Poisoned by Gilt (33 page)

Tmy opening the drawer had pulled the grenade

loose! The next thing I knew, Burke was pushing me off

his porch and into the snowbank. He dove on top of me,

his glasses flying off his face in the process.

"Steve!" I yelled, twisting around and struggling to get

out from under Burke. "Run!"

Despite my warning, I watched in horror as he

reached into the desk. "No!" I yelled. But he grabbed the

grenade and yanked it free from the string. He threw the

grenade onto the ice that covered the pond. It skittered to

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a stop as it caught on the chain of water toys that Asia had

strung together. An instant later, it exploded.

Although I automatically ducked and covered my

head, the blast was small and just distant enough that

nothing hit any of us. A few seconds afterwards, I was staring at the pond, which had been instantly cleared of ice

in spectacular fashion.

Steve looked pale and shocked. He jumped off the

porch and helped me to my feet, leaving Burke to scramble to his feet by himself. "Are you all right, Erin?"

"I'm fine. Probably a little bruised is all."

"That was really quick thinking, Steve," Burke said as

he retrieved his glasses. "Thank you!"

Asia came running toward the pond. She gaped at the

pond, the ice now blown to bits and the water toys in fragments. She put her hands on her hips and cried, "I just

got through telling you I'd take this stuff down! You didn't

need to blow it up!"

"I didn't mean to," Burke said. "Somebody just tried to

kill me with a grenade!"

"But they missed and hit the pond?"

"No. I'll explain later."

"Fine. You can explain when you're reimbursing me

for all the toys you just destroyed!" She spun on her heel

and marched back toward her house. "Along with any

dead fish!"

"I'll just give her five bucks and call it even," Burke

muttered.

My heart was still pounding. "Thank you, Steve." I

had such a strong desire to throw myself into his arms

that I didn't dare even meet his gaze.

"Cripes!" Burke cried, looking at the desk. "Matthew

Hayes booby-trapped my desk so he could kill me! Or

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else someone rigged the thing while it was sitting out on

my front porch."

"We have to call the police to investigate," Steve said.

"I'm sure as hell not moving that thing into my house

until a bomb squad examines it." Burke eyed the desk

suspiciously as he fished his cell phone out of his pocket.

"I'm going to call the police right now."

Sullivan and I exchanged glances. "Here we go

again," he said under his breath. Another police report

meant spending our Saturday waiting around and answering the same predictable questions over and over

again. "Erin and I were on our way to lunch." He removed a business card from his wallet. "Just give the police one of these and tell them how they can reach us as

witnesses."

"Will do," Burke said, pocketing the card. He then

said into the phone, "Yeah, hi. My name is Dr. Burke

Stratton. Someone tried to kill me just now with a

grenade. It was hooked up to explode when I opened my

desk."

That will get their attention, I thought, as Steve and I

strode purposefully to his van. Though we let it go unsaid, neither of us wanted to give the dispatcher the

chance to instruct Burke to keep us there until the police

arrived. The call would probably go directly to Detective

O'Reilly's desk, and he would not appreciate our leaving

the scene. Yet there wasn't one iota of information we

could tell the investigators that Burke couldn't tell them

as well.

"Now someone's trying to bomb us," Sullivan muttered the instant we were in the van.

"Who knew interior design was such a dangerous profession?"

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We both laughed. "This explains our high insurance

premiums." He pulled onto the road. As our nervous levity evaporated, he said, "I hope Burke didn't plant the

grenade himself."

"No way. He was standing right there beside us. He

could have gotten killed himself!"

"True. Unless he wanted to divert suspicion from himself . . . assuming the calculated risk of injury."

Refusing to let this conversation devolve into yet another argument, I squeezed his arm and said, "Thank you

for saving our lives. So where are you taking me for

lunch?"

He smiled at me. "I was hoping you hadn't already

made lunch plans. Since we're stuck going to that hokey

awards ceremony on a Saturday night, let's pull all the

stops and go to the Lookout."

"Yum!" And whee! In no time flat, my day had gone

from a grenade nearly exploding in my face to an unplanned meal with Steve at my favorite restaurant. Now

if we could somehow just get our romance back on track,

the trauma of the day would be well worthwhile.

That evening, the big event that would draw this ill-

fated contest to an end was finally at hand. I was wearing

the old standby--a little black silk dress and stilettos--as

I mingled at the Earth Love rotunda in their courtyard.

The bar was strictly nonalcoholic--a selection of sodas

and mineral waters were on tap and served in glass tumblers. The catering staff bustled around with trays of appetizers--all organic and vegetarian--and stacks of small

white ceramic plates were stacked at the ready. The only

disposable items were the off-white paper napkins, made

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from recycled paper, and the unadorned toothpicks

jabbed into the appetizers.

The building itself was a sparkling glass geodesic

dome. It was also a greenhouse, and so well designed that

the vegetation inside was almost self-sustaining. The

lines and angles of the dome itself were compelling, but

keeping all that glass clean seemed a nightmare task.

Steve and I had enjoyed a wonderful lunch before the

day took another nosedive: Detective O'Reilly called first

Steve's cell, then mine. O'Reilly had vindictively separated the two of us, then held us hostage at the police station all afternoon. For my part, most of the time was

spent alone in a tiny interview room, where I knew officers could watch me through the one-way glass mirror. I

knew O'Reilly wanted me to complain so he could snap

at me for leaving the scene, so I'd been the picture of patience and spent three hours accomplishing nothing.

