Death by Inferior Design (7 page)

That brought a question to mind. If Randy Axelrod had deliberately hidden my picture there for me to find, how could he have known that I would be the one to remove the paneling? Had I been too hasty to conclude that he was the culprit? Then again, he could have gotten me to find that picture either way; he could have easily claimed to notice that there was a loose board and feigned discovering it himself in my presence.

Aiming at safer conversational grounds, I said, “I hope Taylor is making progress on your furniture.”

“That sounds a bit like wishful thinking, unfortunately.”

“Do you know your husband’s stepson well?”

“Too well.” Debbie rolled her eyes. “Carl told me while we were painting that Taylor was the one who built that hiding spot behind the wall. He used it as a drug stash when he was house-sitting for us during a long vacation we took in Europe.” She sighed.

A new theory occurred to me, and my heart started hammering. Randy had referred to Taylor as my “bro.” Could I be Taylor’s older sister? Could Taylor have known that fact somehow and put my photograph where, for some unfathomable reason, he’d intended for me to find it? “So were the necklace and letters his as well?” I asked casually.

Debbie pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I doubt Taylor would have the energy or motivation to read a whole letter, let alone write one.”

She avoided my eyes. She knew more than she wanted to tell me.

Was Mom watching over me right now? If so, she was probably screaming at me to hold my tongue, but I
had
to know more. “Taylor is Carl’s ex-wife’s son, right?”

“Emily’s son. Yes. Emily and Carl were married for twelve years, and Carl treats that boy like his own son. Sometimes I think that Emily . . .” She sighed again. “Let’s just say that Emily and I don’t get along all that well.” She added in a slightly choked voice, “Not that it’s surprising, since we’re both in love with the same man.”

Now I understood her earlier remark about playing second fiddle. It wasn’t the first time I’d glimpsed the vicious battles that could rage between a man’s first and second wives. “I’m sorry, Debbie,” I said. “That must make it awfully hard on you, if she still hasn’t let go of him.”

She gave me a peculiar expression but merely replied, “The way Emily spoils Taylor, it’s lucky she only had the one son.”

Was there an emphasis on the word
son
? This was maddening: someone in this house’s intimate circle of visitors or owners knew more about my family tree than I did. I didn’t know Debbie well enough to confide in her, plus she clearly had troubles of her own. “Emily only had the one child?”

“Yes. And Taylor’s real father cut himself out of the picture right after he was born. From what I understand, they married young, split up . . . and then
he
split the scene.”

“I see.” If that was accurate, Taylor and I were probably not full siblings. I gritted my teeth. I was ignoring my final promise to my mother again by trying to guess my birth parents’ identity.

The doorbell rang, then the door opened, and a moment later, a voice called, “Don’t worry. It’s just me.”

“Come on up, Jill,” Debbie answered.

She swept into the room and greeted us both warmly. To my eye, Jill McBride was a refutation of the old saw that you can’t be too rich or too thin. Her face
was
very pretty, though, despite her apparent anorexia. She did a slow three-sixty, her eyes wide in delight. “These walls! The finish, the wallpaper! This bedroom is absolutely to die for! Are you putting up crown molding?” She touched my shoulder.

I couldn’t suppress a proud smile. “To match the trim of Debbie’s chest of drawers.”

Jill looked at Debbie. “The Guy Chaddock chest that I gave you last year?”

Blushing and averting her gaze, Debbie mumbled, “Mm-hmm.” I was stunned. For no apparent reason, Debbie had lied to me. She’d told me she’d bought that chest herself when she and Carl had first gotten married.

Jill clutched her hands over her heart. “Divine. Simply divine,” she gushed.

“And you should see the fabric,” Debbie said, mimicking Jill’s behavior by also touching my shoulder, although my feelings of camaraderie with Debbie were now greatly diminished.

“Oh, I
did,”
she replied. “I peeked at it on my way up the stairs. It’s absolutely
yummy.
Take a look at my eyes, ladies. I kid you not. They are positively green with envy.”

“Speaking of green, how’s your new room coming?” I asked.

“Quite nicely, thank you. Though to be honest, it’s much more in Kevin’s taste than in mine.”

Debbie clicked her tongue. “Carl doesn’t seem to have
any
opinion whatsoever when it comes to our house.”

“I know. You’re so lucky.” Jill lowered her voice and asked, “Is Carl here?”

“He’s glued to the TV set downstairs.”

“Good thing.” She took another step toward Debbie, then added, sotto voce: “Hate to tell you this, but
she
was here again.” Jill kept an eye on the stairs, as if fearful someone would come pounding up them any second.

“Emily?” Debbie asked with alarm.

Jill frowned. Then she nodded. “An hour ago. I spotted Emily across the street, talking to Taylor.”

Debbie grimaced. Looking at me, she explained, “Carl’s ex-wife is, as usual, trying to find an excuse to see Carl. Emily manages to come over whenever I’m not around. That’s the other reason Jill and I decided not to go to the spa today.” To Jill, she muttered, “Naturally, with me gone, she
would
use the excuse of her son’s being here all weekend to see Carl.”

“Well, rest assured, her plans didn’t work out this time. Carl’s been here with you, and
I
drummed up an excuse to pull Taylor away from her. I made it clear we were all far too busy to chat. For once, she took the hint and left.”

“Bless you!” Debbie said, giving her a little one-armed hug.

“Oh, don’t mention it, darling. You’ve done the same sort of thing with you-know-who on my behalf. Countless times.”

