Design on a Crime (22 page)

"How can I? You've no idea where I'm coming from."

Dr. Rodriguez sat in a comfortable armchair and indicated
the matching one for me. Phew! No couch. I couldn't have
laid down for a nanosecond.

With a sad smile, she opened a manila folder and took out a
sheet of paper. It looked sickly familiar. My stomach churned.

She set copies of the police report and my attacker's sentencing records on the Queen Anne cherry coffee table between us.
"I hope you forgive me, but I took the liberty to check public
records. Tyler said you were the victim of a violent crime little
more than four years ago. I found the paper trail."

She stared until I had no choice but to meet her gaze. "I
know exactly where you're coming from. I was also raped,
when I was twenty years old."

That evening, Dad and I went to the Stoker home for dinner. After the turbulent morning, it was about the only place
I could imagine going. I had too much on my mind.

Dr. Rodriguez-Tedd, as she'd asked me to call her-had
pulled no punches. After she'd dropped her bombshell, she'd told me her tale. At the end, I'd known she understood most
of what I'd gone through. The difference was she'd been
raped by a stranger, and in a confrontation with the police,
he'd been shot and killed.

Paul Campbell had been my boyfriend. Date rape is no less
rape just because you know the guy that forces himself on
you, steals your right to decide, steals something even more
precious than that. Paul stole my innocence, my sense of trust,
my faith, and any hope I'd had for the future.

He got probation and forty hours of community service.
Even though I'd heard he'd left Washington, at any given
time he could show up again. That didn't make a woman feel
any too secure. Not this woman.

But Tedd understood my rage. She understood my need
for control. She knew why I fell apart under ridiculous accusations and, ultimately, when my freedom was ripped from
me as the cell walls and bars closed in on me.

She let me scream. She gave me tissues. She even had Ryan
run across the street to get me a Starbucks venti caramel
macchiato. From what she said, she'd cleared her morning
of other sessions to give me as much time as I needed.

I don't know how I made it home afterward. I'd felt like a
wrung-out dishrag when we were done. On the excuse that
I had to finish my presentation for the Stokers' redesign, I
took refuge in my room and crawled into bed. The adrenaline
drain left me so weak that I slept like a log.

Now, portfolio in hand, I sat on the passenger side of Dad's
Taurus as we drove the three blocks between our home and
the Stokers'.

The veal marsala was excellent. So was the boysenberry pie, made from berries that Gussie had canned herself. Now,
there was a woman who didn't let even a debilitating disease
keep her from doing what she wanted. As we walked into
the living room, where I'd do my bada-bing thing, I realized
that I'd have to become more like Gussie if I wanted to move
forward with my life.

"I hope you and Tom like what I've put together for you."
The easel held my design-board upright, and I liked how
it had turned out. I started my pitch. "I'd like to move the
furniture away from the walls, Gussie. That'll give you more
room to maneuver on those days when you're forced to use
the wheelchair all the time...."

They loved the soft and comfy chenille for the sofa, and
the luxurious gleam of the dupioni silk inspired sighs of
pleasure. The sassy persimmon stripe and the luscious taupe
and cream and gold tapestry also got me a bunch of oohs
and aahs. The see-through Thai silk, however, was my coup
de grace.

"I've never seen anything like it," Gussie said, gaze glued to
the beautiful fabric. "I can't wait to see it on the windows."

"Here," I said. "Let me put it up against this one here. It'll
at least give you an idea of how the sunset's going to look
once the draperies are in place."

The current curtains were heavy, pinch-pleated antique
satin. A full lining made sure no light came through them
unless they were pulled all the way back. Since the window
faced the street, Gussie and Tom kept them closed for the
sake of privacy.

I tugged on the cord, and the setting sun's russet glow
poured in. The knick-knacks on the table in front of the window took me a minute to move out of my way. I was
tall, but I still needed help to reach the hardware. I took off
my Birkenstocks, turned to wink at the Stokers and Dad,
climbed the table, and then held the edge of the silk up to the
rod. The yard-length of fabric I'd wheedled from Adrienne
for demo purposes was just enough to give the illusion of
a curtain.

