Death by Inferior Design (9 page)

“Could you sit someplace else, please? I need to go through that stack to look for my missing one-by-six.”

“This is Sullivan’s stuff.” He kept his perch and lit his cigarette.

“And what’s the obvious place to hide a board? With other boards. Give me a hand.”

We started restacking Sullivan’s materials from top to bottom so that I could handle each piece of wood and ensure that there didn’t appear to be one odd man out that resembled my wandering board. A third of the way through a half dozen Italian black walnut boards we found a lone one-by-six of oak. Eureka! Kevin or Sullivan
had
tried to throw me off by hiding one of my boards! How low could you get? “This is it.”

“How do you know, Gilbert? Did you mark each one with your lipstick?”

“No,” I shot back, the tone of my voice more than implying the word
jerk-face
, “but when you’re at a lumberyard, you load the boards as you select them from the racks. You wouldn’t suddenly stick one board into the middle of a group of . . .” A brown bottle on the ground, partially hidden by the tarp, suddenly caught my eye— especially the skull and crossbones prominently displayed on its label. My pulse quickened. “Oh, my God,” I said. The bottle looked exactly like a container I’d stowed in my van a couple of months ago, just before moving in with Audrey. My ex-boyfriend had bought the cyanide for a metal-plating project that we never actually got around to starting before he became my ex. I hadn’t known where to dispose of the stuff, hadn’t wanted to bring a bottle of poison into Audrey’s home and risk Hildi’s getting into it, and the bottle was so safely packaged and nicely tucked away in my spacious van that I hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought in weeks.

“What’s wrong
now
?”

“What’s this doing out here?” I demanded, showing him the bottle.

“That?” he asked as if seeing it for the first time.

“Yes, that! It’s cyanide! Do you know if this is my cyanide?”

He shrugged. “Guess it must be. It was in your van.”

“What were you doing with it?”

He puffed on his cigarette before replying, staring impassively at the little bottle of poison I clutched in my hand. “I didn’t want the glass to break when I was unloading wood.”

“I had it carefully packed inside a heavy-duty plastic bag, inside a sealed metal container filled with kitty litter in case of spillage! And I put the
can
inside a box packed with foam. Just to make sure that it
couldn’t
break open!”

He took another drag on his cigarette, squinted at the smoke. “So I guess I got curious.”

“Jeez! This was an unopened bottle! Someone’s broken the seal!”

“Like I said, I got curious. I’ve never seen real cyanide before. I wanted to know what it looked like.”

“You had no right to go through the stuff in my van like that!”

“You told me to unload your materials.”

“I told you and Kevin to unload the
wood.
What kind of nutcase would have put
wood
inside a cardboard box inside a can that was filled to the brim with kitty litter?”

“Beats me. Maybe the same kinda nutcase who carries around bottles of poison.”

“Someone
gave
it to me when we . . .” I gave up. I didn’t need to explain myself to the likes of Taylor; after all, he was the one who’d swiped the bottle out of my van. “I don’t like anyone to touch it, for obvious reasons. That’s why I keep it locked away, inside my van.” Which, come to think of it, Taylor had left unlocked all of yesterday afternoon.

“And yet you go tossing your key to Kevin,” he retorted. “After you’d talked to the guy for all of ten minutes.”

“Where do you get off, criticizing me for—” I stopped. This situation was getting out of control. I was all but hopping up and down in my anger. “If anything should happen to anyone in this entire
city
that’s linked to cyanide poisoning, I’m going to tell the police about this.”

His face remained inscrutable. He took one last pull on his cigarette, then dropped it and crushed it under his heel. “So what’s the final word on the length? Do I start over again this afternoon or use what I’ve got now?”

Through gritted teeth, I retorted, “Neither one. We’re going with plan B.” I flipped my paper over and quickly sketched out what I wanted, very carefully explaining each aspect to him. This was an idea that I’d almost opted for in the first place—to have a twenty-inch shelf unit sit on top of one of the reproduction iceboxes that the Hendersons already owned. That ought to make Carl happy. Part of the design had, after all, been his idea.

