Design on a Crime (2 page)

Wilmont, Washington

When geriatric oak floorboards whine, wheeze, and creak
their objection to a woman's presence, she should accept it
as a sign that she's in for a rough ride. I instead glared at the
testy wood. "Don't you dare give way ..."

"Speaking to yourself?" Marge Norwalk asked.

I stumbled. The Gerrity mansion's century-old floor griped
again. "I didn't hear you back there. You startled me."

"Lucky for me you didn't crouch and attack from one of
your slice-and-dice martial arts positions."

"Lucky for you but lousy for me. I'm surprised I was so
distracted."

"What's on your mind?"

"You have to ask?"

Marge placed a well-manicured hand on my shoulder.
"Relax. Noreen's in the audience. She already signed for a
bid paddle and even waved her checkbook at me. She intends
hers to be the final bid-"

"That doesn't mean she'll hire me-"

"Stop." Marge's expression squashed further argument, so I
let my mentor continue. "She assured me she would hire you
because I endorsed your work. Over the years she's bought
enough antiques from me to know I won't lead her astray on
the choice of a decorator."

"Even one whose membership in the American Society of
Interior Designers isn't dry on the books yet?"

"Even so."

The butterflies in my stomach chose that moment to morph
into buzzards. Without this high-visibility job, my new business, Haley Farrell's Decorating $ense, didn't stand a chance.
How could it?

Up until last week, when I hung out my oh-so-tasteful,
gilt-lettered shingle over the mailbox at the Wilmont River
Church's manse, I'd given away the fruits of my education
in exchange for a lousy paycheck from a local furniture store.
I consider the time I put in as a saleswoman at Rodgers and
Faust Furnishings my requisite career purgatory. So do many
others in my field.

But to go out on my own? Just on the encouragement ofmore like kick in the butt from-Marge and the advice of the
members of the church's missionary society?

"I still can't believe I let you badger me into quitting that
job," I said. "Unemployment's a luxury I can't afford, and
you know it. Dad still has a stack of Mom's medical bills to
pay, and she's been gone for a year now. I can't make things
harder for him."

Marge wagged a plum-nailed finger. "Now, Haley, is that
any way for Pastor Hale Farrell's daughter to talk? Where's
your faith, lady?"

Loss emptied my heart; a sour sensation filled my gut. Then,
with determination, and before the memories had a chance
to return in full Technicolor, I beat them back and turned to
my tried-and-true friend, humor. "Hey, I'm a preacher's kid,
don't ya know? We're the black sheep in the fold."

A frown pleated Marge's forehead. "More nightmares?"

Red rimmed the edge of my awareness. I shoved the bad
stuff away again. "No more than usual. But let's not talk
about it, okay? I think what I really need is another application of your infamous hobnailed boots to the hind side of my
wimpy courage."

Marge's shoulders relaxed. "For a woman who's come as
far as you have, I can't believe a little thing like the launch of
your own business can turn you into such a sissy. Where's
that killer instinct that made you a brown belt in ..." She
floundered for the name of a martial arts discipline. Then she
waved. "A brown belt in whatever. If you can flip men three
times your size onto their backs-"

"Only twice my size."

Marge swatted my shoulder. "Whatever. If you can lob
behemoths without breaking a sweat, success in the business
world's going to be a piece of cake. Remember, if I can do it,
you can do it. Just picture difficult clients flat on their backs
after you toss them."

"If you say so."

The sound system crackled to life. "Get going, Marge. Your
adoring public awaits."

Marge wrinkled her nose, her chic wire-framed glasses
bobbed, and she stepped toward the mansion's adjoining parlor and dining room, where the auction was set to take
place. "You mean the status grubbers, don't you?"

"I don't think they all come to grub status. Tom and Gussie
Stoker are here, and Gussie's a sweetheart with a passion for
the past. The others from the missionary society just love the
excitement of the bidding and always hope they can score a
bargain or two."

Marge dipped her head. "You're right. They're not all
bad just most of them. You watch."

As Marge went to the podium, I scoured the room for
Noreen Daventry's distinctive raven head. My-I hopedfuture client is an attractive woman, one blessed with not
only good looks but also a family fortune and a late husband whose death had made a generous contribution to the
original kitty.

I found Noreen in the middle of the second row. She'd
chosen the best seat in the house, the house she expected to
own by the end of the day. The aisles were clotted with attendees scoping out the best seats before the sale. I excused
myself to those already seated and, with the folds of my long
green cotton dress clutched in one fist, I scooted toward my
quarry.

Noreen turned up the power of her blue eyes in response
to my hello. "I saved you a seat."

As I sat, I noticed the man to her left. I swallowed a
groan.

Noreen draped an arm around the hunk's shoulders. "You
know Dutch Merrill, don't you?"

"Not personally." I bent and tucked my black leather backpack purse under the chair to hide my reaction to Dutch.

None of what I know commends the guy. He graced the
pages of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer on a regular basis over
the last two years. A general contractor, he was taken to court
when a house he built slid down one of Seattle's many hills in
an extended heavy rain. Shoddy workmanship and substandard materials were alleged. The jury found him not guilty,
but the verdict hasn't restored his reputation.

