False Premises (23 page)

He made a notation in his notepad. “Yeah. That’s probably a safe bet, but we’d better locate your carrier and ask him straight-out, just in case.”

“The mail’s always here between two and two-thirty. And before you ask, nobody came to the door today and, no, I didn’t hear any suspicious noises or notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“No strange cars idling their engines, or suspicious-looking passersby?”

“That would fit into the general category of ‘out of the ordinary,’ ” she said, donning her patient smile, which was actually an indication she was
losing
her patience.

Linda rose, and her partner followed suit. “The lab will examine the knife. And we’ve already put in a call for CSI to dust the door for prints. We’ll let you know what we find out.”

“Thanks, Linda,” I said.

“You
do
realize that this is a not-too-subtle message to Erin that her life is in jeopardy, don’t you?” Audrey asked them.

“We’ll do our best to catch whoever’s done this, Ms. Munroe,” Mansfield responded.

“We’re going to canvass the neighborhood now,” Linda said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find an eyewitness.”

“Keep us posted,” Audrey replied as she ushered them out the marred door. That too-patient smile was back on her lips, but had faded by the time she returned to the room.

I massaged my neck and tried to make my escape. “What a long, horrendous day this has been! I’m going to turn in early and—”

“It’s quarter after seven. Not even infants or nuns go to bed this early.” She snatched off the ottoman cum coffee table the small loose-leaf notebook she used for grocery lists and, finally, took a seat in the sleek, black-leather-and-chrome Barcelona chair across from my mahogany-and-velvet Martha Washington chair. “I want the name of each and every person you’ve met who is even remotely connected to Laura Smith.”

“Why? The police are—”

“We’ll give your police-gal friend the list later, if there are any surprises on it. In the meantime, I’m not taking any more chances with your well-being, and you shouldn’t, either.”

“But what good would a—”

“What’s the name of the man she was living with?”

I gave myself another self-massage. Now I really
did
have a pain in my neck—both literally and figuratively. “Dave Holland.”

She wrote that down, then looked at me expectantly.

“Hannah Garrison. She’s Dave’s ex-wife.” Audrey raised her eyebrows in surprise at this—she, too, knew Hannah from Paprika’s—but diligently jotted down the name. “Robert Pembrook, who was once Laura’s image consultant and who recently subcontracted me for a redecorating job. George Wong, who made Laura’s reproductions. And Jerry Stone. That’s the name of the dreadlocks guy Laura threw to the floor during your presentation.” The name “John Norton” popped into my brain, but I didn’t want to tell Audrey that my boyfriend had connections to Laura Smith. “That’s everyone.”

She peered at me. “You’re omitting someone, Erin.”

“John only dated her a few times, years ago,” I protested. “It’s not fair to put him on the same list as those others.”

“You mean John
Norton
used to date her? The man you’re currently seeing?”

I felt my cheeks grow warm, giving Audrey her answer.

“My goodness, but that woman got around!” She shook her head and sighed, returning her attention to compiling the list. “That makes
two
names you left off our list. You
also
failed to mention Steve Sullivan.” She rose and tore the sheet out of her notebook. “You’re going to be careful around everyone on this list. I’ll post it on the refrigerator, in case you forget.” She wagged her finger. “One of these people is trying to warn you that they’re willing to put a knife in your back, missy, and that ain’t happening. Not on my watch.”

She strode out of the room, and an instant later, I heard her slap a magnet onto her stainless-steel refrigerator. I sighed and tried to fight off the chill that crept up my spine.
Thanks, Audrey. I feel safer already.

“At least
one
good thing is going to come from this insanity,” she called to me from her post in the kitchen. “I’m phoning Henry Toben and telling him that tonight’s date is hereby canceled. I’m not leaving you home alone for one instant.”

Sunday provided a much-needed break for me, and
Audrey and I stayed home all day and played gin rummy and Boggle, basically pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She had ignored, however, my not-too-subtle hints that we
could
be restoring the parlor to a human—as opposed to a feline—abode by ridding ourselves of the excess sofas and tables.

