Poisoned by Gilt (18 page)

she even know Richard Thayers?"

"Not personally," Linda replied. "But a few months

ago her political group, Consumers for Common Sense,

had quite a skirmish with his World's Watchdogs group.

Things got ugly and both Asia and Richard were arrested." She studied me, then said, "By the way, I'm only

telling you this because that story will be in tomorrow's

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paper anyway. Our public information officer was asked

about it in a press briefing just this morning."

"Asia is combative enough to resort to extremes. She

might have felt that Richard deserved to be tricked into

making himself ill by drinking toxins. She's currently on

the warpath about Burke's building a windmill and ruining her view. Maybe that's related somehow to Richard,

since he was a vocal advocate of renewable energy."

I paused, trying to put my thoughts in order. "Maybe

Richard was at the open house, but didn't want to admit

it, because Earth Love had specifically stated he wasn't

allowed to attend the finalists' open houses. Asia and

Richard could have crossed paths that day and gotten

into an altercation afterwards. Maybe he saw her spraying

pesticides and confronted her."

"Using a pesticide? In January?" Linda asked skeptically.

"Or something similar." I considered alternative scenarios, and remembered something about Asia's house

that had barely registered with me at the time. "Last

week, during that stretch of warm weather, her back

porch had what looked like a fresh coat of paint. Maybe

she was painting that weekend, and Richard gave her a

lecture about poisoning the environment with noxious

off-gases."

"That's what lawyers call sheer conjecture, Erin."

"Sure, but it makes sense. For one thing, Richard's attending the open house could explain how he could have

found Burke's violations so quickly. One of those violations had to do with nonpotable-water usage, so he would

have been examining the small pond that's bisected by

Asia's property line. Asia watches her property like a

hawk. And, frankly, it's much more believable that

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Richard did read the articles in which the finalists were

announced, though he claimed he didn't learn their

names till the very night it was publicly announced that

he was judging. I know I would be reading everything I

could about a contest I was about to judge. Wouldn't

you?"

She sighed. "I really shouldn't be discussing my theories with you, Erin. But do you think an argument between Asia and Thayers would be motive for her to

poison Richard Thayers?"

I shrugged. "In a boxing match, she'd hit below the

belt at every opportunity. And she's my top suspect for

doctoring my business cards."

"I'll have a talk with her."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate that." I paused, still pondering

the scenario of Richard's having kept an eye on Burke's

property. "You know, if Richard was skulking around on

Burke's property, he could have run into Darren

Campesio at some point, too. Darren told me he went to

Burke's open house, and I've seen him watching over

Burke's property with binoculars. He runs around in

combat fatigues, like he's part of some covert surveillance

operation."

She studied my features. "You're not going to suggest

that Mr. Campesio killed Thayers because he thought

Thayers was trespassing, are you?"

"No, but Darren's an odd guy. He could have confronted Richard, learned that he was the contest judge,

and gotten into an argument with him about rule violations. Richard seemed singularly unimpressed with

Darren's house when we spoke about it the afternoon before he died."

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Linda said nothing, but she shook her head slightly as

if every bit as confounded by the behavior of Burke's

neighbors as I was. She shoved back from the table.

"Erin, I'll see if I can learn who's doing this with your

business cards and smashed your headlight. And I'll talk

to Ms. McClure and Mr. Campesio. But . . ."

"Don't hold my breath?"

"The simplest explanation is usually the right one. In

other words, it's likeliest that Richard committed suicide.

But we'll do our best."

"You personally don't think it was suicide, though, do

you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised either way."

In all honesty, neither would I, but Sullivan would

never forgive me for saying that to a police officer. I

thanked her and left, then called Sullivan from my van in

the parking lot. I gave him a severely edited version of my

conversation with Linda. He sounded skeptical when I

finished by insisting, "That's really all we discussed."

"You sound too perky, which usually means you're not

telling me something. They think it was suicide, don't

they?"

"Yes."

He sounded utterly discouraged as he said good-bye.

As I drove home, I found myself bothered by something Linda had said. It was next to impossible to remember seeing someone in passing among the steady stream

of visitors. And yet, I did remember some man watching

me long enough to catch my attention.

At a red light, I used a designer's trick and shut my

eyes momentarily to recall the room at that moment. It

took me less than a second, but sure enough, I pulled up

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a clear mental picture. I was now almost positive that my

ogler had been Matthew Hayes.

Audrey wasn't home by dinnertime, which meant she

was either working late or on a date. With no functioning

kitchen, it was easier to microwave a frozen dinner for

myself than to prepare a healthier meal. I ate at my computer in the messy, cluttered den, trolling the Internet

for possible connections between Burke Stratton and

Matthew Hayes. The possibility of their having met at

Burke's open house and discovering that they had a common enemy was weighing heavily on me. I could find no

clues or connections, but I did find a photograph of a

desk on the M.H. Custom Furniture Web site that would

be stunning in Burke's study. This was why it was a good

thing I was a designer and not a police officer; I was forever getting distracted by lovely furniture. I could see myself having to bite my lip rather than make unforgivable

statements like: "It's terrible that your friend is dead, but

that table his head is resting on is absolutely fabulous!"

I surrendered to my urge and called Burke to describe

the desk. He went to the Web page showing the piece

while we were still on the phone. "You're right!" he said.