Sullivan was waiting for me afterwards, but by then we

were both in foul moods, and had to rush home to get

dressed and drive to the ceremony separately.

I vowed not to waste even more time thinking about it

now. I had to focus on working the room, something of a

job requirement in my occupation. After my horrid afternoon, that was a tall order, especially considering that the

strongest ingredient in my beverage was its lemon twist,

and there were some two or three hundred attendees in

this particular room.

Burke Stratton spotted me, waved, and headed toward

me. He looked handsome in his black tailored suit and

red silk tie. Every few people he brushed past stopped

him for a friendly exchange, wishing him luck, of which

he would need plenty in order to win. Luck, plus a better

basement, I mused wryly.

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"Hi, Erin. Did things go okay for you at the police station?" Burke asked solicitously.

So he'd heard that the police had insisted that I come

in. "Fine."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Nothing about possible suspects or motives, no. Just

that Detective O'Reilly's first name is Phil."

"That's . . . not exactly useful information to me."

"Nor to me." The subject had come up when I objected to how O'Reilly had shaken his head and said,

"Erin, Erin." I promptly asked him what his first name

was, and, when he answered, tried to demonstrate how

condescending he'd been. But O'Reilly had acted pleasantly surprised by my question. It had crossed my mind

that Sullivan might be right about the detective's having a crush on me after all. But the notion was quickly

proved wrong by O'Reilly's harsh treatment of me from

there on.

Burke's sigh brought me out of my reverie. "Do I have

a snowball's chance in hell of winning this contest?"

"Oh, sure." Just no better of a chance than that, I

silently added. "Audrey can be unpredictable."

"Enough to award a house that we all know will be a

pile of rubble inside of ten years?"

"I doubt it."

He grimaced and scanned the room. "Figures Earth

Love would be so health-conscious that they wouldn't

serve alcohol."

I finally located Steve, who was chatting with a bevy of

women across the room. He looked gorgeous in a wool

pinstripe suit, obviously hand-tailored. He grinned in my

direction and started to make his way toward me. Just

then I also spotted Jennifer Fairfax standing by the door,

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scanning the room. She, too, was dressed to the nines,

her blond hair in an attractive updo, wearing a shimmering coppery dress that looked great on her. She spotted

Steve, and I could tell by simple triangulation that she

was going to reach him before he'd reach me.

Fortunately, there was a sudden buzz in the room, giving me the perfect excuse to turn my back so I wouldn't

have to witness their rendezvous. Audrey, I saw, was approaching the stage, along with the top executives of

Earth Love.

A lengthy introduction required our clapping every

twenty seconds or so as one after another Earth Love affiliate or employee was thanked for their contribution.

Audrey finally took the microphone. She gave a gracious

prelude, thanking Earth Love effusively and speaking

glowingly of Richard and Walter's reputations and impact on the field of conservation. Though my cheeks

were burning, I was determined to remain focused on the

stage and not to turn and look at Sullivan with Miss

Manicured Hands-on.

To one side of me, I saw Darren Campesio, wearing a

tan corduroy suit, a green tie, and a cocky smile, edge

closer to the stage. He gave Audrey a little wave when she

glanced toward him, and she quickly looked away. She

wasn't looking in Burke's and my direction either, and although I hadn't located Margot, it was very easy to surmise that she'd won the competition.

"All three homes had wonderful features," Audrey

continued, "and all of the home owners and designers

are to be congratulated for jobs so very well done. After

giving the matter considerable thought, I felt that one

house was my favorite and best fulfilled all judging categories. The winner of the first annual Thayers-Emory

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Green Home Award given by Earth Love is Margot

Troy."

Over the applause, Darren's grunt of disgust was so loud

it could easily have been heard halfway across the room.

Margot, standing a few yards away, emitted a little gasp, followed by a cry of delight. Jeremy kissed her and whispered

something in her ear, then joined in the applause. She

climbed the steps to the stage, where she gleefully accepted the three-by-five-foot check, along with a small

green glass trophy, no doubt made from recycled bottles.

Red-faced and wearing a furious glare, Darren made

his way over to Burke and me. "Mine's better," he

promptly said. "I've got the better efficiency ratings and

comfort and everything."

"Ah, give it a rest," Burke said. "Your house looks like

the top of a hollowed-out toadstool. You know it. I know

it. Audrey knows it. Nobody in their right mind would

want to live there."

"And your house is turning into a moldy toadstool.

You'd better do something about your drainage issues, or

it's going to smell like one, too, my friend."

Burke shot him a glare, but held his tongue.

I was still dying to turn around; Sullivan and Jennifer

had to be behind me, chatting each other up by now.

"Were you home around lunchtime today, Darren?" I

asked to distract myself.

"Er, I think so. Why?"

"I'm just surprised you didn't hear the explosion on

Burke's property. That's all."

"Explosion?" he asked, his tawny checks coloring a

reddish brown. "Did your septic tank explode?"

"A grenade went off," Burke explained. "It does seem

real odd that you didn't hear the blast."

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"Yeah. Huh. I must have been inside my shooting

range. Once those doors are shut, you can't hear much of

anything." He looked past my shoulder, then said good

evening to someone behind me--Sullivan, I realized

with a lump in my throat.

"Good evening, everyone," Sullivan said. My pulse

was instantly racing. I inched away from him. I was still

determined not to look around for Hands-on. "You're discussing the grenade, I gather," he continued. "It had

been jerry-rigged inside a desk, which had been recently

delivered to Burke's front porch. The police were theorizing that it could have come from your private cache,