Design on a Crime (5 page)

Dad added, "There's coffee, and the apple muffins just
came out of the oven."

Love and guilt mingled. When he has something on his mind,
Dad bakes. His apple muffins constitute a major food group all
their own just like Starbucks fine roasts and Milky Way bars.
As he tried to comfort himself, he'd comfort me too.

"I'll be right down." I started the shower. Dad knows
how much Marge meant to me. He'd always encouraged
our friendship, even more in the last few years.

I frothed a glob of coconut-scented shampoo between my
palms and scrubbed my scalp. I'd be pretty happy if I could
wash away the trash life dumped on me as easily as I could
suds out grime.

A slimeball nearly did me in four years ago, and by extension, Mom and Dad too. They'd clung to their faith and waited
for miraculous healing. I, on the other hand, couldn't. What
the sicko did to me killed my faith.

Marge listened to my angry screams. She sat through the
joke the law called a trial. She even stuffed me into her immaculate vintage VW Beetle, then dumped me back out at
Tyler Colby's dojo.

Thanks to Tyler's no-nonsense approach to martial arts and
Marge's use of her proverbial hobnailed boots, I crawled out
of my pit of despair, inch by ugly inch. In time, Dad talked
me into going back to school, but I couldn't see myself as a
future accountant anymore. The neatness of numbers and
equations had nothing to do with life. They sure didn't make
it more logical.

After hours spent with Marge at her auction house's warehouse, I decided to check out interior design as a career. It
held the promise of freedom in self-employment. I wanted
to work for myself as soon as I could. Authority and power
are now impossible to accept as blindly as I once did. They
remind me how weak I was, how helpless, at the mercy of
the merciless.

Design has an extra bonus for my battered psyche. It surrounds me with and helps me focus on beauty rather than on
the random acts of ugliness that happen every day.

I turned off the shower and squeezed excess water from my
hair. I twisted the whole long mess of it in a soft blue Egyptian
cotton towel and wrapped myself in another.

Steam fogged the beveled mirror over the vanity. Good. After
yesterday, not to mention Dutch's call, I didn't want to see my
eyes. I didn't want to find the misery I'd seen there before.

Midas whined out in the hall. I'd taken too long for him.
He wanted my company, and he wanted it now.

I hurried into my clothes. "I'm coming."

The wide-toothed comb snagged in my crazy, wavy brown
hair a bunch of times, but eventually, I had the damp mess
spread over my shoulders. I hoped it would dry fast; I held
out no hope for neat or anything less than wild. I hurried to
join my dog.

I rubbed his head. "You want one of those muffins too,
don't you? Sorry."

Midas struck a defiant pose, feet squared beneath his silky
furred chest, and woo-woo-wooed back.

"Tough. You can't have one. They're lousy for you. I'll give
you a nice, big bowl of Eukanuba's best instead."

Downstairs I opened the metal bin of premium kibble and
scooped Midas's breakfast into his dish. The Golden One was
not amused. Powerful body braced before the food, Midas
glared from the brown pellets to me and back again. His feathered tail whipped the air; his body broadcast displeasure.

"Hey, that's life. 'You can't always get what you want-"'

I caught myself. Terrific. Dutch's song from the auction.
What did that say about me? After all, the guy wasn't all
there.

How could he think I'd killed Marge? Even the police
weren't that dumb. Detective Tsu of the feminine elegance
and sharp gaze had said I was an important witness. After all,
I did find Marge. Only a paranoid fruitcake would twirl that
in his warped little brain and come up pointing fingers.

Dad came into the kitchen and shuffled canisters on the
counters. "Have you seen my reading glasses? I had them
when I did a crossword a little while ago, but I can't figure
out where they went after that."

I grinned. Some things never change. "Check your shirt
pocket."

'Aha!" He put on the half-moons and winked over the
frames. "I knew you'd find them." At the back door, he added,
"I'll be at the office, but if you need me, just call. I don't
have anything so urgent on my schedule that I can't beg off.
Sunday's sermon's written. This-" he gestured vaguely "-is
going to be tough on you."

"And on you. Marge was a good friend to you and Mom
for years."

"True, very true." He shook his head. "These last few have
been rough, haven't they?"