"I love it!"

"So do I. But you recognize the name of the company,

don't you?"

He paused. "No. Not at all. Should I?"

"It's Matthew Hayes's company. He was the one who

was heckling Richard Thayers the night he drank the

toxic paint."

"Shoot! No, I missed the connection completely." He

paused. "What should I do?"

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"It's really up to you, Burke. This particular desk in the

photo is tiger maple, which is not from the rain forest,

and it's entirely custom-made. We can request that he use

environmentally friendly varnish and locally processed

pine, and so on. But you should know that he does use

banned materials, although he claims they're recycled

only."

Another long pause. "What would you do?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest. We've bought from him in

the past, before we knew about his questionable ethics."

"Okay. Well, just . . . go ahead and order it from him,

but make it very clear that I'll only accept the desk on the

condition that I can return it if I discover that he's abused

any trade regulations."

"Will do."

He thanked me and hung up.

Late Friday morning, Richard Thayers's family finally

held a service in Crestview for him. It was a dreary affair

at the small, drafty shelter of a local park that Richard

had reputedly frequented. The gray, overcast sky seemed

to suck all the color from the surrounding landscape.

Sullivan gave one of several eulogies--as did Walter

Emory--but kept his speech impersonal, sharing only

how he tried to keep in mind the lessons Professor

Thayers had taught him every day in his own job. Margot

was there but ducked out quickly afterwards, and she was

the only mourner I recognized.

Sullivan seemed so determined to hide behind a stoic

mask that, at the gathering immediately following the service, he treated his own parents as mere acquaintances--

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thanking them for coming down all the way from their

new retirement condo in the mountains two hours away.

His mom spoke to me privately and said, "Even as a little boy, he could never stand to let anyone see him cry."

"That doesn't surprise me."

She searched my eyes. "How are things between the

two of you?"

"Good." Trying to evade the issue, I said, "Business

has been excellent, really, and it looks like it'll continue

strong this year . . . knock on wood."

"I mean, how are things personally? Romantically?"

I fought off a sigh. This hardly seemed the time or the

place for such a question, not to mention that she should

be asking her son that question, not me. "Frankly, I think

he's seeing someone else."

"Don't let that stop you, Erin."

I glanced around and spotted Sullivan on the opposite

side of the parking lot. He couldn't overhear us from that

distance. "I'm letting the need to keep our business relationship strong stop me."

"Hmm. Steve gave me the same excuse when I asked

him that question."

"Probably because it's not merely an excuse. Running

a two-person business and trying to date is kind of like . . .

making out in a canoe. It's hard to stay afloat."

"Clever analogy. But you two are meant for each other.

Take care, Erin." She and Sullivan's father gave me parting hugs, then called another good-bye to Sullivan, standing by his van.

He and I made our way toward each other as his parents drove away. He gave me a sheepish smile. "I saw you

talking to my mom. She can talk your ear off sometimes."

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I touched his hand and said, "Let's leave the van here,

and I'll buy you a cup of coffee someplace."

To my surprise, he took my hand and laced his fingers

through mine. "Deal."

We strolled over the lovely wood bridge that spanned

Crestview Creek. After a minute or two, I gathered my

nerve and said, "So tell me more about the real Richard

Thayers."

"He was a great teacher and a true role model. Like I

just got through saying at the service." He released his

grasp and stuck his hand in his coat pocket. "And you've

already made it clear you weren't impressed by him."

"But I didn't know him. So enlighten me. Tell me

about your favorite experience in his classroom."

Sullivan thought for a moment, then smiled a little.

"That had to have been the day he brought a frog into the

classroom to demonstrate design ergonomics."

"Using a frog?" I asked with a smile.

"Like I said before, he was a nonconformist. He'd built

this mazelike foam-board house with a clear plastic roof.

In the center of the house is a sunken goldfish bowl, half

full of water. Then he sets the frog inside the outer wall.

And the frog just sits there. So Richard asks: 'Why doesn't

the frog move?' The students are calling out answers all

at once: 'The walls are too narrow.' 'The ceiling's too low,'

and so on, and Richard is making adjustments to the enclosure and nodding. This rapid interchange of ideas is

happening, and he asks us things like: 'What would make

this even better for the frog?' We keep firing ideas at him,

but, ultimately, the frog still isn't moving, even after

Richard has removed all the inner walls. We're throwing

out suggestions--may be it's too hot in there, or too cold,

or the walls should have been green or the floor covered

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with silt. Finally, one girl says, 'How would we know? It's

just a stupid frog!' So Richard points at her and says,

'Whose fault is that? The frog's?' And I interrupt and say

to him, 'It's yours, because we didn't get the chance to research habitats for frogs.' And he grins and says, 'Exactly,

S.S. When you're building a home, you've got to build it

with the occupant's needs in mind. You can't expect your

client to always be able to tell you what those needs are.

You've got to be able to know what options to present. In

short, you've got to be smarter than the frog."

Although my first thought was how resentful our clients

would be to hear themselves likened to frogs, I said, "Wow.

He sounds like a wonderful, engaging teacher."

We reached the coffee shop, where eight aluminum

tables were crammed into a space big enough for only

six, ordered coffees, and found seats. Sullivan told me