Interior Motives
Interior
MOTIVES
Other books by Ginny Aiken
Silver Hills Trilogy
Light of My Heart
Song of My Soul
Spring of My Love
Deadly Décor Mysteries
Design on a Crime
Decorating Schemes
Interior
MOTIVES
DEADLY DÉCOR MYSTERIES
BOOK 3
Ginny Aiken
© 2006 by Ginny Aiken
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Aiken, Ginny.
Interior motives / Ginny Aiken.
p. cm. — (Deadly decor mysteries ; bk. 3)
ISBN 10: 0-8007-3046-1 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-8007-3046-8 (pbk.)
1. Women interior decorators—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.I339I58 2006
813’.54—dc22 2006007967
Scripture is taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920.
My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand.
John 10:27–28
CONTENTS
Wilmont, Washington
“Read ’em and weep!”
As if to punctuate the words, documents landed on my kitchen table, just inches away from my innocent nose. I’d been working. My drama-queen neighbor’s arrival and declaration put an end to my efforts. She’s trouble. Always. I looked up; I goggled. “Bella?”
“Who’d ya think it was, Haley girl? Marvin the Martian?”
That was a loaded question, even though Marvin didn’t come into the mix. I scrambled for an inoffensive answer while I studied her. I could’ve said Columbo. The Maltese Falcon came to mind too. Even the Pink Panther would’ve worked. But Bella Cahill? She of the repeated high-speed changes of way crazy hair color and varied hobbies?
Uh-uh.
A fedora rode low over her eyes. Jet black Brillo Pad tufts of hair escaped the hat’s confines, a totally weird color choice for someone who’s boasted of Pepto pink and turquoise hair in the last year or so. A tan raincoat hid her roly-poly bod, her Pillsbury Doughboy curves more disguised by the coat than by the wet suit, martial arts’
gi
, and spandex bike shorts she’s worn in the recent past. Black sunglasses and brown loafers finished off today’s caricaturelike costume.
“What was I thinking?” I finally offered with a
thwap
to my forehead. “But I was working, you know.”
“You doing design-gig stuff, or are you and the hunky builder hunting crooks again?”
I stood and did some heavy-duty eye rolling. “Bella, I’m an interior designer, and you know it. I’m not a detective, much less a crook hunter, as you put it.”
The wacky vision yanked off her glasses to expose a still beautiful if indignant face. “And what do you call nailing a couple of killers? Huh?”
I shuddered. “Being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Oh, sure. What shoved you into the scenes of the crimes was that wrong place wrong time stuff, but cracking two murder cases doesn’t happen just by closing your eyes and wiggling your nose. You gotta do something to get somewhere with that kind of slime bucket.”
True, but not anything I’d wanted to do in the first place, and no way do I want to come face-to-face with that again.
Ever.
Never.
“Enough about me,” I said with a wave toward her outfit. “What’s that all about?”
She slammed her fists on her abundant hips. “What? You want me to believe you went blind and stupid overnight? You? The chick who figured out whodunit when the cops couldn’t? No way, Haley girl. Take a gander at me, and I’m sure you’ll get it. If you don’t, then just read these.”
The documents under her chubby finger looked official, one of them a lot like a license. My gut wriggled with unease. Unease? Scratch unease; ravening fear’s more like it around Bella. I picked them up. And groaned.
“What Cracker Jack box did these come from?”
Bella’s glare shot off sparks. “I’ll have you know I got my training from a real, honest-to-goodness mail-order college. Once I had that, I took a test and got my license.”
I gave the documents in my hand a quick scan, stumbled back to my chair, and collapsed. One of my worst nightmares had just come to life. If what I held was as real as Bella said, the state of Washington had licensed her as a PI—private investigator.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
She scares me, all right. She and her cats.
“Okay,” I said. “So what does it mean?”
Bella scoffed and doffed her fedora. “What do you think it means? It means I made my lifelong dream come true. I’m going to follow that dream and use my hidden talents. I’m going to help you bust open cases.”
Hidden talents? Help
me
break cases?
Oh boy.
“Um . . .” What to do? “Ah . . . you might do better if you . . . ah . . . er . . . oh yeah! Pull an Ace Ventura and become a pet detective. After all, even when you don’t do anything, pets flock to you—like your Faux Bali did. You have a knack, a gift. You’ll be an overnight success. Trust me.”
I said all that with a straight face. A massive feat, since I not only know her cats—the original Bali H’ai and Faux Bali too—but also was present when that second feral feline burst into Bella’s life at the most inopportune time—inopportune for me, of course.
Her doubtful look gave me hope—she hadn’t rejected my argument outright. So I followed with, “No, really. I think you’ll be fabulous. You love critters of all sorts, especially cats, and with your . . . specialized training you can do a whole lot of good. Just imagine how the owners will feel when you return their pets.”
And stay out of trouble, while you’re at it.
