Design on a Crime (30 page)

True, we got off to a bad start. I knew he'd taken up more
than his fair share of newsprint in the couple of years before
we met; negligence and shoddy business practices were alleged. His acquittal in a court of law, however, hasn't done
much to clear his name in the court of public opinion even
now. The idea of my businesses associated with his doesn't
exactly thrill me.

Even if his work at Noreen's place was outstanding.

A tantrum wouldn't do; I had to get a grip.

I had no choice but to play nice. "We did do a good job
on the Gerrity mansion. You haven't stopped raving about
your new home, and the Wilmont Historical Society feels
that although we didn't necessarily restore the mansion to
its original glory, we didn't hurt its architectural or historical
integrity either."

"You've a point there. Even if you did fight like cats and
dogs the whole time, you and Dutch somehow worked a
miracle. The house looks fabulous, you both came in under
budget, and you even finished three weeks ahead of schedule." She paused. Then, "But you have to admit, your spats
did add a much-needed element of comic relief to a dreary
process."

Oh, yeah. A woman always likes to hear she's become en tertainment fodder for the obscenely wealthy. Dignity, Haley.
Shoot for dignity.

"Don't worry, Noreen. Dutch and I can work just as well
for the Marshalls as we did for you. Now, if you don't mind,
I do have to get back to this mess-I mean, to the matter I
have to clear up."

With still more of Noreen's laughter ringing in my ear,
I ran to the bathroom next to the office in the warehouse,
scraped the mushy remains of rubber gloves off my hands, and
made use of my favorite bank-busting but essential moisture
cleanser. The thick, creamy lather soothed my itchy hands,
and the lukewarm water felt like a balm. The expensive scent?
Well, it just smells good.

Was I ready to face off against Dutch Merrill again?

His handsome image materialized in my head. Yeah, he's
a hunk, and he can fix a crumbled wall five hundred ways to
Sunday, but his questionable reputation still cloaks him like
green stuff on month-old leftovers. Then there's that embarrassing moment we shared a year ago.

"Aaargh!" The mere memory of that humiliating episode
made me squeeze the tube of super-duper mega moisture
with a hair more oomph than necessary.

"How long is it going to hover in the back of my mind,
Lord?" As I wiped up goo and waited for a heavenly response,
I spied my cowardly gray eyes in the mirror.

Bummer. Time to confess. "Okay, Father God. You're right.
It'll hover as long as I keep dredging it up, as long as I take it
back from where I dumped it at the foot of your Son's cross.
But please cut me some slack. I'm still rusty at this faith thing,
you know."

I've learned that faith isn't as easy as one-I-would like
it to be. Once, I trusted with the sweet innocence of a pastor's
child who heard and saw only the good side of the world.
Then, as a young adult, my world crashed down on me thanks
to a brutal, godless thug.

When, in the aftermath of that attack, the criminal justice
system failed me, I turned away from the God I believed had
also failed me. It's only now, after almost five years of hardwon progress and no more than partial healing, that I realize
my almighty Father was always there at my side. I also know
that I have a ways to go before trust and faith become the easy
default setting for my gun-shy gray matter.

I turned from the mirror, hairbrush in hand. Blessed with
a mane of uncivilized hair, the frequent application of brush
to locks is required. I yanked and muttered on my way to the
desk, hoping the prayer sank in, if by no other means than
through the pores on my stinging scalp.

"Good grief, Haley Farrell." Maybe the lecture would give my
attitude a healthy adjustment. "You're an interior designer with
an insanely successful auction house on the side, not a bottomsucking catfish. You have a job to do, and your job description
does not include mental muck dredging-"

"Dredging, Miss Haley?"

"Aack!" I jumped a bazillion miles. "Ozzie! You scared
the stuffing out of me. You're done already? When'd you get
back?"

My partner, the meek, mild, and mousy Oswald "Ozzie"
Krieger, stood in the open doorway to the bathroom, the usual
frown on his basset-hound face. He'd gone to appraise an estate early this morning, and I hadn't expected him back
until midafternoon.