Pain swelled in my throat.

"Faith, honey," Dad said, even though he knew how I felt.
"The Lord will see us through."

Maybe you, but he hasn't done a thing for me. "I'll call if I
need you."

Once he left I helped myself to a mug of Starbucks House
Blend and a muffin. In spite of the scrumptious scents, I
couldn't even nibble.

What would life be like without Marge?

If I hadn't had to take that second, horrible look at her lifeless body, I would probably be trying to assure myself that
the whole horrible day had been a nightmare. But it had been
too real. I couldn't question my memory.

Marge was dead.

Someone had hated her enough to kill her.

Or maybe that someone had resented her strength, her
success. It doesn't matter why they did it. What matters is
that Marge is gone.

I can't imagine hurting anyone or anything. Except maybe
banana slugs and spiders. They gross me out. But the thought
of violence, doing real, vicious harm, is beyond me. Even
memories of my very own slimeball don't send me into a
kill-crazy frenzy. And he did hurt me.

What makes people turn violent?

Before I could come up with any answer, the phone rang.

"Haley Farrell?"

"Yes. How may I help you?"

"Sam Harris here. Margaret Norwalk's attorney. By now
I'm sure you've read the papers and must be wondering
what's up."

I rapped my nails against the tabletop. 'Actually, Mr. Harris,
I made it a point to avoid them. A rude and offensive phone
call this morning informed me that you cozied up to the press
last night. What did you think you'd gain by blabbing before
poor Marge's body had the chance to get stiff?"

Harris cleared his throat. "This is a criminal matter, Ms.
Farrell. I had to cooperate with the police."

Nice try, buddy. "Cops don't write newspapers. Since when
does cooperation mean you spill clients' private matters to the
whole wide world? Ever hear of attorney-client privilege?"

"Look. You may not like it, but it's done."

"Just like Marge is dead, and I don't like it. Is that it?"

Silence. Then, "I called to ask you to come to my office at
your earliest convenience. I have Marge's will, and I need to
give you a copy."

"Then it's true?"

"You're Marge Norwalk's heir."

Still disgusted by the ambulance chaser's unethical actions,
I agreed to meet him that afternoon, then hung up.

What would it mean to be Marge's heir? The Farrell family
has never had much money. True, the church pays its pastor
an acceptable salary, and here in Wilmont the manse comes
along as part of his compensation. But Marge had real money,
a lot of it. Her business is successful, and she knew how to
invest for the best return.

"Hey, Midas. Isn't that something? I'm going to have a
savings account with a balance. Investments. Even an auction
house. Imagine that."

My stomach lurched. 'And I don't know a thing about
auctions. I'm just a brand-spanking-new interior designer. All I want is to make people's homes and offices look good.
What am I going to do with Marge's stuff?"

By the time I left Sam Harris's office hours later, I'd worked
up a killer headache and more questions than I'd had when
I arrived. No answers though.

The only additional thing I'd learned was the size of
Marge's healthy portfolio, hefty life-insurance policy, and
humongous certificates of deposit. Oh, and her business was
making a bundle too.

From what Harris led me to believe, as soon as probate was
complete, I'd have access to all that money, even though Steve
Norwalk threatened to contest the will. Something told me
shady shysters knew how to write airtight wills ... something
about the color of money.

Memories of yesterday's antiques returned on the drive
home from downtown Seattle. It looked as though I'd soon
have the seed money I'd wished for during the auction. Maybe
I could rent a store for Decorating $ense. A showroom would
be great, stocked with quality pieces, a mix of old and new. I'd
set them up in roomlike groups so clients could draw ideas
from the settings. Racks of fabric swatches would help, as
would a section of wallpaper books, a separate room for salvaged architectural details, and even paint chips and assorted
wood-finish samples. Marge would be so proud-

No, she wouldn't. Marge wasn't going to be around. Tears
filled my eyes, and misery squeezed my heart.

For once, the legendary traffic snarls on 1-5 didn't faze
me. I was too absorbed in my own thoughts, and then I had
to handle a tough condolence call from a friend. But when I finally reached my exit, I did manage a watery smile. The narrow streets of Wilmont, lined with old and not-so-old homes,
were far more appealing than the bumper-to-bumper gleam
on one of the country's most congested roadways.