Monday morning, Sullivan and I met at Henry’s house. Though it was petty of me, I decided that I wasn’t going to tell Sullivan about the knife in Audrey’s door unless and until he said something to me about his abrupt departure from Laura’s service, and he seemed to be in no hurry to do so. The movers arrived right on schedule. As the lead designer, I banished Sullivan to the second floor with gleeful relish, while I oversaw the main floor.

I vastly prefer that homeowners
not
be present while I install their rooms, but against my express wishes, Henry had taken the day off from work and was “here to help.” Ironically, that meant that while Audrey had deftly escaped spending time in Henry’s presence, I was boxed into spending time with both him
and
Sullivan. My client seemed to be on edge about something, trying to be the first to peer into every carton that the movers unloaded and, in the process, getting in the way and slowing us down. Thankfully, he finally said he needed to “grab a smoke” but was out of cigarettes, and he left us to our work.

I heard a noise outside and looked out the dining room window. A man darted around the corner of Henry’s property. I gasped. Could that be Jerry Stone? What the heck could he be doing here? I raced into the kitchen and peered out those windows, but couldn’t get a second look at him.

“Miss?” one of the moving men called as he tromped into the room, followed by his partner. “We got the heavy stuff unloaded . . . just need to make sure everything’s exactly where it’s s’posed to be. Your boss told us to start downstairs.”

“Actually, you got our roles backward; I’m
Mr. Sullivan’s
boss.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

I eyed him and his muscular partner. These men could crack the reedlike Jerry Stone in two. “I think it’d be easiest if you helped install the bedrooms first.”

“Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug.

Both men thumped up the stairs. I weighed the risk of confronting a prowler against the possibility of gleaning valuable insight into Laura’s murder. The slightest peep from me would bring up to three men instantly dashing to my aid. Though scared, I slid open the kitchen door, slipped outside, and crept around the corner. The trespasser was shading his eyes, trying to spy through the dining room window. “Jerry!”

He jumped and clutched at his chest as he pivoted to face me. He flattened himself against the side of the house. His cheeks were flushed and his forehead was dotted with perspiration. His clothing reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke.

“What are you doing here? And how did you get here?” There were no other cars on Henry’s cul-de-sac besides Sullivan’s and mine.

“I snuck into the moving van. Just before those steroid abusers you hired took off from your storage unit.”

“
Why?
And how did you know to be watching for them at some storage unit in Northridge?”

“I’ve been following you, actually.”

I thought about the mattress and sleeping bag in Laura’s storage unit. “You haven’t been living at the U-Store facility, by any chance, have you, Jerry?”

“No. And anyways, that’s all irrelevant. You’ve got to quit this job, Erin.”

“Why?”

“Because you bullshitted me about your use of environmentally responsible materials.”

He must have seen the zebra-hide wall hanging. And the leopard-skin ottoman. “With this particular client, I’ve had to compromise on a couple of items, but—”

“A couple of items?!” he cried. “How do you
sleep
at night?!”

That was more than a little overstated, but I held my tongue. Even though I didn’t believe that he was telling me the whole truth about his motives for following Laura and Hannah, I
did
believe that he was truly a conservationist, and I respected that.

He gestured at Henry’s house. “This . . . this . . . reprehensible, death-bounty merchandise represents everything I’ve devoted my life to working against!”

“Um, Jerry, I was assured that the leopard skin is a clever fake, and the . . .” I stopped, and sighed. He was staring at me in horror, as though I’d drowned a puppy in front of his eyes. “Why me, Jerry? Out of all the designers and all the home-goods stores selling merchandise that use fur or leather, why have you zeroed in on
me
?”

“Paprika’s made me realize how offensive consumerism really is. One night, when I didn’t have anyplace to stay, I walked by their window display. I’m seeing all this . . . useless nonsense that costs more bucks than I’m likely to make in a lifetime. I targeted
them,
not you. But your office is close to Paprika’s.”