Taylor flipped on the motor of his saw and fitted his safety goggles back in place. “I like that idea better anyways. See? I knew I was cutting these boards right.”

“I’m locking the cyanide in my van,” I shouted over the ruckus. “And we’ll keep my board right where it is now, in Sullivan’s stack.”

“Knock yourself out,” Taylor said, and resumed cutting, sawdust scent wafting in the sweet morning air. “Just be sure ’n’ keep the stuff available. The way this weekend’s going, I might just want to mix myself a Mazel Tov cocktail and put myself out of my misery.”

“Molotov cocktail,” I muttered to myself, certain that was what he meant, although that particular “cocktail” was a type of bomb and not a poison. At this point, he was welcome to either one!

I ducked into my van and carefully opened the bottle. My heart sank. Had there really been this little of the white powder in the container? The contents should have been a full inch higher.

I’d skimmed the literature sent with the bottle when I first received it. An inch was probably enough poison to kill a grown man. I packed the bottle away again. The name of the chemical company on the outside of the box must have piqued Taylor’s interest; he’d probably hoped it contained recreational drugs. If only I’d done an inventory before heading home last night . . . or, better yet, researched how to safely dispose of the stuff right away instead of leaving it in my van for months. Maybe I should join Taylor in a Mazel Tov cocktail.

My head was pounding. My van had been unlocked all Saturday afternoon. Yesterday that cyanide bottle could have been in someone else’s possession for half of the day. Who would want it? And why?

“Erin?”

I jerked upright and twisted toward the voice. Steve Sullivan was watching me through the van’s open double doors. He had what I could only describe as a smug smile on his face. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

How did he manage to appear whenever I was off balance? “Just fine, thanks. I’m taking a quick breather.”

He raised an eyebrow and studied me as I scooted past him to jump from the van. “Guess the pressure’s off now that the jig is up, hey?” His hair was in its usual annoyingly sexy-looking faux disarray. Today he wore a tan V-neck sweater and blue jeans.

“I suppose so. I’m still going to try to finish the job by this evening, though.” I glanced at the Axelrods’ house. Maybe it wasn’t Sullivan or Kevin who’d moved my board to my competitor’s pile, but rather Randy, who really seemed to relish messing with people’s heads. On the remote chance that the lone oak board really did belong to Sullivan, I asked, “You didn’t happen to bring a one-by-six eight-foot length of oak with you for this job, did you?”

“No. Why? Do you need one?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Uh-oh. Has Taylor been playing fast and loose with your work orders?”

“Something like that.”

“Quite the carpenter we’ve got here.” He waggled his thumb over his shoulder. “If we just needed him to tear down walls for us, we’d be all set.”

“Is that a reference to my fiasco yesterday with removing the paneling?” I snarled.

“I admit I heard about that from Kevin, but I simply meant that the guy’s built like a bulldozer,” Sullivan said placidly. “Don’t be so defensive.”

“Sorry. The undercurrents in this neighborhood must be getting to me.”

“You mean the simmering Hatfields-and-McCoys aspect?”

“Exactly.” So he’d noticed it, too.

He nodded. “I’ve never seen people who so obviously rub one another the wrong way choose to spend so much time together.” He paused. “Kind of like you and me.”

That we rubbed each other the wrong way was an understatement, but hearing him say that aloud made me unexpectedly sad. He pivoted and headed toward the McBrides’ house before I could get a read on his expression.

“Good luck, Sullivan.”

I’d meant good luck with Taylor’s not botching his jobs, but he must have taken my remark to mean more, because he gave me a mock salute over his shoulder as he continued to walk away. “Yeah, you too. May the best designer win.”

“I’m just hoping for a tie,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

I was already framing a rebuttal to his anticipated joust, but he made no reply.

Taylor and Carl carried the cut-to-size boards for the
bed to the Hendersons’ garage at a few minutes after ten. Carl excused himself to install the shelves in the closet while I measured the headboard pieces to make sure that they, too, weren’t four inches too short—at which point Taylor would no doubt try to convince me that the room would look nicer with a double bed instead of the existing queen. To my relief, this time everything was sized perfectly.

“It looks great, Taylor,” I told him, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Any idea of when you can start putting the headboard together for me?”

