Design on a Crime (14 page)

That seemed to satisfy her, since she went home a short
while later. I sat on the nearest chair and refused to let a single
thought take root.

Finally, the last three ladies left. It was just Gussie and me
and the chairs in the room.

'Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

"Someday." The quiver in my voice bothered me.

"You know you can count on me, don't you?"

"Always, Gussie."

"Good." She rolled up and placed a hand on my arm. "I
know it's hard to lose someone, and you've had two hard
blows. Please call if you need anything. We can talk. I can make
a pot of Starbucks. I can give you a hug. I love you, Haley."

"I love you too, Gussie. And thanks. Thanks for being
you.//

Feeling less alone, I locked up the church's auxiliary building and then watched Tom Stoker gently ease his disabled
wife into the passenger seat of their van.

I was fortunate to have had Marge when my life imploded on
me-twice, no less. And now it seemed that another wonderful
woman wanted to help me through this latest rough patch. I'd
be a real basket case if I had to go it alone. What would life be
like without people like Dad and Marge and Gussie?

I walked home, more determined than ever to do my best
in her home. She deserved no less from me.

I'd just have to be more discreet in my investigation. Even
though it might be smarter to quit my efforts, I wasn't sure I
was ready to trust the cops.

I didn't want to go to jail. Not when I had jobs the Stokers
and maybe even Noreen were willing to pay me to do.

Marge's killer wouldn't get away with murder.

I had too much to lose.

Satisfied with my initial drawings for the Stokers, I packed
my portfolio and headed to Magnus Mills by ten the next
morning. I wasn't going to think about Marge's murder until
I had a finished design board for the Stokers.

I learned to love the design-board concept at school. I get a
kick out of seeing my suggestions spread out on a large piece
of foam core. I attach fabric samples and paint chips around
the floor plan I set in the center, and in the corners of the
board I include photos of furniture pieces that might work in
the room. This is the fun part, the idea and its development.
Purchasing and installation are pure hard work and fraught
with monumental roadblocks and headaches.

Today I was off to one of my favorite places. Adrienne
Magnus Soames, great-granddaughter of Orville Magnus,
founder of the mill, is a fabric genius. Orville had established
a weaving facility. On Adrienne's persistent advice, his grandson Craig, her father, began to import some unique fabrics.
Now semiretired, Craig gave his business- and art-savvy
daughter the reins to the business. She gave the company
wings. Thanks to Adrienne's army of buyers, Magnus Mills has taken its place as a powerhouse in the fabric world. They
now offer woven material from every corner of the world at
bargain prices. Adrienne pays producers a fair price, then
resells based on what she paid, not on an inflated snob scale
designed to stroke the ego of pretentious designers du jour.

I love Adrienne and her wares.

"Haley!" Adrienne said when I walked into her kaleidoscopic
warehouse. "How're you doing?"

She had to stoop to hug me. Despite her six-foot height,
she had yet to give up the four-inch heels she fell for during
her time on the silver screen. I would have fallen too. On my
face.

I mumbled into her collarbone, "I'm okay, as okay as
possible."

Adrienne held me away, scoured me head to toe, then
shook her glossy, prematurely pewter-grayed head. "You
look wonderful, considering."

"You mean I don't look like something the cat dragged
in?"

"Of course not."

"I should, considering."

Adrienne crossed her arms and gave me a disgusted
look.

"Hey," I said, "I was attacked by a demented cat. She did
everything in her power to drag me to her owner as the trophy
of the year. See, I'd been hanging with rats-you know, the
gross kind with long, hairless tails."

Even when she wrinkles her perfect, elegant nose, Adrienne
looks spectacular. "I'm sure I don't want to know more." She
shuddered. "Rats, Haley? Please."

"Tell you what. You show me your most fabulous loot, and
I won't mention rodents again."

The ridiculously elongated and outrageously pointed toe
of one of her glamour-girl shoes tapped a time or two. "On
its face, your offer seems too good to pass up, but you did a
job on my curiosity. I've an even better offer for you, and I
don't think you can pass it up. Tell me about the cat and the
rats, and I'll up your discount."

"You know me, Adrienne. I don't like to dump on anyone."

"Oh, honey, you know you can talk to me. Your mom,
Marge, and I go back a long, long time. You even used to call
me Auntie Adie when you were little."

"You weren't that big then either. You and Marge are at
least eight years younger than Mom, and she had me when
she was only twenty-two."

Adrienne looked down her nose. Nobody does it better
than she, a good reason why she'd made such a splash in
Hollywood. "It's never a calendar thing, Haley. Maturity is
a state of mind."

"Sure. We live in Washington. Talk about a state of
mind."

We laughed on our way to the stacks. I recounted-with
some wise edits-my exploits of the past two days. Marge's
death had devastated Adrienne too. They'd been friends
nearly forever. She'd called me on my cell phone while I sat
in gridlocked traffic on the way back from my meeting with
my favorite shyster, Mr. Harris, the day after Marge's murder.
We'd cried, comforted each other, and failed to make sense
of the senseless crime.

"Now that you gave me a stitch in the side," the material maven said at the end of my tale of indignity, "why don't you
tell me what you're looking for."