“I don’t know how you put up with it. Or why.”

Jill arched a nicely shaped eyebrow. “Well. Kevin has his other qualities. And we have a comfortable relationship.” She turned to me and chuckled. “My, but we’re giving you quite the unsolicited earful, aren’t we, Erin?”

“That’s quite all right. I’m just minding my own business.”

“Good for you, dear. Perhaps I’d better warn you, though, that you’re going to have to lean hard on your carpenter if you actually expect that boy to do anything resembling
work.
Steve Sullivan’s all but keeping Taylor in his back pocket. If you don’t do the same, he’ll do as little as possible on our room, but nothing whatsoever on yours.”

“That was nice of you to warn us,” Debbie said with a laugh. “Considering the circumstances, I mean.”

“You mean, considering the contest the men have going?” Jill flicked her wrist. “That’s their silly little diversion, not ours. There’s really no deadline now that we’ve already forced them to unveil their little surprise.”

“Except that my schedule for Monday is pretty full,” I interjected. I was keenly aware that, for the sake of my sanity, I needed to finish this bizarre job as quickly as possible. “And I’m sure that Steve has other jobs scheduled for Monday as well.”

Jill made an exaggerated “oops” face, then joked, “In that case, never mind. Rest assured that Taylor’s a regular whirling dervish and is painstakingly dividing his time right down the middle.”

“I guess I’d better go speak to him as soon as I’m finished.”

“Too late,” Jill replied with a hint of malice. “I saw him drive away as I headed up the driveway just now.”

Frustrated and finding my confidence-and-optimism
mantra increasingly ineffective, I decided to call it a day myself. I thanked Debbie and Carl for all their hard work and headed straight for the Axelrods’ backyard in the hope that Taylor might be there, even though his truck was gone. My lumber was still untouched, neatly stacked by the back door.

Cursing under my breath, I returned to my van for some plastic sheeting. In the event of an unpredicted storm, there was a small roof that would offer the stack some protection, but I couldn’t risk water damage to the unfinished wood.

The back doors to my van were unlocked. “Jeez, Taylor! Thanks a lot!” I grumbled as I reached inside and grabbed a roll of plastic.

I heard an engine idle as a vehicle came to a stop behind me. Whirling around—this job had made me ridiculously jumpy—I saw Sullivan roll down the window in his van. “Hey, Gilbert. How about letting me sabotage our contest and get you drunk tonight?”

The invitation was totally out of character. Where was the arrogant Sullivan I’d come to know and loathe? I walked up to his van, mulling my response. There was nothing I would like more than to compare notes on our clients. But for all I knew, Steve Sullivan could have known both the McBrides and the Axelrods long before he accepted this job. Maybe, in fact, he’d been in on the whole thing from the beginning. If he was unscrupulous enough to swipe a client, he might have been willing to help rig a high-stakes contest. “Tempting as that sounds, I’d better say no,” I told him coolly.

“Suit yourself, Gilbert,” he said with a grin, “but don’t go saying I never asked you.”

He started to roll up his window, and that’s when the panicked, chest-constricting feeling hit me again with the blunt force of a tidal wave. In its aftermath, every iota of my confidence and optimism instantly deserted me. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

What was I thinking?
I’d just called him “Steve,” as I would if we were
friends,
not ruthless competitors. I couldn’t reveal myself to him like this. To mention the photograph meant letting him see through my veneer. Steve Sullivan didn’t need to know that I was adopted. That my father had deserted my mother and me when I was twelve. That my mother’s death was as painful to me as though it had happened only yesterday. That despite all of my mother’s best efforts, a part of me would always ache to know why my birth parents had given me away at eighteen months, as though they’d discovered some irreparable flaw in me that made me permanently unworthy of their love.

I forced a smile and met his hazel eyes. “Oh, nothing. Have a nice night, Sullivan.”

“You too, Gilbert.”

I watched him drive away.

chapter 4

“Just before you wrap your gifts, spritz the inner side of the paper with cologne. This will give your loved ones a delightful sensuous bonus as they open their presents.”

—Audrey Munroe

Garages and driveways are a rarity in the historic district of Maplewood Hill, but I never complained. Having to park on the street and negotiate the slate walkway always allowed me to fully appreciate the rich grandeur of the late-nineteenth-century house in which I rented a room. My short stroll was especially wonderful now that the grand, stately homes and their tall, majestic spruce trees sparkled with Christmas lights. More than any other season, Christmas was a time of hope and love, when we could loosen the reins on our hearts. I paused on the walkway, took a deep breath of the sweet, crisp air, and looked down the street. Despite the intense challenges this day had brought me, I couldn’t help but smile. The view was glorious. In my mind’s eye, I enhanced the beauty even further: the asphalt was buried in a blanket of glistening snow. Tree branches and roofs were frosted with white powder.

Still smiling, I entered Audrey’s house through the arched oak door. The magnificent foyer, which I’d decorated myself, was so beautiful that I loved to linger here. Tonight, however, the French doors to the parlor had been left wide open and, at the sight before me, I gasped aloud.

Audrey Munroe, my petite, sixty-something-year-old landlady, was kneeling on the richly grained antique-pine floor. She’d shoved the furnishings aside, rolled up the exquisite oriental navy-and-claret rug, and laid down a sheet of thick plastic in its place. In some sort of twisted art project gone mad, she was taking a box cutter to the sublime custom wallpaper that I’d custom-ordered for her dining room.