At Gussie's sigh of delight, I smiled. "To be honest, it looks
even better than I thought it would. I chose the color scheme
because these windows face the west. I wanted to make the
most of the gorgeous sunsets you'll be able to enjoy once I'm
done with the installation."

"Haley," Dad said. "I knew you had a multitude of abilities and more talent than you knew what to do with, but I
have to give you credit. This is spectacular. You've outdone
yourself."

Pleasure rippled through me-a foreign feeling these last
few days. "Thanks, Dad." I turned to my potential clients.
"So... do I get the job?"

Tom laughed. "You had the job and our trust from the start,
but now that we've seen what you have in mind, there's not
a soul out there who stands a chance. How soon can you
start?"

Oh yeah, oh yeah. I had a job. "Since I'm otherwise unemployed-" I rolled my eyes "-I can start tomorrow. I'll place
the order for the fabrics and call the furniture showroom for
the new case goods."

I went to fold the Thai silk, but Gussie stopped me. "Could
I keep that sample? At least until the room's done. I want to
dream on it, honey."

How could I deny her? "Of course. Tell you what. I'll
drape the others around the room. You know, in the areas
where I plan to use the specific pieces. That way you can
live with the new concept for a while and make sure it's
right for you."

"Oh, that's a better idea," Gussie exclaimed. "Here. See if
there's some way to keep the curtain fabric folded over the
rod. You know, something like what you just did."

Back at the window, I again kicked off my Birkenstocks
and hopped on the table. A few pins later, I asked, "How's
this?"

"Perfect," Tom replied. "Now be careful on your way
down. We don't want anything to happen to our wonderful
designer."

"Oh, goodness, Tom," Gussie chided. "Don't even think
that. We'll just have to take care of our Haley. And not because
she's our designer or because of what she's going to do here.
She's just a wonderful girl, an absolute darling."

Embarrassed, I crept back down, and began to rearrange
Gussie's tchotchkes. Millefiori paperweights fascinated me.
Even though I knew glassblowers inserted rods of colored
glass into balls of the melted clear glass, I still found the little
colored flowers inside solid glass almost miraculous.

The Limoges porcelain pitcher and its fresh roses came
next. They smelled wonderful. Then I picked up a figurine.
I'd noticed its unusual weight when I'd moved it to a side
before, but now I took time to check it out.

It looked like it came from the 1920s, a bronze of a woman,
as stylized as art-deco pieces tend to be. It was more than
exquisite. It was a true work of art, a treasure.

And familiar.

If memory served me right, the piece was an Erte, created
by the famous French sculptor. Many of his pieces depicted
graceful women in poses that spoke of his time. And the reason I recognized it so easily was because it had been listed in
the catalog for the Gerrity auction.

I put the pricey bauble back on the table. I hadn't realized that the Stokers had purchased the piece. I hadn't
thought they could afford something that sold for thousands of dollars and whose peers graced museums all over
the world.

True, it was tarnished on one side, maybe dirty, actually, but patina was important in order to date a piece and
determine its authenticity. This one looked as real as real
could get.

But something tickled the back of my memory. No matter
how hard I tried, I couldn't remember Marge actually offering the piece at the sale. I went to ask Gussie about the Erte,
but embarrassment held me back.

What if it wasn't the one from the sale? What if they'd had
the statuette for years? What kind of designer would miss
such a distinctive piece in someone's decor? Especially in a
house she'd visited umpteen jillion times. I didn't want to
look like some kind of no-clue amateur, so to be on the safe
side, I decided to stop by the warehouse the next day and
check out the catalog.

Not long after my rousing beginner's success, Dad and
I loaded my board and portfolio into the car and drove
home.

The only words spoken were Dad's quiet, "I'm so proud of you, Haley. You took enormous steps toward your future
today. I'll keep praying for your progress, honey."

I hoped no new attack derailed that progress I so needed
to make.

I rubbed my eyes. Amazing what squinting at a computer
screen could do to you. And I'd been at it for hours. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn't make the facts add up. Just
as I'd thought, the Erte was listed in the sale catalog. But as
I'd also suspected, there was no record of it going up for sale,
and certainly none of a buyer.

