Design on a Crime (12 page)

Something about the expensive summer-weight wool pants
and the silk shirt also bothered me. I'd never caught on to his
extravagance before.

I shifted my weight. "I've some questions for you."

His expression changed. "I don't have to answer."

"You might want to answer mine before they become the
police's."

"What? You're playing cops and robbers now?"

"I'm trying to save my skin. The lead detective has me in
her crosshairs, and I don't particularly want to go to jail."

"If you did the crime, you'll just have to do the time ... or
something like that."

"Give me a break, Steve. You know I had nothing to do with
Marge's death." Okay. Courage, please. With the help of some
of Tyler's techniques, I focused. "The philandering husband
might have a good reason to knock off his wife."

He hadn't expected that. With a look over his left shoulder,
he took a step back. "I didn't kill Marge."

"I didn't either, so knock off the stupid blame game. Did
Marge, your wife, crimp your style with Noreen? Was she in
the way?"

"That's stupid, and I don't have to answer."

"You might want the practice. I'm sure the cops'll ask some
of the same things." I took a deep breath. "Did you want
Noreen more than Marge?"

"Look, I married Marge. That should count for something."

"Ah ... counting does come in handy when money's involved, doesn't it? So you decided you wanted Noreen but
didn't want to give up Marge's money to marry her."

Steve laughed. "I don't want to marry Noreen. I'm not that
crazy. Pity the man who ties himself up to that shark."

He got sleazier by the minute. "Then where were you the
day of the auction?"

"At a conference in Detroit. A teacher's conference."

"Can you prove it?"

He smirked. "I have an airline ticket, hotel receipt, and
registration materials-"

"Woo-hoo!" a rusty-haired kid called from behind Steve's
right. "Mr. Norwalk's got another harem babe. Kissy, kissy,
kissy!"

A sneer did nothing for Steve's looks. "Robert, that's awfully
rude. This is a friend of my late wife. Please apologize."

"Why? Class's out, and she's just one more of your
women."

Robert looked to be about fourteen and a rotten deal. But
what he said caught my attention. "Is Mr. Norwalk a favorite
with the ladies, then?"

"No joke." He ticked off fingers-and ticked off his teacher
too. "There's Miss Collins from the English department, and
Sienna's mom-she's divorced now-plus, he married the
older one." He shot Steve a malevolent leer. "There's the one
with the blue eyes, the Jag, and the killer bod, and now you.
That's five I know of. Betcha he's got more."

I watched Steve. "Interesting ..."

He practically spewed steam. "Nonsense. Robert just
flunked his geometry test." He turned to the teen. "This won't
change your grade. It'd be better if you applied your mind
to your homework and studied for the next test. Don't waste
time on tall tales."

Robert shrugged. "I know what I see."

"And what would that be?" asked a gentleman in a gray
suit.

Robert gulped. "Mr. Hobart ... I didn't see you there. I
A...

"Go on, Robert. I'd like to hear what you have to say."

The venom in Steve's gaze made me gasp. Who was Mr.
Hobart?

"Well, sir," Robert said, "it's just that every time I turn
around, Mr. Norwalk's got another of his women hanging
around. He's a big-time player, ya know?"

I winced. My opinion of Steve had taken a dive when I'd
seen him with Noreen the previous afternoon, but this was
embarrassing. Sympathy rose in me-just a little. He was
reaping what he'd sown.

"I ... see ..." Mr. Hobart turned to me. "Let me introduce
myself. I'm Edward Hobart, headmaster here at the CarletonHiggins Academy. And unfortunately for you, I know who
you are, Ms. Farrell. Your picture's been in the paper a time
or two these last few days."

I grimaced. "Notoriety's a bear."

"I would imagine." He turned to Robert. "You'd better
hurry. Your sister's waiting, and I know she starts work at
one."

Robert took off, a gangly mess of arms, legs, and floppy
red hair. Before I could think of a thing to say, Mr. Hobart
went on.

"I'm going to have to say good-bye, Ms. Farrell. I need to
see Mr. Norwalk in my office."

That fast, I took over Robert's place as the target at which
my mentor's widower shot visual darts of hate.

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.