“Monday or Tuesday. I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”

“It’s got to be finished tonight. That’s written into my signed contract with Carl.”

“No way. I’m not knocking myself out for my stepfather. I can come back later and finish it up.”

“No, actually, I have to have the room done by eight p.m. I thought you knew that.”

“Yeah, originally, sure. Hate to tell ya this, Gilbert, but I have a feeling the surprise Christmas gift was spoiled the moment Debbie got back and saw it. Get real.”

I grabbed fistfuls of my hair to stave off an impulse to grab his thick neck. “Never mind. I’ll finish the wood and assemble it myself.”

“Whatever,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back toward the Axelrods’ property. “Course, the TV stand is gonna be a while. The glue’s gotta dry.”

While Carl installed the closet shelves, Debbie and I
turned the garage into a workshop. She worked on staining the crown molding, while I completed the headboard, deciding that I could just as easily stain and poly the wood
after
the bed was fully assembled—and this way, I comforted myself, I’d at least have the illusion of having made more progress.

When I paused from tapping the boards for the bookcase into their notches, Debbie said, “I really love everything about your design. I’m sorry I was so panic-stricken when I came home yesterday. I wish I hadn’t yelled at you like that.”

“That’s all perfectly understandable.”

She frowned. “Well . . . but my fib about where I’d gotten the alder chest was inexcusable. I was just so embarrassed . . . coming home and finding a professional designer in my dreadful, messy house. I just couldn’t stand to give Jill all the credit for the one thing in my home that you were actually impressed by.”

“Believe me, Debbie,
my
house is messy more often than not, and your alder chest is hardly your most impressive possession. Your entire sunroom is marvelous— the white antique wicker rocking chair, the breakfast nook, the brass lamp. . . . It’s all I can do to walk past the doorway and not drop whatever I’m doing, curl up on that cushy yellow-and-blue loveseat of yours, and just stare out the picture window and dream the day away.”

She put her hand over her heart. “Really? That’s my favorite room in the house, too! Or, rather, it used to be. I already like the bedroom a hundred times better. And I hope you win the contest.”

“I do, too, of course, but I have a feeling Steve Sullivan’s a lock. He’s really very good”
—damn him—
“and Randy seems to be all agog over the recliner that Sullivan picked out.”

“It
would
be just like Randy to base his decision on a new chair.” Her voice was sour, and she’d narrowed her eyes. She forced a smile. “He’s not so bad, actually. And Myra’s got a really good heart. I don’t think anyone could blame her for being so . . . eccentric, considering the life she’s had.”

“Oh? What kind of life has she had?”

She considered her answer. “Let’s just say . . . lonely, and sad.”

Carl rejoined us before I could ask Debbie any more questions. He announced that the closet shelves were installed, then looked at me working on the headboard, and said, “Why are you doing that yourself?”

“Taylor said he was behind schedule with Sullivan’s coffee table, so he needed to—”

“Bull. I’m getting Taylor over here if I have to drag him by the ear.”

Minutes later, Carl returned with Taylor and Myra in tow. Beaming, Myra said, “Good morning, Erin.” She added, “And Debbie. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it?” Debbie replied.

Myra gave me a searching look. “I’m not much with power tools, but I can do the last of the hand stitching on the pillows.”

“Thanks. That would be a big help.”

Taylor crossed his arms on his chest. “Like I already said to you guys, I’ve got stuff to do for Sullivan. He’s waiting for me at the McBrides’ right now. In two or three hours, I’ll get—”

There was a thud directly over our heads. It sounded disturbingly like someone taking a header in the master bedroom.

For a moment, nobody spoke, and I realized we were all taking a mental survey of anyone who could possibly be inside the Hendersons’ house. “Wait. Where’s Randy?” Myra sounded alarmed. “He said he was coming over here ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, my God. . . ,” Debbie murmured. “His
heart!”

We raced into the house. Taylor took the lead, taking the steps two at a time. I darted into the bedroom just behind him. A couple of steps into the room, Taylor stopped so abruptly, I bumped into him. He stared down at Randy Axelrod’s sprawled body.