Poisoned by Gilt (6 page)

and my intellect would eventually introduce themselves

to each other.

"Hey, Gilbert," he said as he strode toward his desk.

"There was a traffic snarl-up on Main Street this morning. Really slowed me down."

"Was it caused by construction?"

"Maybe. The police had it detoured. Around Aspen

Street." He gave me a sly smile, then turned back toward

the door. "Almost forgot." He reached into his coat

pocket and removed what looked like a tiny white paper

cup for a catsup dispenser from a fast-food chain. "This is

for you, m' lady."

Inside the cup was a single red grape, which he had

somehow managed to carve into the shape of a rose.

"Oh!" I cried, gently removing the grape from the cup.

"This is amazing!"

He grinned at me and said, "Glad you like it. You'd be

surprised how many grapes I had to search through till

I . . . found one that was shaped like a flower." He'd grown

distracted as he spoke and was now peering at the drawing behind me.

Holding his miniature fruit sculpture up to the light, I

cried, "I love it, Steve! I shall cherish this until it turns

into a raisin rose!"

I had just decided to risk having a customer walk in on

us while I kissed him, but I hesitated. For some reason,

he was glowering at my artwork. "You're redoing Burke's

solarium?" he snarled.

"A little. I was thinking we could check out the salvage

yard again for some metal to remake into benches.

Maybe from some old iron security bars. Why? You don't

like it?"

"Jeez, Gilbert! I thought you'd be willing to take

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Richard's advice for at least twenty-four hours! He says we

should back off from working for Stratton!"

"I'm not going to do that!" I dropped my carved grape

back into its catsup cup. "If this was anybody but Richard

Thayers talking, you would never have given a suggestion

like that a second thought!"

"But it was Thayers! Somebody whose opinion I know

I can trust. So your point is utterly--"

He broke off at the sound of someone opening our

door. I had to stop myself from cursing out loud at the

sight of the blue uniform. A police officer entered the studio, followed by a second officer.

"Morning," the first man said with a solemn nod. "I'm

Officer Dantley. This is Officer Riggs."

Steve rose and shook their hands. "Steve Sullivan.

And this is my partner, Erin Gilbert." His features were

drawn, and I knew he had every bit as bad a feeling about

this visit as I did.

Officer Riggs nodded at me. "We met last year, Ms.

Gilbert."

"That's right. At the benefit." I had a good friend,

Linda Delgardio, who was on the Crestview police force.

"We've been told you both were in a class at CU last

night taught by Richard Thayers. True?"

"Yes," Steve managed, his voice uncharacteristically

low. "He was a mentor of mine. He taught some of my

classes at the Art Institute of Colorado when he was living

in Denver."

"We've got some bad news for you," the second officer

said. "Richard Thayers died early this morning."

c h a p t e r
4

Oh, no," I moaned. Steve just gaped at the officers.

"He was poisoned," Officer Dantley said. "At least according to the preliminary tox screens. He drank something that he apparently didn't realize was extremely

poisonous."

The color drained from Steve's face. I rounded my

desk and grabbed his arm. He appeared to be too

shocked to say anything. I resisted the urge to embrace

him and instead asked the policemen, "You mean the

gold paint from last night's class?"

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"That's what it appears to be," Dantley replied. "The

autopsy won't be ready for another day or two."

"According to our information," Riggs interjected,

"he's done that drinking-paint act more than once. This

time it caught up with him."

"That's what a former client of mine in his class said

last night," I muttered.

"Margot Troy?" Officer Riggs asked.

I nodded.

"Professor Thayers had her name circled on his class

roster," Riggs explained. "We spoke with her earlier this

morning. She told us about your being there."

Sullivan pulled away from my grasp and leaned back

onto his desk, gripping the edge so firmly that his knuckles turned white. I wished that the policemen could give

him a minute or two to collect himself.

"Mr. Thayers was obviously feeling ill after drinking

the paint yesterday," I said. "Did he get himself to a doctor?"

Riggs shook his head. "That's where we think he was

heading last night. But he pulled over. Apparently too

sick to keep driving. Unfortunately, he pulled into a

small side street. Nobody saw him there. Or if they did,

they didn't realize he was in distress."

"He died in his car?" I asked.

" 'Bout halfway between the campus and the hospital," he answered with a grim nod. "A jogger found him

in the early hours of the morning."

"He was murdered," Steve insisted. "Someone must

have switched labels on the can . . . fooled him into thinking it was his own nontoxic paint, when he was actually

drinking a toxic product from some other manufacturer.

That's the only reasonable explanation."

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"We're investigating that possibility, Mr. Sullivan,"

Dantley said sternly. "Although it could also have been a

careless accident, made in the production line. Or

maybe a deliberate act on his own part."

"Suicide, you mean? No way!" Sullivan fired back.

"Mr. Thayers had a half dozen of his environmentally

friendly products in his book bag," Officer Riggs explained, "which he apparently brought to class with him.

First thing the lab did was test all six cans, and they all

had exactly what the label said. 'Cept the gold paint."

"He always drinks that one product," Sullivan said.

"It's the most impressive, because it's metallic. Yet he says

it also thins out with water the best."

There was a pause as both policemen peered at Steve.

"So . . . you knew he added water," Officer Dantley stated.

"Did you share that information with anyone else?"

"No. Not counting Erin. And I only heard about it after the fact. When Richard told me."