"Dutch," Noreen said in her lush, fudgy voice, "this is
Haley Farrell, the interior designer Marge recommended.
I'm glad you two can meet today, since I want you to work
together on the remodel of my glorious new home." Her blue
gaze touched every corner of the room.

Dutch nodded at me, then said to Noreen, 'Aren't you
counting unhatched chickens?"

"Not at all. I want this house."

As if that said it all. But since Noreen Daventry said it, I
suppose it does say it all.

Dutch sat back, humming.

I choked down a laugh when I recognized the Rolling
Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Maybe the
shady builder wouldn't be so bad to work with. He had a
sense of humor.

Just then, Marge clapped her gavel on the podium. "I can
feel everyone's excitement this morning."

If she hadn't described the audience as status grubbers only
minutes earlier, I'd never suspect that the elegant, thirty-nineyear-old businesswoman at the podium held anything but
warm affection for them. I know where I stand with Marge;
everyone who knows her does. Marge doesn't suffer fools,
and she lets them know it.

The chatter died down to a low rumble. Marge went on.
"Let's get started, shall we? We have a marvelous collection for
sale today, and we begin with this turn of the century ..."

When Marge's rapid-fire patter became pure gibberish, I
gave up hope of following the bids. Paddles rose and fell at a
furious pace. And the money some people will pay for pieces
of ... well, to be honest, junk? I can't believe it.

A couple of choice items did sell at a bargain, and I wished
I had seed money to buy them. I can see the Gustav Stickley
table as the focal point in a family room, and an excellent
jewel-toned Kirman rug went for a song.

Noreen seemed to appreciate the advice I gave her on the
dining room suite for twenty. The walnut table boasts an exquisite patina, developed over a century's application of rich
oils, and the chairs, in spite of their hundred-plus years, still
wear their original handworked tapestry. The sideboard and
china cabinet are just as desirable. Noreen hovered around
seventh heaven after her purchase.

That's when I took the time to check out the room. The
six-foot-wide sideboard would look perfect against the dining room's left-hand wall, across from the Carrara marble
fireplace. Placement of the massive china cupboard, though,
would need more thought. The room's six windows eat up
wall space, but I can't wait to dress them in dupioni silks-

Noreen's nails dug into my arm. "What do you think of
that desk?"

Startled from my premature designs, I skimmed my auction
catalog for the blurb beneath the photo of the piece. "I imagine
it stood for years in the library. I see no reason to take it away,
unless you don't win the house after ... all ..."

I let my voice die a slow death at Noreen's glare. "Which
of course won't happen, since I know you'll get in the final
bid and, no doubt, win."

I have to be way more careful. I can't afford to alienate my
intense potential golden goose with my blunt tongue. Noreen
means business, and anyone who crosses her, even by chance,
stands to lose a limb or two.

Dutch leaned toward me and just missed a crash with
Noreen's bid paddle. "Where do you plan to put that monstrosity of a china cupboard? Have you checked out all these
windows? And don't forget the fireplace. I won't let you mess
with perfection."

"You assume I would? I may be new to the business,
but I know quality when I see it. That marble's not going
anywhere-"

"Glad to hear it, but you didn't answer my question.
What are you going to do with the walnut-and-glass white
elephant?"

"Give it some thought, for one. I don't make snap decisions
about a client's possessions. I specialize in carefully thought
out, well-crafted designs and quality results."

His green eyes blazed. Bet he clicked on his memory's

"save" icon at my barb. Oh well. There went my hope for a
decent working relationship. I rubbed the raised embroidery
on the skirt of my dress.

Noreen wriggled; her chair squeaked. "You were absolutely
right, Haley. There's no reason in the world for that mahogany
desk to leave its home. And now it won't have to."

I grimaced. Dutch had made me miss Noreen's purchase
of the piece. I don't like the contractor any better now than when I first spotted him next to Noreen. That he'd managed
to distract me from my responsibility to my client rubbed
me the wrong way.

With Dutch in the picture, the redesign of the Gerrity mansion could easily become a greater challenge than I'd imagined.
I'm not so sure I still wanted the job.

But I needed it.

I focused on Marge and thought only about the items that
would work in the future decor of Noreen's maybe-hopefully-new house.

Hours later Noreen had racked up an eye-popping list
of stuff. Acquisitiveness somewhat satisfied, she turned
again to Dutch. I couldn't help but notice how good they
looked together. In a masculine way, Dutch is as beautiful as Noreen, and he makes an excellent foil for her. Was
there more than just business between them? Was he the
builder with whom Marge said she thought Noreen was
involved?

It seemed the only conceivable reason for Noreen, who
can hire anyone she wants, to turn to Dutch of the shady
track record.

"For this stunning beauty," Marge said moments later, a
crystal and silver epergne in her hands, "the last item in our
catalog, we'll start the bidding at a bargain two hundred and
fifty dollars."

Paddles flashed from every corner of the room. Marge's
chatter became mush to my unenlightened ears. Finally, in
understandable English, she asked, "Twelve fifty? Do we
have twelve fifty for this perfect piece?"

No one moved.

With a flourish, Marge handed the epergne to her longtime
assistant, Oswald Krieger. "Fair warning," she sang out.

When no other bid materialized, she smacked the podium
with the gavel. "Sold! To number 321 for twelve hundred
dollars."