Death by Inferior Design (6 page)

I soon found Debbie Henderson to be every bit as engaging as I’d assumed her to be from the sparkling blue eyes and warm smile in her wedding picture, as well as from the exquisite taste she’d shown in purchasing that eight-drawer chest. We decided to go over my plans for the room at the kitchen table while Carl and I ate our lunches. Debbie liked every single one of my ideas and selections, and actually squealed with excitement when I showed her the new antiqued bronze curtain rods with their ivy leaf finials that echoed the curved lines in the wallpaper pattern. Carl, meanwhile, when pressed by his wife, would give my drawings an occasional nod. They say in the design business that all rooms need “peaks and valleys,” and although Carl was physically built like a peak—or at least like a hat tree—moodwise he provided whatever room he inhabited with a perpetual valley.

Halfway through lunch, Taylor wordlessly stepped inside the front door and dumped the new shelves in a heap, so I showed Debbie how well they worked in her bedroom closet. She was effusive with her praise and hugged me. Having clients appreciate my ideas for sprucing up their living spaces is one of my favorite things about this job. Having to listen to the occasional bickering between spouses is one of my least favorite aspects, but what job is perfect?

After lunch, we discussed the tasks that still remained
to be done, and the Hendersons volunteered to apply the final coat—the burgundy—for the faux finish. Carl wanted to be in charge of applying the paint, so I showed Debbie how to smooth three-foot squares of plastic onto the wet paint, then peel the plastic away, which gives the walls a wonderful marbleized appearance. The two of them were working with confidence and good rhythm. I cautioned them to stick to the same task throughout; switching the painter and the person handling the plastic leads to noticeable differences in the finished appearance. Then I went downstairs to sew the drapes.

I had purchased premade sheers, but even so, the raw silk drapes would, if left unlined, fade dreadfully in direct sunlight. Carl had told me that Debbie was a light sleeper, so I was using a high-density blackout lining. The panels would use butterfly pleats, and with the sheen of the fabulous fabric, the new curtains would glow like liquid gold against the walls.

The doorbell rang. It was Myra and Randy Axelrod, who announced that they were “here to lend a hand.”

“Great,” I replied with sincere relief as I ushered them inside. Randy was such a large man that I had to flatten myself against the wall to allow him to squeeze past me. “I’ll gladly take all four helping hands.”

“I’ve really only got the one free hand at the moment.” Randy raised the half-full Budweiser bottle he was carrying. He laughed at his lame joke, then headed upstairs to check the progress of the room.

Although I offered to show Myra the room, she declined. “No, no. That’s quite all right. I can see it tomorrow, when you’re a little farther along.” She was searching my face again with the intensity of an antiques expert studying a potential purchase for signs of fraud. Her avid curiosity about my appearance sent a shiver through me; could
she
be my mother? Facially, we looked nothing alike. We were both thin, however, and were roughly the same height. Myra had gray eyes, unlike my dark brown ones, but her graying shoulder-length hair held the same hints of auburn hues you could see in mine.

Before we’d had the chance to exchange more than a couple of mundane comments, Randy tromped back downstairs and announced, “Making good progress up there. You’d be even farther along, except we spent so much time today at the McBrides’. They’re applying Venetian plaster,” he continued. “It’s a lot of work.”

“What color?”

“A darkish, lightish green.”

I nodded. If he was so unable to describe a medium shade of green, the man surely didn’t write his own articles in
Denver Lifestyles.
Venetian plaster is not available in myriad hues. Sullivan was probably applying Behr’s Fox Glen, which, unfortunately for me, I’d yet to see come out poorly: the deep, rich hue could magically enhance a room with cooling and refreshing powers reminiscent of a desert oasis. I was sorely tempted to create friction between client and designer by suggesting to Kevin McBride that what would
really
tie Sullivan’s room design together would be a Salvador Dali–like melting-clock mural on his ceiling. . . .

Randy was eyeing the dining room table. “Nice cloth.”

