Design on a Crime (3 page)

The audience sighed. Rented metal chairs squealed as bidders relaxed.

Marge added, 'Are you ready for a break?"

A collective yes sissed forth.

"Well, then, how about twenty minutes? I'm looking forward to the sale of this grand old home. I hope you are too."
Marge winked. 'And may the best man-or woman-win!"

I stood, stretched discreetly, and extricated myself from
the center of the row. After I stepped on a number of feet and
apologized to their owners, I burst from the dining room into
the parlor and then out of the house. My goal was the nearest of the putty-colored port-a-potties that mushroomed up
along the right edge of the lawn.

After much-needed relief, I strolled to the tent where
Marge's favorite caterer had set out a cold lunch. The auction business pays well. Marge shares the wealth, but only
by hiring the best. Still, her clients appreciate the gesture and
the excellent, if pricey, food. They repay with their attendance
and purchases at all her sales.

Delicious turkey on grainy bread and pasta salad hit the
spot, and soon after, I headed back to the house. But my return to my seat was foiled by a gaggle of Dad's parishioners
who ambushed me in the foyer. The ladies of the missionary
society like their auctions.

"Isn't she marvelous?" Ina Appleton asked.

I assumed she meant Marge. "I've always thought so."

An arm circled my waist. "As are you," Gussie Stoker
said.

"Thanks." I hugged her back. Gussie's advanced rheumatoid arthritis keeps her in constant pain, hampers her
movements, and gives her a much older appearance than
her fifty years of age. I took some of her weight on my healthy
frame.

"Humph!" You could always count on Penelope Harham,
Wilmont's postal clerk, to dissent. As usual, her sniff wasn't
enough. "Haley is utterly unqualified to preside over the
missionary society, Gussie Stoker, and you know it."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "I'm ready to step down,
Penny, and I told you that last week."

"You'll do no such thing," Gussie retorted.

"Why not let her?" Penny demanded. "It's obvious she
lacks the most basic commitment to the job. Everyone knows
she was chosen only because of your strong-arm tactics."

Against my loud and repeated objection, the charitable
ladies, led by Gussie, their interim president, have elected me
as their leader. They've proclaimed me the rightful successor
to Mom's favorite position. Not wanting to cause dissension
in Dad's congregation, I accepted the post but keep my eyes
and ears open for the first chance to run.

"Honestly, Gussie-"

"Honestly, Haley. You're the right woman for the job."

"I don't know about that, not now that I've rejoined the
ranks of the unemployed. I have to drum up business for
Decorating $ense. I can't be sure Noreen's going to wind up with the house, much less hire me as she said she would. I
don't have a lot of time for meetings and stuff."

"Even if Noreen doesn't buy the house, you don't need to
worry." Gussie eased slowly back into her wheelchair. "Tom
and I have wanted to do something about our living and
dining rooms for a while now. We decided you're the perfect
person for our job."

One half of me wanted to decline the Stokers' charity, but
the other half wanted to do a touchdown dance at my first
real designer gig. In the end, I did neither, but rather moved
the wheelchair a couple of feet to give my champion a better
view of the podium. "Okay, Gussie. I'll do it. I won't let you
down."

"That's why you're about to become the top designer in
the state of Washington. And I'm not biased."

"Nah, of course you aren't." I grinned. "You're just a wild
gambler at heart."

I scanned the crowd for Tom Stoker. At my nod, he left the
men with whom he'd been talking and came to take over the
wheelchair again. "Thanks, Haley."

"Don't mention it. I love Gussie."

"We all do. But I still appreciate your help."

"You're welcome." I turned to look for Noreen. She was
still where I'd left her, surrounded by a swarm of bidders,
deep in conversation with Dutch. I headed over.

A brown dervish spun into my path. "Have you seen
Margaret?" Ozzie Krieger asked.

"Not since she called for an intermission. Why?"

"Because, Miss Farrell, I cannot locate her."

'And ... ?"

"And she is quite late."

"I'm sure she's on her way. Just relax and give her a minute
or two."

"I have already given her ten more than she requested."

My watch said thirty minutes had passed since the gavel
had brought the bidding to an end. Marge had called for
twenty, and Marge is always on time.

Ozzie's left eyebrow twitched, and he wrung his hands.
"Do you now understand what I mean? Margaret never leaves
except to go to the-" he glanced around and blushed "-latrine. She has had more than sufficient time to return. This
isn't in any way like her."

Much though I hated to agree with the nebbish Ozzie,
Marge's delay was unusual. I hadn't been to many auctions,
but Marge and I had talked about her complete concentration at sales. She rarely took time out for lunch; she'd never
disappear for half an hour.

"Tell you what, Ozzie. I'll help you look for her."

The slender man's pinched expression didn't change.
"I'm much obliged, Miss Farrell. If you would please take
the house, then I shall check outside again."

In those few minutes, Ozzie infected me with his anxiety.
I ran up the majestic staircase to the gallery above.

"Marge? Are you up here?"

When I got no answer, I opened every door. The rooms
were empty. I repeated my efforts on the third floor with the
same unfortunate results.

Back on the ground floor, I asked a number of people if
they'd seen Marge. No one had.

My anxiety shifted into worry. Where was Marge?

It occurred to me that Ozzie might have missed his boss
in the crowded food tent. I headed out again, but instead of
cutting straight across the lawn, I detoured around the perimeter of the columned house. Maybe Marge had needed
a break. The intensity had to get to her sometimes, and this
was a major sale.

