Interior Motives (3 page)

“I’m so impressed,” she said in a sincere voice. “I never would have thought someone might want to make a new place look like . . . well, like my place.”

“Really? What’s your home like?”

“I guess it’s what’s called a painted lady, a big, old Victorian with the multicolored gingerbread trim outside and the interior plasterwork they used to do back then. The moldings are dark—Daddy never did let Mama paint them white, no matter how often she told him it looked much too old-fashioned.”

I drew a sharp breath. “You didn’t paint them, did you?” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, since Daddy was so opposed. I’m afraid I was a bit of a Daddy’s girl.”

That breath exploded out in relief. “I’m so glad. It’s a crime what some people do to those magnificent old homes. They don’t pay attention to the exquisite craftsmanship, the fine materials, the artistry that went into the construction and finish work, the pride the workmen took in everything they did.”

“Go, Haley, go!” Dutch cheered.

I turned toward him. “What rock did you crawl out from under? I thought you went to pick up the beams for the ceiling.”

“That didn’t take long.”

I faced Darlene again. “Just ignore him. He’s a necessary evil—good for construction and the occasional headache.”

Dutch shot me one of his most wicked smiles and waggled a finger under my nose. “Ah-ah-ah! Don’t forget, you once saved me from a fate worse than death. That old cliché says now you own me.”

“Don’t remind me.” I wouldn’t remind him of the times he’d saved me. The memories weren’t good ones, even though I was glad he hadn’t been locked up for a murder he didn’t commit. “Besides, I gave you back your sorry self. Right away too. You’re all your own.”

He clutched his clasped hands to his chest. “You wound me, oh, Faux Finished One.” He winked at Darlene, who was, inexplicably, charmed by the goofball. “Even though she sure doesn’t look like she’ll be
finished
here anytime soon.”

“Punny, punny. Just not very funny.” I tipped up my chin. “You can’t rush perfection, Merrill.”

“What’s with the sloth’s pace, Farrell?”

“Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “Then you’re not married.”

I squeaked in horror.

Dutch gaped.

Tedd laughed. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?”

I spun to face her. “Are you out of your mind? I’d never—”

“Never say never,” she cut in. “How’s it going out here? That is, besides your usual head butting.”

Dutch snorted. “She’s slow.”

I reached for Darlene’s arm, then thought better of putting my plastered paw on that yummy mauve silk. “If we ignore him, he might go away,” I said. “It’s going well, but you can’t hurry the process. It takes layers upon layers to make plain old drywall look like ancient adobe.”

“It would seem very well worth the time investment,” Darlene said. “The texture she’s applied, even though the color is a bit bright, looks like that of the walls in my house. I’d let her go at her pace.”

I beamed. “See? A woman of discerning taste.”

Darlene again patted my shoulder—carefully, since I had splotches of plaster there too. “And you’re a talented young woman. I just might get inspired now that I’ve seen your work.”

“That,” Tedd said, “is a wonderful idea. You could use some fun right about now, Darlene. And redecorating, although a pain at times, is fun.”

A sigh brought the sadness back to Darlene’s violet eyes. “You’re right, dear. I haven’t had much fun in a long, long time.”

The resignation in her voice touched me. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I love what I do, and I can . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe I can make the process easier for you—with the house, of course. I’m itching to get my hands on a Victorian treasure like yours. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Darlene was taken aback. “Oh, no . . . Haley, is it?”

At my nod, she continued. “I can certainly afford a designer, and I insist on paying for your time. You’re very young, Haley, and I’m sure just starting out. You can’t afford to give away your talent and training like that. Why, you’d wind up in the poorhouse in no time at all.”

I blushed.

Tedd chuckled.

Dutch laughed.

When his laughter died down to a few chortles, Dutch said, “Not her. Haley here can probably buy all three of us out and have enough left over to make a nice dent in the national debt. She’s a bona-fide filthy-rich heiress.”

“I am well off,” I said. “But my money came after a tragedy. I was the beneficiary of a friend’s will. She died a horrible death. I’d much, much rather still have her around.” “I see.” Darlene’s voice revealed leashed curiosity. I admired her control—I would’ve blurted out something stupid and nosy.

