Poisoned by Gilt (13 page)

might have doctored our card, just as a mean practical

joke."

"A practical joke?"

"To harass me. It might be a payback for my having

stepped on her flower when I walked up to her property

line."

"You stepped on a flower? How ghastly!"

"Yeah. According to Asia's reaction, I should have

been handcuffed and dragged off to jail on the spot, even

though the daisy was already dead. Heaven only knows

what she'd have done to me if I'd killed a live one."

Sullivan grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"We. We're paying a visit to your grouchy friend."

"Asia?"

"Yep. We'll test her reaction when we tell her we got

her message and want to talk about it."

My hunch was that knocking on Asia McClure's door

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would be seen by her as an act of aggression. But the fact

that Steve was both asking me to do something with him

and taking a proactive role was too appealing to resist. I

snatched my purse and my coat.

"Be sure to drive dead-center down Asia's driveway," I

said as Sullivan signaled to turn onto Asia's property.

"The woman completely flipped out when I brushed

against her dead flowers. If you get too close to her junipers, she'll consider it a declaration of war."

"Let's not assume the worst."

"That's not an assumption, Sullivan, but rather an informed assessment. I'm telling you now: Do not expect

sweetness and light from Asia McClure."

"Okay, but she's not the Antichrist either, surely. Let's

just give this our best shot." He winked at me, then shut

off the engine.

I shook my head in dismay. "You're thinking you're going to charm her in spite of everything I just told you."

We got out and walked along the path. "No offense,

Sullivan, but I'm thinking you've met your match."

"We'll see. In any case, I stand forewarned." He gave

me what had to be the world's sexiest grin and jabbed at

the doorbell.

Moments later, Asia pulled the door open, but kept a

grip on both the knob and the doorjamb. Her scowl

made her look like a stone gargoyle. "Well, well. It's the

decorators. Did you forget the address for your client?"

"No, not at all," Sullivan said with a chuckle. "We're

simply following up on your message. The one that you

dropped through our mail slot."

"I didn't give you any message. Why would I want to

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contact you? I have no interest in hiring a decorator. I

like what I like, and I don't need to pay someone to tell

me what my tastes are."

"Good for you." Despite his words, Sullivan's confidence was already visibly faltering.

"If someone gave you a message and told you to come

here today," Asia continued, "it wasn't me. Or else you

made a mistake. Which is more likely."

"Also, I wanted to apologize one more time," I blurted

out, sensing that Asia was about to close her door in our

faces. "I remember how gorgeous your gardens were last

August, when we first started working at Burke's house.

You're truly an extraordinary gardener, Ms. McClure."

She crossed her arms and regarded me coolly. "That's

because I love flowers. And I love to garden. I like to cultivate beautiful things. It's not hard to get skilled at something you love to do. Though the pests are a problem."

"You mean the aphids and caterpillars?" Sullivan

asked.

She shook her head. "My ecomaniac neighbors.

Which includes your client. The fool is erecting a windmill now! All because that bigger fool, Darren Campesio,

has one, so Dr. Stratton wants a taller one in his own

yard. It's going to cast a shadow across my flower beds!

Instead of my view of the Rockies, I'll be looking at a

damned oversized beanie-cap propeller! He should move

it to his front lawn, so it blocks his own door and not my

mountain views! Plus, who knows how much noise the

thing's going to make?"

"They're virtually silent, and they produce no noxious

fumes," I assured her.

"Regardless, it's a huge butt-ugly metal contraption

that I'll be seeing every day! And speaking of noxious

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fumes, our pond stinks, thanks to Stratton and his hippie

food."

"Hippie food?" Sullivan repeated.

"Shrimp and algae and green glop! This is infuriating!

I buy my house for the views and the peace and quiet,

and now I'm getting a polluted pond and whirling blades

over my head on both sides!"

"We'll see what we can do about Burke's windmill,"

Sullivan cajoled. "We might be able to keep the height

reasonable and reposition it so it's as unobtrusive to your

property as possible."

"Better yet, tell him to take his windmill and stick

it where the sun don't shine! It's all the fault of this

blasted contest! That's what made both of those men go

crazy, trying to eke out more and more energy savings,

all of which are now at my expense! They're stealing

my happiness! If your client wants a green home, far as

I'm concerned, he should just paint the blasted thing

chartreuse."

Sullivan chuckled.

"That wasn't funny," she snapped at him.

Sullivan looked at me in frustration. Just as she was

shutting the door, I cried, "Wait. We're here because

someone wrote a veiled death threat on one of our business cards and stuck it through our mail slot at some

point last night."

"Really? Well, it wasn't me." She made a derisive

noise. "How juvenile. Although you both should have

been mature enough to come straight out and ask me, so

maybe you're getting what you deserve." She started to

close the door in our faces.

Sullivan stopped the door. "Ms. McClure, please.

Hear me out. Richard Thayers was my mentor. He

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meant a great deal to me. Do you have any idea who

killed him?"

"No, I do not." She slammed her door shut.

We walked back to the van in silence. As he slipped

behind the steering wheel, Sullivan muttered, "Thanks

for not saying 'I told you so.' "

"You're welcome."

I caught a look of deep sadness on his features as I

glanced at his profile.

"They'll catch the person who did this, Steve.

Richard's death is not going to go unpunished."

He gave me a small smile of gratitude, but said

nothing.