Lucky me,
I thought sourly. Steve Sullivan’s office was nearby, too. Why couldn’t
Sullivan
have gained his own personal activist? “How were you planning on getting back downtown, Jerry? Were you hoping to sneak unnoticed into an
empty
delivery van?”

He shrugged. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just knew I had to do whatever it takes to convince you to quit this job. Have you looked in all the boxes? Seen all the animal blood that’s on your hands?”

“What are you talking about? I told you, the fur is
synthetic.
”

“You think that
ashtray
is a fake?”

“
What
ashtray?”

He shook his head and grumbled, “I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”

That was the second time he’d made the comment, and I’d had enough. “I sleep just fine, Jerry. Safe and comfy, under a roof that I’m helping to pay for.”
More or less.

“Yeah. Great. By working for people like Henry Toben,” he sneered. “And before you ask, I read his name on the shipping labels.” He spat on the ground in my direction, then eyed me with disgust. “You know what? You deserve what you’re getting, lady. I give up.” He turned on a heel.

“What do you mean ‘what you’re getting’? What are you talking about?”

He called, “You’re a gorilla killer!”

“Pardon?” I’d been called many things, but never
that.

He continued to storm down the hill, then turned and shouted, “I’d like to see how you’d feel if someone were to do that to your cat!”

I shouted after him, “How did you know I have a cat, Jerry?”

He turned away and resumed his path down the sidewalk, making a rude gesture at me over his shoulder.

What on earth was he talking about? What ashtray? What gorilla? I mulled over chasing after him, but didn’t want to risk it. For all I knew, he could be the knife-wielding maniac who’d killed Laura. Maybe he saw Hildi yesterday, when he was thrusting a knife into Audrey’s front door.

I walked up the ramp and into the van to investigate. As the movers had reported, only small boxes and loose items intended to accessorize Henry’s home remained. Within moments, I spotted the cause of Jerry’s diatribe. A gorilla’s paw, amputated at the wrist, that had been turned into an ashtray.

The sight made me sick to my stomach. Unwilling to touch the thing, I left it where it was and stormed back into the house and up the stairs, wanting to put my fist in Henry’s face, if only he were there right now.

The men were putting together the bed frame in the guest room, the zebra hide that was to hang above it currently on the floor nearby. I examined it with renewed disgust; I should never have allowed Henry to include it with purchases made in my name.

“Thanks, gentlemen,” I told the movers. “Change in plans. We’re done here.”

“But . . . we haven’t placed the dining room table for you or—”

“The homeowner can do that himself, once he returns.”

Sullivan glared at me. “Gilbert? What’s going on?”

“I can’t do this. Jerry’s right.”

“Jerry who?”

“Jerry Stone. I’ll explain in a moment.”

One of the moving men thundered, “We still have a batch of stuff on the driveway and in the garage that we—”

“Again, the homeowner can take care of it. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”

The one mover looked at the other, then glanced back at me. “Suit yourself, lady. Guess we’ll just empty the rest of the van on the driveway and take off.”

“Fine. Thanks for all your work.”

He scoffed a little as he thumped down the stairs. “Yeah. No problem.”

“What happened?” Sullivan asked me gently. “Does this have something to do with Laura?”

“No, with Henry’s disgusting taste. I’m putting my foot down.” Unable to get the hideous image of the ashtray out of my mind, I muttered, “If it were up to Henry, he’d lop off
my
foot and turn it into a doorstop.”

“What are—”

A door banged downstairs and Henry called, “Darlin’? The moving men are leaving. I thought you said they’d do the installation, too, but there’s still—”

I tromped down the stairs and snarled, “Good, you’re back. Now you can explain to my face how you thought I’d agree to placing illegal and reprehensible contraband in one of my designs!”

“Contraband? What? You mean
drugs
?”

“No! The gorilla’s paw!” I pointed at the door. “Go look outside, wherever the movers have dumped the rest of your things!”

Henry stared at me, then at Sullivan, now standing on the stairs behind me. “I’ll do that.” Crimson splotches had formed on his cheeks, but I was quite certain they were from the embarrassment of getting caught in the act. Indignant, he stormed out the door.