“Thanks.” The fabric he was referring to happened to be a luxurious maroon-and-bronze patterned chenille, as soft as butterfly wings, which complemented the wall treatments magnificently. The thick fabric could encase the down comforter that the Hendersons already owned or serve alone as a bedspread during summer months. With maroon-and-gold cording on the four throw pillows—two bronze-colored velvet and two made from the duvet fabric—I was confident that my clients and I would love the finished results. Well,
Debbie
and I would love it. Mr. Death Valley would no doubt point out to me again that once his eyes were closed, the room was pretty much a solid
black.

“This cloth goes great with the curtains,” Randy muttered, examining my nearly completed drapery panels. He’d used the word
cloth
twice now, when everyone in the industry referred to it as fabric. Was this man really editing a design magazine? “I like what I’m seeing in both rooms. You gals are neck and neck at this point.”

“Which gals are you referring to?”

“Gilbert and”—he made a downward flick of his wrist and added in a lisp—
“Sullivan,
of course, sweetcakes.” He chuckled.

“I have to tell you that I find gay jokes extremely offensive, Mr. Axelrod,” I said without stopping to think. I was shocked at myself for letting that slip out. Sullivan was surely the last person I needed—or wanted—to defend.

“Do you? And what if I
have
to tell
you
that you might have just cost yourself the contest?”

“Randy!” Myra cried.

He chuckled and gave my arm a painful squeeze. “Just kidding. I already told you I was going to be strictly impartial, didn’t I?” He shifted his focus to his wife. “Myra?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the sewing machine. “You’re up, girl.”

I felt like grabbing the man by the collar and giving him a piece of my mind for treating his wife like a golden retriever, but Myra merely plopped down in the chair by the machine and asked cheerfully, “What am I sewing here, Erin?”

“You really don’t have—”

“Myra likes sewing. Says it relaxes her.”

“That’s true. I make most of my own dresses.”

“I’m impressed,” I said honestly, while making a quick assessment of the situation. My interests were best served by keeping my nose to the grindstone. That meant not wasting my time trying to enlighten an oaf like Randy Axelrod. And not allowing someone with unauthorized access to my personal history to yank me around like some mad puppeteer. That’s certainly what my mother would have advised. Ignoring Randy, I showed Myra the measurements for the new duvet.

With a sly grin Randy asked, “So tell me, Erin. Have you and your bro been working well together?”

“My ‘bro’?” I repeated, bewildered.

“Yeah, you know . . . Taylor Duncan.”

“That’s just a figure of speech, Erin,” Myra explained. She glared at her husband with laser eyes. “Randy uses it all the time. Don’t you, dear?”

“All the time.” He stared so intently at me that I got the impression it was a test of wills, so I just stared right back. I tend to like most people, and especially most people who share my passion in interior design. Randy Axelrod, editor of
Denver Lifestyles
or no, was an exception. “I see you ripped out the paneling. Did that go okay for you?”

He couldn’t have missed seeing the repair job during his tour of the room minutes earlier. That was even
assuming
he hadn’t already heard about the hole from Taylor or Kevin, let alone if he hadn’t put the hole there himself. Nevertheless, I replied breezily, “Just fine, thanks. No problems.”

Though I lacked a shred of hard evidence, or even soft evidence, I was now absolutely certain that Randy was the one who’d hidden my picture on the back of the aspen board with the intention of my discovering it.

“Glad to hear it.” He swiped some dots of perspiration off his brow. I realized suddenly that his face looked a little pallid. “Where’s the wood you pulled off the walls?” he asked me.

“Taylor stashed it in the back of his pickup, I believe. Why?”

“I’m gonna see if any of the boards are salvageable. They’re mine, after all. I was the one who picked ’em out and paid for ’em.”

“They came with the house,” Myra scolded over the whir and rhythmic chugging of the sewing machine. Her pressure on the pedal was steady and in perfect synchronization with her hands as she confidently fed the burnished material through the machine. It was obvious that this woman was better at sewing than I am—and I’m no slouch. “The wood from the paneling belongs to the Hendersons, and you know it, Randy. Same with their old curtains, so don’t get any ideas there, either.”

He snorted but made no reply. I decided that Myra had no idea about the booby-trapped paneling, whereas Randy wanted to find the one rigged board and ensure that the photograph had indeed been removed.