Then I turned onto Puget Way. Warm fuzzies usually hit
me at the first glimpse of home. But what I saw kicked the
sick reality of yesterday's tragedy up to life again.

A Wilmont PD cruiser sat in the driveway behind Dad's
car. I made out two heads in the front seat, one of which
belonged to Detective Tsu.

I pasted on a pseudogrin to approach the official vehicle.
"I assume you're waiting for me."

The front passenger-side door opened. The detective, today
in a cream linen trousers suit, stepped out. I shook the cool
hand she extended and couldn't stop the comparison between
its softness and my own warm, sweaty, dishwater-and-paintthinner-rough mitt.

"As I said yesterday," Ms. Tsu said, "we have more questions for you."

"I didn't doubt it. Come in."

Ms. Tsu sat on the shabby-chic white-slip-covered sofa, and
I took Mom's rocker. The little tape recorder came out of the
detective's glam black purse, and she began.

"We have a list of everyone who attended the auction.
But before I show it to you, I want you to name anyone you
remember. On your own."

I felt we were about to play a tricky little game, one where
someone somewhere had the odds stacked against me. I
named Marge, Ozzie, Noreen, and Dutch, then ran down a
list of the members of the missionary society. "Some of the ladies planned to bring their spouses, but I don't remember
any besides Tom Stoker. I didn't pay much attention to the
others. I was there on business."

Ms. Tsu wove her silver pen through the fingers of her right
hand. "Tell me about your business."

"There's not a whole lot to tell. I quit my sales job at Rodgers and Faust three weeks ago and took out ads in the local
newspapers and the two Seattle biggies to launch Decorating
$ense last week. Noreen Daventry asked me to join her at the
Gerrity auction. She wanted my professional opinion on a
slew of things she liked and for me to look at the house. She's
decided to buy it and have me design the decor."

The detective dipped her smooth-coiffed head to her left.
"That must represent a substantial commission, right?"

"You bet. The Gerrity mansion's well known. Whoever
brings it back will earn a good chunk of change. And besides
the commission, that job will mean the best kind of publicity. Noreen-Ms. Daventry-entertains all the time. Once
her guests check out the house, her designer'll get a bunch
of referrals."

"So it's in your best interest for the sale to go through."

"Of course."

"What does the delay mean to you?"

What was she, stupid? But her dark eyes nixed that possibility. "It means I'm the owner of a sign over my mailbox.
Without the sale, Noreen can't hire me. I'm unemployed."

Ms. Tsu cocked her head to the right. She scanned her notebook. "Hmm ... I have here that Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stoker
hired you to redo their living and dining rooms. Why did you
say you're unemployed?"

"I forgot. Gussie asked me right before Ozzie-Mr.
Krieger-came and asked me to help him find Marge. You
should be able to figure out how Gussie's rooms might have
slipped my mind."

"But you still need Ms. Daventry's job, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"So the auctioneer's death doesn't benefit you."

"I never gave it a thought until this morning when...'
The thought of the phone call riled my temper.

Detective Tsu's voice sliced through my rising anger.
"When what, Ms. Farrell?"

Great. I'd practically waved a red flag at the cop. "Please
call me Haley." Amiable coexistence would be good, but I
didn't think it had a chance. "I've a feeling we're going to
see a lot of each other for a while."

Ms. Tsu looked up, the corner of her rose-glossed lips
tipped into the slightest smile. "I'm afraid you're right. But
go on. What happened this morning?"

"Dutch Merrill called to land a couple of low blows. The
guy's certifiable. He accused me of all kinds of outrageous
things."

When I paused, Ms. Tsu asked, "What kind of things?"

"He accused me of-" my voice broke "-of killing
Marge."

The detective didn't react. "Why would he do that?"

"He read this morning's paper. Marge's scumbag lawyer
fed the details of her will to the Times."

"And those details are ... ?"

My patience was shot. "Don't treat me like an idiot, Ms.
Tsu, and I won't underestimate you. You couldn't have missed the news, even if you hadn't already talked to Sam Harris.
I'm Marge Norwalk's heir. Dutch thinks I killed her to get
my hands on her money."