Maybe.
Bella’s frown radiated skepticism. “You really think so? That sounds so . . . so unsignifivial.”
I blinked. “Insignificant? Trivial?”
“Whatever. You get my drift. That kind of stuff won’t make a difference in the greater scheme of things. I want to be”—she drew large, eloquent arm gestures—“relevant.” My golden retriever, Midas, chose that moment to enter the kitchen. I pounced on the opportunity. “How can you call pets trivial? Especially since I know how much you love your two beasts.”
Her lips pursed and jutted, her eyes closed, her brain churned the idea to where I could almost hear the creak of the gears within.
“Well . . . ,” she finally said. “Animals are noble creatures. And I do love my Balis—who are
not
beasts, and you know it.”
I know no such thing, but she was on a roll, so I let it ride.
“You might be onto something,” she conceded. “Maybe I’ll go home and pull my ad from the paper. It’s only run for three days, and then I can come up with a new one.”
She used both thumbs and forefingers to make a frame through which she squinted. “I can just see the sign on my front door. ‘Bella Cahill, Pet Detective.’ It does kinda have a ring to it.”
“Oh! Excuse me,” my father said from the doorway.
I looked up, surprised I hadn’t heard him arrive. “Hi, Dad. How was your day?”
He dropped a kiss on my mutinous hair. “Typical. But I did finish my sermon for this Sunday.”
“Ah,” I said. “Productive.”
“In that regard.” A look swept the counters and the stove. “What’s for dinner?”
I winced. “Oops! Sorry. I lost track of time while I worked on the redesign of Tedd Rodriguez’s office. Then Bella showed up.”
“Bella?” he asked. He gave our guest a closer look. A moment later his eyes widened, and I knew how I must’ve looked when Washington’s newest PI first walked in. “My goodness! It
is
you, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have known you out on the street.”
“Why, thank you, Hale. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in ages.” She turned to me. “See? I did real well in my disguises class. Even your dad, who’s known me for years, didn’t recognize me.”
Dad frowned. “That’s good? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Bella snatched her paperwork from my fingers and gave it to Dad. “Here. This’ll tell the story better than I can.”
Dad reads fast. “You’ve become a private investigator? Why?”
“I’ve had the dream for years,” she answered, a blush on her still smooth cheeks. “And since Haley keeps tripping over dead bodies, I figure I have to be ready to help her the next time.”
He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent communion with the Lord. “I hope and pray there won’t be another time. The last two were tough enough.”
Dad too was a victim the last time I solved a murder case, and I know how much he’d suffered. His jaw tightened, and sadness etched lines on his forehead.
I blurted, “Would you like to see the drawings for Tedd’s office?”
Bella’s glare busted me. I didn’t get away with my clumsy change of topic unnoticed. “Sure,” the new gumshoe said without much enthusiasm.
Dad nodded.
The design for the remodel of my friend’s office was simple, elegant, and flavored with touches of south-of-the-border spice. Hand-tooled leather chairs from Guatemala— which should already have arrived but for some weird shipping reason hadn’t yet—would replace the bland beige sofas. Ebonized wood tables, magazines on top, would sit at easy reach for the clients who arrived early for their appointments with the successful psychotherapist. And for that certain zip, Mexican blankets, all in shades of warm brown, terra cotta, taupe, and cream, would cover the pillows I planned to toss here and there.
Bella beamed. “It looks totally rad—that’s what kids say, you know.”
Dad nodded. “I’m impressed, honey. You do have a gift for this. I’m so thankful you followed through on your schooling.”
I rose and gave him a quick hug. “Even when it means dinner’s way late?”
“Even then. It’s a blessing to see you move ahead with your life.”
It was my turn for the rotten memories. A few years ago, I was a victim of violent crime. It took me a long time to crawl out of the pit of despair in the aftermath, but I’m on the upswing now. Dad was there for me, supported me all the way. And Tedd helped lead me back to the Lord I’d blamed.
I shook off the gloom. “Yepper. It is good, Dad. But it won’t be very good if we don’t eat soon.”
Dad looked from me to Bella and back to me. “How about we celebrate Bella’s success? Let’s go grab something good—Bella’s choice.”
I scooted behind the euphoric Bella and glared, shook my head, made wild gestures, but my father either didn’t understand my pathetic efforts or chose to ignore them—my bet is on the latter. I couldn’t believe he was about to encourage the incorrigible septuagenarian in her latest lunacy.
Even though I lost that battle, dinner was great; we had a blast. And I didn’t have to deal with Bella’s fur wads. Bali and Faux Bali stayed home.
“No, you can’t.”
I clenched my fists and blew a disobedient curl off my forehead. “Who says?”
All six feet something of Dutch Merrill bristled. “I do. And I’m the contractor.”
“So what? I’m the designer. I say the old cookie-cutter, builder’s-supply-store doors go, and so they go.”