"For this to have been murder, the killer had to be real

familiar with Mr. Thayers's routines," Riggs said.

"We need to interview you two separately," Dantley

said, giving his partner a piercing glare. He had a more

authoritative manner than Riggs, which led me to believe he was his superior officer. "Miss Gilbert, would

you mind coming with me?"

"Uh, no, that's fine." I cast a longing glance at

Sullivan, hating to leave him reeling from the news, as I

followed the policeman through the inner door that led

to the lobby and stairs.

The main entrance to our three-story office building

had a rarely used alcove--rarely used because it was

poorly lit, stark, and unappealing. Dantley and I took

seats on the marble slab of a bench as I recounted for him

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the short history of my dealings with Richard Thayers.

That led to a lengthy discussion about what little I knew

of Richard's relationship with Burke Stratton.

Eventually, we returned to the matter of who could

have been highly familiar with Richard's lesson plans.

"Margot Troy told me she'd taken the class two other

times," I said. "I don't know if anyone else in the class was

a repeat."

He made a notation in his pad. "Anyone in the class

strike you as acting suspicious?"

"A local furniture maker named Matthew Hayes was

heckling Thayers, as I'm sure Margot already told you."

"Yeah. She did." Dantley held my gaze for an uncomfortably long time. "She also said the two of you came in

together last night."

I was surprised and a little offended. How had Margot

even noticed our entrance directly behind her? And why

had she reported such trivia to the police so quickly? "We

weren't together. He held the door for me. We just happened to arrive at the same time. That's all."

"So you didn't talk to him, other than maybe to thank

him for getting the door?"

"Not exactly, no." My seat on the marble bench felt intolerably uncomfortable, so I tried to reposition myself,

then noticed Dantley raise an eyebrow and scribble

something in his pad. "I chatted with him after class. I

was curious about the statements he'd made to Richard."

"Can you recall the exact conversation?"

I took a calming breath and tried to quell the feeling

that I was being investigated as a murder suspect. Nobody

was pointing a finger at me. Officer Dantley was merely

being thorough. Margot, too, must have felt this anxious

during her sudden early-morning police interrogation. I re-
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peated what Matthew and I had said to each other last

night as best I could, omitting Sullivan's and my brief quarrel in Matthew's presence. Afterward, Dantley flipped

back through his notes.

"What's your personal take on Burke Stratton?"

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'personal take.' He's

been our client at Sullivan and Gilbert Designs for

around six months. He's trying to win the Earth Love

green home contest. He's a nice guy. Thanks to this contest, he's on the verge of getting major recognition for his

house, and we're helping him."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Steve Sullivan and myself."

"Got any idea what caused the rift between Thayers

and Stratton?"

"All I know is that Burke said he'd hired Richard four

years ago and fired him because he felt his work was

shoddy."

"Had to have been pretty bad, right? Their parting of

the ways, I mean. You said that Thayers warned you he

might damage your professional lives."

"Yes."

He studied my features, waiting, but I had nothing to

add.

"Your partner might be able to fill us in a little better."

Dantley shut his notepad and tucked it into a jacket

pocket. "Wait here, please." He returned to my office,

and I promptly rose. No way would I stay seated on this

uncomfortable bench like a disobedient child waiting for

the principal's punishment; I wanted to know what was

happening in my own office.

After a minute or two, both officers emerged, and

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Riggs said, "Thank you, Ms. Gilbert. Please call the station house if you think of anything important you'd like

to add. We'll be in touch."

Dantley tipped his cap, and they left.

I rushed back into my office, deeply concerned about

Steve. He was staring at the drawing I'd been working on

for Burke. To my dismay, he tore the drawing off my easel

and crumpled it.

"Steve? Do you want to talk about it?"

"It?" he snapped.

"About Richard." I couldn't keep my discouragement

from my voice. Was this how it was always going to be between us? One door opens a crack only to have another one

slam shut in my face? My rose-shaped grape was still sitting in its little cup on the corner of my desk. It seemed to

be shriveling before my very eyes.

"No. Talking won't help. Only getting the bastard who

did this to him will. Seeing him get locked up with the

key thrown away. That's all I care about at this point."

"So when you crumpled Burke's plans for the solarium just now . . . you think he did it?"

"Yeah, actually, I do. I think he hated Richard. I think

it was the last straw for Burke when he found out Richard

was cutting him out of the competition. And I think he

killed him."

"Burke wasn't there last night. And the two of them

have been estranged since before Richard started teaching that class. So, even if he had learned somehow about

Richard's drinking his products, he couldn't have realized that it was always gold paint."

"You don't know that." His hazel eyes were once again

burning with anger. I had to turn away. I slunk toward my

desk. Some defeatist part of my brain whined that this

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thing between Sullivan and me was just too hard. Not

meant to be. Not worth it. "They were probably friendly

at one time," he said.

"True."

"This is my fault," he muttered, staring at the red and

black oil painting against the exposed brick wall behind

his desk.

"No, it isn't!" I leaned forward on my desk. "Steve.

Please. Don't bludgeon yourself like this!"

"I should have insisted on taking him to the hospital.

I knew something was wrong." His fists were clenched.

He tossed the mangled floor plan into the steel trash

can.

"But he told you he was feeling better. And that appeared to be the truth."

"I should've seen through that. My god, the man

drank poisonous paint right in front of me! And I let him

walk out and try to make his own way to the hospital. All