He took another swig of beer, then grimaced and glanced at the bottle. “This stuff tastes a little funny. Must’ve been a bad batch. I should take the whole six-pack back to the store and complain.” Again, he swiped at his damp forehead. “The alcohol’s making me dizzy.”

Without looking up from her work, Myra suggested, “You’ve been looking a bit tired all afternoon. Why don’t you go back home and rest?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll do that. See you gals later.”

The faux finish came out beautifully, much to Debbie’s
and my delight. Carl’s response was, “Nice. Hell of a lot of extra work just to get a batch of
streaks,
though. Used to be a job like this would lead to the painter getting fired.”

Debbie patted him on the back and said, “Ah, yes, Carl, that’s got to make Erin feel just terrific. You’re quite the charmer, all right.”

Letting them bicker quietly, I found myself surreptitiously studying the room with an eye for ways that I could warm up and romanticize the space even further. Candles. Lavender incense. A mixed tape of Vivaldi and Marvin Gaye, maybe? When I was done, this room would be a snug refuge for Debbie Henderson, a room in which she could read, sleep, or just daydream.

To my utter lack of surprise, minutes later Carl declined to volunteer when I said that I could use some help hanging the wallpaper. He grumbled that he needed a break and was going to watch some TV in the basement. By then, Myra had finished sewing the duvet and pillows and called it a day, with my blessings. She’d done a wonderful job. She’d lined the vibrant fabric with thin sheets of cotton batting, which keeps pillows from getting lumpy, and attached the cording to the edges, up to the openings. All that remained of the sewing chores was stuffing the pillows and then hand-stitching their openings in the seams. The plump pillows and duvet would be truly sumptuous.

Wallpapering is a task that’s particularly conducive to conversation. A teacher of mine at Parsons once mentioned that he’d known of many couples who blamed their divorces on wallpapering stints, so perhaps those conversations aren’t always
pleasant,
but Debbie merely asked me to tell her about the headboard, which seemed innocuous enough.

Their headboard would be the room’s unifying piece. Last week I’d found them a night table so exquisite that the instant my gaze lit upon it, I realized that if I were to drop dead that very minute, that night table was the item I would want to take with me so I could wrap my body around it for all eternity. Clients get a little freaked out when I describe their furnishings in those terms, so I merely explained to Debbie that their to-die-for transitional contemporary night table was crafted of tiger maple, whereas their very traditional showpiece chest was alder. Therefore, their new bed would be magnificently crafted from alder, but with warm, golden-hued tiger-maple accents. Or at least it was magnificently crafted in my
mind’s
eye. If Taylor managed to wreck that hand-selected lumber with its sumptuous pattern, Carl—by God—was going to have to fork over the bucks for my own craftsmen to redo the piece from scratch. “We’re going for the same distressed finish on the headboard that’s on your chest of drawers,” I told Debbie.

“Distressed finish, hey? That’s appropriate. I’m pretty distressed myself these days.”

“I guess the holidays have a way of doing that to people.” That was as noncommittal a response as I could think of at the moment. Perhaps I should have heeded my teacher’s warnings and insisted on doing this job alone. But then I hadn’t realized that decorating the Hendersons’ bedroom was going to be an emotional minefield. Debbie tucked her red hair behind her ear and muttered, “Why should the holidays be any different than any other time with Carl?”

“You’re having problems, I take it.” I wasn’t a good enough actress to feign surprise, but I didn’t have to fake my concern.

“It’s not easy playing second fiddle in your marriage. Especially when there aren’t even any children involved.”

I made a sympathetic noise. If she wanted me to understand what she was talking about, I knew she would elaborate.

“I guess he deserves some credit for finally agreeing that it was time to do something with our bedroom. And for hiring you,” Debbie added generously.

Reaching for my somewhat dicey arbitration skills, I said, “You and Randy did an absolutely fantastic job on the paint. It looks fabulous.”

“It sure does. And I already love the wallpaper. I’m so glad now that you stuck to your guns and put that up, in spite of whatever trauma it caused me earlier.”

I said nothing. I would much rather have kept the paneling and never discovered that damned picture.