I showed her my floor plan and the case goods I hoped
Gussie would approve. "I'd like to contrast the warm walnut
tone of these wood tables, new entertainment center, and
shelving units with something in an equally warm but more
neutral palette."

Adrienne shot me a look of horror. "You're doing
beige?"

I laughed. "No way! I was thinking along the lines of rich
caramel, mellow gold, some buttercream, and maybe a hit or
two of persimmon to keep things from looking too tame."

"Phew!" Adrienne was not a neutral sort. "Let's go for
the gold on the sofa with this supersoft chenille, and for the
draperies, I have the most delicious caramel-sundae dupioni
silk you can imagine."

The chenille felt great against my skin. It had as good a
"hand," as Adrienne said. But the silk ... "It's a Craftsman-style
bungalow. Small rooms, small windows, gorgeous but dark
woodwork, and low ceilings. I'm not sure that deep a saturation
in the dupioni won't block more light than I'd like."

"How about your buttercream for sheers beneath the silk?
That way, you can use the caramel in panels to frame the
sheers-you know, leave the drapes open at the sides."

"That could work. I could even fake wider windows that
way. What do you have that's sheer in that color range?"

The bolt of gossamer cream stripe Adrienne showed me
took my breath away. "Where did you get this?"

Adrienne's smug smile was my only answer.

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Keep your secrets, but please, please, please stash away the rest for me, whatever I don't
use for Gussie's job. I know I'm going to want more."

"I could do that." Her hazel eyes narrowed. "But it'll cost
you."

"More than the fortune you're charging for it?"

"Give me a break, Haley. Where else are you going to find
that quality Thai silk for that puny little price?"

I shrugged. "Hey, remember who taught me to bargainqueens of haggle don't do things by halves."

"Marge and I should have known way back then that
sooner or later you'd turn our lessons on us."

"And you're loving every minute of it. You'd ream me out
if I ponied up whatever you asked without a whimper."

"True, but as your auntie Adie, I reserve the right to refuse
to haggle-and to tease."

"Fine. But you better not sell an inch of this silk to anyone
else."

'As long as you tell me everything you learn about Marge's
killer. And as long as you watch your back. Marge got in
someone's way, and I doubt they'll let you find them out.
You're a very convenient scapegoat."

"Tell me about it." I sighed. "I'd better get going. I have
fences to mend, and I shouldn't put it off. If you'll have one
of your minions snip me full-yard samples of the chenille
and the silks, plus a satin stripe in creams and caramels or
maybe shades of gold for a side chair I want to reupholster.
And don't forget the persimmon."

I took another look at my design board. "Oh, I want a floral tapestry with sepia tones for pillows and accessories too.
Then I'll be on my way."

"Todd." Adrienne waved over a young man, probably a
student at Seattle Pacific University, and gave him precise
instructions. But as thorough as she was, the expression on
her face told me she had something else on her mind.

When Todd left on his sample safari, I braced myself. "Okay,
Adrienne. I'm not leaving until you tell me what's up. Your
head's doing about a mile per nanosecond, and I don't think
Thai silk calls for that much thought."

She gave me another of her elegant shrugs. "Not here, all
right?" She pointed toward her glass-enclosed office.

I nodded. Once we sat, Adrienne behind her beat-up
army-surplus-green metal monster of a desk and me on a
melt-into-the-clouds leather armchair across from it, she
sighed.

"You know I don't like to gossip, but there's something you
don't know that might have something to do with all this."

Adrienne had hated the glass-house atmosphere of Hollywood and the notoriety that went with her kind of success.
When she fell in love with a Seattle business executive, their
dates became a matter of public record. The publicity nearly
cost her the love of a wonderful but private man. When Brad
proposed, Adrienne turned her back on the bright lights, came
home, and produced five mini-Brads.

"If it's something that might keep me out of jail," I said,
"please tell me. I don't think that would count as gossip. Last
I checked, gossip is idle, self-serving, and malicious. You're
none of the above. And you might keep me out of jail, since
I did not kill Marge."

Adrienne's smile was forced. "You need to talk to
Ozzie."

I gaped. Hadn't I thought the same thing? I scooted my
chair closer to the desk and planted my hands on its cold steel
top. "What about?"

"He and Marge worked well together, but not always. At
least, I know they had an ongoing battle over ownership of
the auction house."

"How could they argue about that? The business belongs
to-" I winced "-belonged to Marge."

Adrienne reached across the desk and covered my hand
with hers. She gave me a gentle smile, then shook her head,
her pretty face sad.

"Exactly," she said, "and that was the problem. Ozzie worked
for her for almost twenty years. He wanted a piece of the action,
a partnership. Minor, yes, but he felt he'd earned the right to
part of the profits, not just a salary and commission."

"That could build some resentment. But do you think he'd
kill her? He wouldn't have thought he'd inherit the business
with that kind of disagreement, don't you think?"

Even though Detective Tsu had shot down my ideas, I
hadn't been that far off. Now I wanted someone who'd known
both Marge and Ozzie way longer than I had to tell me if she
could see the fussy little man as a killer.

Adrienne closed her eyes. She was praying-another one
who prayed about everything. They were all around me. I
felt more alone than ever now that Marge, the one agnostic
I knew, was gone.