An awkward silence swamped us, and the drier-by-the-minute plaster on my trowel didn’t fascinate me, but it was the most convenient thing on which to focus.

Once again Darlene displayed her grace and manners. “This has been lovely, and we’ll have to see what I decide about the house. But now I must go rescue dear Willa. It’s terribly difficult to keep Jacob calm and entertained for this long. And Teddie dear? If you’re smart, you’ll make certain you never lose that girl as an employee. She’s pure platinum.”

Tedd followed Darlene to the front. “She’s almost done with her doctorate in psychology, and I’ve asked her to join my practice, with a partnership in the future, as soon as the ink dries on her state license.”

“That little bitty girl . . . ?”

As soon as we were alone, I rounded on Dutch. “You’re never going to let me live down my most embarrassing investigative moments, are you?”

He crossed his arms. “How about you? You keep bringing up that old lawsuit—which I won, if you’ll remember.”

“Hey, a girl’s got to keep some kind of leverage around you.”

“And a guy’s got to watch his step around you. You’re danger on wheels.”

“Don’t you even think of bringing up the dead bodies stuff. Bella’s a ghoul and does it all the time. Especially now that she’s got herself a PI license.”

That set him off again. “Oh . . .” He tried again between laughs. “Oh man. I can just see the two of you now. Haley and the corpses, and Bella and the cats. Ever think of writing a TV script?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re repulsive. Murder is a hideous sin, and here you’re turning it into a joke.”

“Not the murders, Haley,” he said in a soft and serious voice. “Never the deaths or the crimes that caused them.” Then he shrugged. “But let’s face it. The idea of you skulking through slime-filled trash sheds—” he held up a hand to stop my righteous objection—“which you’ve been known to do on occasion. And then, just outside the shed, voilà! Bella and her Balis as backup. Look out, Wilmont, Seattle, and all points beyond! Loony ladies on the loose.”

I planted my fists on my hips. The trowel splotched plaster down at my feet. “I’ll have you know, I am no longer in the corpse-finding business, and Bella has decided to specialize.”

He arched a brow. “Oh really? And just what would Bella’s specialty be?”

I’d walked right into that one. How was I going to tell him with a straight face? I gave it my best shot. “She’s Wilmont’s first official pet detective.”

This time he laughed so hard that tears poured from his green eyes down his tan cheeks.

In this kind of situation, a girl has just one option.

I joined him.

Three days and one gorgeously faux adobed hall later— well, it still needed a couple more coats of glaze—I had to put in an appearance at Norwalk & Farrell’s Auctions. I do own the place. Well, not all of it. My assistant’s position was short-lived; I offered Ozzie Krieger a full partnership a couple of days after my inheritance cleared probate.

That he would accept only 40 percent is a consequence of his faintly tainted past, one we’ve both agreed to keep where it belongs—in the past.

I walked into our warehouse to hear the scary scrape of wood against cement. “Hey, Ozzie! Are you damaging the merchandise again?”

A short, slender brown tornado spun into my path, his somewhat protuberant eyes open wide. “Oh, my heavens, Miss Haley! I have never damaged one of our pieces. I would never do such a thing. Why, I even have my surgical gloves on.”

My brilliant, master-worrywart partner stopped wringing his hands long enough to show me that, yes, he did indeed have on a pair of latex surgical gloves.

“Good grief, Ozzie! What are those for?”

“Well, miss. It’s all about the oils on one’s fingers. They can mar the integrity of many of the antiques we handle. These pieces are such magnificent exemplars of our historical wealth that I feel honor bound to treat them with the kind of respect pieces of such longevity have earned.”

Oh yeah. Ozzie is a fuddy-duddy, and long-winded as a politician. But he knows his antiques. He’s a walking, talking encyclopedia of styles, availability, details of provenance, value, and probable selling price too. He refuses to drop the
Miss
in front of my name. When he refused the 50 percent ownership I offered him in favor of the 40, that left me the senior partner, and even though he’s old enough to be my very young grandfather and is more knowledgeable and experienced than I ever hope to be, he feels he must defer to my position.

I wish he’d taken the stupid 50 percent.

“I heard you moving furniture,” I went on. “That usually has some kind of finish on it, and the oils on your fingers won’t hurt it a whole lot.”

