Poisoned by Gilt (8 page)

he afternoon was hectic, to say the least, with my

Tcovering work for both of us, and I found myself

deeply annoyed at myself for having suggested Sullivan

take the day off. The more I reflected on our conversation with Richard, the more skeptical I was about

Richard's claiming not to have known that Burke was in

the contest. I also wondered if Richard had known that

Burke had hired his architect to design his potentially

award-winning house.

Despite being pressed for time, I ran a computer

search in the local online newspaper for any articles

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linking Jeremy Greene and Richard Thayers. To my surprise, a short article had been published six months

ago reporting that Richard had sued Jeremy because of

the "structurally inadequate" design of his foundation. I

found it odd that Richard was holding the architect, not

the builder, accountable for the problem. No subsequent

articles had been published, so perhaps the matter had

still been pending when Richard died.

A fabric-shopping expedition at the end of the day

happened to place me in the vicinity of Jeremy Greene's

architecture studio. If nothing else, I wanted to know if

his being the architect for both Richard's and Burke's

homes had really been a mere coincidence. And from a

purely business standpoint, considering the nature of the

lawsuit, I wanted to know if my client's foundation was

going to collapse.

Jeremy's office was in a boxy redbrick structure in

South Crestview, sadly lacking in architectural interest.

Jeremy had done little to enhance his one-size-fits-all office space or to show off his skills, other than putting his

truly excellent basswood models on display. I wondered

idly if he'd consider hiring Sullivan and Gillbert Designs

to jazz up his space.

He was poring over blueprints at his drawing table

when I arrived. Jeremy was about my age (twenty-nine,

which reminded me that I was due for celebrating my

next birthday in the Bahamas). With his eager grin and

sparkling eyes, he was more cute than handsome--babyfaced with a weak chin and a receding light brown hairline.

He pushed back from his work when I asked if he had

a minute to talk and said convincingly that he appreciated the chance to take a break. I sat down on a wheeled

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swivel chair identical to his own, and silently observed

that the chocolate brown vinyl flooring was the perfect

surface for propelling oneself around the space on these

caster-wheel chairs. This, however, was an acutely inappropriate time to share such inanities, so we somberly exchanged a few words about our sadness and dismay at

Richard's untimely death. I then told Jeremy how I'd only

recently learned that he'd designed both Richard's and

Burke's homes.

He nodded and indulged in a proud smile. "Modesty

aside, those are the two best straw-bale homes in

Colorado. Did Burke tell you that we used much of the

same floor plan?"

"No. He told me he didn't know at first that you were

Richard's designer."

"The name didn't come up for a while, when I was

first showing Burke the design. It never occurred to me

that they'd know each other. Small world."

So it was a coincidence--but then, the world of the

ecologically superfocused in the town of Crestview,

Colorado, truly was small. "I guess it's no wonder that

Richard felt he had to withdraw. He was going to be judging a house which was so close in design to his own."

He shrugged. "Mostly in basic structure . . . rooflines,

floor plans. And they both use straw-bale construction, of

course. But in terms of aesthetics and energy efficiency,

Burke's house had Richard's beat hands down."

"I wonder if that made Richard envious. I mean, that

was the heart and soul of Richard's business . . . green designs and so forth. And yet here's this physician who has

built a house that looks like his, but is another ten or fifteen percent more energy-efficient."

"More like twenty-one percent, actually."

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"Wow."

"But Richard knew that was just the nature of these

things. A lot of breakthroughs have occurred in the last

couple of years. You can't possibly keep up with them."

"So Richard didn't get angry about his house not being as energy-efficient as it might have been?"

Jeremy studied my features for a moment and replied

cautiously, "He didn't complain to me about it."

I feigned nonchalance and asked, "So he only complained about his home's foundation?"

Jeremy's features turned stony, and he stayed silent.

"I read about the lawsuit. Was that ever resolved?"

"Yeah. I mean, I haven't heard anything more about it,

so he probably dropped the suit. Or his lawyer did, based

on lack of evidence."

Nice evasion, I said to myself. "The newspaper reported that he was getting cracks in his basement walls

from an expansive-soil problem. Why did he blame you

and not the builder?" When Jeremy didn't answer me

right away, I pressed, "Surely as a conservationist himself,

Richard wouldn't be objecting to the amount of fly ash in

the concrete, right?" Fly ash was a by-product of coal furnaces that could be mixed into cement instead of being

merely discarded, an excellent practice that I knew

Jeremy always recommended.

"No, Richard knew the problem had nothing to do

with fly ash; it was caused by improper construction. But

the builder shifted the blame onto me, claiming he'd

built the foundation wall according to my exact specs.

Richard believed him, for some reason. And, anyway, all

they needed to do was underpin the support wall. As far

as I know, that's what they did, finally, and then the house

was fine."

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"Jeez. So your design was fine, but the builder

screwed up, you told them how to fix it, but you still got

sued? That must have made you furious!"

He shrugged. "Things like that are the price you pay

for running your own business. Once Sullivan and

Gilbert Designs has been around for six or seven years

like I have, you'll run into lawsuits, too. If you haven't already."

He wasn't telling me the full story. Richard would

have had no cause to sue his architect over a construction

problem that had been easily remedied. I tried in vain to

read his expression. "I guess that's probably true.

Unfortunately."

"Why are you asking about this, Erin? You're not playing amateur sleuth, are you?"

"I'm just watching out for the interests of my client.