If Marge was known for anything, it was for her attention
to detail. She wouldn't have let a discrepancy that big stand,
not even for a short intermission.

"Ozzie?" I called reluctantly. I didn't know what to think
of him now that I'd read that awful memo. "Can I ask you
something?"

"Of course. How can I be of service, Miss Farrell?"

If things ever worked out that I'd own this place, we'd
have to shake him up some. That Miss Farrell thing got old
real quick.

"I remembered a piece from the catalog, a beautiful sculpture, and I wondered who'd bought it."

He rubbed his chin and then smiled. "Oh, you mean the
Erte. She is stunning, isn't she?"

"Lovely." But not what I wanted. "Do you know who
bought it?"

His forehead furrowed again-no smile though. "Come
to think of it, miss, I cannot recollect ... I don't even know
if it sold."

I knew enough to keep my big mouth shut.

He shook his head as though to clear it of cobwebs. Poor
man. There were no cobwebs. If what I'd already checked
out turned out to be true, then the figurine had never gone
up for bid.

"If you'll give me but a moment, I'd like to verify something
in the database."

As he walked away, muttering under his breath, a weird
sensation started in the pit of my stomach. If the Erte hadn't
sold, then how did it wind up in the Stokers' living room?
And why?

What did it mean? Did it mean anything?

Had I finally gone off the deep end?

After about fifteen minutes of similar ring-around-the-rosy
thoughts, Ozzie returned, the worried look back in place,
the same one he'd worn when he couldn't find Marge at the
auction.

Things were getting kinda squirrelly again. "What's
wrong?" I asked when I couldn't stand the wait a second
longer.

"It's the strangest thing, Miss Farrell-"

"For Pete's sake, Ozzie! Stop with the Miss Farrells already. You've known me since I was a snot-nosed little
kid. You'd think you could make yourself call me Haley
by now."

He took a step back. "I do apologize, Miss-er ... ah ...
Haley. It was never my intent to offend."

Did I blow that or what? "Ozzie, you didn't offend me,
but you make me feel as if I have parsley stuck between
my teeth, stepped on dog poop, and tracked it into Buck ingham Palace while I did some kind of whirling dervish
dance."

His eyes widened even more. "I ... I..."

"Look. All I'm saying is that you don't have to be so formal
around me. Just call me Haley, and we'll get along fine, as
fine as we always have."

"Very well, M-er ... Haley."

"Good! See? The ground didn't even open up under you
or anything." Now, here was a guy without a sense of humor.
But he did have info I needed. "You were saying about the
sculpture ... ?"

"Oh! Yes. It's the oddest thing. There's no record of it selling. Now, it's a rare occurrence when an item, especially one
so desirable, doesn't sell, but it does happen from time to
time." He shook his head again. "What's truly odd is that
we have no record of Marge putting it up for bid during the
auction. It was scheduled as one of the last pieces before the
intermission."

"What do you think happened?"

"I can't begin to imagine. Perhaps ..."

When he'd mulled his thoughts long enough, I stuck in an
impatient, "Yes ... ?"

"The only thing I can think of is that the runners-you
know, the teens who help bring the smalls up front during
the sale-couldn't find it. They might have told Werner, our
catalog man, and he could have told Marge we'd have to leave
it until the afternoon. The piece created enough interest to
warrant a special sale."

"Funny no one's mentioned it. I mean, since it was such a
favorite and all."

He nodded, the glum look back on his plain features. "I
know precisely what you mean. I can't imagine why I didn't
remember."

"Give me a break, Ozzie. Give yourself a break." At his
puzzled look, I went on. "You only went through your employer's murder, an investigation, and then you got called
out to inventory an estate for possible sale. When have you
had time to remember a tchotchke that didn't sell?"

"Miss Farrell-Haley! An Erte is much more than a ... a
mere knickknack. It's an absolute treasure. It should never
have slipped my mind."

"Give it a rest. If I sweated every last thing I forgot, then
there wouldn't be enough soap by half to go around the
world. Pretty stinky, don't you think?"