Ozzie's wrinkles deepened. "Already? It took me hours
to count, identify, and catalog all those Lladros, Hummels,
Dresden lace figurines, and even more unsigned shepherds
and shepherdesses. It's precisely 4:30, according to my pocket
watch."

"Four thirty!" Where had the time gone? "Oh, oh, oh, oh,
oh! Gotta run. I'm supposed to set up an appointment with a
new client-I hope-for later this evening, and I can't show
up in these awful rags."

Ozzie took a good look and wrinkled his nose-the one
part of his face not otherwise creased. "Yes, indeed, miss, you
do look a fright."

No matter how much I beg, wheedle, or nag, Ozzie refuses
to call me by my first name. I'm the majority partner in the
business and therefore, in his fuddy-duddy, Victorian mind,
require formal address. I'll never get used to it, but I try not
to object anymore.

"Gee, thanks. I really needed confirmation."

"Just speaking the truth, miss, as I vowed I'd do when we
signed the documents."

Ozzie has a blot or two in his past, which I discovered as a
result of the untimely death of my mentor, who bequeathed
me the auction house in the first place. When I offered him
the partnership, he refused an equal share. He agreed to a 40
percent stake but insisted our lawyer add verbiage as to his
commitment to honesty at all times, in all matters, in every
way, form, or fashion, beyond a shadow of a doubt, forever
and ever, till death do us part ... you get the picture.

"Yeah, okay. I know how you value honesty, and I appreciate it. But I have to run. I'd love to land this job, even though
I'll have to work with Dutch again."

Ozzie donned a knowing smile.

I squirmed.

"You two do charge the air with more power than a badly
wired lamp," he said. "But you also make a lovely couple
indeed."

"Couple! You're nuts, Ozzie. The guy's a menace, and I
only put up with him because I wanted Noreen's job. And I
want to do the Marshalls' house. They already hired him, so
I'm stuck working with the ... the ... oh, you know what a
pain he is."

More animation than I'd ever seen on him lit up Ozzie's
droopy features. "I don't know, Miss Haley. There is much
to be said for that certain effervescence between a man and
a woman-"

I clapped my hands over my ears. "No way! I won't listen
to one more word. Gotta go."

I ran out to the parking lot, jumped into my trusty Honda
Civic, looped the handless gizmo for my cell phone over my
head, and pulled out into the street. Thankfully, the traffic
was light.

A quick call to Noreen gained me the phone number and
directions to the Marshall home. Another short call set up a
meeting with Deedee Marshall for the evening. But when
my new potential client mentioned that Dutch would meet
us there, the memory of my indignity returned with a vengeance.

I didn't want to come face-to-face with him-ever.

I stopped at a red light. As I waited, dread grew to elephantine proportions. I really, really didn't want to see Dutch Merrill again. But as the old Rolling Stones song says, you can't
always get what you want-

"Aaargh!" I smacked my forehead against the steering
wheel. The man was something else. The last time the song
came to mind was back when he was sure I'd murdered
Marge Norwalk and he wanted me jailed. Lousy memories,
I'd say.

I wanted nothing to do with Dutch. But I wouldn't get what
I wanted, at least not where it came to him. And I wanted the
Marshall job.

The light turned green, traffic remained light, and I made it
home in record time. At the Wilmont River Church's manse,
I ran up the porch steps, gave Midas, my demanding golden
retriever, his obligatory ear scratch, scooped clean clothes from
closet and drawers, and flew to the shower. But once I found
myself under the soothing warm spray, my reluctance grew.

One way or another I would have to get over my Dutch
phobia. I turned to the Lord. I couldn't face the gargantuan
task on my own, but I knew he alone could move mountains,
create worlds, heal hearts ... surely he could ... oh, I don't
know ... maybe he could turn Dutch into a golden retriever
of a man.

You know, friendly, always happy, eager to cooperate, quick
to please.

