had retired, I remained awake—my second night in a row unable to sleep. Detective O’Reilly might have lied about Randy Axelrod’s cause of death to see if I would confess or point the finger at some murderous co-conspirator. After the detective had all but accused me to my face of poisoning Randy, I’d insisted on giving O’Reilly the container of cyanide. He could consider it evidence or not, but
I
wanted it out of my possession.

What festered in me throughout the night, however, was the suspicion that someone had murdered my biological father all but in front of my eyes. Even if I was destined to never know my paternal roots for certain, I did know that Randy Axelrod deserved justice, and I wasn’t going to sleep well until his killer was behind bars. I waited until eight a.m., then, determined to do whatever I could to help solve his murder, I called Debbie Henderson and arranged to arrive an hour later, vowing to myself to keep my eyes and ears open for clues.

At nine o’clock on the nose, I rang the Hendersons’ doorbell. Carl answered. He was wearing a suit and tie. So much for his promise yesterday that he would take the day off to help me. Before I could even say hello, he said, “Taylor got your headboard out of the garage. He needs to know what you need done to it.”

My instructions were clearly spelled out in the drawing, and I couldn’t begin to understand why Taylor would choose to haul it across the street again, but I bit back an irritated response and merely replied, “Okay.”

“I’ve got some eggs cooking on the stove. Excuse me.” Carl closed the door in my face.

Advising myself not to read anything into his brusque manner, I tightened the belt of my black leather jacket and went across the street in search of Taylor. The air was sweet and crisp. I glanced over my shoulder; a bank of clouds had cloaked the mountains and much of the sky in gray.

Myra emerged from her front door as I walked up the driveway. Had she been watching me through the window? She wore a pretty cotton skirt and a periwinkle shell underneath her tan cardigan. For the first time since I’d met her, she had on makeup, and her gray hair was neatly fastened into a French twist. All told, I thought, she looked as far from a recent, grieving widow as one could get.

“Good morning,” she said. “How are you doing, Erin?”

“That’s just what I was about to ask you.”

“I’m fine.” She smiled at me. “Absolutely wonderful, in fact.”

Wonderful? Just half a day after her husband died? I battled through a mental flashback of Randy complaining about the taste of his Budweiser and forced myself to return her smile. “That’s good to hear. I noticed Taylor’s truck is parked in your driveway. Is he going to keep his workshop over here, do you know?”

She nodded. “We discussed moving it to the Hendersons’ or the McBrides’, but that seemed like such a waste of time.”

Taylor specialized in wasting time. He’d carried a heavy headboard out of its owner’s garage and clear across the street.

Myra continued. “He should be out back. Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, but no, I’m fine.” No way was I accepting food or beverages from anyone in this neighborhood. “I’ll just see how Taylor’s doing and then I’ll get back to work at the Hendersons’.”

I let myself through the gate of the split-rail cedar fence. Taylor was not in sight, but the odor of cigarette smoke was so strong that I couldn’t have missed him by much. He’d probably gone into Myra’s house to use the bathroom.

I passed the workshop area to examine the headboard, which was atop a plastic sheet on the lawn. It was fully assembled, and Carl and Debbie must have completed the staining and sealing work yesterday. Even in this incongruous setting, the headboard was beautiful—and looked as though it must weigh a hundred pounds. Now, thanks to Taylor, I would need to get him and another strong individual to carry it back over to the Hendersons’. Could he be stalling? Deliberately keeping me here on the job until he could slip something into my water glass? Good heavens, I was getting paranoid!

I surveyed Taylor’s workspace. The vise grips of a Black & Decker Workmate held an Italian black walnut coffee table, the pieces clamped in place while the glue dried. The table was very handsome—simple and stunningly elegant—with tapered legs and a small shelf below the tabletop for magazines. The piece was characteristic of a Sullivan design, relying on the sublime wood grain for its distinctiveness.

There were still some materials under Steve’s tarp. Curious, I peeked under the tarp and noted that all of the boards had been cut and their rough edges sanded smooth. These had to be the makings for the entertainment center that Kevin had fetched Taylor to begin on Saturday afternoon. In contrast, my own stack of wood was gone, yet there was no sign of the oak television stand. Maybe that was now in the Hendersons’ garage, but if so, I had no idea how Taylor had assembled it so early in the morning. Maybe he’d come back last night and worked after all.