Burke Stratton would freak if it turns out his foundation

is crumbling. He's put his heart and soul into that place."

"Yeah. He sure has." Jeremy sounded bitter. He rolled

his chair back into position at his drawing table. "It was

good seeing you, Erin. But I've got to get back to work."

"Thanks for taking the time to talk," I said in a breezy

voice. "Take care."

I left. When the time was right, I was going to have to

discuss my concerns about Jeremy's design with Steve,

and then with Burke. If there was a serious flaw in the design or construction of Burke's home, he would most

likely have to follow in Richard's footsteps and hire a

lawyer.

Furthermore, if Richard had uncovered a major flaw that

was going to topple "the two best straw-bale homes in

Colorado," Jeremy could have been driven to desperate measures--possibly murder--to protect himself. I considered

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calling Linda Delgardio, my friend on the police force. She

never took kindly to my voicing theories regarding police investigations, though.

As I walked back to my car, my heart leapt at the tones

of my cell phone. I hoped it was Sullivan. Instead, a

friend from the Pilates studio I belonged to was organizing a last-minute girls' night out. I hesitated before agreeing to join them. I knew how much pain Sullivan was in,

and although it felt disloyal of me, I needed a dose of fun

and a temporary escape. Sadly, Steve's problems were

still going to be there tomorrow, and by all appearances,

the only thing he wanted from me right now was some

space.

The next morning, Sullivan was in the office when I

arrived a few minutes after eight. He'd already completed

a presentation board for a major remodel we were bidding on next week, and he'd redone the sunroom drawing of mine that he'd crumpled. "You must have gotten

here at six," I said.

"Closer to five. Couldn't sleep."

He was avoiding my gaze. "Since you've already got us

caught up, how 'bout I take you to breakfast?"

"No. I want to just . . . keep working. Stay focused on

the job. Thanks, though."

Did he mean he wanted to concentrate his energies

on work for merely this one morning, or for the foreseeable future? "We'd planned on going to that concert in

Denver tonight. Should we bag it?"

"Yeah. I'm not . . . I just can't right now, Gilbert. I've

got too much on my plate already."

"I understand."

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"Good. Thanks."

"Just don't push me away. I'm on your side."

He ignored me and went on. "By the way, I crossed

paths with the woman who cleans the office. She threw

out the grape I gave you."

"Oh, no! I meant to take that home last night."

He still wouldn't look me directly in the eye. "Was that

drawing okay?" he asked solemnly.

"Which drawing?"

"My alterations to Burke's solarium. I figured when

you said there were iron pieces you wanted to use for

building the bench, you meant the grating we got at the

salvage yard for him last week."

"Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking. It's fine,

Sullivan. Thanks." The drawing he did, especially the inset showing the bench he'd designed, was much better

than fine, actually. But it was difficult to praise someone

who was actively shutting the door in my face.

Fortunately, I was able to get lost in my work that

morning until some ninety minutes later, when a portly

middle-aged man stepped through the door. He was

dressed in low-riding jeans, a flannel shirt, and a denim

jacket. He scanned our posh surroundings as he dried his

construction boots on the mat with the enthusiasm of a

child trying to build up a charge of static electricity. He

gave me an affable grin. "Hello, there." His voice was

halfway to a shout. "Have I got the right place? Is this

Gilbert and Sullivan Designs?"

"Sullivan and Gilbert Designs, actually," Steve

quickly corrected, rising.

"Ah. Come to think of it, there's probably a sign on the

door. Should've read it." He opened the door, craned his

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neck to peer at our nameplate, then shut the door again.

"Which one's Gilbert and which one's Sullivan?"

"I'm Erin Gilbert."

"Steve Sullivan." Steve stepped forward with proffered

hand. "And you are . . . ?"

"Name's Walter Emory," the visitor said, his voice still

booming as he pumped Steve's hand. His name sounded

familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. "Pleased to meet

you. I'll probably be seeing you two quite a bit in the next

week or two."

As he shook my hand, the name clicked. "You're the

original founder of Earth Love, aren't you?" I remarked.

He was also the head of World's Watchdogs, a much

more controversial association, as I recalled.

He beamed at me. "That's right. Here to act as the

new judge for the contest. Earth Love felt it'd be best to

move forward quickly . . . then maybe to set up some sort

of memorial fund in Richard's memory."

Sullivan peered at him. "You're heading up World's

Watchdogs now, right?"

Walter Emory chuckled. "I can tell by the way you're

both looking at me that you've heard the rumors that we

have some dangerous ecoterrorist members. Rest assured, those are just rumors. No basis in fact. I haven't

done anything the Feds consider a crime since I was a

wild teenager." He had an endearing twinkle in his eye.

"Quite a ways back, as you can see." The man had to be

pushing sixty.

Sullivan took a seat in the leather chair facing him,

and I sat down in my usual spot. "Richard was a friend of

mine, too," Sullivan said. "How'd you meet him?"

"He worked as my consultant while I was forming

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Earth Love. We met over the Internet, something like ten

or fifteen years ago. I was still in Juneau at the time."

"I hear it's beautiful up there," I remarked.

"Sure is. My parents were hippies and raised me in

Alaska. A commune, actually." He chuckled. "We never

had a TV. Took me till I was in my late twenties to discover that most folks in the lower forty-eight figured getting a piece of the good life was all that mattered, and

natural resources be damned. Now someone's killed one

of the world's true guardian angels. All I've heard about