I stepped out of the shower, and the real deal stood at the
door to my room. Midas's fluffy golden tail thwacked either
side of the door frame, his goofy grin spanned from ear to
ear, and his beggar's brown eyes beseeched, invited me to play, conveyed his certainty that I was the best thing since
faux-finish glaze in five-gallon cans.

A vision of Dutch's face popped in between Midas's long,
wavy-haired ears, and I laughed. The idiotic image went a
long way to ease my dread. The next time the forceful, opinionated, argumentative, stubborn, good-looking contractor
gave me a hard time, all I had to do was click back to this
image, and my perspective on whatever grief he was dishing
should improve.

I snagged my portfolio, where I keep a ring of paint-color
chips, a wide assortment of sample fabrics, a few pieces of
wood with different stains, and catalogs from my favorite
to-the-trades furniture manufacturers, then hurried out only
to have to dash back inside for my camera and hundred-f ootlong tape measure. Can't do much without those.

Then I drove to the Marshalls' ritzy address. Massive brick
columns flanked open wrought-iron gates. Since the gates
hung ajar and Deedee Marshall knew I was on my way, I went
right on through. After what seemed like a miles-long drive
up the side of the hill, I spotted the house. Three stories of red
brick Georgian formality loomed at the end of the circular,
white gravel drive. Black double doors wore identical brass
knockers polished not so long ago-no fingerprints marred
the rich gleam.

Before I used one, the right-side door opened to reveal a
tall, slender blonde in head-to-toe pink silk. She was maybe
thirty-no less than twenty years younger than Dr. Marshalland wore a welcoming smile with all the pink.

"You must be Haley," she said, her voice a soft and breathy
echo of Marilyn Monroe. "I'm Deedee. Come on in."

When she stepped aside, I caught my first glimpse of exquisite antique mahogany, gleaming marble, a vast gilded
Victorian mirror that must have cost more than the land the
manse and church sit on, and the most exquisite old Turkish
Oushak rug I've ever seen.

"I don't understand." I turned another circle in the cavernous foyer. "You don't need my help. This is the most beautiful
place I've ever seen."

Deedee wrinkled her nose and waved. "Stewie's ex was into
all this old stuff, but I can't stand it. If it's not new, then it's
not me, you know? I like exciting, contemporary styles. And
I, like, can't stand these drab, dull, depressing colors."

"Okay." Wait till my nemesis heard Deedee's description
of this magnificence. Dutch and I nearly came to verbal blows
when he thought I harbored evil intentions for a Carrara
marble fireplace mantel in Noreen's new mansion.

"So tell me, Deedee. Where would you like me to start? I
have my camera and would like some pictures to start to put
together a design concept for you."

"Oh, that's so cool! Let me show you the back patio." She
trotted off down the center hallway, and I followed, practically
drooling at the beauty I recorded with my camera along the
way-these were for me. I fought to keep my attention on the
trophy wife's words.

"Stewie and I want to knock down the back wall of the
kitchen and dinette area so we can put full-length windows
in its place."

Deedee stepped into the large kitchen in 1980s decor, then
pointed to the farm-style door a bit left of center. My digital
camera did its thing.

Then, with a twist of her delicate, acrylic-nailed, pink-manicured hand, Deedee turned the doorknob. "Let's go outside
so you can see our killer view-"

A bloodcurdling shriek put an end to her words.

The Marshalls have a killer view, all right. But the view had
nothing to do with the girl who lay sprawled in the middle
of said patio's concrete floor, her body's lower half drenched
in bright red blood.

I screamed too.

Ginny Aiken, a former newspaper reporter, lives in Pennsylvania with her engineer husband and their four sons. Born
in Havana, Cuba, and raised in Valencia and Caracas, Venezuela, she discovered books at an early age. She wrote her
first novel at age fifteen while she trained with the Ballets de
Caracas, later to be known as the Venezuelan National Ballet.
College, followed by an eclectic blend of jobs, including stints
as reporter, paralegal, choreographer, language teacher, retail
salesperson, wife, mother of four sons, and herder of their
numerous and assorted friends, brought her back to books in
search of her sanity. She is now the author of twenty published
works but is still looking for that long-lost sanity.