The weather rapidly deteriorated that afternoon. Sleet

was falling as reports of a major snowstorm rolled in. By

two P.M., we decided it was best to reschedule our lateafternoon appointments, which all our clients readily

agreed to. By two-thirty, we'd decided to head home.

"Steve?" I asked, gathering my nerve as we put on our

coats. "How about coming to my house? We can make

ourselves some hot cider or cocoa, put some logs on the

fireplace, and just unwind a little."

To my horror, he actually winced. "Uh, thanks,

Gilbert. I'd better get home, though, in case this storm's

as bad as it's threatening to be right now."

I stopped myself from asking if having to spend the

night at my house would be such a terrible hardship, and

instead said, "Suit yourself," with a shrug. "See you tomorrow." He fumbled with getting the key in the lock,

which struck me as an intentional diversion to avoid my

gaze. I brushed past him.

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"Yeah. See ya, Gilbert."

I knew at that moment what it felt like to harbor unsubstantiated certainty of another person's guilt. Sullivan

had to be seeing another woman behind my back. At

least the heavy sleet made it easy to dash away from him

with my head down. It also masked the tears pricking at

my eyes.

The drive home was slow and slippery, and I was very

glad to arrive in one piece. Four hours later, Audrey arrived, having had a much harder time getting home from

the studio in Denver. She was shaking, so I suggested either peppermint schnapps in her hot chocolate or rum in

her cider. She opted for both and mixed them together,

calling the concoction a "hot choc-o-cider pepperum."

To no one's surprise, she soon discovered that the names

were a better combination than the flavors, and she

dumped it down the drain in favor of a port wine.

The three of us--Audrey, Hildi, and I--settled into

the parlor, as Audrey held court and described her harrowing drive in detail. What was normally a forty-five

minute drive had taken her nearly five hours, and she'd

seen so many fender benders that her recap turned out to

be surprisingly lengthy.

We were just starting to discuss our options for dinner

when an enormous crash shook the house. Hildi tore out

of the room and up the stairs. I felt like following her.

Was this noisy attack on my home related to the death

threat?

"What on earth was that?" Audrey paled, shrinking

into her wing chair.

"I don't know. It sounded like a bomb going off in our

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kitchen." I gripped the back and the arm of the

Ultrasuede sofa. If I could have managed the feat, I'd

have burrowed between the cushions.

"Where did Hildi go?"

"She ran upstairs, probably to hide under my bed."

"Sensible," Audrey replied. "Maybe we should go join

her."

"I think we'd better go look at the kitchen. Something

large must have hit it."

"You first. I'll be right behind you, though."

We rose, and wordlessly shuffled through the dining

room toward the kitchen. A stiff breeze blew toward us,

which could only mean that a wall or window was missing. The damage greeted us as soon as we neared the entrance. "Oh, my god," Audrey said as we surveyed the

broken tree limbs and the knee-high pile of debris.

"It's the cottonwood tree. A branch broke off." Although

I held my tongue, I'd warned her last year that cottonwoods

were notorious for losing huge branches in storms, and

that hers had been planted too close to the house for comfort. "It took out half your kitchen," I said, stunned. The

lovely black granite countertops were cracked. The island

and cooktop were crushed, the sink smashed. Water burbled through the pipes somewhere underneath the trunklike tree limb. "I'm going to run downstairs and shut off

your water main."

She nodded. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

"Audrey, I am so, so sorry this happened."

Again, she nodded, still unable to speak. I turned and

jogged down the stairs. The least I could do was keep her

kitchen from flooding. Yet I had the desperate feeling

that there was little else I'd be able to do to shore up her

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spirits, now that her gorgeous, sparkling kitchen lay in ruins.

It took me a while to squeeze past all of Audrey's suitcases and boxes of art supplies and shut off the main.

Afterwards, I raced back up the stairs, expecting to see

Audrey sobbing. Instead, she was on the phone, calmly

making arrangements. She thanked whoever was on the

line and hung up. "I've called a tree company," she declared. "They'll cut up the branch and haul it out of

here. Next I'll call my insurance agent and get him up to

speed."

"Okay. I'll call my favorite contractor, and we'll see

how soon he can get here to board up the damage." I

sighed. "Again, Audrey, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, well," she said cheerfully. "The house is fully insured. The refrigerator's fine, so we didn't lose any food.

And now that the branch has knocked out half the room,

it's the perfect time for me to bump that wall out and

build the breakfast nook I've always wanted."

c h a p t e r
9

Personally, I believe that when life

gives you lemons, you shouldn't settle

for mere lemonade. Lemon chiffon

pie, for example, is my absolute

favorite dessert.

--Audrey Munroe

After donning parkas and fastening an old

wool blanket as best we could across the gap in

BLISS
the wall, followed by several minutes of phone

calls to the insurance company and contractors, Audrey and I were able to find humor in the

sudden intrusion of half a tree in our kitchen. As

we inspected the damage, I remarked, "You

never said anything about wanting a breakfast

nook before."

"Well . . . I do now. And I live with an interior

designer who can help me plan an even nicer

kitchen. How perfect is that ?"

I chuckled. "Gee, thanks, Audrey. It's nice to

DOMESTIC know that I can help you turn this disaster into

something positive."

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"Yes, indeed. We can bring the kitchen up to greenhome standards this way."

I hesitated. "Actually, Audrey, we can--and will--get

the most energy-efficient appliances on the market, for

anything that's sustained considerable damage. But

Energy Star guidelines went into effect in 1993, so that's

when efficiency standards took a quantum leap.

There's nothing in here more than five years old."