A bright sun in the clear blue sky belied the bad rap the
Seattle area gets for its weather. True, it had rained earlier in
the day, but all that had done was clean the world and leave
it luminous and fresh scented.

I breathed deep and savored the essence of my hometown.
The perfume of sea-salty air mixed with the aroma of living
soil, then tangled with the spice of the ubiquitous evergreens.
No other place on earth smells like Wilmont, Seattle, and the
Puget Sound. Not that I've traveled much to test my conviction. My quirky bias made me grin.

I rounded the corner and went around the back of the mansion. That part of the house had a quilt of vegetation tucked
in around the brick foundation. A vast elephant fern frond
blocked my way. I had to push hard to move the greenery
aside. "Marge?"

All I got for my effort was a sprinkle of raindrops from that
morning's shower. I continued to pick my way around the
landscaping. My shoes sank into the loamy ground.

"Marge? Where are you?"

Still no answer.

Then I saw it. A stain the color of Cherry Coke stood out
against the grass at the base of a massive rhododendron. My
worry congealed into fear, and I fought the urge to run.

I couldn't leave. Not until I knew what had made the stain.
And found Marge.

I bent for a closer look at the spot. A rusty, copper smell
muddied the fresh tang of the Pacific Northwest.

My heart pounded, but I pressed on. To one side and behind
the rhododendron, another heavy fern got in my way. But
between its wavy leaves, I spied a sliver of plum.

My stomach turned.

When I shoved that frond out of my way, I moaned. Marge
lay under the shrubbery, her head in an ocean of her own
blood.

Darkness yawned, and a pit swallowed me. Sweat drenched
me. Horror made me frantic. I fell, reached for a handhold,
grabbed a rock. A weird, high-pitched sound pierced the fog
around me. It took me a couple of seconds to recognize the
screams as mine. Ozzie materialized and joined his moans
to my cries.

I willed myself to stop. I shut my eyes tight, hugged myself.
None of it helped. The image of Marge burned in my mind.

A crowd formed around Ozzie and me, and in spite of my
misery, I had the sense to warn them. "Move back. Call the
police."

"Do you think she's..." I recognized the woman's voice
but couldn't identify her right then.

"Have you touched her?" a man asked.

"Is that blood?" someone else wanted to know.

My stomach lurched. My whole body shuddered. The
tremors reached my fingers, and they shook like leaves in
a gale.

"I ..." My throat shut out my words.

"She asked you to move back, didn't she?" a third man asked. I recognized that voice too but couldn't place it either.
"From where I'm standing," he added, "Mrs. Norwalk looks
dead, and Ms. Farrell and Mr. Krieger need room. Move
back!"

I clenched my fists, blinked over and over. I didn't feel any
better, but I did catch a glimpse of a tall, muscular man, his
broad chest covered with a polo shirt the color of his green
eyes.

He pulled a cell phone from his belt, pushed some buttons,
and then spoke. He nodded, flipped the gadget shut, and
tucked it back in place. With a glare at a curious woman in
acid yellow, he knelt at my side, cupped my elbow, helped
me sit then stand.

"They're on their way," he said. "At least Wilmont's small.
They'll be here in minutes." To the gawkers, he added, "The
police dispatcher asked that everyone return to the parlor
and dining room. We're not to speak to each other or touch
anything, and no one can leave."

He turned to Noreen. "Find the security guy. I don't see
him anywhere, and he should have shown up at Haley's
first yell."

The welcome wail of a siren struck me as perfect punctuation for his words. Noreen's glare, now that she was at the
other end of an order, made things click back to reality for
me. Dutch Merrill's take-charge attitude bugged Noreen; he'd
trampled her authoritarian toes.

On the other hand, I appreciated his intervention. Without
his grip on my arm, I'd have quivered back to the ground at
Marge's side. I felt that weak.

I hated it.

To get out of Dutch's grip, I had to use the strength I'd
developed in four years of martial arts training. "I'm fine."

The guard ran up. "Wha ... what happened?"

Dutch pointed to where Marge lay. 'And where were
you?"

With a bluster and a blush to the roots of his disappearing
hairline, the man said, "I ... well, you see..." He hitched
up his khaki uniform pants, then stared at the sky. "I had to
use the ... john, and the latch stuck ..."

Grover Potter, as per his badge, bit his bottom lip. He
turned to me. "Begging pardon, ma'am."

My smile wasn't worth much, but at least it showed up. I felt
sorry for him, for Marge. For me. A tear rolled down my cheek.
I swiped it away and fought down the sob before it got out.

My closest friend, the person who knew me best, was dead.
I didn't need to get any closer to the body to know Marge's
essence was gone.

As soon as I stepped away from Dutch, chills riddled me.
By now the shivers weren't so bad, but the frozen sensation
felt as though it had come to stay.

From what sounded like a great distance, I heard Dutch
say, "She found Mrs. Norwalk."

I clamped down on my emotions and listened. The police
had come. When an officer knelt by Marge, I nearly chased
him away. It felt like an insult for anyone to see her like that,
damaged, broken.

But the man had a job to do.

I looked around. At Dutch's right stood a petite Asian
woman, her dark hair gathered in a sleek knot at the nape of
her neck. Her rose-colored suit matched the simple elegance of her hairstyle, while the frown on her pretty face seemed
out of place.