The slim man practically quivered with excitement. “Ah! But you see, Miss Haley, I have found a treasure in the Pennsylvania highboy we acquired last month. Evidently, its former owner didn’t realize a treasure hid behind one of the drawers. I found a
fraktur
pen-and-ink piece!”

I may know my furniture styles, but many other antiques still mystify me. “What’s a
fraktur
?”

You’d a thunk I’d smacked him one by the look of horror he put on. “Miss Haley! You must know what Pennsylvania Dutch
frakturs
are.”

I counted to ten. “No, Ozzie. I don’t know what Pennsylvania Dutch
frakturs
are. Remember, I’m an interior designer, not an art historian, museum curator, or antiques expert. That’s your job around here.”

He
ahemed
and squared his shoulders. “Well, miss. Strictly speaking, a
fraktur
is an ornate type of written or printed German, similar to Gothic lettering in English. Pennsylvania Dutch
Geburts und Taufscheine
—that’s birth and baptismal certificates, you know—and other such kind of documents often employed
fraktur
lettering. Nowadays the documents themselves are called
frakturs
, even when they have no
fraktur
lettering at all. Most of the time they are decorated with magnificent pen-and-ink drawings of stylized birds and flowers and cherubs—”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.
Frakturs
. Thanks, Ozzie. Now I know all about them.”

What can I say? I had to stop him. He would’ve gone on and on—with no break—for the next month describing his favorite
frakturs
; who was responsible for them; where he’d seen, bought, and sold them—and to whom—and who the original birthday boy or girl had been.

He looked at me as though I’d grown another head. “I doubt you can know everything about them, Miss Haley—”

“That’s what I keep you around for, Ozzie. You’re the one who knows all that important stuff—
information
. So. I guess this
fraktur
is pretty special, then.”

“We rarely see any on the West Coast. Collectors in the east snap them up the moment they become available. And this one’s a good one, from the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, dated 1840.”

“And you found it stuck in the highboy?”

“To the back and underneath a drawer, Miss Haley. You can’t begin to imagine my exhilaration when I found the piece. And it is in museum condition.”

“But why were you moving furniture?”

His eyes bugged out even more, and red tinted his balding pate. “In my enthusiasm, I . . . ah . . . dropped it, miss. And I must retrieve it from under the highboy before it is damaged due to my careless negligence.”

“Oh, give it up, Ozzie. You’ve never been careless or negligent. Let me help you so we can get the piece back in your well-protected fingers again.”

Moments later I came face-to-face with my first real, live Pennsylvania Dutch
fraktur
. I fell in love. The piece was indeed stylized, the birds and tulips on the page similar to those on old barn hex signs. I went to my office, my head jam-packed with questions about the child the document honored . . . Fritz Gerhardt, born August 16, 1840.

The phone rang and put an end to my mental time travel. “Norwalk & Farrell Auctions, Haley Farrell speaking.”

There was a pause. Then, “Haley? It’s Darlene Weikert. Tedd Rodriguez’s client. I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Of course I remember you. Have you seen the walls?” “Yes, dear. I saw them when I went to my appointment yesterday. And they’re in part the reason I called you.”

My heartbeat kicked it up a notch. “Really?”

“I mentioned to you the other day that I might want to update parts of the family home, and Tedd insisted it would be fun. I’ve decided to go ahead and do something about the parlor and dining room, since those are the rooms that seem most stuck in the past.”

“Now, you don’t expect me to do anything to the Victorian integrity of the home, do you?”

“No, not really. But Mama’s wallpaper is so faded you can’t see the roses very well, and the woodwork is nicked and scratched in places. What I’d like to do is restore the home rather than redecorate it.”

Be still my heart!
“And you called me because . . . ?”

“Because you were so passionate about the workmanship.”

I heard her smile in her words. I bet she remembered Dutch’s goofy cheer. “Are you asking me to . . . ?”

“I’m being very clumsy, dear. What I’d like is to hire your services for the restoration.”

Oh yeah!
“I’m honored, Mrs. Weikert. Of course, I’d love to work with you.”

“Please call me Darlene. It’ll make working together that much more pleasant.”